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arcanewhoosh · 2 days ago

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Could you right a story where jinx’s S/O is scared of bombs or loud things in general and one of jinx bombs went off scaring S/O and jinx comforts them.

So I forgot that the inbox was a thing and found this two years after you asked for it. Sorry lmao.

I think I completely failed this cause I chose season 1 Jinx and hooboy Season 2 Jinx would've been a better choice.

Also this went over 2k words I realize I may be a yapper.

The Monsters We Allow

2k words (Jesus this wasn't supposed to be this long)

Proofread? Y/N

TW: Descriptions of injuries

You're no stranger to the hazards of working for the Eye of Zaun. Even the more hardened residents of the Undercity oftentimes couldn't stomach some of the work the job entailed, more so the people involved in those jobs.

So now here you were, helping build an explosive device of some sort. Fishbones Jinx had called it. You guess that you should add assistant weapons maker to the long list of jobs you've held working for Silco over the years. It wasn't always like this, though.

You started out as cleanup crew, showing up after fights. You didn't want to at first, but if you crossed Silco, you'd most definitely cross his daughter, Jinx. If you crossed his daughter, then it was almost a certainty that you would end up in pieces and puddles on the walls and floors. You'd rather be the one cleaning than be the one being cleaned up. So you put your head down and went along with it.

It was messy work, but it turns out even with all the fucked up things tolerated in the Undercity, rotting body parts weren't one of them. It wasn't pretty, and your first few days you had to include your vomit in the list of things you had to clean up. Eventually, though, you got over it, got better. Well enough that Silco would only trust you to do cleanups of whichever unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of Jinx's chompers. You could figure out which weapon was used to do what, what the direction of the splatter on the wall or floor meant. You could look at a scene once and replay how the entire fight went.

The job wasn't pretty, not at all, but it put money in your pockets, good money. It put food on your table and clothes on your back. Most importantly, it gave you security. A blanket of protection that ensured people would think twice to cross you. Silco only kept a select few on constant contract. Sure, you didn't run around beating the shit out of people during collections, or blowing them up. You didn't have a robot arm or guns-choice of weapon was bucket and shovel-- but hey, you were deeper in his inner circle than most people.

Eventually, he started bringing you along to meetings. After those meetings, he'd ask you, What's the quickest, and cleanest way we can get rid of this person?

It was jarring at first, being asked how to kill someone. But whatever reservations you had about becoming a murder consultant was heavily outweighed by your fear of being the one consulted about. So you'd answer diligently, if a little hesitantly. The first time you answered, he had looked pleasantly surprised. As if getting recommendations on assassination was pleasant. You remembered thinking.

It didn't take long for people of the Undercity to associate your presence in these tag-alongs with the sudden death of whoever you and Silco were visiting. Whispers about how you wouldn't even talk during the meetings, how you'd sit and simply look around. If you were addressed by the person you were meeting with, Silco would politely redirect their attention back to him. Sometimes, sometimes, that person wouldn't die. Silco once credited it to you, that people suddenly became more pliable once he brought you along. Another blanket of security. People started treating you differently, more respect, fear maybe. It was a little funny, how typically aggressive brutes would become the politest people towards someone who had just barely reached the age of eighteen.

One day, Silco had asked you to his office. You thought it would just be regular stop before another meeting, standard procedure by then, really. But that day he had another guest in his office. The blue braids were already a dead giveaway, but you still politely introduced yourself. She laughed, and identified you as The one who ruins my fun because she had to follow your instructions when Silco needed her to get rid of people.

You knew back then that she was dangerous. Quite frankly, she scared the shit out of you. You didn't have a problem with seeing dead bodies and parts, sure. But she was younger than you, and already had no qualms about taking lives. She was the one leaving behind entrails that you had to clean up. And apparently, she was now to be occasionally under your watch. Silco thought you'd be a good fit for a companion. Around the same age, he had said.

You kept a respectful distance from her, but she unfortunately grew fond of you and decided to keep you around more often than not. Silco didn't see anything wrong with it, if anything it made the both of you more notorious. His Loose Cannon and his Harbinger of Death. A deadly combination in theory, but in practice, it was mostly you having to accompany Jinx for her less dangerous - there were still casualties - pranks, and bailing her out of sticky situations.

And now here you were, two years later, making a launcher with her- making was a generous word, more handing her stuff - and getting ready to probably blow more people up.

You feel your stomach begin to unsettle again. You were used to seeing dead bodies, parts of bodies, what was left of bodies. But never in the stretch of time that you had worked for Silco, had you ever had to see dying. You always showed up after. It had only been two days since the explosion at the bridge, but somehow Jinx was walking around as if nothing had even happened to her. As if she didn't blow herself up the last time you had seen her. If you were making an educated guess based off of her eyes, you'd say she was hurt and got pumped full of shimmer; or maybe she was just living off of pure mania at this point.

You've cared for her, but now you also care about her. It seems that no matter how much respectful distance you put between yourself and her, propinquity eventually came into play, and affection followed. And the only sense you had was to go along with it.

It took you a while to get used to being around her. She was temperamental, to say the least. But you eventually learned not to ask any questions about her family, not to bring up the dolls she kept at her place, and avoid asking any questions at all about her past. If she wanted to, she'd tell you. The only time she wasn't unpredictable was when she was tinkering away at her little station, blasting her music.

She was calm, placated, almost normal. If you had never met her before and had seen her then, you would have thought she was beautiful. Not that she isn't, it's just that her reputation tended to precede all her other perceivable qualities. More than all of this, she was vulnerable. Her back turned to you, not a care in the world if you wandered around touching things. You realize now that it was in those moments probably that your affection for the girl grew. All of a sudden, getting her out of unideal predicaments included treating her wounds; then nursing her back to health if she was sick; staying over when she had nightmares. And yet you were still cautious, careful not to trip on some invisible wire that would trigger her temper.

"Whoops-"

A bang, a clattering of tools, and you're back at the bridge. Back at looking at screaming people, crawling on the ground because their legs had been blown clean off, some with limbs partially attached, some falling off, someone trying to feel where half of their face had gone. All moving, breathing, alive.

"Easy there, jelly legs." You look up to meet Jinx's eyes. Once a soft powder blue, now striking orbs of red violet. She's holding onto you. At some point you had lost your balance and was now kneeling on the floor, one hand on the side of Jinx's desk for support. "You sick or somethin'?" She asks.

"Sorry," You breathe out. "I think… I think I'm still reeling from what happened at the bridge."

She lets out a laugh. Loud, boisterous, manic.

"The bridge? The little ol' light show? You didn't like it?" Her smile falls, and she cocks her head to the side. Fuck.

Now you're on thin ice. "No, no. It was nice." You quickly say, shaking your head. "It's just, I'm not- I'm not used to seeing the before part, you know?"

She guffaws. "Wait, wait, wait." She stands, walking over to her desk littered with metal scraps and remnants of her previous projects, picking up one of the butterfly robots she had made. "You're telling me-" She plucks off a wing, the remaining one flapping aimlessly. "You" Points it at you. "Who's in charge of cleaning up exploded bodies, and telling Silco - who tells me - how to kill someone without a mess," Plucks off the other wing and throws the body away. "Gets queasy over a few blue bellies kicking the bucket?"

You take a breath to steady yourself. "I don't know. I never- I never thought about that part. I've never had to see it." You unconsciously start clenching and unclenching you hand not holding onto the desk. A nervous habit, one that you tried to shake off. A habit that Jinx had taken note of the first few months of her dragging you along with her escapades.

"I'm sorry." You say after a few beats of silence.

In one quick flash - too quick, inhumanly quick - Jinx is kneeling again in front of you, cupping your face in her hands. "Hey now, it's alright." Her tone is soft, caring, tragically comforting to you. "We all got our little quirks. I sure do."

She frees up one of her hands to brush your hair back. "Come to think of it, I think that was the first time you had to see something like that, huh?"

It always astounds you how quickly she can disarm the guard you put up for her. You know she's dangerous, you know you should be cautious. But a few sweet words from her and you're putty in her hands, completely at her mercy. You wonder if it's normal to love and fear someone at the same time.

"We'll be okay." She presses her forehead against yours. "I've got you, like you've got me." You nod.

"You can handle helping me with one more thing, right?" There it is. "We just need to do this one teeny thing, and then we can chill out."

You put in active effort to keep your breathing steady. Your stomach still in knots. "What thing?"

She grins. "A dinner party. You're my co-host." She pulls you up with her as she stands, leading you over to where she was working, where Fishbones was seemingly complete. "Wanna see something cool?"

You nod, and she fishes out the HexTech gemstone she had stolen during Progress Day. She opens up a slot near the handle and inserts the gemstone, Fishbones immediately lighting up, a blue hue illuminating her dark room. You contemplate asking her about her new weapon, weighing out the pros and cons. But the fact that her hand was still holding yours, her thumb idly grazing your knuckles was enough to encourage you.

"What are you gonna do with this?"

She runs her free hand above the clear panel where the gemstone is. "We're gonna go make a point."

The rational part of your brain is telling you to stay behind, that whatever this was, being in the vicinity of a HexTech-powered weapon was not a good idea. But this was Jinx, and she had already decided that you were coming with her. Incurring her wrath now, also in the vicinity of the HexTech-powered weapon, was not a good idea either.

So you do what you do best, and go along with it.

#arcane #arcane jinx #arcane netflix #arcane x reader #jinx x reader

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logos0 · 2 days ago

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From Ice to Fire

Leah Williamson x Reader Enemies to Lovers | Happy Ending

The wheels of the plane touched down at Heathrow, and the hum of the engines died as you peered out the window at the grey skies over London. It was a far cry from the snow-dusted landscapes of Scandinavia that you called home. But here you were, ready to embark on the next chapter of your footballing career. Arsenal FC had been a dream for years, and now you were one of their newest signings.

As you stepped out of the taxi at the training grounds, nerves prickled at your skin. You had achieved so much to get here, yet a voice at the back of your mind whispered that the hardest part was still to come. Meeting the team, proving your worth, adapting to the intensity of English football—all of it loomed large.

The team welcomes you warmly on your first day at Meadow Park. The first person to greet you was Beth Mead, her grin wide and her energy infectious. "Ah, the new signing! Heard you’ve got a killer left foot. Let’s hope it’s true." Vivianne Miedema followed with a calm nod, and Kim Little, the captain, offers a handshake that carries a quiet authority. But then there’s Leah Williamson.

The Lionesses’ captain greets you with a polite, almost perfunctory nod. Her reputation precedes her: confident, charismatic, a born leader. But something about her intensity feels off. The Lionesses’ captain carried herself with a quiet intensity. Her eyes assessed you from head to toe, and her polite nod felt more like a formality than genuine welcome.

For the rest of the day, her presence loomed. During the first drills, she was the one who barked out directions, corrected positioning, and, more than once, seemed to single you out for criticism.

"You need to stay tighter to your mark," she said sharply after a defensive drill.

You clenched your jaw. "Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you’d tracked your runner."

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the air between you crackled with tension.

It was going to be a long season.

Your integration into the squad is smooth… except when it comes to Leah. The rivalry between you two grew over the weeks. On the surface, everything seemed fine. You worked well enough together during games and even exchanged the occasional word of praise when necessary. But in training, it was a different story. She seemed to find faults in everything you do. A misplaced pass? She’s the first to point it out. A moment’s hesitation on the field? She’s already barking instructions.

"That’s not how we press here," Leah said during one particularly gruelling session, her tone clipped. "Maybe in Scandinavia, you can take your time," she snaps after one particularly tense drill, "but here, we move fast."

You wiped sweat from your brow, shooting her a glare. "I’ve been playing football since I could walk. I think I know how to press."

"Not in the WSL, you don’t," she snapped back. You glare at her, chest heaving from exertion. "Maybe if you passed the ball sooner, I wouldn’t have to clean up your mistakes."

The tension between you was palpable, and the team could feel it. Beth smirked knowingly, muttering, "Oh, this is gonna be fun to watch."

During the next weeks, your Scandinavian coolness continued to clash with her fiery intensity at every turn. The team, much to your dismay, seemed to find your friction entertaining. Beth Mead started taking bets on when the two of you would finally explode, and even the usually reserved Vivianne Miedema would smirk when you and Leah squared off during drills.

It wasn’t that you disliked her—at least, that’s what you told yourself. But her constant nitpicking, her relentless need to push, got under your skin like no one ever had before.

