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dearest-nell · 10 months ago

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charmed

e. munson x reader, 3k

summary: eddie comes home from a long day at work to discover wayne has a pretty surprise for him includes: established!eddie x reader, wayne being the sweetest paternal figure, mumblings of a found family, wayne manifesting a daughter in law by years end warnings: afab reader, non descript

a/n: writing from the boys perspective is always way more fun. i have so many thoughts about wayne and eddie's relationship.

Eddie had intended to be home earlier, a far cry earlier than the 9:30 that blinked hazily on his vans dashboard as he pulled in before the trailer. He was meant to be home hours ago, hoping to enjoy a Friday night the way that a young person ought to – out with the people he loved. Instead he sat in his driver's seat, covered in oil and grime and god knows what else from under the hood of some deadbeat richman from the other side of town. The apprentice had fucked the repair of a rather pricey car, one that was to be picked up first thing monday, and Eddie didn’t have it in him to let the little guy drown under the barrage of abuse from an intimidating customer.

So he stayed back, and now he was paying the price. Dinner would have been long over by now, and it was unlikely that Wayne was still home at such an hour. He usually had the night shift on this pay cycle, but Eddie couldn’t tell one from another these days. The lights were still on, his indication that he’d gotten his weeks wrong.

Worn leather boots beat against the gravel as he trekked towards the door, hand running through the curls that hung low on his forehead; wild, in desperate need of a trim. He was spent, body weary and limp from the extra strain. He wanted to call his friends, to call you, to ask for good company, but he knew even now he was too tired to go anywhere.

The door was unlocked, so he slipped into the warmth of the trailer with an involuntary shiver, eyes blinking tiredly to spot the figure propped up on the couch. Wayne. Beer in hand, chin shadowed with stubble; Eddie’s hero, if anyone were to ever ask. The old man was his favourite person, whether he knew it or not.

Wayne gave a gruff smile, tilting his chin up at his nephew. “Long day, boy?”

“Yeah.” Eddie breathed, voice more gravelly than he’d realised. “Got stuck back, sorry I didn’t call.”

Wayne shrugged. “I figured, though there’s a surprise in your room f’you.”

A surprise? Eddie couldn’t possibly guess what. “You’re joking.”

Wayne simply smiled in response, shaking his head. “You go have a look ‘n tell me if I’m joking. Just be quiet about it.”

Eddie gave a quizzical sort of look, boots resounding against the floorboards as he moved towards the room, a quick mumble from Wayne catching his attention again.

“Quieter than that.”

Eddie scoffed, his demeanour still playful despite his disbelief. He took more careful steps this time, readjusting the band wrapped clumsily around his bound tresses, trying to alleviate the steadily subsiding headache from two hours ago. Wayne had never been much of a secret keeper, nor was he one for dramatics. He was a pragmatic, realistic, nonfrivolous sort of man, which made that excitable little sparkle in his uncle’s eyes all the more amusing. Wayne didn’t play tricks, but Eddie couldn’t help but feel he was walking into one.

With a slow turn of his door handle, Eddie eased the gap open, his eyes scanning the silent dark until his gaze settled upon the mountain of blankets upon his bed. There, buried under three blankets of comfort, was you. It might have been hard to tell under any other circumstances, but even half asleep and exhausted out of his mind, Eddie knew he could recognise your silhouette anywhere. He softened instantaneously, body slackening slightly under the slow wave of adoration that overcame him. You were here to see him. Talk about a surprise, he hadn’t expected to see you today, and now he felt his ribs pressing in tightly together, chest constricting with a glad sort of giddiness.

He was gentle in closing the door again, his smile bemused at his now grinning uncle. “And how’d my girl end up in there, hm?”

He toed off his boots, movements suddenly precise and careful under the presence of your company. Even through the closed door, he had no desire to rouse you just yet. Not until he was ready, clean and showered and shed of all other obligations, able to dedicate himself to your company.

“She came by at 5,” Wayne explained, turning down the quiet shout of the television set with a well worn remote, “thought you’d be home soon, wanted to surprise you. I told her she was welcome t’wait, thinkin’ you’d be round earlier. But y’weren’t, so we had some dinner.”

Wayne paused, nudging his chin towards the fridge, which Eddie took to mean there was leftovers waiting for him inside. He began rustling through, finding what was left of a roast and vegetables wrapped up neatly in foil. It was a little more extravagant than he had expected, and Eddie chalked that up to your aid in the kitchen. He could see the container of biscuits on the counter, too, with little hearts and flowers piped onto the tops. Pinks and blues and reds and whites, this wasn’t a house for sweets and softness, though Eddie welcomed your charms in any way he could get them. He sat at the table to feast, unbothered to even reheat the feast.

Wayne continued on. “Thought she might go lookin’ for y’, but we got a’talking. She’s a real sweet thing, y’know, made a real effort to chat. Even offered to sit down ‘n watch a game with me, thought I didn’t have the heart t’put her through it. Ended up watchin’ some Antiques Roadshow thinkin’ she’d like it better; you ever seen me watchin’ that before? I ain’t never had much care, but we had good fun.”

“No shit!” Eddie piped up, astounded by the softened edges of his Uncle. You’d charmed him, he thought, with your curious questions and kind smiles. For Wayne to sit down and talk to anyone was a miracle, one that only an angel could perform. His Angel.

“We got guessin’ and everythin’.” Wayne added, wiping roughly at his smile. “Seemed tired, though, so I told her to crash in your room. She’s been out maybe half an hour.”

Astounded was an understatement. Eddie had brought girls home before he met you, though none had bothered to exchange more than polite pleasantries with his Uncle. He’d never been serious about them, so he’d never thought much of it, and then came you. Three months into this new connection, a relationship born of spring flowers and whisky nights and loud music and soft touches. Eddie had never been serious until now, until you, and now he couldn’t picture being anything else but.

He was glowing, beaming from ear to ear. “So you like her, then?” He was so hopeful in his question, a sincerity Wayne only ever saw reserved for the most heartfelt of Eddie’s dreamings.

“I do.” Wayne announced, washing down his contentment with another swig of his beer. “I hope y’re serious ‘bout her, she’s real soft on you, and I think she’s a good one. Seems to make you happy enough, you ain’t mopin’ nearly so much these days.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, groaning with faux annoyance, rolling foil into a tiny ball to toss across the room, missing Wayne by a good foot of space. “I don’t mope.”

“I don’t mope my ass, kid, you mope plenty. Just not anymore.” He was laughing now, worn lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I said she should come back f’dinner another night, we can all eat together. She was tellin’ me ‘bout this story she was readin’, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know how it ends.”

Eddie knew how this story ended; it ended with you. It began with you, too. It was all you, he couldn’t see any other ending for him.

“Yeah, that sounds good, old man.” He was doing his best to stomach the meal, but his words were caught around hastily eaten mouthfuls half chewed and uneasy to swallow. He’d give himself heartburn if he wasn’t careful, and it would have been worth it.

Eddie took a moment to pause, swallowing thickly, belching unceremoniously in a way he was glad you weren't there to witness. “I am serious, y’know, about her. Real serious. I got a good feeling.”

“Yeah?” Wayne questioned, sinking back into the sofa.

“Yeah. She could be the one; ain’t that somethin’? I always thought it was bull when people said you just know, but…” he laughed with astonishment, “I think I just know.”

“Well shit,” Wayne exclaimed, clearing his throat, “that’s real good, Ed’s. You just be good and treat her nice. Be a gentleman.”

Eddie wasn’t too sure he knew how to be a gentleman, but somehow, he knew you liked him all the same. He didn’t need to be anything but himself around you, and that was a one in a billion kind of feeling,

He was quick in his cleaning, fumbling around the kitchen to pack away a still soaking plate, his mind skating over the plastic drying rack by the sink entirely. “I’m bein’ good, I swear.”

“Bullshit.” Wayne teased, shaking his head. He braced himself on his knees, slowly rising to his feet with a groan. “I’m goin’ to bed. Tell her she’s welcome to stay whenever she likes, okay? Show her where the spare key is.”

“I will.” Eddie nodded, barely able to fight his slow building excitement. He could feel himself getting restless, hands flexing just at the thought of holding you. “G’night, Wayne.”

“G’night son.” He echoed back, disappearing into the quiet of his own room.

Eddie made sure to lock up on his way, switching off the tv and lights as his own sort of wind down ritual. They’d be on all night if he wasn’t careful, and he’d spied the last bill long enough to have a mind for the electricity now. Besides, he needed to be calm when he woke you. He’d half frightened you to death last time he came barrelling in.

Once again, he retreated towards his room, slipping into the dark like a shadow of the night, slowly shucking his way out of his overalls to kick to the side of the room. He didn’t mind staining his sheets with oil, but not you; you were something worth caring for. He knew he should have showered, but the sweat on his skin could hardly deter him from the need he had to be close to you, to ease away the troubles of his way with the balm of your skin against his, your whispers ringing in his head.

He fumbled his way to the edge of the mattress, your sleeping body facing away from him to the back wall of the room. He peered a little closer into the darkness, a sliver of moonlight cascading across the bare curve of your shoulder, arm wrapped around something small, something fuzzy…

“Well shit, Ted, what’re you doing in here?” Eddie hadn’t thought to consider where the ragdoll cat had scampered off to. Teddy had been adopted only a few weeks after Eddie came to live with Wayne, his Uncle’s way of easing the boy into this entirely new world together. Teddy had been his childhood companion, and by the way he was burrowed into the pudge of your stomach, purring louder than a car engine, Eddie could see you’d won him over too.

The cat barely stirred, rather giving him a grumbled sort of chirp at being disturbed, before wriggling his way further under the blankets. You, however, made the softest of whining noises that left Eddie’s heart near strangling in his chest. He lifted a ring clad hand to that moonlight shoulder, brushing callouses across the line of freckles that dusted your skin, watching as your eyes began to flutter open, head turning slightly to face him.

“Eddie!” No one in the world had ever been so enthusiastic to see him before, not one. His name wasn’t the kind to roll off the tongue, to be begged for or shouted out or held tenderly on someone's lips. Never before, but the way your mouth wrapped around the letters seemed to change the word entirely. Nothing had ever sounded so tender, so wanting, so pleased. You were always pleased to see him, a feeling he never had to doubt when he could see it so plainly reflected in your irises.

“Honey.” He cooed back, tugging up the corner of the bedsheets to slip beneath them, curving his body to fit the shape of your own, nudging his knee between your two just to feel your skin pressed against his own in every possible way. The hair on his body was just as wild as the hair on his head, but nothing felt like home to him more than the brush of your skin to the mess of his. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You exhaled a lengthy yawn, muffling the sound into his pillow with a hum. Your hair, once styled, now seemed mussed and flattened under the weight of your head. His bed linens were already tattooing precious creases into sleep warmed skin. You were too beautiful for him to even comprehend.

You turned in his arms, careful not to disrupt the grumbling cat beside you despite your eagerness. He felt arms press their way around him, your nose nuzzling at his chin. “Wayne let me in. I hope that’s okay.”

Literally nothing else could have been more okay in his mind. It was perfect. This was perfect; coming home to you. “Come by anytime, baby. I’m just sorry I wasn’t back sooner. I made you wait.”

You shook your head. “I didn’t mind. Wayne’s really cool. He kept me company.”

“So I heard.” His voice was edged with an air of amusement, his hand lifting to brush back the strands of hair falling across your face, leaving his palm to cup at the plush of your cheek, his eyes admiring even in the dark. “Antiques Roadshow?”

You let out a giggle. “We panicked! I was trying to make a good impression, and he suggested it so I thought why not. Honestly it was pretty fun, I could totally watch another episode.”

“Mm.” His lips met the button of your nose dotingly, his voice slackening to a syrupy smoothness. “He’s impressed, I’m impressed; you’ve got us Munson men wrapped around your pretty little finger. Even Teddy’s on your side.”

“I do not!” You chided, helpless against his onslaught of affection. He left you preening and giddy, a little lightheaded when he loved on you like this, and Eddie never had any intention of stopping. “Teddy just wanted a cuddle.”

“Him and me both.” Eddie asserted, snaking his other arm beneath the arch of your waist, wrapping around the small of your back to tug you in further, his smile resoundingly bright at the way you hummed happily. “We’re not too young to be asleep by 10, are we?”

The way you eased into the very fabric of him, your bodies so close and so connected, wrapped tightly in the warmth of his room, was enough assurance to him that you were just as content here as he was. “No. I’m not leaving this spot. You just got home, and I’m all sleepy, and Ted’s gonna get mad if we move.”

Ted chirped an affirmative sound, leaving Eddie to rasp a laugh. “Well we can’t make Teddy mad, can we. Gotta stay here all night with my girl.”

You chuckled softly in turn, your voice quieting under the weight of exhaustion. “I was meant to keep you company, but I’m so sleepy.” Another yawn parted your plush lips, leaving Eddie with no choice but to press his own to the corner once they came back together again.

“You are keepin’ me company. Think I’ll sleep a bunch better with you keepin’ me warm. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow, hm? After a big sleep in?”

“You’re so sexy when you talk like that.” You mumbled, your lashes fluttering shut to rest against your cheeks. “I’d kiss you stupid if I could move.”

Besotted was not a strong enough word for what Eddie felt in that moment, but he was overwhelmed with the urge to litter a smattering of kisses from the edge of your cheekbone to the corners of your forehead, each one softer than the last, lulling you into that sweet place of slumber you were already drifting towards.

“Kiss me stupid tomorrow. Sleep, sweetheart.” You didn’t need to be told twice. Within moments, Eddie watched the light in your flicker to a dim, pale glow, your breathing evening out to something unhurried. Peaceful. It didn’t matter to him that he had only had those brief moments with you tonight. Five minutes with you was enough to chase away all the strife of a day otherwise written off in his mind. And that was what his life had been missing, after all. Someone who made going to sleep at 10pm look like the greatest moment of his life. He wanted to keep you to himself, a greedy kind of possessiveness stirring in his gut, for as long as he was able, knowing full well that less than twelve hours from now, Wayne would without a doubt be waiting to make you both breakfast on his morning off.

Like he said, you had all the Munson boys charmed.

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13atoms · 1 year ago

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Handsome and a Genius (Spencer Reid x F!Bau!Reader)

Inspired by that one scene in x files where mulder stands like a himbo looking handsome and being the future of beauty. you know the one I mean

Summary: Spencer’s overactive brain draws more attention than it ought to on a case, and you see him in a new light. 3k words.

Contains: hostile witnesses, spencer being clueless (but an absolute babe), friends to lovers. (No offence to Florida im sure it’s very nice, reader is having a bad day, and I am far too British for that kind of heat)

The sticky Florida air had long since plastered your clothes to your skin, leaving you short of breath and with the unpleasant feeling of damp hair against your scalp. The whole team had groaned at the revelation their next case would be in the outskirts of Miami, and as soon as the plane door opened you understood why.

You were hot, and grumpy. The salty, swampy air made you feel disgusting as you approached witness after witness. There was a serial killer operating in and around mobile home parks in the area, with the two most recent murders taking place in Royal Biscayne Trailer Park, both over a week ago. While the rest the team spread out across the other crime scenes, you and your partner had been dispatched to this one.

It was a world away from Quantico: sun-bleached, dense, full of plastic and palms instead of concrete and maples. Nonetheless, the principles remained the same no matter where you were. Take everything in, speak to everyone, suspect everyone. Stepping in and out of trailers gave you very little relief from the heat, although respite from the sun pounding down on you was a welcome break.

Dr Spencer Reid stood a short distance away, shielding his eyes with his hand as he contemplated the sea of trailers around him. He’d stared around as you drove into the park, something faraway in his eyes as he memorised every detail from the safety of the SUV.

Now he stood close to you, heads inches apart as he whispered so that only you could hear. He faced one way, you the other, and you could focus on his words knowing that Spencer was watching your back.

“These things all come equipped with the same locks, at least each model does. If you recognise the trailer home, you know how to pick it. It’s fairly trivial, for someone with some basic industry knowledge.”

You hummed through pursed lips, surveying the small crowd who had gathered to gawk at a pair of FBI officers on their turf.

“And that would be true of all of the trailer parks… we know he’s got a common MO.”

“Exactly.”

“You reckon someone in the industry, then? A salesman? Maintenance guy?”

Spencer rolled his neck, stared up at the sky for a moment. His curls were long at the moment, damp at the name of his neck, a little frizzy in the humidity.

“Not necessarily.”

“It’s quite specific,” you agreed, “anyone operating as a common thief around here would have the knowledge too. We could be talking about a classic escalation – burglar to home invader to murderer?”

His eyes snapped from you to his phone.

“I’ve asked Garcia to check out any patterns in robberies, home invasions… the locks are hardly scratched. We know he wears gloves, cleans his tools. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

You nodded, surveying the street again. The sun was glinting off of white plastic, making you squint. You worried for Spencer, the heat and the light wouldn’t be doing his headaches any good.

“You want me to take that?” Spencer was saying, and you snapped your attention in the direction he was gestured.

There was middle-aged man a little way forward of the crowd, shoulders hunched, hands entwined. Nervous. He had the tan of someone who lived here year-round, not a big believer in suncream, with tanlines when he removed his hat and glasses to speak to you.

“I’ve got it,” you murmured, and Spencer nodded.

