#yandere maximus decimus meridius x reader

[yandereunsolved]

⚔ Yandere Maximus Decimus Meridius ⚔

cw(s): non-consenual kissing/touching, physical abuse (fighting and being restrained), & manipulation

Death was a promise to any who entered the arena. It is the most sacred form of entertainment. A way for bloodthirsty peasants and aristocrats alike to satiate that primal hunger. It is a calling to those who participate—kill or be killed; no god will save you now. Your sword is your only savior.

Like a siren, it lured you. Long forgotten was the past you had. Slave, free, rich, poor. None were equals in the arena, but for a moment, nothing mattered but your skill with a blade and the talent to entertain. More addictive than opium it is. The cheers of the crowd flowed through your blood and made you nearly invincible. Nearly.

The newcomer. The Spartan.

He invaded your province like the plague. No longer were you the people's chosen, but the one to take a spear into their heart. He won against every adversary they threw at him, until there was none left but you, the champion.

"I hear of you going to Rome next," you offhandedly comment towards the Spaniard, awaiting the time for your mutually ensured demise.

"I hear of your jealousy," he responds. You cannot criticize his tone, for you don't know what to think of it. Snark or Understanding?

"I am a gladiator. My heart belongs in the ring, as does my 'jealousy'."

Your fists curl inward after you speak. You don't move against him. You won't. No. You won't. You aren't stupid enough to tire yourself before your arena time.

"Then I will own both by the end of our fight."

A fist to his face. Your hand will surely bruise. He doesn't strike back. Instead he smirks and places a kiss upon the hand that harmed him.

You should have taken that as the warning it was.

Blood to sand.

Body to body.

Lips to lips.

You aren't the heart to be speared, but the heart protected by the crowd's chosen.

"What the hell, Spaniard," you breathily whisper, re-entering the cell area.

"I told you I would own both." There's an amusement in him that you haven't heard before. It's a blood curdling satisfaction. "And it's Maximus—not Spaniard."

You have half a mind to punch him again, despite being covered in a mixture of bloods and injuries.

"Declaring your 'love' for me in front of thousands? We hardly know each other!" Exasperated you are. Every fiber in your being telling you that you are still in danger, caged in four walls with not a human but a beast: lion.

"That's where you're wrong."

"What?"

"We've met before. Many times."

"Lying doesn't fit you, Spaniard," you spit out like a slur.

The wind is forced out of your already worn lungs. Scarred hands settle around your neck with practiced ease, almost lovingly, if not for the fact you were shoved against imprisoning bars moments prior. Pink lips chapped by the harsh sun meet yours for more moments of stolen intimacy. His lips quickly trail down your neck like trickling blood. His brawny, albeit slightly malnourished, body pinning you feels like loss, like a new sentence the arena has thrust upon you.

"I was once an... an honorable man," he groans out, rutting against you, "—a husband, a father. I had love in my heart, but it was replaced with revenge by a two-faced coward."

He breaks away from your mouth but keeps you in-between him and the bars digging into you. He admires you as you pant, a bruised pair of lips and neck added to your list of injuries. Surely other people must be witness to this, you think. Hear the happening. If they are or can, they don't care enough to stop him... defend you.

"Now all I have is you." He gingerly connects his forehead to yours, noses just barely touching. Your breaths intermingle. "I pity you, for the gods intertwined us. The heavens be damned if I let someone else I care for slip through my fingers."

[gulnarsultan]

🦁

CALM DOWN LİON.

⚔ Yandere Maximus Decimus Meridius ⚔

cw(s): non-consenual kissing/touching, physical abuse (fighting and being restrained), & manipulation

Death was a promise to any who entered the arena. It is the most sacred form of entertainment. A way for bloodthirsty peasants and aristocrats alike to satiate that primal hunger. It is a calling to those who participate—kill or be killed; no god will save you now. Your sword is your only savior.

Like a siren, it lured you. Long forgotten was the past you had. Slave, free, rich, poor. None were equals in the arena, but for a moment, nothing mattered but your skill with a blade and the talent to entertain. More addictive than opium it is. The cheers of the crowd flowed through your blood and made you nearly invincible. Nearly.

The newcomer. The Spartan.

He invaded your province like the plague. No longer were you the people's chosen, but the one to take a spear into their heart. He won against every adversary they threw at him, until there was none left but you, the champion.

"I hear of you going to Rome next," you offhandedly comment towards the Spaniard, awaiting the time for your mutually ensured demise.

"I hear of your jealousy," he responds. You cannot criticize his tone, for you don't know what to think of it. Snark or Understanding?

"I am a gladiator. My heart belongs in the ring, as does my 'jealousy'."

Your fists curl inward after you speak. You don't move against him. You won't. No. You won't. You aren't stupid enough to tire yourself before your arena time.

"Then I will own both by the end of our fight."

A fist to his face. Your hand will surely bruise. He doesn't strike back. Instead he smirks and places a kiss upon the hand that harmed him.

You should have taken that as the warning it was.

Blood to sand.

Body to body.

Lips to lips.

You aren't the heart to be speared, but the heart protected by the crowd's chosen.

"What the hell, Spaniard," you breathily whisper, re-entering the cell area.

"I told you I would own both." There's an amusement in him that you haven't heard before. It's a blood curdling satisfaction. "And it's Maximus—not Spaniard."

You have half a mind to punch him again, despite being covered in a mixture of bloods and injuries.

"Declaring your 'love' for me in front of thousands? We hardly know each other!" Exasperated you are. Every fiber in your being telling you that you are still in danger, caged in four walls with not a human but a beast: lion.

"That's where you're wrong."

"What?"

"We've met before. Many times."

"Lying doesn't fit you, Spaniard," you spit out like a slur.

The wind is forced out of your already worn lungs. Scarred hands settle around your neck with practiced ease, almost lovingly, if not for the fact you were shoved against imprisoning bars moments prior. Pink lips chapped by the harsh sun meet yours for more moments of stolen intimacy. His lips quickly trail down your neck like trickling blood. His brawny, albeit slightly malnourished, body pinning you feels like loss, like a new sentence the arena has thrust upon you.

"I was once an... an honorable man," he groans out, rutting against you, "—a husband, a father. I had love in my heart, but it was replaced with revenge by a two-faced coward."

He breaks away from your mouth but keeps you in-between him and the bars digging into you. He admires you as you pant, a bruised pair of lips and neck added to your list of injuries. Surely other people must be witness to this, you think. Hear the happening. If they are or can, they don't care enough to stop him... defend you.

"Now all I have is you." He gingerly connects his forehead to yours, noses just barely touching. Your breaths intermingle. "I pity you, for the gods intertwined us. The heavens be damned if I let someone else I care for slip through my fingers."