And yet, you couldn’t help but notice her. The way she commanded the field with such confidence, the way she celebrated every goal like it was her first, the way her laugh—rare as it was—lit up the room during team dinners.

But noticing wasn’t the same as liking.

One evening after training, you stayed late to practice free kicks. The floodlights cast long shadows across the empty pitch as you lined up ball after ball, aiming for the top corner.

"You don’t rest much, do you?"

The voice startled you, and you turned to see Leah leaning against the goalpost, arms crossed.

"And you don’t know when to leave people alone," you shot back, though your tone lacked its usual bite.

To your surprise, she didn’t respond with a snarky remark. Instead, she grabbed a ball and joined you. The two of you fell into a rhythm, each taking turns at the goal. There was an unspoken competition in the air, but it felt different this time—less antagonistic, more playful.

When you finally stopped, both of you breathless, Leah gave you a small, genuine smile. "You’re not bad," she said.

"Coming from you, that almost sounds like a compliment," you replied, earning a quiet laugh.

For the first time, the tension between you seemed to ease.

The match against Chelsea was a turning point. Arsenal was down 1-0, and the clock was running out. You intercepted a pass from Sam Kerr and drove forward, weaving through defenders before threading the ball to Leah, who was perfectly positioned. She scored with a thunderous strike, and the stadium erupted.

Before you knew it, Leah was running toward you, a wide grin on her face. She wrapped her arms around you, her excitement contagious. "That was all you," she said breathlessly, her forehead briefly touching yours.

For the first time, her words felt entirely sincere, and something shifted between you.

After the Chelsea game, the team celebrated with a night out. You found yourself seated next to Leah, and to your surprise, the conversation flowed easily. She asked about your life in Scandinavia, and you told her about the snowy winters, the northern lights, and the small village where you first fell in love with football.

"You’re full of surprises," she said softly, her eyes searching yours.

"So are you," you replied, feeling a warmth you hadn’t expected.

A few weeks later, after a late-night training session, you and Leah ended up alone on the balcony of the team’s hotel. The city lights glittered below as silence stretched between you.

"I was wrong about you," Leah said finally, her voice quiet.

You turned to her, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I thought you were just another hotshot here to make a name for yourself. But you’re more than that. You care about the team. You push me to be better." She hesitated, her usual confidence faltering. "And I… I think I like you."

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop.

"I like you too," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

She leaned closer, her hand brushing yours. When she kissed you, it was soft and tentative, as though testing the waters. But when you kissed her back, it was with all the passion and fire that had burned between you from the start.

The shift from enemies to lovers wasn’t seamless. You still bickered during training, but now it was laced with humour rather than hostility. The team noticed the change immediately.

"You two are ridiculous," Beth teased one day. "Just get a room already."

Leah rolled her eyes, but her hand found yours under the table.

On the field, your partnership flourished. Leah’s leadership and your creativity drove the team to new heights, and Arsenal climbed to the top of the league. Off the field, your bond deepened through late-night conversations, stolen moments, and an unspoken understanding that you had found something rare.

The season ended with Arsenal lifting the trophy. As confetti rained down, Leah pulled you into her arms, her smile brighter than ever.

"We make a good team," she said, her forehead resting against yours.

"We always did," you replied with a grin.

In that moment, surrounded by your teammates and the deafening cheers of the crowd, you knew this was just the beginning—for Arsenal, for your career, and for you and Leah.

From enemies to lovers, from ice to fire—you had found your home.

#leah williamson x reader #awfc x reader #leah williamson #woso x reader #woso community

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dreamersworldduh · 3 days ago

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UNSPOKEN TRUTHS

• Dick Grayson x Male!Reader

SUMMARY — you and Dick Grayson go way back but it’s been so many years since you two last spoke. So what happens when you two reconnect in the oddest way possible.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 7.8k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! firstly, THANK YOU all for the love and support for Sunday Mornings. Now, this is a long one and I may have gotten a little carried away but nevertheless I hope you all enjoy!

Dick Grayson.

There's an undeniable magnetism about Dick Grayson—an aura that makes it impossible to stay away from him, even when every instinct tells you that you should. He embodies everything that simultaneously irritates and captivates you. He's infuriatingly charming, effortlessly sociable, and devastatingly handsome. Add to that his cocky attitude and penchant for being the ultimate goofball, and you're left with a contradiction wrapped in an irresistible package.

You've known him since your very first year at Hudson University, where fate (or maybe bad luck?) had you both enrolled in the same criminology class. While you were focused on minding your own business, diligently taking notes and keeping your head down, Dick Grayson had other plans. He was the kind of guy who seemed to thrive on interaction, and apparently, you had caught his attention.

It started innocently enough. You were hunched over your notebook, furiously scribbling details from the professor's lecture, utterly engrossed. That's when Dick made his move. Leaning over with that trademark mischievous grin, he decided your focus was far too serious for his liking.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice low enough not to draw the professor's wrath but loud enough to break through your concentration.

You tried to ignore him, hoping he'd get bored and leave you alone. But this was Dick Grayson, and persistence was practically his middle name. He didn't just want your attention—he demanded it. Whether it was tapping on your notebook, cracking an unnecessary joke, or asking a deliberately ridiculous question about the lecture material, he seemed determined to throw you off your game.

At first, you hated him for it. Who did this guy think he was, barging into your quiet world of focus and discipline with his infuriating grin and boyish charm? But over time, something shifted. Maybe it was the way he made you laugh when you least expected it, or the fact that underneath all the cockiness, he was genuinely kind and intelligent.

Dick Grayson wasn't just a distraction; he was a force of nature. And whether you liked it or not, he had a way of turning your world upside down.

Your friendship with Dick began as a slow bloom, nurtured by shared classes, late-night study sessions, and moments of unexpected laughter. What started as a simple camaraderie between classmates grew into an unshakable bond that lasted all four years at Hudson University. The two of you were inseparable, each other's confidant, cheerleader, and partner in crime-solving, so to speak.

By the time graduation rolled around, everyone assumed that life would pull you in different directions. With the ink barely dry on your diplomas, it seemed logical that you'd both scatter to explore the opportunities your criminology degrees offered. And for a while, it seemed like that was how the story would end. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

You eventually landed a job in Blüdhaven as a small-time investigator, the kind of work that fit your personality like a glove. Observant to a fault and driven by a relentless curiosity, you thrived in the world of puzzles and mysteries. Unraveling clues, piecing together fragments of stories, and finding answers where others saw dead ends gave you an unshakable sense of fulfillment.

But being as observant as you were had its downsides. You were the kind of person who couldn't let things go, even when every rational instinct told you to back off. That's how you found yourself in your current predicament—a missing persons case that had taken a dark and dangerous turn.

It had started innocently enough, following breadcrumbs that no one else had noticed. But as you dug deeper, you realized the case was connected to a local gang, one that didn't appreciate your meddling. Unfortunately for you, they'd noticed your snooping long before you realized you were on their radar. By the time you put the pieces together, it was too late. They had you.

The gang's leader, a stereotypical brute with a barrel chest and a growling voice to match, stood over you, barking out threats. His speeches were a predictable blend of clichés: "You should've minded your own business!" and "You don't know who you're messing with!" It would've been almost funny if the situation weren't so dire.

Despite the danger, you couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. You'd managed to find the missing person, even if it had landed you in chains. And now, as the leader ranted, you sat there, tied to a chair in some dingy warehouse, mentally kicking yourself for not being more careful.

Then, something caught your eye.

Out of the corner of the dimly lit room, a movement stirred in the shadows. At first, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you. But then, you saw him—a figure dressed in sleek black and blue, moving with cat-like precision through the darkness. The gang leader, oblivious to the silent intruder, continued his tirade, but you couldn't tear your eyes away.

The man in the shadows was swift, almost inhumanly so. One by one, the gang members guarding the room were dispatched with precise, fluid motions. He was a blur of calculated power, blending perfectly into the gloom until he wanted to be seen. And then, he was there.

Nightwing.

You'd heard whispers of him before—Blüdhaven's vigilante protector, a myth to some, a menace to criminals. But seeing him in action was another thing entirely. His black and blue suit seemed to absorb the faint light in the room, his presence commanding yet effortless.

As chaos erupted in the warehouse, the gang leader spun around, barking orders to his panicking subordinates. You could only watch in awe—and maybe a little bit of relief—as Nightwing expertly dismantled your captors. You didn't know how or why he'd come for you, but in that moment, you didn't care. All you knew was that your life was in the hands of someone who clearly knew what he was doing.

The warehouse was a symphony of chaos. Nightwing moved like a shadow come to life, his every step deliberate and his strikes landing with unerring precision. You couldn't look away, transfixed by the fluidity of his movements. He wasn't just fighting—he was dismantling. Each thug fell with a grunt or a pained yell, their weapons clattering uselessly to the ground. The air was thick with the sharp sounds of punches landing and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the cold cement floor.

The leader, who had loomed so intimidatingly just minutes ago, now looked like a lumbering fool. He charged at Nightwing with brute force, swinging a metal pipe with the confidence of someone who had never faced someone of this caliber before. Nightwing sidestepped with ease, his movements economical and almost effortless. In a flash, the vigilante grabbed the leader's arm, twisted it with a sharp motion, and sent the weapon flying. A quick roundhouse kick to the chest sent the man sprawling onto his back with a groan of defeat.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the fight was over.

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Nightwing straightened, his breathing steady despite the intense effort he'd just exerted. He surveyed the room, his sharp gaze ensuring no threats remained. The dim lighting cast a faint glow on his black-and-blue suit, accentuating the imposing figure he cut. You couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and awe, even as your pulse raced from the ordeal.

Finally, his focus shifted to you. His stride was purposeful, his boots barely making a sound as he crossed the distance. He crouched beside you, the sharp angles of his mask now just inches from your face. His hands, encased in black gloves, moved swiftly, slicing through the ropes that bound your wrists and ankles.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low but carrying a gentle concern that caught you off guard. His eyes—calm, steady, and searching—met yours briefly, and in that moment, the hostage trembling nearby seemed like an afterthought.

You swallowed hard, your voice shaky as you replied, "I'm fine. Thanks to you."

As he helped you to your feet, his hand lingered on your arm, steadying you. It was a small gesture, but it sent a jolt through you. Those eyes. Brown, warm, and so achingly familiar. You froze, your heart skipping a beat as realization struck.

"Dick?" you whispered, the name escaping your lips before you could stop yourself.

He stiffened, the subtle movement confirming what you already knew. His head turned slightly, his gaze flicking to the hostage, who was watching the exchange with wide, curious eyes. His silence said everything.

You bit your lip, realizing your mistake. Swallowing your questions, you forced yourself to focus. The hostage needed to be taken care of, and this wasn't the time or place for the confrontation brewing in your mind.

"Thank you," the hostage managed to stammer, their voice shaky. Nightwing gave them a curt nod, his usual confidence slipping back into place as he offered them a reassuring glance.

Moments later, the sound of sirens filled the air, the flashing red and blue lights of the approaching police cars spilling into the warehouse. Officers rushed in, taking the gang into custody and escorting the hostage to safety. Meanwhile, you stayed put, standing just outside the chaos as the adrenaline slowly ebbed from your system.

Nightwing lingered, his posture tense but his presence solid and unwavering. It was clear he was waiting—perhaps for the right moment, or perhaps for you.

"You're not leaving," you said, stepping closer to him with a sharpness in your tone that surprised even you. "Good. Because we need to talk."

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. Still, you caught the faintest hint of unease in his posture. He knew what was coming.

As the last of the police cars pulled away, leaving the two of you bathed in the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp, you finally allowed yourself to say what had been clawing at you.

"It is you," you said softly, the weight of the realization settling over you. "Dick Grayson."

Nightwing let out a soft, resigned sigh. Without a word, he reached up, his gloved fingers curling around the edges of his mask. In one smooth motion, he pulled it away, revealing the face you'd known for years.

The sight of him hit you like a wave. His dark hair was slightly tousled, damp with sweat, and those familiar brown eyes stared back at you with a mix of guilt and apprehension.

"Hi," he said, his voice quiet but steady, as if testing the waters.

You stared at him, struggling to untangle the mess of emotions inside you. Shock, anger, confusion, and something else—something softer—swirled in your chest. "You've been here," you said finally, your voice trembling. "In Blüdhaven. This whole time. And you didn't tell me?"

"It's not that simple," he replied, his tone gentle but laced with regret. "I wanted to. I just... couldn't."