It was an unspoken part of your partnership, that Spencer liked when you started conversations with witnesses. You liked that he trusted you, trusted your skills, never questioned whether you’d done the right thing when you spoke to people.

Instead he remained a short distance away, climbing up the front steps of someone’s home for a higher vantage point to survey the place.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. You said you’re with the FBI?”

The man had a tip, and it was an interesting one. A rumour spread throughout the HOA about someone trying the locks at night, the sound of metal against the doorways, silhouettes against frosted glass. A few people even had security camera footage, though nothing identifiable. It was great. You gave him your card, told him to get the footage to you asap.

It must be terrifying, you realised, to hear that kind of noise in the night. To be so close to danger, after a neighbour had been killed. The local sheriff’s department seemed frustrated by the interest the case was garnering – frankly you were amazed the story wasn’t bigger. There was no small amount of comforting involved in the conversation you had with the witness, and soon enough a few more people stepped forwards from the crowd. All seemed middle-aged, likely transplants to the sunshine state, and equally shaken.

When everyone’s stories had finished, they stood in silence for a moment. You frowned, noticing their gazes slightly misaligned.

Spencer.

He was stood at your shoulder, sharp gaze flickering across each face of the gathered residents.

“This is my colleague, Dr Reid. A few of you have already met, I believe.”

“You know,” he began, “the socio-economic factors influencing the way we think about crime in mobile home communities are fascinating. Often trailer parks are stereotyped negatively in the media, and because they are generally cheaper to live in than traditional housing estates, and that can foster a sense of shame or isolation for residents. Transient populations can also make community policing and security difficult, and anomalies in the patterns of everyday life become more difficult for people to subconsciously spot.”

You held your breath, and tried not to look worried at the reaction of the small crowd. Instead, you focused on Spencer. He was speaking with his hands a lot today.

“But I think the assumptions we tend to make about trailer parks completely overlook the very nature of living so close to your neighbours. There is a sense of community in living so closely, as evidenced by the conversations we’ve been having today. I’m not sure whether the killer understands that, or is exploiting the former theory that places like this allow for more deviations from the way we implement traditional security in communities. An unsub might hold some sort of resentment towards trailer parks, or some specific resident in his past, or perhaps he’s simply exploiting how incredibly easy it is to simply walk up to a mobile home and slip the lock open with a humble mass-produced lock pick.”

He was greeted with a sea of blank faces, littered with the occasional frown. Finally he looked to you. You caught the furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders hunched into himself, the clutching of his elbows to his body.

Oh, Spencer.

“That’s really interesting!” you tried to say, but Spencer was already backing away.

“Anyway, I’ll, um, leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Dr Reid,” you called after him, as he fled, disappearing into the shade of a nearby trailer.

Your heart ached for him a bit, but you pushed that aside. Instead, you had a sea of potentially offended retirees to keep on side.

“God, what I’d give for a brain like that,” your witness laughed, his linen shirt straining under the movement.

You couldn’t help smiling, a little relieved the tension had broken.

“It’s not often someone has a face like that and a good head on their shoulders,” one of the older ladies piped up.

You found yourself looking over your shoulder at Spencer, his profile sharp as he looked down the road, deep in thought.

“He’s certainly a rare breed,” you agreed fondly.

A number of the crowd were following your gaze, and someone in you wanted to snap them out of it. Stop them from staring.

“He actually has an eidetic memory. Once he’s seen or heard something, he remembers it perfectly, forever. It’s incredible.”

“Oh, my goodness! I can hardly remember my own email password!”

“I wouldn’t mind if he hung around me and talked like that all day, even if I didn’t understand a word of it. Though perhaps he could use a haircut…”

There was a chorus of agreement and various coo-ing which seemed to occupy the entire scale from grandmotherly to entirely inappropriate. You couldn’t help staring at Spencer a moment longer, wondering if he was truly oblivious, or simply pretending to be.

A rare breed.

You were certain you’d never met anyone else like him. Certain you felt like a better version of yourself in his company. That you’d trust him with your life, that you searched every room you entered until you saw him. Watched the elevator doors each time they opened, all morning, until Spencer walked in.

You were certain you’d felt giddy the first time Spencer insisted the two of you would work together, alone.

“Imagine knowing that he’d remember everything, forever…” one of the women was saying, her eyebrows raised in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy.

You cleared your throat, and hooked one hand over the badge at your waist.

“Unless anyone has any further leads, we’d better be on our way…”

The group silenced, and watched you dutifully. You passed out a few more cards, reiterated how dedicated the team was to stopping this killer, and gave out a few promises that there would be a police presence after dark throughout the trailer park.

When the request for any further questions was met with more glances towards Spencer, you thanked your witness, and made a beeline for the car. After only a few seconds Spencer was beside you, jogging to catch up.

“All done?” he asked, and you smiled at the question.

“I think so.”

You started the engine and both waited with the doors open for the car to cool down. The department’s penchant for black SUVs was not helpful when the sun was so vicious. Feeling the heat themselves, the group of residents had dispersed into a few groups, wandering into one another’s homes to continue gossiping.

“God, I’m disgusting,” you lamented, “sorry for the sweat-smell. I might actually take a cold shower when we get to the hotel.”

Spencer was already waving you off, leaning into the car to mess with the AC. Through the open door you saw him groan at the heat, swiping a curl from his face.

“I’m afraid to raise my arms. It’s so humid, I’m not sure why anyone would retire here. High humidity aggravates a number of chronic conditions, especially respiratory ones, which are common in older people. Not to mention the skin cancer…”

“And it ruins your hair,” you teased.

Spencer faked a gasp, and reached for a damp, limp section of his hair.

“I mean, look at it!”

You laughed, and rolled your eyes at him, nothing but fondness settling warm and tight in your chest.

Surveying the road in front of you for one final time you saw a few curtain-twitchers, but no new faces. You climbed into the car, wincing at the heat. The seatbelt buckle was burning hot, and you swore as it burned your fingers.

“I always forget about that,” you grumbled, slamming the car door closed.

“You know, if you fasten your seatbelt after you get out, it stops the metal getting hot and burning you,” Reid offered, and you rolled your eyes at him again.

“Gosh, doesn’t it get exhausting being right about everything?”

Spencer went quiet, and all you heard was the click of his own belt. After a few moments the car was cool and bearable, and your lungs felt like they could finally move again. The sat-nav happily talked away, and you started stealing worried looks at your partner once you’d returned to properly-maintained roads.

“What you said out there was really good, do you mind if we go over it again once we get to the station? I think it’s worth exploring.”

“I shouldn’t have said it in front of them.”

He was right, but you didn’t have to heart to say anything. That was the thing which made your heart twinge about Spencer – he was so insecure, and yet so self-aware, it was the worst of both worlds. Being an expert in body language was a double-edged sword.

“I don’t think they minded. Did you hear those old ladies talking about your big brain?”

Spencer didn’t laugh. He turned himself towards the window, curled up with his hand beneath his jaw.

“They were very impressed. So was I, for what it’s worth. I think we’ll make some really good progress on this profile tonight.”

He hummed agreement. Watched a vista of blurred blue and green and white going past the window. The radio was turned down to a low hum, you could hardly hear it. Silence pierced its way through and sound of mumbled songs and road noise.

“Are you okay?” you asked finally.

“I’m okay.”

You sighed. Tapped the steering wheel. Sped a little to get through an intersection on amber.

“Spencer…”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to ruin that for you I just… sometimes I think of things and it’s like I have to tell you.

“Spencer I’m not mad at you! Not at all! I think we’re both just tired, and too warm…”

He didn’t say anything.

“Honestly, I was worried you’d heard what those ladies were saying about you and gotten upset. It was inappropriate of them…”

“I didn’t hear anything. What did they say?”

Your gaze was focused on the road, but you met Spencer’s eye in the rear-view mirror as he watched your face.

“Just that you were a handsome young man. And that they wanted you to get a haircut, which I firmly disagree with…” you teased.

Spencer touched his hair self-consciously. He was still quite curled up, leaning away from you despite his interest in the conversation.

“That’s nice of them, I suppose.”

“‘Nice’ is an interesting way of putting it, but I’m glad you’re not upset about it.”

“When I was a kid, I read a book at the library about how to tell if you’re attractive. It was for women, all about makeup and stuff, but there was a section about what made guys hot. I could never figure it out, I just always thought I looked like an alien.”

The sudden change made you sit up straight, heart in your mouth as you rolled to a stop behind a queue of traffic.

“I think everyone feels like that sometimes. Being a teenager is really hard.”

“I… yeah. I suppose so.”

“I always felt so jealous of the people who walked around looking perfect every day, confident that they were not. It just never came naturally to me.”

“Really? I assumed you were one of those girls in school who I’d be too afraid to talk to.”

You scoffed, and for a moment were struck by how little you really knew about one another. The way Spencer looked at you, looked it everyone, it felt as though he had an x-ray into every tiny detail of your life. How could he know, though?

“Of course not,” you laughed nervously.

You weren’t sure if you’d prefer Spencer knew the truth, or kept believing whatever he’d made up ini his head. You weren’t sure what any of this conversation meant. Traffic was moving. The precinct was two turns away.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

He was teasing you. Finally he leant back in his seat, shoulders square to it, legs stretched out in the passenger footwell.

“Either way, I’m glad you can talk to me now. I’d miss it if you didn’t.”

“You might be the only person on this planet with that opinion.”

You took a moment to glance across the car at him, and caught a flash of a smile. He was joking. You released tension from your shoulders you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re a handsome genius, just like Barbara said.”

“Her name was Barbara?” Reid laughed.

You shrugged, and took the final turn into the precinct parking lot.

“I’ve got no idea.”

Even with the SUV in park, the aircon no longer blasting away, neither of you moved. Not for a moment, at least. A moment of peace before the chaos all began again. Just the two of you. Wherever you were, with Spencer was your favourite place to be.

“You’re the same, you know. A genius. And handsome…”

You frowned.

“Pretty! Beautiful. You know what I mean.”

“Handsome?”

In truth, you didn’t care about the words. Not at all. Not when your heart was pounding at the realisation Spencer had his gaze fixed on your lips, his eyes soft and pupils blown wide.

“Beautiful,” Spencer repeated, “You know, in a lot of languages, handsome can be translated for men and women. The word itself doesn’t have a gender. Guapa, for example, in Spanish…”

You let him talk, on and on. You decided you wouldn’t kiss him yet, while your hair was matted in sweat and Spencer’s face was brushed with sunburn and embarrassment.

“Bella is more popular in South America, though, or bonita. My favourite is Japanese, though. Kirei. To be beautiful both inside and out…”

Only a few more moments passed before Morgan arrived and banged on the glass with a wide grin and a sweat-beaded brow, announcing a break in the case. You were sorry for the interruption.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #fluff #fic #13atoms #im so sorry if this is ooc

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imagine-darksiders · 10 months ago

Text

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

-------

It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

#Optimus Prime #TFP #optimus x reader #Reader #Fluff #protective optimus #Nevada

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hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog · 9 months ago

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Famous Last Words

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

Summary: She'll never let him believe he isn't loved, even when he doesn't deserve it.

TW: None.

“Be careful. I love you”

She hears the snort of derision he lets out and resists the urge to roll her eyes at him lest she makes things worse. He’s like a cornered animal when he’s upset, all consuming anger to cover the vulnerability he doesn’t want to acknowledge exists. She’s worried the wrong move will make him tell her to ‘fuck off an’ then fuck off som’ more’ like he had the night before.

“Though’ ya were mad at me” He grunts, scuffing the toe of his boot in the pebble-dashed dirt, other leg poised to keep moving further away from her and closer to the run he’s supposed to be going on.

“I am mad at you, you’re mad at me too” She raises an eyebrow before scanning her eyes down, taking note of the way he’s picking at the skin of his thumb; a nervous habit he’s had the whole time she’s known him. He’s nervous, as if one fight will make her leave him, as if she’s going to suddenly realise he isn’t worth the effort. She huffs a small, understanding smile at him “I still love you, and I’m never going to risk that not being the last thing you hear me say”

He pauses at the gate, tilts his head to the side and looks at her properly, sees the way she’s looking at him wide eyed and concerned, the way her shoulders are tense. Whenever they fight he convinces himself he’s being left, talks himself into thinking she doesn’t care and here she is, mad at him, fighting with him and still refusing to let him believe she doesn’t whilst being scared he won’t come back for different reasons.

He strides forward suddenly, twisting his body to close the gap between them and slings an arm around her shoulder, bringing her in to press his lips to the top of her head. He lingers, lips against the hair he loves so much.

“I love ya”

“Be careful. I love you” She repeats, knowing the words have sunk in when he raises one side of a lip fleetingly before opening the clanking metal chain.

It was a stupid fight, in hindsight, the kind they probably wouldn’t have if anyone had eaten a full meal for dinner rather than whatever percentage of rabbit there was split between twelve people. Or maybe they would, because they could have twelve rabbits and Daryl would still give his up for someone else, and it would infuriate her just the same that he sacrifices his own wellbeing for them at every opportunity. She suspects it’s only half about taking care of others, and maybe a solid thirty percent just not thinking he deserves care; the other twenty percent she is entirely unwilling to examine.

It was a fight though, one that ought to have been kinder than it was. One that she wishes she could have kept her cool in, but she’ll be fucked if Daryl is the only one who gets to be angry. She stews on it, sitting perched on the solid prison cot, playing it over and over in her mind until she hears heavy footsteps outside the makeshift door. She’d recognise them anywhere, his distinctive gait and well-worn shoes that always scrape on the second step when he’s not trying to sneak. The consideration, even in his unconscious actions, is part of the reason she loves him as fiercely as she does.

She doesn’t get up, doesn’t allow herself to follow the overwhelming urge to rush towards him when he opens the bars and lifts aside the curtain. He bites the inside of his lip.

“’M sorry”

“Me too”

She moves then, coming to a stop in front of him to run her hands over the solid muscles under his shirt, checking him for cuts and scrapes, feels him exhale underneath her palms. He’s always taken by the act, no matter how long they’ve been together or how often he goes out. He remains captured by the tenderness and care she bestows upon him. He is, still, so unused to the kindness, so out of depth when the only gentleness he’s known has been a cover for malice, false sense of security so quickly followed by pain.

“Ain’t sure what I did t’ deserve ya love” He mumbles into the same spot on the crown of her head. The spot he kisses when he fucks her, the place his chin rests when he hugs her after a long day, the spot he’d patted condescendingly when he was too embarrassed to admit he liked her but needed an excuse to make contact.

Finally, after almost twenty four hours of not making contact, at least twenty three too long, she kisses him, presses her lips firmly to his, relishing the way he instantly responds. When she pulls away it’s with a smile, an always fucking present smile he’ll never get enough of, the smile that’s his.

“You don’t have to deserve it, you don’t have to earn it, its just there”

He eats more that night, sitting by the fire running a thumb soothingly on her knee as he takes a well earned swig from a bottle of water. He wants her to see it, wants her to know he's trying; and if he has to trick himself into it by thinking it's for her, caring for himself because she needs him to, then it'll have to do for now.

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hoshinasblade · 4 months ago

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"you don't even know me," you told hoshina. you ought to feel proud of yourself for mustering the courage and self-control - vice captain hoshina soshiro would have heard a different response had it been some other girl he confessed his feelings to. "i mean, respectfully." you swallowed, mentally cringing; just because hoshina apparently likes you does not change the fact that he is still your commanding officer.

hoshina didn't move for a few seconds, watching you. "i mean, challenge accepted," he replied and the pleasant teasing tone of his voice almost made you dizzy.

it took days and weeks and months. every mission, every exhaustive training session, every meal break, and every sleepless night that you attempt to remedy by keeping count of the stars in the clear tokyo sky was spent with vice-captain hoshina beside you. most of the time if you are up for it, he makes conversation; in some cases it seemed to be enough for him to just look at you.

so this is how it feels to be known - hoshina soshiro had taken it upon himself to decipher you, as if you are a mystery he couldn't leave unsolved. so this is how it feels to be unraveled - from being able to recognise your favorite song, to knowing which food comforts you after a long day, to understanding even the slightest change in your facial expressions.

it shouldn't have been a surprise that hoshina hoped and wanted to be familiar with your body too. so when the straps of your bra fell down your arms, it would seem that the third division vice-captain had discovered one more thing about you. "i didn't know you have moles anywhere else," hoshina said, almost breathlessly, referring to the pair of dark specks on the valley of your chest. "well, now you do," you responded with a smile.

#right so i think i have a slight obsession with the pleasure and terror of being known #i just wrote this very randomly lol #also brainrot moment of mine is hoshina absolutely being awed about anything and everything about you #imagine hoshina tracing patterns on your skin like #hoshina #hoshina soshiro #soshiro hoshina #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina x reader #kaiju no. 8 #kn8 x reader #hoshina soshiro fic

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assaultmystic-archive · 4 months ago

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ive shared this essay on tranmisogyny and nihilism with a few friends, and then realised u might as well all have it. circa 3k words. enjoy x

Apology

The complete and systematic account of transmisogyny is, of necessity, a hopeless exercise. Abjection is the mother of the totality after all. We are talking about the constitutive incompleteness of the world, the necessary impotence, the weeping lacuna of artifice that begets all things! If we theorised the whole world, we would not speak of transmisogyny once, because it is a condition on the possibility of theory, and so must be forever excepted

So, what little that follows is a betrayal. Partial by design (to let the light in) and necessity (I am tired. I am weak.), it is a betrayal nonetheless. Nothing could fail to be. So let's be honest. To theorise transmisogyny in full would be to draw borders around its extent and its diffusion. To theorise transmisogyny in full would be to construct and fortify its privileged subject -who is and is not transmisogynised. To theorise transmisogyny in full would be to tell "the transmisogynised" what to do about it. I don't want to do any of these things, and I will fail. There is no conversational path into discussion of what's possible that does not foreclose some options. We, the disinherited, conduct our peculiar miracle by fleeing down paths others cannot even see. So, take what you like and laugh when I give away my limits. Have fun.