You huffed, crossing your arms as you glared at him. "You're not getting out of this, Dick. We're talking about it. All of it."

A small, sheepish smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, he almost looked like the carefree friend you remembered from Hudson University. "Yeah," he said softly. "I figured as much."

The weight of the moment hung heavy between you, unspoken questions lingering in the air. There was so much to say, so much you needed to understand, but for now, the two of you simply stood there, the silence stretching like an unspoken promise.

Soon, the two of you arrived at Dick's apartment, the closest and most convenient place to regroup. The space was warm and inviting, a surprising contrast to the gritty chaos of the warehouse you'd just escaped. Dick excused himself to change out of his vigilante uniform, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and his belongings.

It wasn't long before your curiosity got the better of you. Old habits die hard, and you found yourself wandering the apartment, taking in the details. The first thing you noticed was how organized it was compared to his dorm back in college. Gone were the piles of laundry and cluttered desks; everything here had its place. The sleek, minimalist decor hinted at someone who valued function over flair, though the occasional personal touch softened the aesthetic.

There were pictures scattered around, mostly in simple frames. You stopped to study them, recognizing some of the faces from news articles and social media posts. These must be his siblings. During college, Dick had rarely talked about his family, offering only vague hints that he was adopted and that his adoptive father was extremely wealthy. Back then, the extent of his family's resources was evident in the way he casually splurged—never obnoxiously, but like the carefree college student who'd buy a round of shots for half the campus without a second thought.

Your gaze lingered on a particular photo, and your breath caught. It was a picture of you and Dick, taken during a Christmas party in your junior year. The two of you stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe, your face frozen in an exaggeratedly annoyed expression as he planted a kiss on your cheek. But you remembered that moment vividly. You remembered how fast your heart had raced, how flustered you'd felt, and how you'd struggled to keep your reaction under control. Out of all the pictures you'd taken together, you couldn't believe he'd kept this one.

The sound of his voice startled you from your thoughts.

"You know, this is exactly how you got yourself captured the first time," Dick said, his tone tinged with amusement.

You turned sharply, only to find him leaning casually against the doorframe. He was dressed in a navy blue tank top that revealed the lean, athletic build beneath, his arms toned from years of training. Loose-fitting gray joggers hung low on his hips, offering a distracting peek at his defined waistline. For a moment, your thoughts betrayed you, wandering where they shouldn't. You quickly shook the imagery from your mind and refocused, gesturing toward the picture in question.

"Why this picture?" you asked, pointing at the frame.

Dick stepped closer, glancing at the photo with a soft smile. "It's my favorite of us," he admitted, his voice light but honest.

Your chest tightened. You stared at him, studying the way his expression softened as he looked at the photo, as though it held a special place in his memory. You remembered that night clearly, but you'd never imagined it meant as much to him as it had to you.

"You don't even like Christmas," you teased, trying to deflect the sudden wave of emotion threatening to surface.

He shrugged, turning to you with a playful grin. "True. But I like you."

The simplicity of his statement made your heart skip a beat. He said it so casually, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, yet the weight of those words hung heavy in the air between you. You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond.

"Dick..." you began, your voice faltering.

"Don't overthink it," he said, his grin fading into something softer. "I just... like having a reminder of how happy we were. That's all."

You looked back at the photo, the moment frozen in time, and then at him. For all the chaos that had led to this point, standing here with him now, it was hard to deny that something about this moment felt right.

The dining room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchen. You leaned against the chair, arms crossed, watching as Dick moved to the table where a stack of papers sat in disarray. His movements were deliberate but lacked his usual confidence, as though he were stalling for time.

“So,” you began, your tone cutting through the silence, “I’m guessing things have been rough if you decided to change careers. Last we talked, you were dead set on becoming a cop. It was literally all you could talk about.”

You turned to face him fully, your words sharp but not without curiosity. Dick froze for a moment, his shoulders tensing before he turned his head slightly toward you.

“That’s still in the works,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with defensiveness.

“Yeah?” you shot back, arching an eyebrow as you pointed to the table. “You mean with those blank applications over there?”

Dick followed your gaze to the stack of untouched forms on the dining room table. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he sighed, running a hand through his hair as if that would somehow untangle the thoughts swirling in his head.

“You don’t understand, Y/N…” he started, but you weren’t about to let him finish.

“I may not be a crime-fighting vigilante in spandex,” you interrupted, stepping closer and folding your arms tightly across your chest, “but I do know you can’t keep putting your life on hold like this. Blüdhaven isn’t Gotham, Dick. You don’t have to be out there night and day. It’s not your responsibility to carry this city on your back.”

He turned to face you fully now, his jaw set. “I also run my own team, you know,” he pointed out, his tone firm but not without frustration.

“Okay, and?” you replied, your voice rising slightly. “I’m thankful for what you did tonight—for me, for that hostage, for everyone you help. But come on, Dick. You can’t just live for this. You should have a life outside of your nighttime activities and team leadership. You deserve more than this relentless grind.”

His hands clenched briefly at his sides, and then he threw them up in exasperation. “I did!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion. “I did have that life. Four years, Y/N. Four years of normalcy. School, friends… you.”

You blinked, his words hitting you like a freight train. He wasn’t done.

“I fell in love with you, for god’s sake,” he continued, his voice quieter but no less intense. “But I knew—deep down—I couldn’t hold onto that. I couldn’t keep living in a reality that wasn’t mine to have.”

For a moment, the air between you felt impossibly still. You stared at him, mouth slightly ajar, his words ricocheting in your mind.

“You… fell in love with me?” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Dick looked at you, his expression vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before. His usually confident demeanor was gone, replaced by something raw and honest.

“I never stopped,” he admitted quietly, his gaze unwavering.

The weight of his confession hung heavily in the air, but before Dick could react, reality struck you like a lightning bolt. Without thinking, you raised your hand and slapped him across the face.

The sharp sound echoed in the room, startling you both.

“You waited four years to tell me you’re in love with me?” you exclaimed, your voice a mix of frustration, disbelief, and something you couldn’t quite name.

Dick blinked in surprise, his cheek barely reddened from the slap. He raised a hand to rub at it, murmuring, “Ow.” Though you knew it hadn’t actually hurt him—your slap had been more for dramatic effect than anything else—it still made him flinch slightly.

“You know,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperated humor, “it took a lot of courage to admit this. I mean, at first, I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling. But the more I got to know you…” He paused, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “I was whipped. Everyone knew how protective I was of you.”

“Clearly not everyone,” you shot back, folding your arms tightly across your chest.

Dick tilted his head, his expression softening with that boyish charm that always seemed to disarm you. “That’s because you were always so oblivious to things,” he pointed out, a teasing edge in his tone.

“This isn’t about me,” you retorted, your frustration flaring again. “This is about you—about you waiting years to—”

Before you could finish, Dick’s hands moved with startling quickness, cupping your face as he leaned in, cutting you off completely. His lips crashed onto yours, silencing your protests in an instant.

Your first instinct was to resist, your mind screaming at you to stay angry, to push him away and demand answers. But the moment his lips moved against yours, warm and insistent, your anger began to dissolve like sugar in water. His touch was firm but not forceful, as though he was pouring every unspoken word, every pent-up feeling, into that kiss.

Damn him.

Your hands, which had been frozen in mid-air, slowly lowered to his chest, resting against the fabric of his tank top. You wanted to be mad, to hold onto your indignation, but instead, you found yourself leaning into him. His lips were soft yet commanding, and they melted away every ounce of tension in your body.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath mingling with yours. His brown eyes, now so close, bore into yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. There was an undeniable hunger in them, a raw and unguarded lust, but beneath it was something deeper, something that spoke of years of unspoken feelings and restraint finally breaking free.

The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with tension as he leaned in closer, his forehead still brushing against yours. His hands, which had been gently cupping your face, slid down to your jaw, his thumbs tracing soft, maddeningly slow circles on your skin.

“I want to make love to you so bad,” Dick whispered, his voice husky and low, the words trembling with emotion. “But I want to do this right.”

The warmth of his breath tickled your lips as he spoke, and the sheer vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten. Yet the weight of those words, so raw and sensual, sent a jolt of arousal through you. You felt your body react instantly, your breath hitching as your dick tightened in response.

You had never heard anything like this from him before—such a delicate balance of sweetness and longing, spoken with the kind of confidence that sent heat pooling in your stomach. His voice wasn’t just sexual; it was reverent, like he was making a promise wrapped in desire.

Your hands rested against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top as you tried to steady yourself. The warmth of his body beneath your touch only heightened the tension, and you struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone words.

“Dick…” you finally managed, though it came out as little more than a breathless murmur.

His eyes never left yours, his gaze darkened with an intensity that made it clear just how much he wanted you—but he didn’t move, waiting for your response. Waiting for you to meet him halfway. And in that moment, the depth of his restraint only made you want him more.

“I want you to make love to me,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you met his gaze. The words hung in the air for a moment, electrifying the space between you.

Dick’s eyes darkened instantly, the flicker of hesitation replaced by raw desire and unrestrained passion. That was all he needed. In the blink of an eye, his lips were on yours, crashing against yours with a fury that made your knees weak.

The kiss was nothing like the soft, tentative one from earlier. This was urgent, consuming, as though he’d been holding back for far too long and couldn’t contain himself any longer. His hands moved to your waist, gripping you firmly, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The heat of his chest pressed against yours, and you could feel his heart pounding as wildly as your own.

You gasped against his lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours with an intensity that made you shiver. His fingers trailed up your back, one hand tangling in your hair while the other held your waist, anchoring you to him.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, sliding over the smooth, warm skin exposed by his tank top. You clutched at him, your fingers curling into the fabric as you felt his muscles flex beneath your touch. He kissed you like a man starved, like he’d been waiting for this moment for years, pouring every ounce of his suppressed longing into it.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips tingling and swollen from the sheer intensity. His forehead pressed against yours as he steadied himself, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse, though the look in his eyes made it clear how much he wanted you.

You nodded, your hands sliding down his chest to rest against his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed to hear before his lips were on yours again, this time softer but no less passionate, as if he wanted to savor every second of what was about to happen.

Dick’s lips moved from yours with deliberate, unhurried precision, trailing a path along your jawline before finding the sensitive skin of your neck. The contrast between his soft kisses and the occasional scrape of his teeth sent a shiver coursing down your spine.

When he finally found your sweet spot just below your ear, your breath hitched sharply, and a low, involuntary moan escaped your lips. The sound seemed to spur him on, his lips lingering as he alternated between gentle kisses and slow, teasing nibbles.

Your hands, which had been resting lightly against his waist, tightened instinctively. Your fingers gripped the fabric of his joggers, pulling him closer, needing to feel the heat radiating from his body. The firmness of his waist beneath your touch grounded you even as your head tilted back slightly, offering him more access.

He hummed against your skin, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you. His arms wrapped around you more securely, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other pressed against the small of your back, holding you flush against him.

“God, you taste amazing,” he murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough. The combination of his words and his lips on your skin was overwhelming, igniting an firm erection in your dick that made it impossible to think of anything but him.

Your breathing grew heavier, your chest rising and falling against his as you surrendered completely to the sensations. Every press of his lips, every soft graze of his teeth, sent sparks of pleasure rippling through you, and you couldn’t help but cling to him even tighter.

“Dick,” you breathed, his name spilling from your lips in a way that was half plea, half encouragement. His response was a low, approving growl that made your knees go weak, but his strong arms kept you firmly in place.

Dick’s hands slid down your sides, lingering for a moment at your hips before they gripped your thighs firmly. In one fluid motion, he lifted you effortlessly, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. His strength, always impressive but now impossibly intimate, sent a shiver through you.

Your arms clung to his shoulders for balance as he held you close, your chest pressed against his. His lips captured yours again, and the kiss was slow but no less hungry, his steps steady as he carried you toward the darkly dim room down the hall.

Normally, your inquisitive nature would have taken over, and you’d have surveyed every inch of the space. But right now, your attention was consumed by him—by the heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed against your thighs, and the electric connection between you.

The faint glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows on the walls as he entered the room. You barely registered the surroundings, focusing instead on the way his breathing had quickened, mirroring your own. He reached the bed, lowering you carefully to the floor with a tenderness that made your chest tighten.

His hands lingered on your hips as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze burning with unspoken desire and reverence. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch warm against your skin as he lifted it over your head. He took his time, his eyes roaming over you like he was memorizing every detail.

Your breath hitched as he began to undress himself, his movements fluid and unhurried. His tank top came off first, revealing the toned lines of his chest and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His joggers followed, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.

Your hands moved instinctively to his waist, tugging at the waistband of his boxers, but he stopped you gently, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Not yet,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your collarbone.

His hands returned to you, sliding along your sides with deliberate slowness before slipping beneath the waistband of your own boxers, guiding them down. The intimacy of the moment made your pulse race, every inch of skin he revealed heightening the tension between you.

Now, with both of you standing there, bare except for the thin fabric separating you completely, the air felt charged, heavy with anticipation. Dick’s eyes locked onto yours, his expression a perfect blend of lust and something deeper, something that made your heart pound harder than ever before.

Dick’s hands wrapped around your dick with deliberate care, his grip firm yet gentle. The slow, teasing movements of his fingers as he stroked you sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. His eyes stayed locked on yours, their intensity leaving you breathless. He watched your every reaction, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile as soft moans began to spill from your lips.

The sound seemed to embolden him, as if each moan was a symphony only he could conduct. He leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, making you shiver with anticipation. Before you could process what was happening, he guided you backward, gently pushing you onto the mattress.

The soft surface cradled you as you fell, the world around you blurring into insignificance. All that mattered was him—his touch, his gaze, his presence. Dick climbed onto the bed, settling himself between your legs with a confidence that made your pulse race.

His hands found your thighs, gripping them firmly but not aggressively as he spread your legs slightly wider. The warmth of his palms was grounding, his touch both possessive and reverent. His eyes never left yours, a silent question hanging in the air, one you answered with a slight nod and a quiet, shaky breath.

Leaning forward, he placed a featherlight kiss just below your navel before lowering himself further. The sensation of his tongue grazing your dick made your back arch slightly, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He didn’t stop there—his tongue trailed down with slow, deliberate strokes before his lips closed around you completely.

The heat of his mouth was overwhelming, his movements skilled and calculated. He alternated between slow, torturous licks and firm, rhythmic suction, drawing louder moans from you with each passing second. The room was filled with the sounds of your pleasure, mingling with his soft hums as he worked.

Just as you thought the sensations couldn’t intensify, you felt something new. His hand, which had been resting on your thigh, moved downward, his fingers tracing teasing circles near your hole. The first press of his fingertip was gentle, testing, and when he felt your body relax, he slid a single finger inside with the same care.

The combination of his mouth and the intrusion sent a wave of pleasure crashing over you, and your moans grew louder, higher, uncontrollable. Your hands instinctively reached for him, one tangling in his hair as the other clutched at the sheets beneath you.

“Dick,” you gasped, his name spilling from your lips like a plea.

He glanced up at you, his brown eyes dark with desire, a glint of satisfaction evident as he took in the sight of you unraveling beneath him. He added a slight curl to his finger, hitting a spot that made your entire body tremble. The way your voice broke with pleasure was like fuel to him, and he redoubled his efforts, his lips and fingers moving in perfect harmony to push you further toward the edge.

The only thing you could do was surrender to him completely, your mind and body consumed by the intensity of the sensations he was creating.

The sudden press of a second finger into your hole sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, a sharp moan escaping your lips at the unexpected intrusion. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly, your chest rising and falling as Dick’s fingers moved inside you with increasing speed. Each curl and thrust was precise, hitting spots that made your back arch off the mattress in ecstasy.

The heat pooling in your hole was overwhelming, your breath coming in short gasps as you struggled to keep up with the rhythm he was setting. Just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of control, his fingers stopped abruptly and slid out, leaving you gasping at the loss of contact.

“Why did you—” you began, your voice breathless and laced with confusion, but the words caught in your throat as your eyes traveled down to him.

Dick had shifted back slightly, his hands hooking into the waistband of his boxers. With deliberate slowness, he slid them down his hips, his eyes never leaving yours. As the fabric pooled at his knees, your gaze dropped, and your breath hitched at the sight before you.

His dick was fully revealed, and he was… well, impressively endowed. Huge as hell. The dim light of the room cast shadows that only emphasized his size and shape, and for a moment, you couldn’t tear your eyes away. The anticipation in the air was electric, and the confident smirk playing at the corners of his lips told you he noticed your reaction.

“You were saying?” he teased softly, his voice low and dripping with amusement.

Your mouth opened to reply, but no words came. Instead, your eyes flickered back up to meet his, and the hunger in his gaze made your stomach flip. He moved closer, his hands returning to your thighs, gently spreading them wider as he leaned over you, his bare skin brushing against yours. The weight of him above you, combined with the heat radiating from his body, sent your pulse racing again.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a mix of tenderness and desire.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

His smile softened for a moment, a flicker of something deeper crossing his expression before he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was as much a promise as it was an invitation.

Dick broke the kiss, his breath warm against your lips as he pulled back slightly. His eyes stayed locked on yours, filled with a mix of tenderness and desire. Reaching over to his dresser, he grabbed a small bottle of lube, his movements deliberate but steady.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing a reassuring circle against your hip.

You nodded, your anticipation building as he popped the cap. The cool gel landed on your hole, and you squirmed at the sudden chill, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Dick chuckled lightly at your reaction, his hands smoothing over your thighs to steady you.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice soothing as he worked the lube gently around your hole. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant, his touch careful and precise.

Once he was satisfied, he coated himself in the gel, his large hands moving confidently as he spread it over his dick. The sight alone made your heart race, but before you could get lost in the thought, he tossed the bottle somewhere across the room with a soft thud, refocusing entirely on you.

His hands returned to your waist, gripping you firmly but gently as he positioned himself between your legs. The weight of his gaze anchored you, and you took a deep breath as you felt the head of his dick press against your hole.

“This might feel a little intense at first,” he warned, his voice husky but tender. “Let me know if you need me to stop.”

You nodded again, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as he began to push forward slowly. The stretch was immediate, his size making you wince slightly as your body adjusted. Dick paused, his brows furrowed in concentration as he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re doing amazing,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple before trailing down to your cheek.

He continued inching forward, his movements measured and deliberate, giving you time to adjust with each small push. By the time he was fully seated inside you, your breaths were coming in shallow gasps, but you could feel the tension in your body beginning to ease.

Dick stayed still for a moment, his forehead resting against yours. His hands moved up to cradle your face as he kissed you softly, his lips tender and warm. “You feel so damn good,” he murmured against your lips before trailing kisses down your jawline and neck.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his words laced with affection as he peppered your skin with soft touches. His hands stroked your sides gently, grounding you while his lips worked to soothe any lingering discomfort.

“You’re everything,” he added, his voice low and filled with emotion, as though each word was meant to make you feel as cherished as possible.

The warmth of his presence, the tenderness of his touch, and the sincerity in his words made it impossible not to relax completely. Your body adjusted to him, the initial discomfort fading into something far more intimate and fulfilling.

Dick’s thrusts began slow and deliberate, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm as he slid in and out of your hole. Each thrust was careful, as if he were gauging your every reaction, ensuring you were comfortable. The initial stretch had given way to a new sensation—fullness that sent sparks of pleasure radiating through you with every deliberate motion.

Your hands clutched at the sheets, your knuckles whitening as you let out a shaky moan. The heat building in your core only intensified as Dick’s strokes grew deeper, his pace gradually increasing. His hands gripped your hips firmly, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to anchor you but not hurt. He adjusted his angle slightly, and the next thrust hit a spot that made your back arch off the mattress and a louder moan escape your lips.

“That’s it,” Dick murmured, his voice a deep, encouraging rasp that sent shivers through your body. “Let me hear you.”

Your moans grew more unrestrained as his movements became more confident, each stroke deeper and more precise than the last. His body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin adding to the growing intensity. The sound of your bodies moving together—his labored breathing, your gasps, the rhythmic creak of the mattress—filled the dimly lit room, creating an atmosphere of pure intimacy.

“Dick,” you gasped, his name tumbling from your lips as the pleasure built higher. His response was a low groan, his eyes locking onto yours as he leaned down to kiss you deeply. His lips were warm, insistent, and grounding, keeping you tethered to him even as your body felt like it might unravel from the sensations he was creating.

Every thrust felt like a wave crashing through you, each one pulling you further under, until all you could do was cling to him and let him take you where he wanted.

“Say it again,” Dick whispered in your ear, his voice low and full of need. His thrusts grew faster, deeper, his breath hot against your skin. “Say my name.”

“Dick,” you moaned, your voice breaking as another thrust sent a wave of pleasure surging through you. “Ugh, Dick—”

He growled softly at the sound of his name on your lips, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you up from the bed. In one fluid motion, he shifted, sitting back on his knees with you straddling him. Your legs remained tightly wrapped around his waist, your bodies pressed together as his hands slid up your back, anchoring you against him.

You didn’t need any encouragement. Your body took over, moving instinctively as you began to rise and fall along his dick. Each motion sent him deeper inside you, filling you completely, and your moans grew louder, spilling into his ear with every movement.

The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the heat, the way his hands gripped your hips to guide you as you moved. But before another moan could escape, Dick silenced you with a kiss. His lips crashed into yours, passionate and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands roamed your back, pulling you even closer.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice raw with emotion and desire. “I love you so fucking much.”

Your breath hitched at his confession, your heart racing as you whimpered in response. “I love you too, Dick. I love you.”

The rhythm between you grew faster, more desperate, as your body tightened around him. The pleasure was building, an unstoppable crescendo that left you trembling in his arms. You buried your face in his neck, gasping out, “I’m close. Faster, baby. Please.”

His lips brushed your ear as he chuckled softly, his voice deep and intoxicating. “As you wish.”

With that, he tightened his grip on your hips and thrust upward with renewed intensity, meeting each of your movements with precision. The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing and the steady slap of your bodies moving together. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, your nails digging into his shoulders as you held on for dear life.

Dick’s lips found yours again, his kisses feverish and consuming as he whispered words of love and encouragement between each kiss.

Your entire body tensed as the pleasure reached its peak, and you let out a cry of pure bliss, your climax washing over you in waves that left you breathless and shaking in his arms.

Dick’s thrusts didn’t falter for a moment. If anything, they became more relentless, each one deeper and more deliberate than the last. His breathing grew heavier, his body pressing firmly against yours as his rhythm quickened. The telltale tension in his muscles and the soft groans spilling from his lips signaled that he was nearing his own climax, but he didn’t let up.

His lips never left your skin, moving from your mouth to your neck and back again, as though grounding himself in the intimacy of the moment. Each kiss was full of raw passion, his lips trailing heat and leaving you breathless.

“You feel so good,” Dick murmured against your ear, his voice strained and low. “So perfect.”

The intensity of his thrusts made it impossible to form coherent words. Your body arched instinctively, your hands clutching at his back as he held you tightly against him. You could feel his grip on your hips tighten, his fingers digging in slightly as his movements became more erratic, more desperate.

“Y/N,” he groaned, your name rolling off his tongue in a deep, guttural tone that sent shivers through you.

A moment later, he buried himself to the hilt, his hips pressing flush against yours as he reached his breaking point. The warmth of his release filled you, a rush of heat that made you gasp. His head fell against your shoulder, his breath ragged as he rode out the waves of his climax, his body trembling slightly against yours.

Even then, his lips continued their tender assault, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder and up to your neck. His voice was a low whisper, almost inaudible over the sound of your labored breathing.

“If I wasn’t so tired, I’d hit you,” you breathed out, your voice heavy with exhaustion but tinged with playful annoyance.

Dick chuckled, his warm breath ghosting over your neck as he pressed a soft kiss to your skin. “Why?” he asked, his tone light and teasing. “What did I do this time?”

“You robbed me of four years of amazing sex,” you replied matter-of-factly, shooting him a tired glare that only made him laugh harder.

His laughter was rich and unrestrained, his chest vibrating against yours as he leaned back just enough to lift his head from your neck. His gaze locked onto yours, mischief dancing in his dark brown eyes. Without warning, he captured your lips in a kiss so passionate and full of promise that it left you breathless all over again.

When he finally pulled back, his grin was wicked, and his voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Oh, baby, we’re just getting started,” he said, his hand sliding down your side possessively. “I hope you don’t have plans in the morning.”

You barely had time to process the meaning of his words before his lips were on you again, igniting another round of passion that carried you both well into the night.

By the time morning rolled around, the two of you were sprawled on the floor of his living room, completely spent. The apartment bore the evidence of your nocturnal escapades: furniture slightly askew, scattered pillows, and discarded clothes littering the space. The air was still faintly warm from the fire you’d burned through the night.