Preliminaries

All of this is play, everything is. Nothing really matters. The real, in fact, is a mesh of overlapping consensuses that have been built not merely incidentally, but structurally, on our expulsion. There is no serious, real, or proper way to be a tranny. In fact, it remains integral to the notion of consensus as such, and reality by extension, that we are delusional in our self-articulation, paranoid in our recognisance of our exclusion, and dangerous at the point at which we express any of this. We are thus freed to recognise everything as play, for though those involved in playing out the real have their stakes in us (though they are loathe to admit it) we are disbarred from ever really holding stakes in the real. Because that's what real means.

The enshrinement of this exclusion as unreal is both necessary for the sustaining of the real as really important, but is also absolutely critical to facilitating the social character of transmisogynisation. All affordances granted to us allow us to play, however temporarily, at admission to reality. Those on the inside know we ought to be grateful for this mercy. It is particularly advisable for those who would like more sway over consensus (those who do not see themselves as having that sway already) to let us play inside sometimes. We get cold out here. Some of us get so cold we become frozen, we forget we are playing, we become unable to move, so keen on coming in that we harden into fixed things, like those inside are. But we will know no benefit for it. Even if they wanted to, they could offer us no rewards. Whether they know it or not, it is just a game.

Each magic circle that defines with its border the games of the real is drawn in our blood. Each empire and every banner they flew. Every flag. Every cause. All of it, all of it had its stakes in us. All had to eject us. We were understood to stand for nothing. For annihilation, for nullification, for endings. The family line ends here. The revolutionary project will see no children. In fact, there only was a "we" insofar as we were taken to stand for nothing. We are unified in that we are constituted by resistance to that which ejects us from the social, every social. We are unified in this alone. The trappings of inheritance, family, reproduction, legacy, futurity. What world that is, or was, or is being built could truly love the tranny? At best they'll have us die in the shadow so that their gleaming future would shine more brightly for contrast. No. We have each other. There never was a world for us, because wherever a future was believed in we threatened it in our nihilising impotence. This keeps us vital. Keeps us dangerous. Keeps us laughing.

Strategy, or, how to play

We have no interest in talking about identity independent of conversations about strategy. The way we constitute ourselves is conversationally liquid. To rebuke a tranny for their identificatory strategy is to reproduce transmisogyny, to think you know what living her circumstances might take better than she does. We call ourselves what we need to to survive the imposition of gender upon us. Recalling our movements through the social this becomes trivially obvious. Confronted each with your boss, your local tboy callout artisan, the police, a John, your mother, your ex, the gender clinic, who wouldn't call herself what she did only as an attempt to get what she wanted? When we meet others like us then, we cannot presume they know that we would love them whatever they called themselves. They might see a cop in front of them, might see a John, might worry this'll come back around - the local scene might shun a girl for calling herself a crossdresser, even as a joke (let alone for 'real'). So can they trust you? Do you intend to make that clear? But between us, once we know we are among friends, identification is about options, about imaginative flight, about the proliferation of lifeworlds bleeding from the critical harm done to us. Because what could we stand to gain by insisting that girls cannot be faggots? That boys cannot be trannies? Every should've-been-man of us has run, by herself, the labyrinthine complex of gender as domestication. Are you going to begrudge him calling himself a sissy now, after a lifetime of living in the word's shadow? Get over it! You are being invited to play, to walk through walls! Fool that you are, you cannot see the smile on the face of the trannies you claim to love while they call themselves the things you promised yourself it was really unacceptable to be. You have lost sight of the game, and now you come back to your sisters and you ask them to sober up, to get real. After all, we have cisgenders to convince, don't you know? Real people. Why, if they heard you talking like that we'd all befucked! But they are not here. Or at least, they were not here until you started doing their work for them.

There is after all, no real identity. Or, rather, the claim to a real identity is one move among others, and holds no special weight. It is special only in that it invokes the game of the real, the inside of the magic circle, to push others out. This can be great when you are having sex and a tranny tells you that you're not a real woman like her and that you should [do what she wants] about it. Otherwise it's quite fucking boring. If it happens that the world has fallen at your feet in such a way that you find labels more personal to you, that is, they feel like more than social tools for communicating how you would like to occur to others in the world, we're glad for you. Just don't expect us to feel the same. There is nothing we really are underneath this, in fact there is no need for an underneath. What good has the legitimate, the true, the valid done for any of us?

Transmisogynisation, or, how to draw a circle

A popular school of thought sees transfemininity as intentionally performed through a succession of discrete speech acts through which one establishes a relationship with womanhood while cAMAB. More simply - we identify as trans women, or as transfeminine, and so become subject to transmisogyny. This is a hangover from a history of "born this way" queer sloganeering. That we must always have been settled on the inside, and our targetting is a matter of some transfeminine essence. It's bullshit, which is no problem, but the trouble is that it's bullshit with extremely low explanatory power.

More to the point, transmisogynisation describes a matrix of concrete social and institutional processes, through which cAMAB people may become (forcibly) disidentified with masculinity, and become a part of the gendered abject. What the prevailing model correctly understands, is that some of these transmisogynising processes can be willingly submitted to. We might choose self identification as trans woman or other locally prevailing transfemininity, working “as a woman”, engagement with legal or medical apparatus of gender. However, none of these social affordances (that are deployed by social institutions to effect the circumscription of transfemininity) are free from the potential for coercion. If we want access to any of the processes described we experience pressure to present a legible transfeminine gender identity. If you do not call yourself by the terms of the locally prevailing models of transfemininity your access to social, legal or medical affordances is immediately threatened. There is immediately a pressure to be a certain kind of tranny - the institutionally respectable kind, and this pressure weighs on our self descriptions whether we know it or not. Identity, then, is always already under pressure. What would I have called myself, if I had never had to call myself anything for the sake of estrogen, or for a job, or for community? I will never know. Neither will you. What the position outlined fails to account for at all, is that many processes of transfeminisation are straightforwardly coercive, have no choice element because they are inductive abuse. We did not choose our subjection to social practices of violent harassment and exclusion based on perceived difference, for example. Did not choose to be called faggots, sissies, or retards because of the position we were being forced into of not-a-real-man. Did not choose the rape, the beating, the manipulation that othered us from manhood, carried out in sacred silent complicity over a whole lifetime. Every cis woman ex who forced you into a feminised position of permanent care is in cahoots with your dad who hit you is in cahoots with the tboys you gave a bad vibe are in cahoots with the boys in your high school changing room are in cahoots with your rapists. There was, in fact, a conspiracy to forcibly feminise you. It just wasn't glamorous, sexy, or conscious. It doesn't make sense to speak of our transmisogynisation, then, as a matter of our personal identity so much as it does of our being identified. Target lock, y'know? Maybe something gave you away, maybe it didn't. But identifying a boy who's never gonna make it is socially critical, and you were picked. Picked so other boys could differentiate themselves from you, so girls could have you and know you weren't like other boys - they could hurt you and get away with it. So your ejection from your family could be justified. Even if none of them ever once called you a tranny, they were making one of you.

All this to say, the representational force of specific visions of transfeminity cannot be substitute for solidarity along the lines of that we are transmisogynised. Personal identification, pronouns, these things are secondary - and are no substitute for attending to the specifics of our oppression. We can call ourselves what we want, but falling behind the banner of a fixed identity category just limits our solidarity, makes us rigid, makes us easier to kill.

Theory, or, giving the game away

Transmisogyny is itself transmisogynised. Like us, our oppression is always novel, always ready finallyfor a good welcoming into the fold, always unmapped, always a great way to sell a book. Yours could be the first real, definitive, proper text on transmisogyny! Imagine! Over the past decade alone (say nothing of techniques perfected in milennia gone), round after round of coordinated harassment campaign and social media clean up have left us with a legacy of articulating ourselves over and over, hashing out the same points for each new spawning. A neotenised theory, in a forced state of arrested development. Our place in history continues to be the damnatio memoriae.

The kinds of theorisation that tend to stick around share a basic structure - they are outreach oriented, interested in engaging with a "broader" feminist or queer or historical or marxist tradition. Of course the subsumption of transmisogyny as a mere articulation, a phenomena within this or that more important, more material, more real tendency follows.Theory looks to place transmisogyny on terms that others might recognise, fixing some points of reference in order to reach a presumed shared audience. The trouble of course is that now you are looking to share points of reference, an audience, with a cisfeminist, a twerf, a "transandrophobia" spewing tboy. You might tell yourself that this is only in order that you might convince the undecided, to win new people round, so they see the natural integration of the theorisation of transmisogyny into your school of thinking.

These institutionalising desires exact costs. Foremost amongst which is the need to identify a positive transfeminine subject. The identification of this subject (presently, the sID'd transgender woman) ensures that the framework shares identifiable points of reference with rival theories of gender that emerge within hegemony, in order to more legibly engage with them. Put more simply, it makes it easier to argue with the tmra, the cisfeminist, the twerf, if everybody arguing presumes themselves to already know what we’re talking about, but to just differ in attitude. Whether she's valid, whether she's more or less privileged, whether she's really a woman. Such fun!This is the process of theorisation as marketisation - an audience after all is just a cipher for a market. All debate is in fact spectacle, safely ensconced within its academic home. Irrecognisance is complicity.

By entering into the bloodsport of theory we can endlessly defer the practicalities of articulating relations between the transmisogynised that are aware of the endless hatred the real holds for us, and avoid responding to that weaponised reality lucidly. We can foreclose the conversation about what we do, so that we can settle, once and for all who we are. Of course, whoever finds themselves on the outside of our shining new identity (once we've settled it - won't take long) will perhaps lack our enthusiasm for whatever solidarity we seek to build without them after the fact.

I'll concede that I only speak in these terms (not my own) because you are my kin, and I want to reach you. I am a hypocrite. I made my apology already. I believe in you more than I ever believed in anything real, so I'm going to let you make a hypocrite of me.

For the road, or, from the sickbed

I am tired now, and quite sick. I caught what might be the flu, or might be covid the other day. Things occur to me through a thicker haze than usual. So I am going to be presumptive and pass on some things I have learned talking with my friends, as though you’ve any need.

Pay attention to the way that transmisogynisation picks at and worries received views of agency. When girls tell you that their transness is something they affirmed, they are of course right. The same girls are also right when they talk about how this was done to them. Histories are mobile, histories are strategic. Stories we tell about ourselves are social technologies. We never have to be one thing, never have to resolve (scorn anyone who tells you otherwise), we exist with contradictions of coercion and choice. We have to. What does this mean for the possibility of the transmisogynised historical “subject”? What might we have to say about the necessary diffusion of subjectivity experienced by many like us- what kinds of politics is it incompatible with?

Pay attention to the lines along which people draw their politics. What kind of insults do they use? They are telling you who is other to them. They are telling you who they do not feel they need to answer to, and so in whom the stakes of their real will be placed, alongside you. If they speak of lazy stoners wasting their time in queer organisation instead of joining this or that political project - in my opinion, they have told you more than enough. Anarchist or otherwise. These are the lines that need to be drawn so that a politics can be defined. Those who speak this way, our kin not least, hurt themselves. They do this for a cause.

Kindness is never, ever, called for. Will never be called for. It is not politically substantial. People will tell you that kindness is radical and they are wrong. People will tell you that kindness is no part of a coherent politics - not something you ever owe and they are right. You need never be kind. This is because kindness is an excess. Kindness is an inherently unjustified and unjustifiable gesture, an overabundance of care that no politics invested in its own reproduction could ask for. When you meet trannies, I would really appreciate it if you could be kind to them.

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shy-ent · 5 months ago

Text

.TOUGH LOVE (part 1?)

By rena | Shyent

-Big brother Scara <3

-Non-con

-incest

-spanking

-degradation

-a tiny bit of fluff sprinkled in

Note: Don't like, don't read.

Scaramouche shoves you against your desk and without allowing you a moment to fight back, forces apart your thighs and presses his crotch against yours. You groan and attempt to kick him off of you, However, he thrusts his hip hard against yours, eliciting a shriek from you.

“What kind of punishment will it be this time, huh–?”

You barely had the chance to finish your sentence when he flips your skirt over your ass, kneading his fingers into the supple flesh.

“Wait, what are you-”

You didn't register your brother's hand pulling back, but what you did immediately recognise was the searing sting on your rear and the sound of his palm smacking against your ass cheek. You yell, fear and contempt present in your glare to which Scaramouche returned with a scornful one of his own, his lips curled into an ugly scowl.

You felt so bare, and you didn't realise how cold the temperature within your room was until he bent you over and flipped over your skirt. Or perhaps, it was the self-consciousness that overcame you at the fact that you could feel the zipper of your brother's shorts pressed up against your underwear. Regardless, it was cold and embarrassing.

It wasn't the exposure. You never minded being naked around your brother regardless of how broken your relationship was with him even after puberty because, at the very least, you were comfortable with being in your own body around him.

However, the sensation of him pressed up against you like this?

You open your mouth to reprimand him, but that's when Scaramouche grabbed you by the roots of your hair and pulled back before slamming your head against the desk, leaving you disoriented. In all honesty, it wasn't even the force of the slam but rather your mind trying to grapple with what he was doing.

It wasn't the slamming of your head that was out of the ordinary for you, no. You'd already come to accept Scaramouche's more violent tendencies as your new normal in the years following him having to take the initiative to take care of you and the growing intensity of your altercations…at least, you think you did.

Regardless, aside from the hitting, this is just…not normal, right? It wasn't normal, no, the way he threw you against the table and bent you over. It wasn't normal, you don't think, the way he situated his hips between your thighs. It wasn't normal, you know, the way he wasn't yelling at you yet. It was gross, wrong, not right. Not right.

Did he…what is my brother going to do to me?

“You think that you can get away with disrespecting me?” Scaramouche growls, pulling your head back up, rolling your neck harshly in his grip.

Scaramouche sounded incredulous as if what you told him was so ludicrous. As if YOU were in the wrong for reacting to his provocations, his jealousy, his possessiveness, his intrusiveness. He continues, leaning in to mutter spitefully into your ear,

“You think that you can insult me, spit in the face of my goodwill and treat me like I'm stupid and useless while you're dressed like a fucking, ungrateful whore and…get away with it?”

He lets go of your hair in a swift motion—your head dropping on the table—before his fingers wrap around your neck. His grip was tight yet forgiving as you were allowed the mercy of being able to breathe through the pressure, however strained. Scaramouche’s tone was scathing, and you imagined his expression to be just as condescending.

“Well, I guess that's my fault, isn't it? I was too nice, wasn't I? I suppose it's your big brother's fault for letting you off the hook for so long, so easily, wasn't it?”

He slaps your rear again.

Scaramouche coos, squeezing the fat of your ass. “Well, I ought to apologise for that, yeah, baby sis? I'll take responsibility and teach you a lesson. You'd love that, wouldn't you? For your brother to punish you for being such a bad girl?”

He permits you to speak, loosening his grip on your neck. When he did, you gasped for air while trying to hold back a sob in an attempt to sound firm when you spoke, denying to yourself that he heard when your voice shook, "What the fuck are you doing, you fucking pervert?"

Perhaps the disgust expressed in your tone and on your face would make him falter. Yet…

He doesn't even dignify you with a sign of defensiveness; he had you just where he wanted you, the need to take offence was lost to him, and that scared you. “That's all you have to say for yourself? Don't want to mend your way out of this?”

“I have nothing to apologise for, you petulant, narcissistic baby.”

“If you say so…y'know, I almost felt bad for punishing you, but it seems to me that you're practically begging for it, aren't you?” He snickers, his eyes narrowing as he gazed down at his crotch pressed down against your pussy. Almost lovingly, he was caressing your cheek with his right hand, pinching you hard, causing you to whine before it left your body.“Well, if that's how you'll have it…but just so you know,”

Scaramouche grabs a thick, pink wooden ruler from your desk's surface and double taps your ass with it, causing you to twitch and stiffen, “From here on out, it's big brother to you, okay?”

“Sick pervert-” He taps harder.

“Okay, my whorish, adorable little sister?”

“...okay," all you had to do was to let him get his guard down, right?

He hums, “That'll work for now,” he taps your ass with the ruler with a bit more pressure, “move for me.”

You try to turn your head to look at him, but he presses down on your neck, effectively holding you in place.

“That's not what I want, puppy. I said move.”

“Move? You're in the way!”

“Move in a way I know you’re familiar with, aside from trying to escape your punishment. I'm sure you've done it with your little guy friends, haven't you? Sway those hips for me, pet—you have 4 seconds.”

Your mind went blank, but before you managed to process his command to at least express your utter disgust at what your brother was demanding of you,

“Four seconds…how many hits do you think you deserve?”

“None-”

He wacks you and you flinch, hard.

“Wrong, try again.”

“...four?”

“We'll add two more for the second offence, okay?”