Dick’s strong arms were wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close as if afraid you might disappear. Your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, your breaths soft and even against his skin. His chin rested gently atop your head, and both of you wore blissful smiles as the sunlight began to filter through the curtains.

The world outside was quiet, but in that moment, everything felt perfectly complete. There, tangled together in the aftermath of your shared intimacy, you both slept peacefully, content in a way you hadn’t been in years.

#dc x male reader #x male reader #nightwing #dick grayson #dick grayson x male reader #dick grayson imagine #dc #dick grayson x male!reader #batboys

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galpalaven · 3 days ago

Text

Felassan - Inquisition Companion + Romance Option

I blacked out after work and wrote this in a daze. Enjoy?

Felassan presents himself as a Dalish dreamer mage and friend of Solas, joining up with Solas from the very beginning after the Conclave.

He is romanceable by any gender or race, unlike Solas who is still race-locked (but bisexual — because the main gripe between the two is the topic of modern elves and anyone else being “real”). I think it would be interesting to also have specific dialogue if you try to romance both at once — Felassan would urge Lavellan to be careful with Solas either way, though it turns more clearly yearning and sad if the player has also triggered the beginnings of his romance.

Since Felassan’s addition to the group would be an extra mage, I think to balance all that out Cullen should be able to be taken at least on some outings, and we could have an extra rogue as well (Harding would fit here, I think).

more under the cut

Personality

As a friend of Solas and his direct counter, it’s immediately noticeable that Felassan is much more friendly and playful. Notably, he enjoys chatting up a Dalish inquisitor about being Dalish, and answers questions companions have about the elves with far more enthusiasm than Solas. If the two are in the party together, he will actively tell people not to listen to Solas and poke fun at him for being rude.

He gets along well with all of the other companions. Some who get along less well with Solas will comment on how they don’t know how he’s still friends with him when they are not in the party together. He gets along especially well with Sera, showing interest in her upbringing without making her feel condescended to the way Solas does. He particularly enjoys hearing about the Red Jennies and her efforts at helping to even the playing field for the underprivileged.

He gets along with Vivienne as well — I think it would be interesting for Vivienne to be vaguely familiar with him after he had been friends with Briala. I think it’s not a terrible idea for him to have still been involved there, too, as it could come in handy during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts.

Story Influence

The main differences with Felassan’s presence would likely come into play mostly with things to do with the elves.

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

Felassan is one of the most useful companions in this quest. Knowing Briala personally makes it easier for the Inquisitor to convince Briala to either:

Get back together with Celene

Become the puppet behind Gaspard

Felassan knows his way partially around the palace and is able to direct the party slightly when looking for things needed to advance the quest. He is also friends with some of the servants, allowing them access to some of the servants’ tunnels in a pinch.

He makes cheeky, sarcastic comments about the nobility when asked. He’s better at not speaking about his past, so he doesn’t get shifty during the quest like Solas does. He’s happy to dance with the Inquisitor, enjoying the scandal it will cause, with maybe a special line with a Dalish Inquisitor. Rather than single them out and make them “special” compared to other Inquisitors, it’s mostly just on principle of relating to them as another elf, similar to dialogue that can be triggered with Bull about being Qunari (or Tal-Vashoth, in that case).

What Pride Had Wrought

Welcome Felassan as the 3rd option for the Well of Sorrows!

This is where he becomes a real player on the table. He will argue with Morrigan about the Dalish, correcting her outright in places. They never gave the Dalish Inquisitor a real chance to argue with her about things, or explain things themselves, so he has snarky commentary either correcting her or being surprised when she gets things somewhat right. There are also scenes where he will take up the explanation entirely.

Felassan being present also will give the player the correct answer to the rituals. He knows them, explains offhandedly that he’s been here before as an excuse, and makes it far easier for the player to ally with the Sentinels rather than fight them.

By the time they reach the Well, things are tense.

Solas still fights with Morrigan and the Inquisitor both. If the Inquisitor brought him and Felassan both, he will immediately reject the idea when Felassan offers himself as an option.

Romanced!Felassan wants to do this for you — he knows what will happen, he knows the weight of this decision, and he doesn’t want this for you. He will elaborate if asked that drinking from this well will bind you, not only to the memories within, but the will of Mythal. The Inquisitor can, at this point, shrug this off if they don’t believe in Mythal or that she is still alive to control them. If the Inquisitor still chooses to drink themself, he accepts this, but tells them that he will help them with any… side effects, should they arise.

Unromanced + High Approval!Felassan will say something similar — you are his friend and he wishes to keep you safe. He will elaborate similarly if asked with high approval.

Low Approval!Felassan offers himself as a Dalish authority, perhaps derisively suggesting that he is older and wiser than a Dalish inquisitor, and that this is his responsibility, not theirs.

Either way, Solas is NOT happy, but will ultimately accept the final decision.

Trespasser

We come upon the eve of the Betrayal of Felassan.

At low approval, Felassan will have left some time in between the end of the main story and Trespasser, seeking to follow in Solas’s footsteps and find him. Despite not having high approval, Felassan is still fundamentally opposed to Solas’s decision, and will be trying to track him down alone to stop him — something Solas has been running to avoid at every turn. He does not want to see Felassan — he does not want to kill his best friend.

High approval and/or romanced Felassan is present and there to help the whole way through.

Romanced Felassan particularly will have a scene where he will quietly pull his love aside and ask if they trust him. If they say yes (or “You’re scaring me.”), he will tell them that this will sound crazy, but ask them to listen until the end before saying anything else. He will explain the story of the Dread Wolf as he knows it — the rebellion, the Evanuris, the vallaslin, all of it — and then, at the end, explain that he knows this because he lived it. He tells the story of the slow arrow and the Dread Wolf (a Dalish inquisitor can recognize it midway and will interrupt with surprise) and explains that he was there. That he has known Solas for thousands of years, that he has walked this land for thousands of years.

He will also explain that he knows what Solas wants and that he must stop him — that they must stop him. Solas wants to fix what he thinks he broke, but the people alive today do not deserve the fate he would have of them.

And Felassan is willing to do whatever it takes to stop him.

High approval Felassan will explain in much less detail via commentary while discovering the murals in the Crossroads, leading up to eventually finding Solas.

Once Solas has been found, Felassan runs ahead of the group, disregarding calls for him to stop. The Inquisitor is left one man down as they chase after him until, finally, they reach the place where Solas waits — and they find Felassan in Solas’s arms, a knife through his ribs.

Felassan will be stabbed by Solas regardless of Felassan’s approval with the Inquisitor. However, depending on choices made during either Solas or Felassans personal quests, and maybe Solas’s level of approval with the Inquisitor, Felassan can die.

The Inquisitor who loves him or is his friend will rush forward as Solas stumbles back, catching Felassan and holding their hand over the wound, careful not to move the dagger. Between the blood and the Inquisitor’s mark consuming their other arm, they are a sad sight.

Solas apologizes, but states that it was necessary. He would only get in the way. The questioning continues as normal here, up to Solas taking the Anchor.

Romance

I’m not entirely sure how this would go yet. I think he’s playful and flirtatious if the Inquisitor starts it. He will throw out Dalish phrases sometimes “for privacy,” with a Dalish inquisitor, which comes with a very obvious, if not always visible, wink.

His quests do focus around his identity as an elf, and around preserving elven history, whether the Inquisitor is Dalish or not. While this kind of happens with Solas, a lot of his dialogue is about how wrong the Dalish are — Felassan provides a different, more loving perspective on the modern elves compared to the ancients.

I think a love triangle route between him and Solas would be SO juicy. He wants his friend to be happy, but he knows that Solas does not believe that the elves are full people, and is concerned for the Inquisitor because of this. I think even if the Inquisitor locks in Solas, if the flirts were triggered with Felassan, you CAN actually come back to his romance after Solas dumps you (which, especially if they let him remove the tattoos, can hurt both you and him). I think it unlocking a special scene where he says that yes, he knew what they were and yes, he chose to keep his because he wanted them, would be sweet (and relatable if you chose to kEEP the vallaslin).

Overall, I think his romance would be sweet and fun. A direct counter to Solas and Sera, two elves who hate other elves. Felassan is proud of being an elf, he is proud of the resiliency of both the Dalish and city elves. He’s interested in every part of the world, including the dwarves, Qunari, and humans.

It's been a very long time since I played DAI so please forgive any inconsistencies. I just needed to write something down after work lol. tagging people who showed interest earlier! @lammstrellicon @swoleas @isayashai @witchofthewakingsea @ash-soka

#dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #felassan #da:i

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screamofdespair · 1 day ago

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池田理代子 Riyoko Ikeda Interview About Oniisama E... (2016)

池田理代子 Riyoko Ikeda

Mangaka and Vocal artist, she began drawing mangas during her university studies, and her work The Rose of Versailles, serialized in 1972, became a huge success, even turning into a social phenomenon. She became highly appreciated internationally. She received the Excellence Award from the Japanese Cartoonists Association for Orpheus no Mado in 1980. The French government decorated her with the Légion d’Honneur for her contributions to spreading French history and culture in Japan.

What led to the creation of Oniisama E... ?

When the serialization of The Rose of Versailles ended, I had already decided that my next work would be a historical epic : Orpheus no Mado. But since it would take time to prepare for the historical research and start drawing it, I thought I could write something in the meantime (laughs). I feel a bit apologetic calling it just a filler, though, but actually, "Oniisama E..." was born from my own personal experiences. It’s a very important and cherished memory for me, and it just came rushing out all at once.

So, was your correspondence with the "Oniisama" also based on your own experience ?

When I was in my third year of middle school, just like Nanako, there was a preparatory course offered by university students from the University of Tokyo. I asked the graduate student who was in charge of social studies (the model for Takehiko Henmi) the same thing Nanako did: "Could you be my 'Oniisama'?" (laughs). I was deeply fascinated by the concept of an 'Oniisama" It's different from the idea of love, though. Through our letters, I learned a lot about history, religion, and various things. When I mentioned my interest in Christianity, he wrote me, "Christianity as it is called, not only « participated » in the WW2 but was also one of its central protagonists : This is a historical truth.." I learned so much from those letters and grew a lot. I even went to the University of Tokyo’s May Festival. Actually, the "Oniisama" always had someone with him, like the omiki sake bottle. That person was the model for Takashi Ichinomiya. He was a person with a thin and delicate appearance, giving the impression of a young master from a wealthy family.

What were you like back then (during your school years) ?

I was really bad at sports, but for some reason, I was quite popular with the girls during my middle and high school years. In middle school, which was co-ed, I had good grades, had a very tanned skin, was tall, and completely lacked femininity, maybe that’s why (laughs). Even in high school, younger students would write me letters. After graduating, I found out that knowing someone like 'Ikeda-san' was really a source of pride for them.

Did you have the storyline planned out from the beginning of the serialization to the ending ?

It was more like ideas came to me as I was drawing. I don’t clearly remember if I had planned everything out until the end, but let’s say I had set certain elements in advance. For example, the idea that Kaoru and Henmi would be a couple came to me along the way (laughs). Even for The Rose of Versailles, I hadn’t decided from the start that Oscar and André would end up together. Of course, there are aspects I plan carefully, but in the end, the characters started acting on their own. And when that happens, I feel like the story is "successful."

Nanako is a very emotional girl, but also extremely determined. As for Mariko, she seems to embody the 'tsundere' archetype to some extent.

Nanako is very similar to Rosalie, isn’t she? Devoted, but in the end, she’s the strongest (laughs). For Mariko, there was a real-life model: a friend whose father wrote erotic novels. I gradually incorporated various elements from the people around me. I think many aspects are direct projections. Even the way Kaoru speaks, that’s really how we used to talk back then. We would say things like “Omae-san” (laughs). Oniisama E... reflects a lot of memories and episodes from my student life.

Oniisama E... is a short story, so its general recognition is low, but it has quite a passionate fanbase.

There are many men who tell me, "I'm a fan!". Recently, it's no longer embarrassing for men to enjoy shoujo manga. During autograph sessions, quite a few people enthusiastically tell me, "I love this work!" Some even say, "Oniisama E... is really my favorite!" When I hear that, I can't help but think, "Well, here's a true connoisseur!" (laughs). Of course, there are also many women among the fans. In that regard, I think Oniisama E... has nothing to envy from The Rose of Versailles.

And then, in 1991, it was adapted into an anime.

Actually, I was very busy at the time, so I wasn’t able to watch it properly… What left a strong impression on me, though, was how they carefully portrayed Fukiko’s feelings for Takehiko, which I hadn’t depicted in the original. I thought, "Oh, that’s so wonderful." It really fit perfectly, and there was no sense of discomfort at all.

It's a remarkable aspect of the anime adaptation. I wish I could have read it in your manga as well.

If I had a little more time, I would have liked to draw it myself. Originally, due to the planning period for Orpheus no Mado, I was rushed. Even though I still had many ideas in mind, it felt like I was forced to wrap it up (laughs).

Given what you’ve just mentioned, have you ever thought about remaking or creating a sequel to your own works?

Right now, I’m drawing a chapter for The Rose of Versailles, but... the art from that time was really bad, and I even hate re-reading it. I realize there were things I could only draw back then. When the serialization of The Rose of Versailles ended, I realized that in order to depict Europe, I would have needed much more knowledge of Christianity. That’s why, before starting Orpheus no Mado, I spent a lot of time studying Christianity. I don’t think I could have drawn the story without that knowledge. A work is the product of its time, of its era, the sensitivities, and the knowledge of the author, so remaking something seems difficult to me.

In 2017, you'll be celebrating your 50th anniversary as a writer.

I can't believe it's already been so long, and at the same time, I realize that some parts of my body are starting to hurt, which reminds me of my age (laughs). I've also been very active in music, but lately, progress has been slower. However, I truly want to cherish each passing year. For me, true happiness is living in a way that I would never regret anything, even if I were to die tomorrow. There's no reason to look back on the past. After all, it’s impossible to rewrite it. I don’t reread my works much either (laughs). I’ve lived my way, sometimes causing trouble to others, but doing what I wanted (laughs).

For this Blu-ray release, new illustrations were specially drawn.

I wasn’t satisfied with the drawings of The Rose of Versailles because I think they were awkwardly executed. Personally, I think Oniisama E... is the work where I drew the best. At that time, I was able to draw very precisely, even the lines were very clean. Over time, some works become hard to rediscover, but Oniisama E... is the one I drew almost effortlessly, simply letting the ideas flow. That’s why, even today, I can dive back into it without effort (laughs).

To those who have brought this product.

Oniisama E... is a work that originates from my own experiences, and it’s the work that I’ve let mature the longest, so I have a strong emotional connection to it. The idea for The Rose of Versailles came to me when I was in my second year of high school, which is quite early, but Oniisama E... came even before that. I would like as many people as possible to see and read it.

About Osamu Tezuka :

He wasn’t my lover, nor a relative, and calling him a friend would be too presumptuous. When I heard the news of his death, I really hit the desk and cried uncontrollably. That feeling was something I’d never experienced before, and it was the first time I felt that way about Tezuka-sensei. I truly respected him. Recently, it’s been the same with Muhammad Ali. Tezuka-sensei's Wellspring of the Crane was the first work that deeply moved me when I read it. It really squeezed my heart. I read it at a friend's house, and after returning home, I couldn’t eat, and my mother wondered if I had picked up some food off the ground. Ah, no one could understand! I remember thinking, as a child, that my sensitivity was different from others! (laughs).

Source: Oniisama E... Blu-Ray BOX SET Booklet.

Note : The translation might not be the most accurate word-for-word, but i did my best to make it coherent.

#おにいさまへ…#dear brother #oniisama e #nanako misonoo #riyoko ikeda #kaoru no kimi #kaoru orihara #mariko shinobu #fukiko ichinomiya #rose of versailles #versailles no bara #osamu tezuka #orpheus no mado

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makiitabaki · 1 day ago

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Finally answering this:

Thank you, @saintjustitude for asking me to rant—I adore doing just that :]

(First of all, thank you to everyone for waiting. I know I took a lot of time to write this, but I had only around an hour free every day, and I usually spent it searching for sources. My knowledge is limited; the play isn't available. I rely on memoirs, interviews, and reviews.

My inbox is always open, and if anyone has any Wojtek questions, I'd be absolutely delighted to answer them. And I mean it. It can be anything.

Every quote was translated by me. All my sources are listed.

Unfortunately a part of it wasn't saved, and I don't have access to some info anymore but this post will probably serve as the beginning of a longer thread.)

And now: “Sprawa Dantona” (1975).

1. How did it all come to be? Why was ‘The Danton Case’ and not any other play?

When I say ‘Danton’ directed by Wajda, most probably think of the 1983 version, a political metaphor: Comsal representing the Polish government, Dantonist representing Solidarity. Was it like that originally? Was Wajda just calling for a fight with the government, transforming Przybyszewska's work to fit his own narrative?

In short: No! (At least if we're referring to the 1975 version, the film is completely another story; I'll gladly make another post about it.).

Zygmunt Hübner (I have mentioned him already in this post) chose Wajda to direct the play even though the latter was a relatively young director; something was telling Hübner that giving the play to him would be absolutely necessary. Pszoniak later referred to that event as Wajda being cast in it as much as he himself was.

The play was simply a way to introduce the artistic team Hübner created. There was none of some “noble patriotism’ or 'anti communism'. (None of what Wajda described as the purpose of the later film.)

Why was that play in particular chosen? That is unknown.

“The idea [of exhibiting that play] came from the fact that Hübner was looking for a play (…) that would present his artistic team as a whole, which he assembled with great imagination and intuition.”

At first, Pszoniak laughed into Hübner's face when offered the role. He thought it fine, intruiging, but the character of Robespierre was so foreign to him that he couldn't give anything from his own person or his own experiences to his Maximilien.

He asked for the role of Danton; that role seemed to fit him way better with "his [Danton's] sensuality, his dynamic physiognomy, and his balls."

Wajda and Hübner were quite insistent and more or less forced Pszoniak into the role.

“Hübner and Wajda were so stubborn that they did not take my objection into account. Nothing there [in the role] suited me; there was no starting point for the role. I had no right to play it. But they convinced me for so long that the whole situation with ‘The Danton Case’ became a dead end.”

The transformation from simply a good play to something entirely political in Wajda's eyes was very slow but steady. On that a little later.

2. Pszoniak wasn't ready to play Robespierre? How did he prepare for the role then?

It's very important to note that it was not bad will that made Pszoniak initially refuse the role, but the theater typecast he was put into and which he almost got used to. All of his power and stage presence were connected to his own physicality, to this sort of mobility and expression that he had to (presumably at Wajda's request) abandon while playing Robespierre.

Wojtekspierre getting his hair cut from a man with surprisingly modern glasses

Whether he was in a tragedy or comedy, it was the unique liveliness that made him so different. Suddenly he was offered the role of Robespierre, a man he only knew from unfavorable history books, portrayed a certain way by Przybyszewska, and he's made to stand before the expanse of that character's personality in a try to make him someone physical.

While it might seem quite shocking, when preparing for the role, Pszoniak didn't even read any Robespierre biography. Why? According to him:

“I didn’t think at all about a historical figure, and besides, you can’t play any historical figure. I put aside the books on the French Revolution. I read them much later, when, years later, in Paris. (…) I didn't want to portray a historical figure, so I didn't judge or evaluate him. I simply tried to get closer to him, to understand him as a person. Przybyszewska herself made it easier for me. The text of the play clearly indicated that she was fascinated by him. (...) Przybyszewska constructed this character in an unusual, enigmatic way. I clung to this fascination, it was a reason for treating Robespierre with empathy. This is a necessary condition for creating a character, without empathy you will never be able to get closer to the man you are to become on stage. Wandering through the labyrinth of his emotions, motives for action, opinions he expresses, I became so strongly attached to him, he took over me so much, that as a result I became Robespierre-Pszoniak.”

Pszoniak admitted he didn't want to play a politician [but, of course, as we all know, he was later forced to in ‘Danton’ (1983)].

The preparations took time and patience (especially from his wife - Barbara). Pszoniak tends to describe it as a painful process. Robespierre's physical expression was compared to being bound tightly by his own flesh, almost imprisoned by it, but freed by his mind. Pszoniak realized that all of the power in portraying Robespierre could only be gained from a deeper reflection. How to show a mind on stage?

That Pszoniak didn't know, and so he made the decision to show Robespierre's determination and faith instead of simply a calculated brain. To show a path, an objective. That's why the last scene was so hard to play (conversation between Robespierre and Saint-Just after Danton's death); he even asked Wajda for a white cloth as a makeshift shroud. To Pszoniak, that scene meant the symbolic death of his character. Robespierre (described by Pszoniak as a “very intelligent man") feels that inevitable peril awaits in the near future. The actor often described a feeling of mourning something or someone after the performance.

The challenge of creating the role, in the words of Wojciech Pszoniak:

“I started to control all my reflexes morning till night; from waking up to falling asleep, I was destroying myself. In everyday life, even the smallest activity, I slowed down; I was reducing and cleaning up [every one of] my habits. Torment, the absolute torment of controlling yourself, of managing yourself. Zero spontaneity, the phone rings, my first reaction—run to answer it—I stop myself calmly, in control of every slowed-down gesture. I imitated Zygmunt Hübner's focused gait; I noticed how he placed his feet. And I started walking like that myself. That's how I set a different, more controlled way of moving. After that, I turned to gestures, head movements, the way of getting up, and gesticulation. I felt that I was different. Acquaintances and friends both asked where this change came from. I suppressed the dynamic, extraverted myself.”

And

“I was pushing the boundaries of supervision [over myself], checking how I would behave after drinking a larger amount of vodka. One day I went out with Basia [wife] and friends (...) After a few bottles, at four in the morning, they were amused, cheered up, asking if I was sick because I was behaving like a machine. After three weeks of suffering, I reached ground zero. This happened during the rehearsals. A conversation about Robespierre and Danton. I joined the discussion, exclaiming, 'I disagree!’ - and suddenly I saw that my hand was no longer my hand, that it was not the hand of that Pszoniak that I am, but that it was already a hand—the beginning of someone else.”

3. What of Danton?

Here the problem with the play began. The man cast as Danton, Bronisław Pawlik, was just... terrible.

He was a good actor in general, definitely, but in short (explanation for the anglophones), it was like casting Danny DeVito as Danton.

He was short of stature, weak of voice, much older than Pszoniak, and simply unfit for the role.

He didn't have a stage presence; his voice was silenced by the other people on stage, and Pszoniak kept acting as if there was some great, dangerous opponent when there wasn't—the audience seemed to notice it.

It all added to a kind of feeling of resentment after preparing so long for the role of Robespierre.

Danton (Bronisław Pawlik), Camille (Olgierd Łukaszewicz) and Westermann (Franciszek Pieczka) celebrating

Pawlik was more concerned with the position of the props or the costume instead of conversing and shaping their roles. To Pszoniak it was the role of a lifetime, to Pawlik it wasn't.

“The audience was sitting on the stage because the entire theater had been transformed into the Revolutionary Tribunal. Here, a powerful voice and a [kind of] broad gesture were needed... Pawlik's charm disappeared in the feverish crowd. What consequences did this have for the play? Enormous, Danton was deprived of the strength [for both the audience and actors] to believe that he posed a deadly serious threat to the revolution. And this lack bothered me terribly...”

4. How did it become political then?

As I have previously mentioned, it was a slow, steady process. Even Wajda himself didn't think much of the play; it was the audience that began the change.

As the first example, Pszoniak recalls a scene when Eleonore comes in with tea but not sugar—in the audience at first only a few laughing, but gradually along with the many performances it turned into the whole audience cackling. The play was exhibited just when a time of increasing problems with sugar supplies began in Poland (food stamps for sugar were introduced).

Pszoniak admitted that the cast would often laugh along with the audience. It seemed almost absurd—a tragic play blending with the real world.

When it comes to Pszoniak himself in that time, the more he played the role, the more it felt like “punching the air.” Instead of having a genuine conflict, he had no support, no reference point in Pawlik as Danton or the audience. For the role to have meaning, to be something, it all had to be a matter of life and death. His co-actor was slipping into comedic grotesque while playing the second main role.

"The success of the play was huge, but the audience was eager to read the play [only] in the context of political allusions. (…) The audience felt that something was happening [on and off stage], (…) the tension grew."

The audience's reaction seemed to be a direct answer to the Danton shown on stage. Instead of a political opponent, there stood a sad, tired victim of the committee who seems completely and utterly innocent, all his words said with a kind of saddened charm (doesn't that remind you of a certain film Wajda made later?).