"But I-"

"Ten."

"…What the fuck, Scara-"

"Like I said, you're practically begging for it, I don't have to remind you of how you should refer to me…stop trying to fight back."

Scaramouche brushes your right cheek with the ruler, once, twice. And without another moment to spare, he swats your ass, and you didn't think that it could get any worse than the ones prior, and yet…your body jerks forward against the desk and you wiggle against him.

"Stop it! Why-" he pulls his arm back and lays another one of the same, unforgiving speed and ache. A whine escapes you and your eyes prick with tears.

"Beg, apologise, whine or cry. Otherwise, I'll interpret your words as a plea for more."

And thus, began his assault. He hits you again and again and again without a moment to recuperate, to recover a bit, to get used to it. No, he wanted it to hurt. Your gasps and groans grew louder and louder each time as he swatted one after the other on your increasingly sensitive ass, and all it did was egg him on.

Left, right, left, right.

"Normally when you cry, I find it annoying, y'know?"

You tried to articulate a response of your own but you couldn't find yourself getting used to the buzzing excruciating throb on your bum, you felt as if each swat was throwing your mind off its balance. Scaramouche's laughter did not cease to piss you off, and fucking terrify you. You always banked on the pity and guilt to palliate his punishment, but this time, why did it seem like he was enjoying it? You weren't counting, but you were sure that this was way past ten.

"But like this…you're fucking adorable. You fight back against me so viciously and talk with such a potty mouth, I thought that my adorable little sister from years ago was lost to me…I didn't realise that all it took was to bend you over."

He sighs blissfully, your legs kicking behind you as you try to push back. He didn't reprimand you, he knew that it was only natural.

"Next time you act up, I'll set up a camera, okay?"

"Wha-eek!"

"Just like that, you sound so fucking cute. I love the way you're shrieking and crying, kicking and wiggling under me like that…it takes me back, thought 'punishments' were more innocent back then."

Your cries and snivelling was music to his ears. Scaramouche watched as your rear got redder, more sore, and bruised under his dominance, at some point, he focused more on the right side as he dug his nails into your left, twisting your ass-cheek for the sake of hearing your choke on your sobs. He'd been so focused on your vocal reactions, that it was only a few moments later did he notice the dampness in your underwear. His eyes widen and he ceases his swatting, his brain buzzing.

You sniffle and open your eyes, was it finally over? The thought was thrown out the window when he grinds more rhythmically, intentionally against your clothed pussy, the ruler caressing your ass with an occasional tap.

Before you knew it, he'd pull your panties aside to expose your throbbing pussy, running his fingers along your clit before hovering over your hole. You didn't think that your face could get any hotter and you've never felt so fucking mortified. This was your own brother touching your pussy. You tried to perish the mere thought of you being aroused by this whole ordeal, but the clenching of your walls around nothing and your wetness made it impossible to ignore. He wouldn't ignore it, you will not forget it.

“...you sick fuck.” He laughs, pressing his thumb against your hole that you knew was getting increasingly wetter by the moment. “I knew that I was fucked up in the head but who woulda thought that you would finish just from a little bit of spanking? You enjoyed it?”

“N-no I-”

“Shh, don't lie to me, feel this?” Scaramouche slips a digit into your hole and curls it, and he didn't think that he could get harder before you tightened around him.

“You're so fucking wet, did you feel how easy it was to slip it in?" he inserted a second finger followed by a third, pumping them into you. "It's like you're begging to be filled up, aren't you? You'd like that? Do you want your big brother's cock inside of that cute little hole of yours?”

“No…please—hic—Scara I-”

“I'd like you to shut up and think about what I told you; it's big brother.”

Scaramouche undoes his pants and pulls down his boxers before tapping his aching cock between your raw, sore cheeks.

“Feel that? Tell me, how does it feel?”

“...Heavy, you're so—hic—heavy and hard and—please don't do it, it's-” wrong.

“What, it's immoral? Don't feign innocence here, your pussy is weeping for my cock, isn't it? I'm not even holding you down anymore, now am I? And we both know you've never missed an opportunity to run away from something you didn't like…you want this," he mocks, rutting against you.

“But it'll hurt…”

“I don't want to hear excuses from a cute little slut like you…I wonder how many guys you allowed to use you like this. Do they know how much of a masochist you are?” He aligns the tip at your entrance. “Did they even know how much you enjoyed being played with and treated roughly like a sex toy?"

A moan rumbles in your chest as he pushes his head into you, making circles.

"Oh! Now would you look at that? Did you feel how easily I slipped into you? How does that feel, little sis? How does your brother's cock feel?"

You moan a muffled apology and he lets it slide, reaching his free hand to pinch your puffy clit. Your hips reflexively jerk back in response in a futile attempt to pull away from his touch, and in response he lets go of his dick, smacking your raw ass.

Don't move, he didn't say.

“Did those inexperienced fuckers even know how to pleasure you? Did you fake your orgasms? Or did you come through just fine when they buried their little dicks into you? Did it hurt, love? Did you like it?”

He groans shamelessly, slowly pushing in his dick, mercifully giving you time to adjust as he admired the way your legs quaked and stiffened as he filled you with his length with ease. In his mind, as his balls met your ass as his glans met your cervix, he thought that the two of you were a perfect fit.

You truly were made for him.

He slaps your raw cheek with his palm and whine, "I didn't hear an answer."

"Wh…what?"

Smack!

"Weren't paying attention, were you?"

“Please…”

Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Please please please,” he mocks. “Do you know how pathetic you sound? Can't you say anything more intelligent than that or is all you know how to do is beg and moan?”

“...B—hic—big brother…”

“Now that's a start, what is it?”

“...please get it over with.”

“Now that sounds better…but I'm sure that there's another way to phrase it, yeah?”

“P-please,” he was about to slap you before he heard you. “Fuck me big brother…please punish me.”

Oh, fuck.

“...now would you look at that," Scaramouche muses. "I didn't know that you can be so…fuck."

He grabs you by the hips and pulls out until only the tip remains and without warning, he slams into you.

“Archons, you're so. Fucking. Wet.” He accentuates each word with a hard thrust before trying to find his rhythm.

“You're loving this…you wanted your brother's cock to be buried into your pussy, right? You wanted me to use you and I know that you wanted me to punish you…that's why you're always provoking me, huh? Always talking to boys and walking home with a new one every week. You wanted to piss me off—haah."

“You were begging for this…I'm sorry, I was dense, wasn't I? I should have–oh, gods–punished you like this sooner. Right, little sis?”

All you could do was mewl and hic, standing on your toes as if you were offering yourself to him. As he rocked you back and forth against your desk, degrading you and fucking up your insides as your needy pussy drooled all over his cock and formed a small puddle on the floor.

He buries his fingers into your hair once more and pulls your head back. Your tears, sweat and saliva streamed down your face, a pool of it where your face lay. Not only were your cries and gasps more coherent, no longer compromised by your face being buried into arms, but you grew whinier, eyes half-lidded as your dribbling tongue lolled past your lips. You were a fucked up, pretty sight for sore eyes and he felt his cock twitch inside of you.

“Now, who does–mmph…oh fuck, haha—this pussy belong to, huh?"

Impatient, he smacks you another three, "Huh, huh, huh?"

You did not know whether or not it was intentional, but the line between pain and pleasure never felt so close and entwined.

“To my big brother! It’s yours!”, you babble.

“What a smart little girl.”

Eventually, Scaramouche abandons the pace he'd set. After all, wasn't this your punishment to begin with? If you came again, he'd get to make fun of you further. If you didn't, then that is for you to settle on your own, no?

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I- ah~ fuck please please please, it's so good I'm gonna cum I'm gonna–” your eyes roll back and your hips buckle against him, white-hot pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you came all over his dick.

And that sight was enough to send him over the edge, he pulled your head back to an unnatural and painful degree, and with one last spank and a final thrust, he buried himself down to the hilt, shooting loads of hot cum into your pussy.

You both were a unit of sloppy messes, panting and sticky with sweat and shared essence, rutting against each other and he bent over, gently letting down your head as he rested his chest against your back, his head over your shoulder.

He pants and moans against your forehead as he plants a kiss on your temple, to which you breathily hum. Your eyes were closed, but you had yet to fall asleep, you intended to move to bed if he let you but at the moment, you were just trying to recuperate, your body still twitching and spasming.

He didn't remove himself from inside of you, perhaps it was the orgasm, but Scaramouche felt the need to express his affection for his little sister a bit more differently. He barely removed his lips from your forehead when he tilted his head, his breath tickling you.

"…You know I love you, right?"

You sniffle, your eyes fluttering open, "I do."

"And that I only did this because I care for you and I missed you, right?"

"Yes…"

You both fell silent, and you didn't know how to describe the absence of noise itself, comfortable? Static? His hand wanders down to your sensitive backside caressing it despite your flinching before sliding down to rub slow, gentle circles into your inner thigh.

"Sca…big brother?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

He snorts, "I love you too, little sis."

Author's note: Honestly, a teensy tiny weeny bit unsatisfied, but like, I needed to use the bathroom since 5 years ago right now but I sat here and did this for you😣💓

Hope it was okay, I greatly accept praise. If there are any errors, please point them out to me.

I mean it! Critique and advice is very much welcomed into my asks.

I'm also looking over and editing and screaming and dying rn

#tw inc*st #wanderer smut #wanderer x reader #wanderer #genshin impact #genshin smut #kunikuzushi #kabukimono #scara #wanderer genshin #genshin scara #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche smut #scara x reader #genshin wanderer #i love scaramouche

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 1 month ago

Text

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 3

author’s note: VERY suggestive (we’ll get there properly someday), but mostly sad again (everybody act surprised). i just wanted to drop some of their lore and make you understand viktor’s perspective. reader is NOT in a good place. you’re going to hate for that one. sorry in advance. also, there’s some context for you to look up at the end of this chapter (mostly music and czech shehanigans).

word count: 6,1k

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Viktor’s first performance in London converged with the Velvet Divorce. It was an honest accident, a random calamity pulling ahead of his usual luck. His flight had been delayed, then cunningly cancelled altogether. Perfect timing, too. The thirty-first of December. Seven in the evening.

He remembered staying at his closed gate, bitterly grinning at alliterative murmurs of the English—fellow victims to irresponsible airlines, furious in their mutual misery. He watched the commotion fray around him into flurries of ‘bollocks’ and ‘bloody hells’, greige trench coats billowing behind vamping legs like angry Victorian frocks (They weren’t seriously planning on landing in Prague in this? Do they even know it snows farther east?)

He called the hotel and tried to get his room back. Everything was fully booked. He called, and called, and called, occasionally pivoting to assault the nearest trash bin with his cane. It achieved nothing but a huge dent in the shiny thing, and there it stood, distorted and guilty of failing to relieve his hardship. His back wept inside his sweater, sorely foretasting a long, tiring night in the waiting area: the flight he was transferred to wasn’t leaving until noon. Fitfully, he slept in his seat, stirring awake whenever a hoarse bullhorn made an eerie announcement, and Viktor swore to avoid holiday tours at all costs henceforth, no matter how seductive the pay might be.

In the morning, he called home. Your drowsy sigh tickled the receiver, then thawed into a happy squeal when you’d recognised the brunt of his ‘good morning’, each weary consonant thick with nasal anger.

“Happy New Year,” you chirped. “You’re divorced now.”

He cracked a staticky laugh.

“Are you that mad at me for missing a holiday? I assure you, it was the least pleasant night of my life—“

“Oh. No, it’s not that. Slovakia divorced us. Amicably. Or, rather, we did? Anyway, we’re a republic now. Isn’t that crazy?”

And crazy it was, in a way. Because later that day, as he lay crammed chest to chest with you in the confines of white linen, the hum of planes and buses still stiffening his thoughts into incoherent lumps of consciousness, not the faintest inkling of forthcoming misery could languish the treacle of those reveries—the mundane all stupefied by your hair in his wincing face. For now, they were beyond his reach, those years preceding a separation of his own, albeit not nearly as amicable and definitely not velvet. Stuck in London once again, this time in September and by reluctant choice, Viktor contemplated splitting into republics. Oh, the conniving history and its stupid recurrence. Or maybe he just ought to stop performing in England. He always seems to run out of luck in that country.

He’d rather be in Brno—ideally, in that dreamy version of it from the portentous year of Orwellian dystopia, back where taking what’s his is a nascent notion of a shy, thin-lipped thing crumbling agape on another’s wet, welcoming mouth; where the first, firm twine of shaky fingers is its polite predecessor. I hope I’m not overstepping—I really hope you are. I can’t do anything to you until I receive a ʼyesʼ—Does ʼpleaseʼ suffice? You’re spoiling me—I’m merely treating myself. Oh to fall in love in Brno again. A yearning half-coherent.

He’d met it as a first-year at JAMU, in Music Theory. Boldly, it banished the triads and chord progressions from his wits and startled him with a cloying, magnolia-scented nape in the row beneath. And what a cunning absconder. What a taunting, salacious whiff. Every week, it peeked out of your collar like a darling curse of late-season heatwaves indulged in a flimsy dress. That did it for him. He’d lasted—no, toiled—through three redolent Wednesdays (ironically enough). But even Viktor wasn't immune to the medley of skin and perfume.

As the class got dismissed, he’d chased you down through the rustling of briefcases and hurrying musicians, reached an adroit hand and tapped-yanked on your back, pliant skin recoiling under his polite grip. You turned around—petulant and audacious, an accusation already germinant in your throat. He remembered it graphically: your brisk scrutiny of his face, the defensive pout, his hold of you gaping open and scurrying away. He used to keep his hair neatly cut back then. Yours was always in updos, teasing sweet swivels of skin. His speech was more opaque, frankly—a tad pretentious. Yours was expressive, excited with aspirations. He dressed smartly on an everyday whim. You did so too, albeit more effortlessly. He savored them—those last quizzical seconds spent as ambitious strangers, and wondered what you saw in him just then: a day short of nineteen, obstinate and so very lofty. Must’ve been a brisk affair. A sincere friendship. A sexually frustrating challenge of tainting a precocious pianist. Or, maybe, precisely what had evolved from it all: the beginning of a twelve-year-long journey yet to be over with.

You spoke first. “Do I know you?” He faltered with his answer, clumsily tripping over his cane: someone had struck him in the shoulder running out of the lecture hall, and he pivoted just in time to restore his wavering balance, glaring after their rushed apology. You glared with him, and the grievance became mutual—a strange, fleeting comfort. He smiled.

“Watch your step, asshole!” You yelled and hoped that it reached the intruder. And reach it did: more distant sorries were thrown your way, ceasing in the doorway at last.

“Oh, there’s no need for profanities,” Viktor was laughing now—a creaky, throaty sound. Your attention was all his again—ruminative, foolhardy, daring eyes scoping him from tie to forehead. “There’s nothing a little violence can’t fix. I’ll return the blow next time.”

“Of course. Nip it in the bud. Make sure you aim for the throat.”

“Certainly.”

“Right. Sorry, did you want something?”

“Actually, yes. What perfume are you wearing?”

“Why, is this for your girlfriend?”

“No, I would never subject a significant other to that scent. My babča, on the other hand…” He bit his tongue, tiresomely late. The conduit from clever to insulting has been crossed, and the damage was staring at him askance, irretrievably furious, white-cuffed wrists pressed tightly to the plaid decollete as if aching to do him in right there, in the classroom. “Excuse you?”

“Oh, I came with a qualm. I’m terribly sorry”— he wasn’t; well, not terribly—“but that scent is nauseating. Terribly floral. I could barely concentrate on the augmented chords sitting behind you.“

“Then find a different seat.”

“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. By the time I get here, it’s the only vacant spot. Well, except for the one right next to you, but I prefer to stick to the lesser evil.”

You snuck your partiture under an armpit and swung hard on squeaky heels; thrifted vintages tapping out a languid drollery. Not rejecting, but not quite beckoning either. But his cane consorted, and into the hall they clicked—the first one of many pieces you’ll play together.

“Who do you think you are?” A mean susurration. But your pace was bereft of hurry. Thorough, wide, anything but hasty: you made sure that he could keep up.

That posed a meddling. Viktor smiled again. “Nobody. Just a mere mortal begging you to take it down a notch.”

“Why would I care for a mere mortal’s request?”

“That’s fair, I suppose. I shouldn’t have articulated it so crudely. You smell lovely, just a tad… excessive. What I’m trying to say is—“ he chewed on his cheek, a sweet, bashful thing, “I’d like to keep looking at you without having to feel like I’m in a funeral home.”

His severe case of smartassness was peeking through every syllable—the kind of speech you want to dissect into minutiae, preferably by taping it for future reveries. You turned around and stared past him into the hall, an upright competition of who blinks first. Fellow aspiring musicians kept shuffling around, jubilant, ever so busy, each one scurrying to their classes or band practices. You, too, should’ve been headed upstairs to set up for Elgar with the orchestra. But you craved a revanche. Some quaint, reversed jab. All the while simply revelling with him not-quite-tête-à-tête in the humming not-quite-silence.

Both backs clung to the wall and straightened against it, let the mildewy cool creep under your smart clothes. Both chests heaved post-cigarette-break-like (both pairs of lungs have dabbled before, you were sure of that), and there you stood—shivering, canine-flashing, heads thrown back in your first shared laughter.