5. What of the other actors?

Here is where I have the least information. If anyone has any more sources of information, actor memoirs, etc., feel free to reblog this post with additional info or simply contact me about it so I could make Part 2. :]

The cast.

I have to tell you something shocking... Wajda is capable of giving actual, normal characterization to secondary characters (gasp, thunderstrike, wolf howling).

Or perhaps that was just the actor/Zygmunt Hübner (I guess we'll never know).

The most information I could gather was about Saint-Just (played by the excellent Władysław Kowalski).

Based off the limited amount of reviews I could gather, he was a positive character in general. Described as “a man gifted with exceptional warmth and [someone] unconditionally devoted to his cause” or “full of raw passion."

AND HE GIVES MAXIME FLOWERS IN THIS VERSION AS WELL, EXCEPT IN THIS ONE ROBESPIERRE (KIND OF) SMILES!

I couldn't find much on Eleonore, Louise, or Lucille, though I've searched and searched for a few days. All I could find is that the actresses were excellent—that is, unfortunately, no source of any relevant information. Frankly speaking, since Wajda, in kind words, doesn't excel at writing women, I don't have much faith in their characterization on the director's part.

Camille played Łukaszewicz is usually called a “complicated youth"—that is, of course, an opinion—or “spontaneous in reflexes"—that's a bit better of a description. As you can see, I am limited by the fact the play isn't available, and I must depend on biased or subjective sources.

Worried Camille Desmoulins (Olgierd Łukaszewicz) - I do think this Camille looks quite nice.

6. And did the critics like it? Was it well directed?

In short, it was a very, very liked play by both the critics and the audience. It ran for 5 years; it ended around 1980, when many of the actors simply left Poland.

About critics and reviews written by them: What surprised me immensely is the fact that most available reviews (written before the release of the film ‘Danton’) of the play weren't anti-Robespierre. The play is often described as something of a moral discussion, something for the viewer to assess, a work that doesn't suggest one solution to understand the conflict, or revolution (in other words, a great play).

A thing I've noticed is that along with time, the descriptions of the main characters seem to change. Danton—in earliest reviews described as “absolutely repulsive," then later as a tragic man, someone who adores life. Robespierre—in earliest reviews described as an absolute “marble statue," an idealist, someone pure, then in later reviews as just a fanatic.

7. What about Wajda? Did he change the text much? What about the scenography?

I was surprised to learn that Wajda absolutely could make a good, Przybyszewska-accurate play.

From all I could find, there is not much I can accuse Wajda of when it comes to ‘The Danton Case’ stage adaptations. It was made very well. What most likely contributed to the later change in people's mentality when met with the play is the fact that the audience was sort of a part of the performance. How? Like this:

“It [the play] takes place on a stage placed in front of the audience; on the actual stage and in the rest of the audience sit in rows of chairs rising upwards. Everything encompassed by the scenography is one theater. This played out brilliantly in the second parts, in the beautifully composed group scenes, where the audience not only looks at the stage but is drawn into it as an extra audience at the hearings of the revolutionary tribunal.”

And

“Wajda made "The Danton Case" as if against himself—against his previous self: he gave up on visual effects, music, and symbolism. He built a spectacle—a spectacle indeed!—raw and beautiful. (…) During the (…) presentation of "The Danton Case," seats for viewers were also installed on the stage, which was fortunately spacious, the audience surrounds the actors, the actors are among the audience, on the balcony, in the passages.”

If Danton or Robespierre were so close to the audience, I think it really did influence the people's opinion of it later on. Pawlik was terrified, jumping like a fish out of water from one audience member to the other, and there was Pszoniak, white and still under his shroud just a few meters away. That did certainly change the performance's reception.

8. Where can I watch this?!

As I have mentioned here: the play isn't available online, but most certainly is somewhere in the archives (confirmed by Pszoniak), when it was supposed to have a TV debut the martial law was introduced, and a few years later everyone seemed to have forgotten about it.

So, erm… Who's raiding the archives with me? (By the way, fragments of the play exist online, but only 10-20 minute excerpts, so if I find the time, I'll try to track them down.).

Sources:

Books:

Aktor. Wojciech Pszoniak w rozmowie z Michałem Komarem, Wydawnictwo Literackie 2009;

Maciej Karpiński, Pszoniak, Wydawnictwa Artystyczne i Filmowe Warszawa 1976;

Małgorzata Terlecka-Reksnis, Pszoniak. Fragmenty, Wydawnictwo Poznańskie 2024

Photos used and play reviews (pardon the rhyme):

http://encyklopediateatru.pl

#wojciech pszoniak #frev #pszoniacology #wojtekspierre #sprawa dantona #the danton case #stanislawa przybyszewska #stanisława przybyszewska #the french revolution

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vimmark · 2 days ago

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i'm pretty confident that 1) there will be a next game and that 2) it is going to include these things:

par vollen and the qunari

details on why they left whatever place they originally came from

maybe also details on how they came to have dragon blood, considering the adaari vs. storm situation is significant

whoever and whatever is across the amaranthine ocean

sea monsters (this one might be partly a wishlist item but it's not without basis)

a more significant time skip than we've had in any other game so far, and/or

a more significant geographic leap than we've had in any other game so far

the whole "the entire continent got wrecked" situation, besides being an inevitable result of a supercharged double blight, also serves as a way to hit the restart button on thedas overall. no matter what happened before now, it's fucked. that's what massive plagues do. but there are plenty of people left who want to fix things and rebuild in any way they can.

you can (dare i say should) read that as the closing scene of any other kind of disaster story. it plants the seeds (of hope or dread) for whatever's coming next. it didn't end long after all the dust had settled and with little bows wrapped around everything neat and tidy. it ended when the dust stopped getting kicked up (for the moment). it ended with "and now what?"

what's in and under all that dust:

the blight as everyone has always known it is over. the remaining wardens are going to do what they can to clean up and bring life back to thedas.

the rest of the blight is out of reach and being contained by someone pretty seriously invested in keeping it that way.

tevinter has a new archon, one of two people from a radical faction opposing everything the magisterium has upheld as the norm in the entirety of recorded tevinter history.

rivain is still closely tied to the qunari, as they have been for a long time, with former antaam either returning to the qun with new mindsets or turning away from it entirely and bringing their past with them.

the king of nevarra is dead, or something like it? the mortalitasi are probably fine with keeping things as they are for as long as they can. but there are no direct descendants, nevarran nobility has wanted both the pentaghasts and the van markhams away from the throne for a while anyway, and word's bound to get out sooner or later.

the crows' leadership has been heavily shaken up twice in the recent past. they might be changing their priorities, or taking more power than they already have to rule antiva as they see fit.

the majority of the south was destroyed by the blight. might be an anderfels-like situation there at this point, or maybe the wardens can do something about it.

either way, the south was so thoroughly fucked that the free marcher states united their forces to help. maybe they keep that going in some way, or maybe they all go right back to fighting each other for whatever power and resources any of them has left.

there's uncertainty and massive change happening everywhere, both forced and chosen. whatever way all that dust settles, it'll all be different than what was there before.

"and now what?"

we don't know! how fun! we know there's something new that isn't new at all, and we know it's coming. they've been playing the long game, the longest game possible, and they're ready to collect. the mess that's been made everywhere else benefits them in some capacity, and i'd wager we'll at least find out how.

this is a 15 year old game series with 4 existing entries. when it comes to reactivity, they're damned (by the budget and scope) if they do, and damned (by the angry masses) if they don't. the best way out of it might just be to let it go and take us somewhere else. i for one could not be more excited about that possibility. and if we do go back i would bet even more it'll come with that big time skip. i won't expect many familiar faces. and i'll look forward to all the new ones.

#in conclusion: let's 👏 fucking 👏 go 👏#walk this beautiful road with me. come on in the waters fine. etc etc #xavi vs da #veilguard spoilers #da:v #dragon age #da txt

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streets-in-paradise · 1 day ago

Text

Field of Practice - Maximus Decimus Meridius x (Fem)Reader

Gladiator (2000) Oneshot

Warnings: captive man x kind captor lady ( reader is the daughter of Proximo, backstory explanation for this would be provided if i ever write a continuation). Charge me for use of the " good kidnapper, bad kidnapper" trope here, in correlation with a grumpy dad-sunshine daughter dynamic.

Summary: Intrigued by the most mysterious among the freshly arrived gladiators, you appeal to unconventional measures to endorse his worth to your father. Your every attempt to get closer to him fails, untill his protectiveness emerges with a grim reminder of his past.

Tags: @wildsaltair

Notes: At this point I don't give a fuck If this makes sense because this took me three days to write, so if it's cringe so be it. Those about to clown salute you 🤡

Glossary: Pa - Informal contraction I made up from the latin word pater, meaning father.

Testings for the newcoming gladiators were their oportunity to prove their worth, but Maximus had no one to impress. He couldn't care less about the situation and acted precisely as such when his time came, amusing the trainer of the school in charge of leading the excercise. His attitude had certainly annoyed the master, but he proceeded with cautious patience, perhaps suspecting something greater could be hidding underneath.

Proximo wasn't the onlyone getting that impression, and a small part of the audience echoed it. As soon as he was released from the evaluative instance, Maximus found the sight of your bright smile observing the situation from afar. Reaching only once his attention exposed your presence, it was curious for him to see the sweetness in your face contrasting with the harshness of the enviroment. The general turned slave had also noticed you dressed in roman fashion: blue tunic and a modest palla.

Like a glimpse of the world he left behind, you didn't belong there. He observed you, radiant of cheer, saluting the teacher before the next fight would take place, and in that precise moment the master put his small cosmos in order.

" GET BACK INSIDE! This is no place for you to strut."

Far from being disencouraged, you protested the command with playfull mischievouness.

" Gladiatorial fights may be manly territory, but some of the most intense fanatics are often women. Being ignored only makes us scream louder in the crowd: everytime you bring new men I can tell who will become the most popular. Call it feminine intuition, but it's never wrong. "

Giving a few temptative steps closer with the same playfull attitude, you delivered a conclussion before your interlocutor could get angrier.

" Was i wrong about Haken? When I meet him, I said he looked like the Hercules of the germanians and that is precisely what he brings to the arena. When he fights, I see Thor wearing his magical belt of strenght just like in those stories he tells. "

Praise made the teacher smile very differently from the dry amusement Maximus obtained for his challenging attitude. That was the pridefull smirk of a man sweet talked by a beautifull girl. One calling him by his name, acknowledging him as a man.

The mocking comeback of Proximo cutted you off before he could express any kind of grattitude, or you could deepen the compliment.

" You were wrong about gettting a leopard cub, now I'll have to raise the little bastard AND IT MAY TAKE A YEAR TO MAKE A PROFIT !!! TWO, IF I MAKE HIM MATE! "

" Surely faster than it will take for those giraffes you got." You mocked him in return. " You won't have to worry, I will take care of the baby."

From that point, it was clear the argument was going to pause the activities.

" I CAN'T LET YOU DO IT!! I know you are going to approach it as a ' raise him with love' activity and then RUIN THE BLOODY THING FOR FIGHTING!! "

Despite he made fun of you with the same irony and cynism he directed towards the gladiators, it was clear you were close because no master of that sort and in that situation would have been found arguing or reasoning with a slave.

However, your entusiasm proved you had no fear for ignoring the scolding.

" Love seeker and useless for fighting ... WE SHOULD NAME HIM PARIS!! After all, Paris wears a leaopard fur when Menelaus spots him for their fight. "

Suddenly remembering that giving him a hug in front of the new slaves wasn't a good idea, you lovefully adressed him instead.

" Pa, you are the best!! "

Amused of the altercate yet somewhat shocked by the reveal, Maximus ended up doing the unthinkable because your irruption had distracted him. He wasn't thinking right when the words came up from his mouth, voice slightly dry from the prolonged silence.

" Have you read The Iliad?"

That wasn't precisely what he wanted to ask, but it was wiser than wondering out loud if you were trully the daughter of his short tempered owner.

You giggled for him before the response, unaware of the feat you had just accomplished.

" Of course! Not all of us are savages ... and trojan war epics are the only reading material you find in every corner of the empire because the emperors justify themselves on it to the foreign people they submit. "

Sweet, but not foolish or naive, you were proving yourself to him and Maximus refused to fall for it. Regardless of his initial dissaprobal, your father didn't miss the oportunity you left served for him.

" Spaniard is a deserter of the legions and that is all we know about him ... What can you tell me? "

The mere idea that you could do any kind of correct guess on him caused a cocky smirk on the gladiator, as if he challenged you knowing you would never make it.