“I’m so sorry,” Viktor stumbled over a guilty smile, pretty fingers shaking against his forehead. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I should’ve complimented you first. Oh, this is a disaster…”

“You’re funny,” you managed through a faulty rasp, and he emulated with a finishing chuckle of his own. “Funeral home, huh?” You drew a breath. “That’s a first.”

“Truly?” He turned to you in a clumsy half-lean, and another staring contest followed—less dispute, more incredulous. “Does your cohort lack the sense of smell, or are they just being polite?”

“Neither. My ‘cohort’ consists of me and an inanimate object.”

“Inanimate?”

“Yes. It’s just me and my cello.”

“Interesting. Would it care for a playdate with my piano?”

“It depends. What’s your repertoire?”

“Oh, let’s see. Schumann. Some Fauré, but I haven’t practiced that Élégie in a while. Chopin, of course. Some Debussy, if we’re feeling sensual.”

“Hm. Versatile. And your name is?”

“Viktor. Viktor Knirsch.”

“Right. Fine, Mr. Knirsch. Pick me up after orchestra practice in about three hours, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

And so it began. The invariance of ardent rehearsal rapidly progressing into circumspect touches atop the partiture; their labile austerity—a swing from subtle to intentional, fingers delving into lower backs innocuously at first, then steadily inching southward. More shared laughs interspersed with each mishap—dissolving defensiveness, unraveling the innermost. Reserving an evening for duets in both tight schedules. Then another one. And another. Until they’d become extracurricular and branched out into dorms, streets, his parents’ house, every desolate room of the Academy, and, of course, the movies (albeit often illegally—sneaking in was too adventurously frugal to pass up on). All of it commonly threaded by a game of who manages to confine a confession longest.

But of one, Viktor is certain: his favorite version of you is forever the prodigious first cello with a penchant for Saint-Säens and an opinion on just about any repertoire—the stern girl unfurling her audience’s ribcages to steal shaky heartbeats (or souls, for all he knows). She reads ambiguous fiction and plays Lacrimosa to bed, eating apricot Hamé with a silver spoon he’d nicked for her from the flea market. “Sleep is a trial of death,” she says, licking the stolen trinket, “If I absolutely must adhere to it, I’d rather it be sweet and with a decent accompaniment.” She always loses against him in checkers and renders adorably testy, wraps him in her arms like a headlock, and promises to ‘get you next time’, but when the next time comes, she blunders a triple jump within a couple of moves. She likes everything crescendo: her voice, her step, but, more importantly, her music. She throws her head back performing The Swan with him and becomes swan-like herself: her neck—arched and elongated, her shirt—crumpled white with jam speckles. She aces every subject and teases him for having aced his with a two-point lead, and there she is, just beneath him in the list—not yet Knirsch, but already half-his and willing.

She has her moments, of course. Such as concerningly long rehearsals resulting in open wounds on her fingertips. A strange, self-inflicted treaty of banning herself from going to bed until she’d studied her two hours of music theory. An even stranger aim to please every examinee, which, when not met, resulted in a sobbing stunt. But we all have our vices. For her, it is, evidently, the cello. Surely, there’s nothing wrong with being a tad overzealous? She just really loves what she does.

That was a summary of year one, both as music students and bashful eye-fuckers. But also, eye-kissers. And eye-I-want-to-know-you-body-and-soul’s, too. That one was omnipresent. And evident.

Which led Viktor to be braver in year two, after an entire summer break spent in your absence. Being in Brno without you didn’t feel right anymore: playing Debussy on his own was now daunting, practically inconceivable. So was longing to challenge you, when the Music Theory professor would inevitably drift into irrelevance, to a discreet game of checkers. He missed classes, annual solemn concerts, exams, and performances. But, more importantly, he missed your drunken attempts at kisses and hushed secrets spilled alongside cheap cherry wine onto your favorite comforter. From I can’t stand baroque to I feel safe around you. He’d call you every night, rambling on about his July boredom, his side-kick at a local jazz-bar—anything and everything you were missing out on by spending the summer break in your hometown, and you hummed along, an excited, darling reciprocation—always so very happy to tell him about your days, nights, and reminiscences.

“I’m so glad you used to smother yourself in that mortuary-esque perfume.”

“Are you, now?”

“Yes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met the most fascinating person in that entire Academy.”

“Do I not possess other distinguishing features? Only that tart smell?”

“Of course you do! I was trying to be romantic—“

“You could start by giving me a proper compliment for a change.”

“I compliment you all the time.”

“Really? Jog my memory.”

“You’re the most talented cellist of our generation. Everybody is besotted with you, and I might just be the most lost cause of them all. Your dedication is precious.”

“Just my dedication?”

“…You’re also incorrigible, but I keep enduring it for your sharp wit and beauty.”

“See! There. Beauty. That’s what I’d like you to elaborate on.”

“I’m not talking dirty to you on my parents’ phone. Good night.”

In August, he cracked and asked you to come to Brno. His greed was biblical, endearingly so: he wanted to spend those last weeks of scorching boredom with you all to himself. So what if the dorms were closed for summer? You’d reside in his room. His parents didn’t deem that an inconvenience: if anything, they were thrilled to witness him finally fall for something that wasn't eight dozen piano keys. Money wouldn’t be an issue either: you’d do fun improv at his smokey jazz bar as a duo. Everything could be taken care of if only you pretty please came to indulge him.

He had to beg into the receiver for precisely five minutes. You had your answer by the time he’d uttered his first please, yet couldn’t resist a tease. Cruel? Perhaps, but did it really matter when you bid farewell to your family after putting the phone down, and fled to the train station like the lovesick fool you were, having packed just your cello and some clean clothes? In a few hours, you were throwing your arms around his neck in a deliberate, finally sober kiss, and your life outside him and Brno mattered no longer. You were a voluntary victim of young, all-consuming love, its onslaught nothing but wispy, drunkenly overbearing. And you liked being a goner. There’s nothing like falling casualty to obsession, both musical and romantic. You took the jazz bar job. His parents were happy to see you. Everything foretasted three weeks' worth of bliss, tiring rehearsals, timid walks, and first, loutish attempts at sex.

That last part used to be a tad tricky. Later that night, Viktor engrossed himself in big, gentle handfuls—a tad shaky at the fingertips, somewhat jumpy at mutual clenches of teeth, but the imagery was impeccable: you, in your naked glory at his disposal, stuffing his face full of breast, skin, and open legs. Feline-like grins growing loose around plush earlobes, aureoles, and thumbs. Moans—raspy, titillating and hushed (at times not so much, more so paired with the bed’s squeaking). Going steady, coming hard, gasping sweet. Concealing plum evidence with insufferable wool turtlenecks (a true summer torture) and cheap makeup much too warm-toned (eighties be damned).

“Would you look at that,” you’d pant afterwards, draped in sweat and bedsheets, all tangled legs and not-so-bashful flush. “You never frown upon debauching me at your parents’ house, but talking dirty on their phone is where you draw the line?”

He’d smile into his nuzzle against your neck, teeth just shy of a reproaching bite. “It’s a continuum. You, coming here—“

“Coming for you.”

“Precisely that, yes. You, coming here—coming for me, always weakens my restraint.”

“Was it ever there to begin with?”

Or, sometimes, he could be a vulnerable thing. His arms around you like a trembling headlock, his face a pained scowl hidden against the pillow. You’d tend to him, then. Prying his mouth open to push in a bitter painkiller, sitting nose-to-nose as he’d stumbled over a cramp. Listening to his copious sorries while wishing to hear none, rubbing his sore limbs, tracing his vertebrae, kissing his damp temples.

“This is torturous,” he’d hiss, leaning against you. “I’m sorry,” (you’d roll your eyes here, passing him a glass of water), “all this… must be such a mood-killer.”

“It’s not. You, apologising for it, is.”

“I’m sor— Eh.”

“Viktor—“ you’d cup his face, matching his frown. “Quit it. The only unfortunate thing about this is your pain. I’ve seen your episodes before. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Of course, but during… sex?”

“Oh please. I had an ex burst into villainous laughter when he came. Nothing can beat that one.”

“Mmm. Maniacal laughter, you say? Is that why you left?”

“That, and his penchant for being whipped with my bow. I got tired of having to buy new ones. Those things are expensive.”

“Really? Now that’s inapt. I was just about to suggest a similar endeavour.”

“Calm down, Casanova. Let’s deal with your flare-up first.”

After that, Viktor was insatiable. Not physically, but rather emotionally, as if fuelled by closure. He wasn’t giving up deciphering your soul. He merely intended to pay even more attention to the body to better prove his devotion.

Your return to the dorms in September didn’t dilute that debauchery. Sex became solipsistic. There existed no one but you two—perpetually tangled up, beautifully wretched. A tad voyeuristic at times. Between rehearsals, performances, and classes, he’d look for darling opportunities to confess his love in ways involving hands, tongues, and other appendages (although verbal confirmations and dates were omnipresent, too). The entirety of your second year as music students was spent on all kinds of surfaces. The stage, of course: talented students became concert musicians and started making money. And then, a more ambiguous list: beds, floors, desks, kitchenettes. A grand piano once. Wherever Viktor could manage. Wherever the audience receded. Although the risky grand piano incident remained a favorite.

He remembered taking you apart on the keyboard, the weight of your limbs hazy with thrill. His only witness was the piano lord himself: Beethoven’s strict eyes were staring down at you from the wall, his portrait a stern, judgmental thing.

You sprawled across the lid and stretched your arms out—let the hot, naked swivels spill out of your bralette, tense calf a hearty quiver over Viktor’s scrawny shoulder. He put his lips to your thigh and licked his way up, sleazy tongue inclining towards obscenity. You peeled your eyes and smiled at Beethoven, head cocked back in a filthy moan. The incipient jab was tickling at the back of your throat, then forced its way out with a chuckle.

“You scandalous little prick!” You chimed, grabbing Viktor by the nape. He pulled away, slick-mouthed and reluctant. “Pardon?”

You laughed—a full-blown, silly spurt. “You told me we’d be alone here. Look up.”

Viktor obliged. He tilted his chin—peevishly, with an eye roll. “Ah.” He grinned. “But he’s too high up to get a good view.”

“Yes, but we’re both rather vocal.”

“Respectfully, milackú, the man is deceased. Not to mention deaf. I don’t think he cares either way.”

Those were his dear interludes. They lingered, flimsily, throughout your entire long-cycle Master’s program, and became concrete as more years went by. You quit spending summer breaks at home. Viktor had had enough of lonesome hot months. He fancied that loop no more. After graduation, he found the Veveři apartment and offered to merge solitudes for the humble price of five hundred korunas split in half—the bed in his childhood room had become much too squeaky from four years of discreet debauchery. The only remaining question was one of marriage. Breathlessly, it was posed a year into your doctorates, amid a long Chopin rehearsal. Breezily, it was accepted right that instant.

After five years of overgrown puppy love, on the fifth of June, 1989, you were privately wed in the helpful presence of random witnesses—some big-eyed first-years plucked from the orchestra practice. A romance consummated. Happily ever after coming through.

Unless. An ever-inconvenient conjunction.

Viktor didn’t like peeping at your coarseness through the cracks in his rose-lensed glasses. Frankly, he didn’t want to admit there were any cracks to begin with. Even franklier—he’d hoped you’d be just as rouge to his naked eye.

But rejection is merciless. It flaunts one’s rage as it is—unabashed and belligerent; all smeared angry makeup and puffy lids sizzling with damp salt.

He’s seen your tears before. He’d kissed them off and let him pinprick his fingers; he’d held you through it like a man who mourns along—faithfully, as he should, with but a sparse sigh. You’ve shown him raw before. You’ve even shown him angry. You’ve shown him every madness in the book—but not quite like that. That one was truculent. Sibilant. It didn’t just add a crack to his lovesick glasses. It had shattered them right on his nose bridge and plunged tiny shards into hollow tissue. And, for the first time ever, you weren’t there to clean the wounds.

It happened three years into your doctorates. The dissertations weren’t due for another few months, but the household’s ambience had already shifted stonewall. Both of you spent your days elbows-deep in research: you—examining styles of the cello repertoire over the current century and rehearsing to teeth-grinding frenzy, Viktor—inventing efficient piano-teaching strategies for undergraduates. Except he genuinely enjoyed the research bit. The disheveled scholar-pianist looked and acted the part. And you? Well. You were slowly losing your mind.

Your supervisor despised the paper. Every single time you’d retrieve your submitted draft, an infinitude of evil, red-ink corrections were staring back at you like a torturous eye-sore. Chapter four had to be rewritten yet again. You bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time in a decade and bled academic word-vomit onto the typewriter. A bow-harakiri never seemed quite so seductive.

And Viktor? Barely any edits whatsoever. Just praise, and brown-nosing, and friendly brunches with his professors—like he’s already in on the joke. Like he’s already a peer.

At first, there was shrinking. Away from him, his touch, and his pale, fellowly eyes loving you across the room. An execration. Of kind smiles sent back as bitter sulks; of a cruel accretion of your side of the bed towards the very edge. A jealous pit permeating throughout. No, you didn’t want him to fail. You merely wanted to be seen the way he is. Yes, he is skillful. Yes, he is passionate. Indeed, his research is tremendous. But so is yours. Arguably, even more so. You had to suffer for it while he sat there, soaking in his knowledge so naturally. Surely, that counts for something?

Viktor was patient with you. And you detested it. You’d bury yourself in papers, trying not to think of his big, confused eyes in the bedroom—so lonely in their morning drowsiness every time they’d find your side of the sheets already cold and dentless. He’d get in and out of bed to the static of your typewriter in the kitchen. It didn’t bother him. He’d simply hoped you would complete your work in time. He craved your touch in confused silence, and brought you warm meals amid fervent writing sessions. He’d attend your every concert, and ask to assist you every time you rehearsed at home, abandoning his own dissertation to become your accompanist, even if only for a flimsy hour. It reminded him of your early JAMU days, of the summer jazz-bar job and the timid walks following suit. He’d throw sheepish glances from his stool, envying the cello for the sheer way your hand curls around the fingerboard. He never probbed. He assumed you might be much too on the rack to aid his predicament.

It was the day of your final appointment with a supervisor. With a croak, he emerged from the piano as his wristwatch ticked a quarter to five; his world a black-white smear of keys, letters, and iron-deficient whatnots from sedentary days of editing his paper and learning a capricious Chopin piece. And yet, he limped to the kitchen, popping a quick supplement into his mouth—his tread a timid struggle of clumsy feet tangled in his pajama pants.

Your keys jingled in the lock precisely when he’d poured the milk into your tea—a wobbly, light meniscus, just the way you like it. It drew a smile, one praising his adept timing. It didn’t linger. Your footsteps shook the liquid, startling him half-turned over his shoulder.

Shambles. That’s what he gasped at. Of coal-like tears rolling into open mouth as you choked on a sniff and wiped wet, greyish hands to a paisley shirt. The briefcase wept yellow papers onto the parquet. Viktor dropped the stolen silver spoon into a cup.

“Milovaná—“

“She hates it!”

He felt an eardrum contract—the nasty ricochet of your scream had bounced off the wall straight into his head. Then came a jumpy sequence: groping the air for his cane, finding the loop of your elbow, dragging you down into the squeaky chair over a wreck of hoarse sobbing. “What do you—“

“She hated it. All of it. She’s never had so many issues with my fucking dissertation before—“ You mumbled through a napkin stuffed against your nose, folding it in your hand like a crumpling onslaught. Viktor pried a fresh one into your grip and watched it face the same fate, rubbing his nape to redness in a nervous lean forward.

“Please, slow down. How do you mean, hated? Wasn’t she notorious for her grievances as is?”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me I can’t do a fucking thing right!”

Viktor sulked. His fingers slipped off your wrist and retreated to his lap, twitching into a meek fist.

“Please, don’t insult me. I’m not your supervisor. Just tell me what happened.”

“Basically, my work holds no value—it’s not innovative, painfully dull, and devoid of relevance. It reads more like an essay on a niche favorite subject. She doesn’t get what on earth I want my PhD for.”

“The audacity of that woman!”

“Oh, there’s more!” You scoffed. “She said that I’m a hopeless scholar. If I’m that interested in cello repertoire, I should just stick to being a concert cellist—apparently, there’s nothing else to me.”

“Sakra, we should report her. That’s unacceptable. I’ve proofread your dissertation many times—it’s brilliant. Beautifully put together—“

“You’re my husband, Viktor. Of course you would say that.”

“I’m not biased in the slightest. Don’t you think I’d tell you if it were unsatisfactory?”

“I don’t know, would you? Wouldn’t it feel great, being the first, and, possibly, only one of the two of us to get a doctorate?”

At that, he recoiled. The next napkin didn’t make it to your hand. It stayed in his fist, disintegrating into curly flakes, and there he sat—frowning, in disbelief, hollow cheeks sucked in as if scathed with horror. The silence thickened. A passing tram screeched somewhere nearby.

“What are these accusations.” He found his voice, strained in the statement-ish travesty of a question. Like his tremor got his vocal cords, too, and he had to relearn using them all of a sudden.

Unfortunately, you were well-versed with yours. Perhaps, even a tad too much.

“Oh, please.” So sybillic. So nefarious. You threw the tear-soaked napkin into the bin and dropped your weary head into your palms, taking a stance so sorrowful that Viktor gulped in quizzical impatience. “You’re a brilliant musician.”

“So are you.”