You raised your eyebrows with amusement, shrug one shoulder, and observed him in silence for an instant before pronouncing a verdict.

" He didn't desert out of cowardice, he has the glance of a man that has seen enough, that wanders lost and has abandoned life way before stumbling with captivity ... But there is a timid light in his eyes. A sparkle, not strong enough yet. When the flame will shine once more, he will burn down everything in his way."

For the first time since he spotted you, he found himself trully impressed. Your accustom to hopeless men must had given you a talent to read them, distunguishing them apart from the desperation of those who still craved life.

" ... I need him to stand up before me if you want me to get more specific."

Proximo gave the order and he had to raise up again to present himself for one more examination he didn't want to pass.

" imponent physique, but not threatening. He doesn't look sculped by the gods, this is the hard work of a man. A mysterious man, and empty void that could be anyone. Whoever his fanatics want him to be a replacement of, whatever hole in their lives they need to fill following his fights. Others may think of unveiling the mystery, many women would love the challenge. He could be a soldier, he could be a farmer, the protective escort of a merchant ... Who knows? But he feels approachable and he is handsome. Of softer facial features than your typical gladiator, but manly without question. "

You were pacing in circles arround him, slowly and attentively as your observations were. Despite you didn't do it with any lustfull implications, Maximus despised to be examinated as a luxury item. That was exactly what you were trying to achieve: convincing your father that he wasn't worthless waste fitting for sacrifice.

" I am not your champion, save your flattery for him. It means nothing to me. "

" Not my fault if you are blind to your worth for the crowd. " You simply stated, sweetly behind his back before reaching the full turn back to his front. " When it comes to the female side of it, our northen god over here is popular among married women but maidens find him frightening. He resembles the big-sized barbarian up to ravage them in roman cautionary tales �� You, Spaniard? What I have in front is a mysterious rebel of raw virile beauty irresistibly dangerous, but never menacing."

Tension in the environment kept increasing as your speech became slightly more daring.

" Strong arms that would hold you without crushing you, soft looking lips and a manly beard … Young women will adore you, parents will accuse you of corrupting the virgins. "

" And I will be the first If you don't stop praising his virtues. " Proximo interrumpted you, warning both with his choleric expression but you in particular on speech. " ... That is exactly why people form wrong assumptions of you! In every village we step, they whisper you are an easy girl. "

You turned back to face him, evidently angered by the reproach.

" I AM A SINGLE WOMAN SURROUNDED BY SWEATY GLADIATORS ... What do you think they would expect? What i do matters very little, I am guilty by association. I learned to live with that because I am very much proud of my father despite of being the useless daughter he discovered in old age, that he can't even directly inherit his business to. "

Maximus looked at the side in search for his nubian savior, verifying if he was amused as he was with that attempt of manipulation tactic. They shared silent smirks under the impossibility of laughing.

Used as he probably was, the father didn't fall for it.

" DON'T COME AT ME WITH THAT! "

" My behavior is irreproachable: If I give your men my honest encouragement, it's never of the physical kind. If the corrupt minded women commenting I am a whore knew me for real, they will think I am a fool instead. "

Eyes back on the gladiator, you approached him friendly as matter of proving your point.

" You are safe with me, Spaniard. My admiration begins and ends in words, ask Haken if you don't trust me yet ... Only one more thing I may ask from you, and that would be knowing your name. At least in the limits of my father's home, I like to adress our gladiators by their names. "

He smiled for you, but no more words came out from him. You understood the message implicit on his silence.

" I guess I haven't earned it yet. Very well, so I will, eventually ... with some hard work and perseverance. I'm sure we will have enough time for it. "

It didn't take much longer for him to discover just how much perseverant you could be. In that place of pain and death, you would come to the men like light filtering through a crack. Asking them about their past lives, their stories, easing their fears, or bringing a last moment of peace for the less skilled ones that knew themselves about to die. He could tell you weren't raised in that cruel environment and approached it with the lessons of your different experience.

Why, despite complaining about it, your father didn't establish a harsher control stopping you from sneaking among the gladiators? He understood watching your effect in them. Doomed men would adquire a last glimpse from their lost sense of worth, resembling that strange mix between a powerless slave and a pridefull hero a gladiator was supposed to be. Broken by the life on the school, by the lead of your father, you would pick the pieces of those men and get them on their feet so they would give a spectacle worth to watch. From your part, the intention felt genuine. If you realized that was the one use your father found for you, that wasn't the motivation of your approach.

Maximus, or Spaniard, like you knew him as, observed every interaction in silence. When you questioned him about the fresh damage on his shoulder, he ignored the concern. Never seeking for your attention, he wanted to make you understand he would rather be ignored. Lost in his own tragedy, he accomplished it untill from the less expected of places something evoked it to him.

The scribe had begged for salvation at your feet. Careless for staining your nice tunic without the palla, you sat next to him and in desperate attempts of comforting him, you plotted a way of helping his case.

" We can make you my teacher!! Pa allways says that someday we will go to Rome. The new emperor is known for being a fanatic of gladiators, so we may have a chance soon if he lifts the prohibition. My problem is that the rudimentary bits of culture I have adquired are not enough for the capital … but you can change that. "

The frightened man smiled as he followed you in silence.

" With your help, when the time will come, I'll resemble a refined lady and maybe I will find a wealthy husband. If I present it to my father like an investment, not a matter of sparing your life, maybe he won't even get mad about it! The nature of his business makes it hard for me to find prospects, … I need all the help i can get."

You chuckled to your own self deprecating joke before deepening it.

" As you can see, I am a disaster. All I do well here is to make a sad man smile, but that is not enough if I want to really impress my father."

As if his will had been taken over by some vengefull entithy, Spaniard abandoned his letharge with loud, dark sounding laughter.

" See? He is laughing! Although I would like to know why. "

The casual mention of the man that ruined his life, a possible chance to get revenge presented to him and the irony that you represented in that context. Word by word, all the aspects of yourself you were mannifesting to the scribe would have been a delight for that bastard. He didn't know you for real, but it made him fear for you in advance.

With a sinister semblance, he informed you.

" If you ever step in Rome, Commodus will never let you go. "

Misunderstanding his words, heat raised on your face to the thought of finding your previous praise on him retributed.

" Ohh, Spaniard … That is adorable!! Very unrealistic, but I deeply appreciate your comfort. Specially because it comes from you. "

You gave a peck in the air on his direction, playfully blowing a kiss. He didn't reacted to it, not at least like you expected.

" That was not comfort, it was a warning. Stay away from that bastard. You analized me in order to discover which kind of unwanted attention from female admirors would follow me, I returned the favor. "

For the first time since your meeting, he was trully responding to you and you could only encourage him with entusiastical curiosity.

" And what can you tell of me? This is exciting, nobody tried it before. Certainly I can't understand what made you look at the daughter of the owner of a gladiator school in some distant provincial hell and conclude ' Sure, she would charm the emperor' "

The scared man of words shared a few nervous chuckles with you and only then you were reminded of his presence.

" ... I will plead your case later and come back with the answer … Would you let me have a moment with Spaniard? He is kind of shy and I am afraid he may stop talking to me if there are witnesses. "

He obbeyed your ask, not before thanking you one last time then reaching enough distance to abandon the conversation.

Still sitting carelessly with his back against a wall, the spaniard awaited for whatever would be the next step of your plan.

Taking off the leather ligaments keeping your hair in a tail, you moved your head so it would fall nicely and wildly. Then, you stood up and walked on his direction trying to feel as pretty as you could, as if he would be the buyer you needed to impress.

" Go ahead, be my measure of worth, … what do you have for me? Which one is the crowd were I should seek for a husband? "

You gave a slow twirl, allowing him to observe you from every angle and the reverse parody made him laugh.

" I can tell you have became your father's cheer to compensate the fear that you can't be his pride. I am almost sure he must be proud of you anyways, but you don't feel it in yourself. Since you can't find a husband, you have made of the slaves he trades with your field of practice. In your rehearsals, you turn worthless flesh into pridefull fighters. He knows it, so he ultimately allows it because it's good for business. He breaks the men untill they face they have became slaves, and you make them feel like men again in time for them to die when they are told to, but giving honorable performances. "

You smile had faded and you looked down, comfronted with an unconfortable truth. You could have given up, if it wouldn't be for the follow up of his grim commentary.

" And last, but definitely not least: you are beautifull. "

Your sparkle was back, surprised as you were with his statement.

" You think? "

He didn't intend to encourage you, what he had for you was more like brutal honesty coming from his frustrating position than actual praise.

" That scribe didn't have a girl as pretty as you worrying for him in his whole life and you must know it … And the germanian? Wrapped arround your finger, he smiled like a fool when you called him a god. On the outside world you have it hard, but here you are Helen of Troy watching the slaughter from the high tower. We are a cursed parody for the Age of Heroes and you are the missing piece in the recreated act. Any roman fanatic of gladiator fights would find that fascinating."

You colapsed next to him, sharing the surface of the same wall as support for your back.

" Very insightfull, even poetic ... but that is not enough. You pointed at the emperor, you spoke as if you knew him. There has to be something else you aren't telling me."

He realized of his emotionally driven mistake and quickly corrected it.

" I've heard rumours, that happens often in the army. They say his father was deeply ashamed of him. He failed at making him proud because he is cruel and whimsical, but desperately craves for validation. He wants to feel loved, among all things, and you are someone capable of finding beauty in the ugliest of places. You would charm him so fast, you wouldn't realize of your mistake in time. He would keep you captive, making you do for him what you do for those men ... A sword in your father's throat, and if you refuse he will make the head roll at your feet."

At that point you sensed he couldn't be talking of you: it felt too specific and personal. Whatever your talk with the scribe had awakened in him was taken as facade to deal with something he carried inside, a wound from his past.

" ... They made you hold the sword against the throat of an innocent and you refused to give the lethal blow .... That's why you deserted!! "

He let you have the partially wrong guess with a brief smile of comfirmation, because in that way he could at least satisfy your curiosity for him without revealing anything relevant.

Of course, he didn't consider that would only increase the already growing admiration you had for him.

" You are an honorable man ... YOU ARE A HERO!! I knew it!! I knew it from the first moment I saw you!! "

Despite he saw it coming, he didn't stop you from curling against him. It was the very first act of warm human contact he received since his friend of the road had healed his wounds, so he closed his eyes and pretended to not be enjoying of it until a lovely sigh from you got him staring back at you.

" ... What was that? "

He asked more playfully than angryly, trying to understand what he could have possibly done to cause it.

" Forget Rome and those boring rich men. Do you want to know what I think now, Spaniard? If I ever marry, I want my husband to be just like you."

You followed the confession with a chaste peck on his right cheek, but unfortunately got caught in the action by the arrival of his closest acquaintance there.

" Juba! " You sweetly saluted him, releasing the man beside you without leaving him before excusing yourself. " Your performance was excellent, ... did I forgot to mention it? You will do great in the arena, we are expectant about you. "

The terrible acting you pulled convinced no one.

" You are here for him, we all know that. "

" I can't play favorites, but he looked like he needed a hug. Have you seen the mess in his shoulder? And he wouldn't let me call a healer! " You complained with him once you were back on your feet. " Stubborn man is your fellow. "

You shared a few chuckles of agreement on an observation that was mutual, untill another irruption coming from behind him changed the course of the situation.

" There she is, ... the backstabber! Already seeking to try the softer arms of the spaniard? "

Haken was looking at you in mockfully played offense, as if he resented you would be siding with his competence. Despite it was certain that your interest in the spaniard was quite different from the playfull compliment exchanges you had with your friend, you didn't want to make him feel bad about it.

" What I said doesn't apply to me. I am not scared of you, that was for the girls in the crowd who have no idea that your huge chest is the casket for the big jewel that is your heart. "

The occurence was so intricate that he simply bursted into laughter looking at you smiling with innocence at the end of the phrase.

" Then I suppose you won't get frightened if I do this ... "

Without any more warnings, he easily picked you up from the ground in parodic representation of the insidious roman misconception you mentioned before. Your cheerfull screaming caught the attention of more bystander gladiators, circunstantial audience for the comedy.

Maximus abstained himself from entering the game in the role of your savior, the closeness you had briefly shared was enough for one day.

#gladiator 2000 #maximus decimus meridius #spaniard #russell crowe #maximus decimus meridius x reader #maximus x reader #spaniard x reader #(yes i have specific tags for spaniard)

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