“Perhaps, but your dissertation is flawless. Flaw-less, Viktor. And you haven’t even lost your mind over it.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Since when is one required to go mad over a doctorate?”

“Since forever. But not you. You’re a natural.”

Another tram screamed on the rails—plangent, like an alarm. The draft plunged through the window, billowing Viktor’s hair into angry stakes. You still sat Socrates-like, weeping into your fist.

“Are you implying that I’m not working hard enough?” He whispered, dry-throated, and hoped that you didn’t mean it with all his might.

“Of course not! I’m not implying that. I’m just saying— Oh, fuck!” You groaned, peering at him through spread fingers. “You’re a great concert pianist. You have that contract in Europe. You’ll be playing Schubert in the fucking London Conservatory later this year. And, on top of that, you’re a great researcher who’s definitely becoming a Doctor anytime soon. And I’m happy for you—because of course I am—but it’s not easy. Working yourself to sleep deprivation, nervous tics, and utter exhaustion while your husband just gets to enjoy the process!”

“Are you… jealous of me? Is that it?”

“No! I’m happy for you!”

“Are you trying to fool me or yourself?”

“Viktor, I just want some recognition. I deserve a doctorate, too.”

“And you will get it. Your supervisor does not represent the committee’s opinion. As for recognition—“ He cleared his throat—you could tell it was getting harder for him to breathe. His speech was getting opaque—a sign of utter helplessness. “You already have it. Even an ignoramus who can’t tell a cello from a double bass knows your name. Your private lessons are any first-year’s wet dream. You are going to Europe next year. You are well-known, you make good money, you are talented. Where is all this coming from?”

You hitched a breath and plowed a gnawed-off nail over your cuticle, watching the scab unravel into a glistening bloody stripe. “I just want to be good enough. Is that too much to ask?”

Viktor averted to the ajar window. The city finally stopped screaming.

“No,” he whispered, as if addressing the sky, “you want to be a natural.”

“Oh, I didn't mean it like that! Am I to be reminded of that heat-of-the-moment thing forever?”

“Yes!” He snapped, and so did his neck-joint, pivoting in a stare so dagger-like that your knees buckled in. “My wife just admitted to a plethora of concerning circumstances, how do you think that makes me feel? I thought I knew you, milackú. And this suggests anything but!”

You lurched for him, but your sleeve got caught in the crack on the lacquered table, pulling you backward and tearing the cuff in half. By the time you’d spewed another profanity and sprang up, the thumps of his cane had already merged with a door-slam. The flea-market spoon loudly clanked against the rim, and a splash of milky tea spilled all over the countertop. You drank it anyway. It tasted of lukewarm tears.

Later, there would be apologies. Heartfelt, whiny things pressed to pulsing temples alongside bashful kisses—a convalescence building up on word and touch. Semantics were powerless on their own. The matter demanded physical backup. Unfilthy, sincere, adroit. The tagline of every good redemption. And more tea, of course. This time, without salt.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered into his hair, tickling a quivery breath into his scalp. “What was I even thinking?” He curled into you like a missing piece, tucking himself somewhere between chin and sternum, and the blow was returned lower—sheepishly, to your neck, in a tender kiss implying repentance. His sweater shuffled along.

“You need help, milackú,” he croaked. “Promise me you’ll get help.”

“I promise,” you swore—the first one of many lies. So many firsts to consider. He might’ve believed those back then, but both of you will lose count soon enough.

Because Viktor had finally solved you. Your rehearsals at four in the morning. All the choking on bitter tears every time you mildly mess up an audition. Your scary fixation on precision. The intentional sleep deprivation to ‘catch up’—such an obvious self-torment! All these years built on a lie he’d spoon-feed himself oh so eagerly. All along, it wasn’t dedication. It was an obsession. An entirely different beast.

In a few months, the committee ended up loving your research on the cello repertoire of the 20th century. The obnoxious supervisor has never been so wrong. You got your doctorate.

But Viktor already knew that it wasn’t a matter of another academic milestone. In fact, it could only get worse. You needed help. Not a PhD. And you were only ever keen on seizing the latter.

After a year of empty promises, Viktor stopped believing them. There was a minor improvement around the time you first found out about your narcolepsy. He’d refrained from ‘told-you-so’s. He was just happy you were finally getting it all checked out—who knows what else might slumber in that exhausted body of yours, so mercilessly stained with years of negligence in favor of becoming a new du Pré? You got a few prescriptions from a sleep specialist. You even found a therapist, but that one didn’t stick around. Counseling demands consistency. But so do concerts. It wasn’t hard to guess which one you’d pick.

Another year went by. Then another. A loop of accepting and ditching help had uroborosed into insanity, developing new cross-currents. A hobbling marriage was but a pebble. That Viktor could get by. What turmoiled him the most was not the expulsion from your passions. You can’t negotiate with an obsessed artist.

He became tired. Of ‘Love, it’s three in the morning. Go to bed.’ Of ‘Have you taken your pills today? Should I set you an alarm?’ Of ‘Please, spend an evening with me. You haven’t been outside in days.’ Of saving someone who, to his utmost horror, didn’t want to be saved.

Viktor had endured enough. One can only handle so many years of being but an unseen husband. His patience was wearing thin.

His separation request was calm. He didn’t raise his voice once—merely packed a suitcase and promised to be back sometime in a month. He was about to go to Europe anyway. Having one more week to himself wouldn’t make a difference.

You didn’t beg or cry. That bit was reserved for after he’s out the door. There was no point trying to dissuade him. The ‘you had it coming’ mindset had already clouded your thoughts.

You sat on the bed, gently rocking back and forth, and stared at him as he struggled to tie his tie with trembling fingers. You’ve never seen him shake like that—fervent, unpianist-like. It made you bite your lip in that nasty, blood-drawing way, so much canine that you almost split it in half.

“May I help you?” you offered, a resigned half-whisper. Strangely enough, the tremor hasn't gotten your hands yet. Viktor accepted.

You knelt and picked up what he had started—wrapped the top part around the bottom one and pulled it through, working the loop tighter. He hunched in his piano stool, looking down at you with dry, bloodshot eyes. He didn’t sleep last night. He hoped you wouldn’t notice.

When you finished and returned the stare, his dry eyes became glassy. For a second, he felt like he had his darling back—courteous, tender, with a kind, pallid smile. Here you are, looking up at him just like you used to twelve years ago in Music Theory. Livelier, less obsessed, not as hollow. And here you go again—slipping through his stretched out fingers and becoming your disparate, new self. But he still reached out to touch you and mourned the warmth of your skin, shaky hand struggling to cup a twitching cheek. You leaned into it, sneaking a cowardly kiss to his wrist. The confabulation ended when you dared to blink, trading your first-year eyes for weary twelve-year ones.

“Promise you’ll come back to me,” you mouthed into his palm. “Please.”

And Viktor’s hand tumbled away, reaching for his cane instead.

“Promise you’ll come back to me, too.”

—

1. The Velvet Divorce — The split of Czechoslovakia in 1992, 31 of December.

2. JAMU — The Janáček Academy of Performing Arts

3. Hamé — a Czech jam brand

4. Jacqueline du Pré — a famous English cellist

—

> chapter 4

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x reader fluff #viktor x reader angst #playing with this bow (and arrow)#viktor fanfic #arcane fanfic

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deepfivetraveller · 7 months ago

Text

King Baldwin iv x Time!Traveller!reader

chapter 3

chapter 2 | chapter 4

As the carriage comes to a stop the guards of the castle help you come out, to which you were ost thankful for. This castle was a mere building for military defense so it didn't feel as luxurious as a palace. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful.

The odd thing was no one in the castle treated you like a criminal. Every guard and maid on the way bowed to you in respect, confusing you to the core. “Uhm sir.” You call for the guard escorting you. “Why is everyone…doing that?” another maid walking across bows towards you. “Well madame you cured many of their relatives that’s why.” He comes to a stop.

“Your (h/c) hair, (e/c) eyes and (s/c) skin are distinguishing characteristics making you easily recognisable.” You gulp at his intense gaze. “And among the thankful people, I am one of them” He bows “Thank you for saving my niece.”

“O-Oh your welcome no need to mention it” an awkward aura surrounds the both. Well at least you have the support of the common folk. But this confirms that the nobles do not plan on doing the same. They always tend to walk on a league of their own.

The guard walked you through a verandah-like open area. The ivory walls were decorated with patterns of red triangle and blue squares, leaving your mouth agape the entire time, which clearly annoyed screen

‘How are you admiring walls when you’re clearly about to die!? You didn’t even panic during the carriage ride!’ Screen’s brightness fluctuated rapidly showing it’s anger. The guard moves slightly away. “A calm mind is essential to win a battle.” You cockily reply. “Besides the adrenaline is kinda keeping me in line. The common folk believe in me anyways!” It rolls it’s kaomoji eyes at your reply.

Truth to be told you did panic. During the carriage ride you squeezed your hand so hard, your nails pierced through the skin causing slight amounts of blood to be released. The wound dried up fine but the pain was still there.

“We’re here” He says. Two other guards are stationed near a door and they instantly bow at your arrival. “This is his majesty’s bed chamber. When you enter you ought to curtsy in front of him…I don’t know why your presence is required but nevertheless, best of luck.” The other two men nod at you in reassurance. You only have the time to take a deep breath until they open the door, so you did, hoping the oxygen would wake you up.

The two dragged open the heavy doors. The sunlight from the window momentarily blinded you, but the men wasted no time in gently dragging you forward. Around the bed three men were seated. You move a little forward and the guard announces your presence. “Your Majesty, I've brought madame Y/n.”

Your eyes immediately lock with the leaper king. His blue eyes are glow even if his eyelids were gnawed and decomposed like. Something about those eyes made you snap back into reality. As instructed you do a quick but deep curtsy. “Your majesty.”

King baldwin wasted no time and nods, signaling you to relax. He acted on instinct and didn’t even know the reason for why he nodded before seeing you again. The leper tried to hide the awkwardness by adjusting his silver mask, looking at the man who is not standing. He clears his throat “His majesty is very pleased with your efforts on curing the sick. He wishes to reward you.”

Wait what

The man claps and a servant comes in holding a tray with jewels, threatening to fall off due to the huge amount. You stare at the shine of them and hesitantly take the tray. “T-Thank you your majesty.” He nods again, still not looking at you.

Hands shake from the frenzy of the situation. Your breathing rate has significant changed from the calm demeanour of before. ‘Aren't they supposed to like, kill you?’ You think.

“You seem perplexed.” The one standing points out. “Why? Speak you mind” The other man reassures.

“I just thought…The crusaders……..” You clutched your skirt tightly, looking down in embarrassment.

The crusaders said nothing about you being a witch, it was you who assumed everything. When the king heard the you mentioning his men, he turned around immediately. “What did they do?”

“If i'm correct, there was a rumour circulating that your majesty would hang her for being a witch”

“Heavens no!” His pupils retract back in shock. “Why would i convict you of that, you saved the my people.” The blue eyes still linger on you and if you had looked up, you could see he was almost pouting.

“Apparently the crusaders weren’t the most kind to her either.” He replies again. The king is now definitely gobsmacked. “I am so sorry for that, it’s not their fault they’re trained for war so they don’t seem hospitable at a first glance.” While he rushes with the apology, you say "Okay" right away.

“We have called you here for another reason as well.” Baldwin looks at the man standing to explain further. The state of the room changes drastically. “You have cured a mass amount of people in the span of two months. This was something the kingdom has been trying to do for years.”

‘Years?? Seriously all I did was feed them oranges’

“And since you were able to do that… we figured you might be able to cure the king.”

‘Damm plot twist!’ Screen ate virtual popcorn as it saw the drama unfold.

You gaze shifted to the king, who refused to look up at anyone, gazing straightforward at the blanket he is covered in.

“Gentlemen… I’m not—”

“The pay is quite handsome”

“And we’ll grant you the status of a noble”

Okay, that was not—

The screen immediately duplicated itself, showcasing a quest.

‘Cure the Leper king (Main quest)’ The three men stare at you while the screen leaves you no choice, showing the options ‘|Yes| or |Yes|’

“Hah…Fine I’ll do it” You roll your eyes, annoyed at the circumstance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sorry for the late update! I had to rewrite the whole chapter since i didn't like the narrative it was going in. Also please make me aware of any typo, i just got a new keyboard and i didn't spellcheck anything 😚

#kingdom of heaven #the leper king #king baldwin x reader #the leaper king #king baldwin iv #king baldwin x you #baldwin iv x oc #baldwin iv x reader #baldwin of jerusalem #baldwin x reader

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satocidal · 1 month ago

Text

.˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆DIRTY GODS, DIRTIER PRAYERS||season 1

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳* ࣭ ✤𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 - Devotion

... a God , yours, and you? a Devotee, simple as it could seem, it wasn't for all. Day in and day out you worship him, your god, your religion, your temptation and your desire - until one day, he finally decides to bless (curse) you

- word count: 9.1k

- contains: Gn! Priest! reader x God! Gojo Satoru; religious themes; non-established relationship; morally grey(?) characters; reader washes Gojo's foot; Societal hierarchy; set in sort of medieval age? but i took no attempts at using old speech because...yes

Devotion: (noun)

great love for somebody/something

the act of giving a lot of your time, energy, etc. to somebody/something

It was winter, it was red - your eyes spilled their own blood - bells chimed in the back - you’d assumed that, that was what love ought to be..

The blood trickled slow, the snow - a painted canvas –

His footsteps lay buried, deep, dirty, horrendous - following those lay the trail you’d marked, dragged along, your innocence - a casket shrouding your love.

It was winter, white, whiter than it was supposed to be.

“How do you recognise me?” his voice was a low rumble, gentle - in the way that he need not show violence, it laced the essence of his very being.

You stared at him, mouth agape - what you’d assumed to be a mere animal in the middle of night, trampling about the temple- you’d only gotten up to shoo the creature away - only to find him.

He stood there- ghostly, ethereal, inhumane.

Satoru Gojo.

Satoru Gojo, a God among men.

The world tipped at his breath, the world lay in a disarray at a flicker of his gaze - he was something divine, no he was divine.

He was a God, your God.

Day in and day out you worked, his shrine lay polished - a sheen of sweat coated you, a dismal reflection shone in the gold, yours - his temple gates were regularly thumped at by the many other devotees - you found yourself pushed to the back often, you made sure to always present the freshest fruits - a connoisseur you’d been told that he was, a likelihood to the various kinds of fruits your country beared each season - and offerings to his shrine when maintaining and looking after it - you almost always went to sleep the night hungry.

But your sufferings were alright - he was cared for, he was all that mattered.

He was all there was to you, he was more than you and all of you.

And in the flicker of a second, all you could wonder was - ‘how does one shoo this…? Not an animal, not just another creature - A God, My God…’

“You’re…” you paused unsure - you were assured that the other temple priests were right - your ‘devotion’ had gotten to you, you had begun hallucinating, you were going to end up as one of those stories or myths that people would pass down the years, about the priest that loved their God too much.

But it couldn’t be…right?

“You’re Satoru Gojo,” almost a rushed whisper - it felt peculiar just to pronounce his name, years spent revering him as your Lord, Your Savior - “I was born knowing you,”

Born for him - offspring of the head priest, it was all for him.

In the womb you were fed his tales, crawling beside yourself was the impending responsibility that would thrust itself upon you, your first friend was him, a dire escape for all the secrets, for every thought and likewise - you pushed yourself on him as much as he was pushed on you.

He stared back, a silent moment marked as his eyes bore into yours, cerulean eyes - sharp, they could see everything, you had nothing to hide from your grace anyways.

And then, a small smile broke loose - you continued staring, it felt surreal, it was.

Naked he stood, a glow blanketed his form, he walked - free, familiarised, he didn’t speak for the longest while, and you could only stare. You watched as he moved, a little stiff - as if not accustomed to the gangly pair of limbs this form had, his eyes made sharp turns - not resting, never once.

The dark didn’t seem to bother - almost as if he saw deeper than what lay at the surface - and yet, his gaze never once fell on you after that smile, unseen.

“You live-” he began -

“are all-” you did too.

Words cut off - his interrupting you, yours his - you bit the inside of your cheeks - his face only ever relaxed - “My…Lord, pardon - i…sorry, i mean -” and then a fumble of your words, in an attempt to break the silence, only making it worse.

He chuckled, “Nervous? It is alright, speak your mind, I suppose,” it did not feel calming - his assurance, not his presence - nor his words, no warmth seeped when he spoke - no brightening of the situation at his convention, it felt the usual - disappointing.

“No, my lord…i just…i wanted to ask…” his presence urged you, your face burnt and yet a little voice sounded in your head - he is Satoru Gojo, he who knows you best, secrecy was never something you passed between the two of you - no secrecy, no shame, no boundaries - then why now?

“Are…uh…I wanted to ask if those stories…” eyes panned to his shrine - the wood carved to bear the tales, intricate carvings that you’d memorised, then the cold, hard gold, works that spoke of his presence - high and all so mighty, “are they true?”

It felt childish to question - of course they were- a childhood spent fighting on these accords, bantering all your friends, puffed cheeks and bitten insults at each one of them as you stood your ground to prove that Satoru Gojo had performed every incident that was depicted- -his scoff paused the train of your thoughts, “Some, most, but not all - your priests lie a lot, especially the head one, eh?”

Lies, his revealed - a world that was yours cracked.

Your hands felt clammy, you wouldn’t understand why - something inside you screeched to question him, you couldn’t bring yourself to.

Your priests - the head one, your father - called a liar all so blatant and yet, you were sure that was not the reason for your recoil. Somehow your father being a liar - the conjuror of tales was way more apt a truth to digest than the possibility of Your God’s faltering charm.

“They…aren’t?” a silent question raised - he chuckled to himself - you weren’t sure why so, “which ones?”

A beat passed - his eyes settled upon the same carvings as those you’d grown up staring, memorising, “that…” a slow swivel of your head - to the one in the far corner of the room, all so dark now, pitch black beyond the glow of the candles on his shrine - you’d be at a loss of words if you didn’t know any better.

“The one where you’re fighting the sea monster?” your voice was so low - laced with your own anxiety, anxious of what?

A single nod, “that is true - but not nearly as perplexing as your lot glorifies it to be…” a scoff next, “teaching it in your schools? Folk tales…? That is what they are called now? and whatnot…”

You were not sure but it almost seemed like he wasn’t a fan of your kind and their affection or afflictions.

You could only nod as he pointed to one behind the shrine - The Battle - clear depiction - Satoru Gojo leading a battalion, a favourite, your heart clenched at the thought of it not being true - “That is true as well…” a sigh of relief - he passed a smirk, “but all those other ones are a nuisance, why would your supreme God care about seasonal fruits,” almost sassy, “but your lot isn’t the only one to be wrong so…”

A shrug - simple a conversation, unaware of the basket of fruits that would now rot away in your wake, or maybe, aware but uncaring.

But that was okay - right? Still the mighty God he was, regardless of what he preferred to eat, never a big deal - you were there, you’d take care of everything.

“You live here?” he asked suddenly, almost as if assessing his own shrine - almost in vain, as if disgusted -

“no, the…dorms, mine is the closest one so I…,” words trailed off, you gulped, somehow standing where you stood daily, standing in the same place you’d spent countless hours in felt foreign, like what was yours, after all, wasn’t.

“You are…?” his voice - now carefree, you gulped, “y/n,” his head finally snapped towards you again - the grin, the same as the first returned, “You’re y/n?”

A simple nod, he walked closer - at arm’s distance.

You were sure he was radiating - a hand brushed your cheek, your eyes widened, you stood limp as he pulled you closer, you weren't sure which it was - him pulling you, you moving on your own or a complicated mix - but there it was, your body in his embrace, his body felt warm, pure

- yours?

Disgusting - to yourself, to him? Maybe.

“Servitude suits you.” he chuckled - as he let go, that embrace lay as a finality of his gratitude, perhaps never to be mentioned again - sickening.

All your life’s worth of work - absolved by one embrace, by a fleeting moment of contact - and worst of all, you craved it, your body yearned for it - you found yourself with the belief that you were meant for this.

One step forward - three back, you paced the outside of his prayer room.

Three days that Gojo Satoru had presented himself, three days of something one could consider their hell - you? Not so much.

Work had simply doubled, if not tripled - but you were finally seen - fully seen.

The mutters that surrounded, the looks, simply for your adherence to him - no more, people who’d questioned you, no more - for what lay of your insanity was now a sheer truth.

“Can we go in?” a flock you lay surrounded by, your eyes grazing the intricacies on the huge door in front of you - years you’d spent gazing upon it, and yet, in this moment - nothing seemed more worthwhile.

“Not yet,” your voice sounded out - these days, the past two, it felt so foreign.

A hefty crowd this was, angry, impatient - they wanted to see their God.

Pity lay in the fact that Gods were that which the people made of them, and the devotees were that which their God made of them.

“You've been saying that since yesterday!” a shout came - “we want him!” came another.

“he's not yours!” came a third, and then a twitch of your eye.

A swift turn to face the crowd, loud faces - towering, intimidating - you cleared your throat.

“If you have any conflicts of interest, you may leave - My Lord does not appreciate superficial devotion or questioning, blabbering fools.” definitive words, he’d told you to be so - told you that you were above them, and thus of course, you were.

Your Lord had placed you so.

“He is resting,” a smooth lie - “I must check upon him first, check with him and let him know of your wish to meet him - thereupon…” you were met by just a murmur - now, a cheerful one, slightly quieter, some patted your back, some nimble fingers - shaky as they touched you - content in just your company, company of their God’s care-taker.

Care-taker, that’s what your title had been reduced to - you didn’t mind, servitude did suit you.

“They wish to see you,” your voice was thick - eyes not meeting his, always stuck to somewhere near his feet - head bowed, you weren’t used to this. The Satoru Gojo you had first been introduced to was welcoming, he would talk - albeit you were a child, he - just an entity, but he was your pillar to fall back on.

This creature in front of you was different - not nearly as calm as he’d been described, not nearly as pensive, he seemed humane and in the worst of its possibilities.

You couldn’t care of all that yet - he was yours to serve, he must be correct after all.

“And what lie did you say today?” His voice always carried an amused undertone to it - as if you were a form of highest entertainment.

“you’re resting,” your reply fell short - resting, if one could call it that.

The shrine you used to mop and clean - spent hours on your knees daily to see the shine was a disarray - insatiable hunger, the God was tough to please.

He didn’t eat - beyond that, he’d mused himself to be - he lay sprawled about, naked as ever, he’d shown himself once to the crowd after his first appearance - the next morning.

Eyes had been hazy that morning, as if a new experience to see the world as so - and it must’ve been, right? His creations, in front of him, no longer the countless stack of lives he used to measure out - no.

These were breathing people, those who worshipped him, you’d trailed beside him as he’d walked - just a silk robe on - one that some rich merchant had offered to him years ago - he’d asked for that specifically, first of the many demands to come.

And then a scoff the moment people bowed to him - one speech, one mention of his love for them, one bloom of a flower - the people remained bowing as always, bowing as they loved to.

And just there, Satoru Gojo presented his first boon, the first unknowing curse.

Your surprise met his withdrawal - he didn’t shove you off, he turned, “and this is y/n,” he announced - louder than his own proclamation, “my most devoted, most faithful - my care-taker.”

You’d cringed at how final his words had been - not at the sudden swarm that you had to fight to keep up with him, nor at the admiration that held you steadfast since that morning.

Since then, it was simple for Satoru Gojo - he lay inside, often, doing nothing (as right now), and you went outside - communicating to the masses, the will of your God, the will of their God.

“You would have to meet them soon,” you mused, inching closer - repulsed to the idea as he was, the touch of humans - he didn’t seem to mind you.

“I think I will decide what I ought to do, hm?” His words held that tone always, always teasing, always playful - and you’d assumed always that it would be sweet, when you thought of him - but now, you weren’t all so sure.

But what did you know, right?

Another nod, often, that was all you did - nod and listen, you listened to just his silence, it was peculiar - he spoke so much and yet very little registered within you, very little made sense.

But you made sure it was heard, remembered, etched in your heart - you inched closer still, his feet beside you, your eyes mapped out the expanse, your fingers itched to touch - your mind itched to hold.

“My lord,” a hum, “what should i tell them?”

“Is it necessary we answer them?”

A hand came down, gentle, his rested on your head - you gulped, overwhelmed, surreal, surreal, surreal - nothing too much for him, another disciple - so you thought.

Satoru knew better - he would cut that hand that touched anything so low as human flesh - to be made of human flesh was humiliation, to be worshiped by humans was humiliation - to be humane was humiliating.

He wouldn’t say that near you.

Not in front of his best disciple, not to break his favourite’s, not to break his best friend’s heart.

Calloused fingers, calloused a hand - as if every fibre of what was his human form screamed of his truth - screamed of his patronage, violence that adulterated his purity - violence that made him closer to you.

Violence that acted as the link between God and the Devotee.

Satoru Gojo touched you.

Your God did.

“Up to you discretion my lord,” a mumbled you passed, his hand stroked your hair, it felt heavy, suddenly so did your eyes.

“My discretion…” a pause, then a smile - oh how he loved that power, “I think we should…but after you have cleaned me.”

Hesitant a breath you inhaled, cleaned him.

“I do think you’re very perfect already my-”

“That, perfect, yes of course,” an eye-roll from him, you stared, “but I want you to clean me - nothing new, right? You like it,” not a demand, just a statement, reminder of your duties as his carer.

A why twisted on your lips - you dared not ask, he cared not to explain.

“Like…?” almost a huff - “it was a duty,” you chided, he scoffed, “and it isn’t now?”

The hand stopped its stroking - “your shrine, my lord,” you weren’t sure where this courage came from - two days ago you couldn’t manage to form sentences to him - “it used to get dirty, dust would…sometimes your worshippers-” he made it so, he made you talk that way, he allowed it.

“But you cleaned all of that - where is that enthusiasm now?”

A clenched jaw - yours, a pushed demeanour, his.

Childlike and ignorant, one would describe him, but these words dared not seep into your head now, how could they? Not for a while.

And as it were, he wasn’t wrong after all, you did clean his shrine, madly so, even a smudge wouldn’t go unnoticed - however, the prospects of having your God, your Companion just as a thought while you look after him is somehow ever so more endearing and comforting than an actual humanoid.

“You will, won’t you?” masked plea - you were his creation, his mercy, he knew what would lure and everything that wouldn’t - and this? Lightened hues of his eye, a softer tone of his breath, the carousel of your will simply lay for him to tug and play with.

Thus, a nod was all you offered - then a deliberate exhale, Devotion was tiring.

“y/n,” a drawl - you didn’t bother whipping your head to see who it’d be - another one of your friends, it didn’t matter, not when you were caring for him - “what,” just as bored a drawl, yours.

“When will you leave that wretched shrine - it’s done, it is clean, come now, we have other duties -”

Shut it.

Jaw clenched, you stared into the gold that molded Your God’s essence.

They just never understood any of it.

Never.

“You go ahead, I’ll join in when i’m done here,” just short of a snap - your voice lay taut, hand working furiously - sometimes you wondered if this really was excessive - no.

However could it be excessive when they had touched him- the common folks, with their half-assed devotion and hasty prayers, grubby fingers pressing on his shrine, like these silly attempts would get anywhere as close as you were to Him.

Like these desperate moments of their selfishness, those cries would have him listen to them as he did you.

Like he’d become theirs as you’d had him - like they’d ever have the right over him as you did - like they’d ever come anything close to having the right you had over him since birth.

Of course, excessive it wasn’t - instead the bare minimum of a need for you to clean his shrine, to keep it as divine as it was meant to be - even if it devoured moments of your life, because that - seconds chipped from your life - were of negligible importance.

Not when it comes to your God.

The Gold at the bottom seemed to reach out, you bothered not to stare too deep, Gojo’s presence just seemed familiar, home-like.

“The water is ready,” you called, back turned to him, the farthest corner of the room you sat in, the entire hour spent in preparing the ‘wash’, a thorough negotiation and here you were, with just his foot to cleanse.

It didn’t make sense now, why did you fight hard to not touch him? Those you denied entry to his shrine would kill for this, you would kill for this.

It’d dirty him - he didn’t think so - he pretends - he has nothing to hide.

The entire hour spent with the same back and forth, settling down on deeming it a lapse of judgement, you shrunk in your seat.

All this while, he sat beside his own shrine, talking, mumbling, exaggerated sounds - laughing to himself, it wasn’t the first time he did it either. The first night itself, he’d begun his ministrations - you didn’t question him, you had no right to.

But your face did hold a fond smile with every word he uttered, sometimes laughing while reminiscing his own stories that his eyes caught in the carvings across the walls - often muttering about how small the room was (which could only accommodate 200 or so people) - or if nothing else seemed worthwhile, he’d start telling you the stories, the same ones you’d read and learnt and adored.

“Should I bring it over?” you continued and then shut your eyes in absolute shame, of course, you would take it over, whyever would he be the one to -

- “It must be heavy,” he called back, a small sigh heard as he lifted his form, marching over to you.

Your form moved quick, a sudden shake of your head, lips pressed between your teeth - this felt wrong, him wanting to help seemed wrong, not presenting to him your psyche, essence and the entirety of your devotion felt wrong.

“No my lord, you should sit - you should rest, I'll bring it, I deal with it all the time,” a glimmer still, Satoru Gojo noted - beseeching his validation, an undertone of pride, a point to prove.

“Deal with large gold vessels which are filled with water?” an impish grin - but he settled back regardless, amused, all the time.

“Go on then,” he chuckled, your eyes met his - cloudy they’d seemed the first night- it had rained that night too, today was bright - and his eyes, “don’t need your God’s help, do you?”

A game, this was a game - you were a game.

Regardless, it felt nice to be just that to him, anything was fine.

A slow exhale, fingers grasped onto the vessel, nothing new, maybe heavier but nothing unique- except, it was.

Not a budge, the vessel remained just as that, gold and glittery and stationary - neither a speck of dust grovelled under the force you pulled with, nor the water created a single wave.

A huff, and then plenty more - yours, a smile and then a full grin - his.

“You’re taking too long,” even in his ‘rebuke’, a hint of mischief played, as if he had something to do with your failure - “I’m afraid this isn’t how you please a God,”

A lick of your lips, a stranded sigh - “It is fine I can…”

Words cut off quick, he moved fast, swift - and in no time, beside you he stood, “see? That is the issue with you little humans, using your little human head,” a scoff, a softness perked at his lips - “so proud of being the smart species?” proud of his own creation, “but you just never know, do you?”

What took the entirety of your breath to not even cause a dent in was lifted so simply, so easily, as if it weighed nothing - “never understand when to give in, never know how to accept my help,” you walked beside him - it felt overwhelming, his presence, his stride, his movement.

You couldn’t see it but the eye roll was all too evident in his tone, the disdain, the disappointment.

His left hand carried the vessel - the right slowly moved to rest at the small of your back.

Eyes wide, a sharp inhale and an instant shoot of panic in your chest - nothing went unnoticed by him, a snicker he passed, “If you keep acting this way, your kins will assume i’ve taken you as a concubine and not my carer,”

And now the ears felt hot, too hot, face felt warm - and a desire for the earth to swallow you paced your head.

Fortunate for you though, the front of the hall had been reached, and so had his demeanour.

“However you must know dear,” the vessel placed carefully, two steps below where he would sit - where your place was, “that you hold a special place, you’re better,” same words, same tone as the day before and the night, “you’re special to me, you’re my special one, my favourite thing.”

Favourite thing.

Favourite.

Slow, he sat down - eyes beckoning you to follow the same, he smiled, “How’d you prefer - a cloth or…?” but even before you could answer, his feet were already placed in the water - eyes closed with an almost calm, blissed expression, you felt your own nerves calm down.

Maybe for he was at ease - maybe for he was at ease because of something you’d done, something you’d prepared for him.

After that, you didn’t bother speaking - neither did he, the ordeal was as it had to be, your fingers dipped into the water, tentative was your hold, a hesitant rub across his feet - the first time you touched him, his hand came down again - to rest on your head as always, as if just a muscle memory for him.

No.

Neither was that body accustomed to him - nor his touch to humans - this was deliberate.

You swallowed thickly, your own eyes closing momentarily - nothing seemed to make sense, the air felt heavy, the marble felt comforting, inviting, not the blistering hot as the usual afternoon sun turned it into - stillness blanketed you, a celestial anticipation wavered - and your mind, clogged.

You were acutely aware of Gojo’s gaze on you, waiting, patient - and now, you fully encapsulated him.

Without all the distance that separated you, without the infinity that seemed to separate you and your God, no - now, you were closer, you were with him he was within you.

His face seemed to shine, the soft golden light befalling his form gracefully, as if blessed just as you were to touch him - envious, you’d feel later, drinking into the thought of how easy it was for the Sun, the air, the nature to touch him.

“Come now,” a rich voice, teasing, almost a purr, “Don’t keep me waiting - you’ve come such a long way, haven’t you?” His eyes remained half lidded, an expression that lay both indulgent and amused, playful a gaze and a knowing smile - all too aware of your nervousness - basking in it, reveling in it.

His presence itself was suffocating, magnificent - your devotion? Just the very same.

Frozen you sat beside his feet, beside the vessel; the water inside - liquid light, if such a thing did exist - swayed slow, hypnotic, alarming.

A moment you’d dreamt of was here - hours spent scrubbing thinking of this - hours spent cursing those around you for not believing this could be true - only for you to choke on your own blood and spit in attempts to hold contact with your God.

A flinch was all your body could offer - a sudden dare next, to stare into his eyes, mischief met you and then, gruesome comfort - “Do you not want the honour of touching me?” an undertone his words held, something you didn’t quite catch, “your lot typically yearns for this… don’t you?” almost quizzical, still soft, edged but soft - “something worries you?”

Honest questions - you see Satoru Gojo understood many things, after all, he was the creator - the preserver - the destroyer, but these little human sentiments? The ones that wove themselves messy? The ones that managed to tangle in their own webs of certain lies and partial truths? See, that, Satoru Gojo couldn’t grasp.

Not the humaneness of it.

“I…of course, my- my lord, but…” a lick of your lips - an inhale, his - impatience was not a virtue?

“I fear i would...i- i would offend you,” barely a whisper, almost ashamed to admit - even more so when a booming laughter responded to you. And in your moment of meeting the mortifying reality - it simply didn’t feel fair that his laugh, your perpetrator’s laugh was melodic, simply put.

“Offend me?” a raised brow, hair flitting out of his gaze - pushed back so swiftly with his fingers, amusement dancing across his features - ethereal, he looked, sounded - was, ethereal.

“You can never offend me, little one - it is you who shall be blessed by my touch, you who shall relive this memory, I merely befall you a merciful boon.”

A lick of your lips - a hard attempt to not seem flustered, he wasn’t wrong, however could he ever be wrong?

But the words were sharp, reminding that you were, at your best, two steps below him, washing his feet.

Shaky hands thus continued the detour - dipped into the gold vessel, into the water - “My lord, if I may?” a small voice, he didn’t counter - simply outstretched his foot right into your hand, his skin cold. Unreal it was - a quickened pulse as you felt the foot, the skin, the hair, the muscles, so fleshed out -

“well?” his teasing voice brought you back.

“I do deserve your love right y/n? A little more…how would one put it…care?” no longer carrying the weight - no longer dangerous, back to his playful words - it only played your mind harder.

“Pardon my lord,” you said thickly, a slow flush on your skin, “it is new for me - too much, you are…so perfect, i keep fearing…”

A smirk was all he offered then at your words, so self-assured, “take your time little one, we have all the time in the world,”somehow his words seemed literal - he did have all the time in the world - his feet stretched lazily in your hands.

Still trembling, your hands moved over his feet finally - a little voice in your head that urged you, his own, the same one you used to imagine as a child, the same one you heard when things felt too much - gently washing away the invisible dust of a thousand worlds, the water glowing brighter as it touched the God’s skin.

There was a subtle warmth that spread through them with every stroke—a warmth that felt like sunlight, like a fire that burned but would never hurt. And still, the god watched, their gaze softening with something akin to indulgence. It was as though they were watching a pet, a favorite toy, being offered exactly what it had begged for—nothing more, nothing less.

It took a while before either of you spoke again, your hand rubbed his foot ever so slightly, so careful - as if one wrong touch would hurt him, “You always do good at these jobs, hm?” The entire while he stroked your head, long fingers - lithe, experienced - toyed with the strands of your hair, an unwavering teasing smile adorned his lips, something affectionate lay in his form too, something that made your heart leap.

“You never used to be so shy around me, little one, always talking, always telling me something…” Gojo’s voice dropped lower, more intimate, a fondness on his face. “Shy to touch me? Or is it something else?”

A hitched breath, every time he referred to your usual demeanour, you only felt regret - you couldn’t truly grasp it yourself as to why you weren’t pouncing on him, hugging him and speaking to him the way you longed too - he was your friend right? So you announced to everyone back in the day, he was your best friend.

But even in the thousand possibilities you’d built around his existence, you had never imagined this moment would be such—gentle yet charged, tender yet full of a teasing power.

“I’m not... shy,” you whispered, though your hands did betray you - trembling as they continued washing.

The God's smile grew, satisfied. “Good. You should be bold with me. You were meant to be that, I could let you keep worshipping from afar. I could make you wait for eternity to touch me.” He chuckled softly, “But I chose you. I wanted you close.”

Moses had parted the Red Sea, to help, to save.

When Gojo Satoru moved, the sea of people that surrounded you, crushed you, parted too - to help you, to save you.

Still early, too early - the Sun’s first few rays greeted him gently, dripping off his form, illuminating all that lay in his shadow. A sapphire cloak clung to him, offering from your Father - the man stood beside you now, pride on his face, as if it were him who The God wanted to see, as if it were him who the public wanted.

A veil of iridescent fragrance swirled round him - a mixture, so carefully crafted by The King himself, rare petals and incense, pure, too pure - it made your mind hazy, it would any mortal.

And in this light, the first time his beauty made your eyes feel entirely blessed too - a silvery radiance, not a speck of time that marred his skin and yet the elegance bespoke of his wisdom, of his stature - his eyes, you were sure you couldn’t get enough of those. The ones which at the moment surveyed his mass, the ones that passed you mischievous glances all morning while you walked with him, the ones that held pure disdain with every swipe across the clearing.

No artist, no artisan could ever bring justice to them - eyes that were windows to the infinite, swirling with the power of boundless stars and celestial clarity. A pale blue gleam that held the serenity of an angel's gaze, yet the same ones which held the quiet storm of a force untouchable by mortal hands. A blessing and a curse itself, untouched by earthly limits, gazing through time and space - and despite everything, fatigued.

He held a smile, perfect, unnatural, “They are taking too long,” a mutter, somehow he’d allowed himself to be talked into carrying ‘human decency’ by you - when in public - almost foolish a grin that he’d held, eyes boring into you while you’d frantically muttered every social cue you could manage.

“Almost done,” you muttered back, “they will ask you to say a few words,”

“I don’t wish to talk to them,” a shrug he passed, casual, comfortable - your panic was sizing up once again, “they are your people my lord, they would expect just a few words, at least,”

And if you hadn’t spent all those hours in his presence you would’ve missed the ancient profanities he dropped by casually - still smiling as he looked at your father, who was busy speaking of his God’s enigmatic presence.

“We just had to visit my shrines, why is your father making such a huge deal of this?” annoyance in his voice was all too evident - you could only roll your eyes, your own annoyance winning over.

At your father, such pretence he held - his first words to the public itself had been that he, the head priest was the one Satoru Gojo had graced first - not a mention of your name, not a mention of your panic, of your hard work - nothing.

At your companion now, who wouldn’t stop referring to his own priest as your father ever since the moment it fell into his human conscience that you were related - but you were sure the latter was more so intimate than the anger you felt towards your father and his actions.

Nothing new, nothing out of ordinary, our father was used to this, you were used to this.

“My lord, somehow it isn’t daily that you grace us with your presence, there was bound to be some celebration.”

"Some" barely began to capture it—the town, the province, every house, every road, and every creature seemed to be waking up, as if taking a deep, refreshing breath all at once.

Fathers and uncles spoke of days long past, voices thick with nostalgia, as though they were recounting the golden age of a forgotten world.

Meanwhile, mothers and aunties gathered in quiet harmony, preparing feasts not just of food, but of memories, as if a son had finally returned from a war that had never truly ended - Children danced like fireflies in the warm embrace of the evening, their laughter ringing out - not a chase for anything, just a need to be.

Each of their eyes wide and unburdened, now - sought but a single glance, for in that fleeting moment, the soul spoke without words, and that one gaze would be immortalized, a treasure passed down through time, woven into the very fabric of their lineage.

Eyes were the windows to the heart, and in that singular glance, they would find their eternity.

And that was where your pity lay - mustered up all of your breath you had too, to bury it - some part of you yearned to say that they deserved it - deserved your God’s depravity, deserved his ignorance - but you knew better didn’t you?

You too had yearned, and in that experience you couldn’t see eye to eye with Gojo’s demand of privacy - with his adamant hold against humans - they were his and he was theirs.

After all, what privacy? He was their God, their thoughts were his and his action was theirs.

Before a retort Satoru could offer a cleared throat from the King - a beckoning, ironic - what was a King to The God? What difference was he and the rest? None.

Now these things, the humans rarely caught.

The air rippled with an almost tangible excitement as the people gathered - closer as Satoru began speaking - beneath the towering spires of the grand temple.

The streets, draped in banners of gold and crimson, seemed to pulse with the energy of anticipation. His eyes, sharp and knowing, continued his expedition - as if begging to find something worthwhile - scanned the sea of adoring faces below, a glimmer of amusement barely concealed behind the mask of divine grace.

"Ah, how delightful," he began, his voice a smooth, melodic cadence, "to see you all gathered in such numbers. The dedication, the endless adoration—it never ceases to amuse me. How fortunate you all are to bask in the light of one such as myself." His voice lilted just a bit, as if the very thought of his magnificence was almost too much to bear.

He paused, letting the words settle, the crowd hanging on every breath. You could see it well, why his presence was worshipped the way it was - for when he spoke, people didn’t listen, they couldn’t. Such was his grace, excellence - it commanded attention, what lay off his words hardly mattered beyond that.

"But," he continued, a slight smile touching his lips, "of course, you know this. How could you not? Your lives, your very existence, are woven into the very fabric of my grace. You thrive because I allow it." His gaze swept over them, languid and slow, as if savoring the devotion in the air. "Still, I suppose it's sweet, in its own way, to see you so eager to please me."

A gulp was all you could manage, eyes widening, at his words - widening further at the realisation that people craved that too, his insolence. And in this moment a realisation - these people, for such reasons would never grasp him, never grasp who he was.

And for these reasons you were to him who you were.

The people’s adoration only grew, and they cheered, their praises ringing out, louder and louder, as if to drown out any hint of his subtle disdain. He let it wash over him, and though the subtle flicker of disdain was buried beneath his calm demeanor, he allowed them their moment.

"And now," he said, raising a hand to silence them, "I know you have been preparing. Ah, yes, the grand festival. How you’ve worked so tirelessly to honor me. It's... charming, truly." His voice softened, just enough to seem almost indulgent. "I will visit the shrines you’ve so lovingly maintained in my name, see the delicate carvings, the gilded statues—how very... quaint. I’m sure they shine like the very heavens themselves."

Superficial - such that he couldn’t help his own scoff as he spoke - under the radar for the rest, even your father, or the King - none of them caught the undertones, they didn’t care enough.

His gaze turned briefly inward, his tone shifting ever so slightly, just a touch more patronizing. "I do so enjoy visiting my shrines. The incense, the offerings, the music—it’s all so perfectly... expected. But of course, it's not for me. No, no. You do it because you need to. And I, being the benevolent god that I am, allow it." He took a moment, as if lost in the thought, before returning his attention to the throngs below. "I will take my time this year, to walk the streets, see all the preparations... watch you all as you dress in your finest, your faces alight with the belief that somehow, this festival is for you."

He paused, allowing his gaze to drift lazily over the crowd, "After all, I, of course, am the very reason you have a purpose at all."

Another cheer rose up from the crowd, and he smiled, a touch of irony in his expression, though it was well-hidden behind his calm mask. "And yes," he said, his voice now thick with a mocking sweetness, "I will attend the festival. I will smile, perhaps even dance a little. After all, you have earned it, haven’t you? Such dedication. Such reverence. It truly warms my heart."

Your finger twitched, a little jab your own heart felt as he spoke - you were none but a part of them too - part of the lowly - part of the people that were too caught up in their worship to notice the subtle edge in his words.

Had you once been the same? Has your own reverence caused him to laugh, if ever?

"Enjoy the preparations, my dear subjects," he said, his voice deepening with a final, deliberate pulse, "Cherish this festival, it is my light that guides you. It is my will that shapes this world. Without me, you would have nothing to celebrate at all."

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, their voices like a tidal wave crashing against the shore, and and you could see his posture charge, the power surge.

"Go, then," he said, turning to leave, "make merry, as you always do when I am near. I will enjoy it. And I will return, as I always do. For it is I who make this world beautiful—and you, dear mortals, have the privilege of basking in it."

A shy lick of your lips, you stared as your father thanked him, as did the King - you stared as they thanked you for taking the divine duty of caring for him, you stared as Satoru held your hand lead you away - you stared and stared till every scene was a blur except Satoru Gojo himself.

“How many shrines do we have planned, little one?” a question he finally managed out - walking aimlessly with your hand in his - your mind just as fuzzy from the contact - “four, my lord,” you mumbled shyly - the voices outside drowned by your thoughts.

“The ancient ones, the ones built aeons ago in your name,”

A groan - “all four?”

You only passed half a smile - which he was impassively glad for - and an eye roll.

“Your speech would have one thinking that you’d love seeing your own shrines, My lord,” and in response you earned a hearty laugh, his hand slipped from yours, working on peeling the banana someone, an older woman offered to him, one that he accepted with a kiss to her hand.

You could only wonder when you’d receive a similar proposition, but a thought not dwelled on for long - you were on edge always that he could hear thoughts.

“Well, yes,” he grinned, biting into the fruit, “but the craftsmanship is important y/n,” he spoke as a matter-of-fact, no longer did his tone carry notes of his disdain - this was free.

“Even you would get bored looking at those old statues, all stone - isn’t it?” he laughed further at your expression, an open mouth as you took in his words.

Stones - some of those statues were pure gold.

“I doubt i’d get bored of your shrines,” meek, and yet bold - you only distanced your pacing from slightly - an attempt at hiding the peeking smile as you spoke - but whatever remained hidden from him?

“Oh?” he simply called out - hand reaching out to pull you close, fingers interlocking yours once again - “and yesterday, you were too afraid to wash my feet.”

You cringed at his words - a laugh escaped you still, somehow this felt humane, real.

You stepped into the bustling market square of the common palace, - the first shrine was in the heart of the town itself - it didn’t take much for the reactions to take place, sudden gasps and whispers, as if besetting your path - widened eyes and charged environment.

You were glad it wasn’t as bad as the first day - women had their baskets dropped, men fell to their knees altogether - all to achieve a bored yawn from their God.

As you continued your walk, interruptions were bound to stricken - a route only 15 minutes long easily took you an hour.

“Oh, great one,” one merchant stammered, barely daring to look up. “You grace us with your presence!”

The god's smile tightened, a predatory gleam flickering in his eyes - not a single care.

He turned to face you, voice pitched low with an exaggerated sigh. “Can you feel the reverence, my sweet? See how they worship me, as they should.”

A rich melody dripped from his voice - and besides that, mockery, your heart clenched.

“They are so simple, aren’t they? So... eager to throw themselves at my feet, like beggars for a scrap of bread.”

The devotee’s eyes lowered, their heart sinking as the god’s words echoed in their mind.

‘Cruel’ - the word surrounded your head, your thoughts - too cruel.

For those who had waited all their lives and for those who had not - Satoru Gojo stood indifferent, maybe it was that their heads didn’t grasp his balance - maybe it was that they were drowning in awe and admiration that his spite went unnoticed - but your heart knew.

It knew they deserved better.

And the same heart shouted that Your God wouldn’t be barbaric - your mind reminded you that you knew nothing.

However, were they truly so eager? So desperate that this sting didn't matter? Would you be the same? Were you already? Were you the worst, which was what amused him best?

No, you served him out of love, not desperation.

In the heart of the bustling town, nestled between sleek shops and markets, stood an imposing shrine crafted from radiant bronze. Walls that shimmered with a polished sheen, catching the sun’s light and reflecting it in dazzling waves. The entrance featured massive bronze doors - adorned with intricate carvings of the infinite, swirling energy, and Gojo’s figure—effortlessly powerful.

Inside, the cavernous space was cool and humbling. A towering statue of Gojo stood at its center, his form captured mid-motion, poised with unyielding strength. The bronze seemed to vibrate with energy, the swirling carvings on the walls shifting subtly as if alive. Around the base of the statue, small offerings—tokens of devotion—glowed faintly, vanishing into the ether as if absorbed by Gojo’s infinite domain.

And to all that, Satoru had passed a whistle - strolling about aimlessly while you struggled to talk to the priests, unduly requests the made - partial answers you offered, a mess - all would be simple if Satoru did what he ought to do.

Be Kinder to his people.

Your eye twitched as you watched him practically inhale another banana - “for someone who wouldn’t eat a single dish I presented you, you seem quite starved now,”

Nothing, silence on his end - you swallowed.

“If my food didn’t appeal to you-” thick your voice lay, ashamed perhaps to not have been enough - “sometimes you talk like the rest of them, it gets annoying.”

Your face burned - a forest fire barely tamed.

Oh.

“Nothing is wrong with you - I simply wish for something else.”

Oh.

You stood in silence thereafter, watching as people approached - you held a breath, wondering if every interaction would be the same - pitiable.

Satoru Gojo was complex, if put simply - kind to children, smiles and miracles, and chivalrous to the older generations, as if truly a son - but to everything that lay in between, insects and humans, birds and animals - all alike.

And some moments you’d swear - with the conviction in his eyes, he preferred grovelling worms to your kind.

“You wonder why I act this way? Why so…biased?”

And moments like this then reminded you that holding fast you tongue wasn’t enough - your mind had to be reeled too.

A nod you passed and an inhale, he patted the seat beside him - you knew you cue, seated still, two steps below as you were supposed to.

“I suppose they are quite the sight,” you murmured, with an attempt to steady your breathing, to find the confidence he demanded. “But they… they only wish to please you.”

A tear - between your devotion and heart.

The god’s laughter rang out, soft - full of malice, like wind brushing against a blade. “Ah, and therein lies their mistake,” he teased. “They seek to please a creature far beyond their understanding. A creature that finds them… tiresome, insignificant. How the mindless flock to me, how they crawl and beg for a taste of my greatness. They are nothing but ants.”

You couldn’t offer words beyond that, nothing to say, nothing to think.

A rueful smile he did finally - as you walked down the flight of stairs, his fingers curled around an old man’s wrist, helping him down alongside the two of you - “someday, perhaps, I will tell you the real stories. Maybe then we will have something beyond this devotion, when I speak of the devastation.”

You jogged back to him - an amused smile adoring your face, the sight of Satoru keeping up his faces with your Father, with the King - they didn’t see it, didn’t notice his glares and bored responses.

You were content - it made you special, as you were meant to be.

“My Lord,” a bow presented to your God - “My Grace,” to the King, “Father,” your own mischievous smile now - aimed at your father - you were aware he wouldn’t call you out for not calling him the head priest here and now.

“The future head,” the King acknowledged, a slight ruffle - they were close, your father and the emperor - finally Satoru beamed, maybe an assumption still.

“When will the ceremonies for this one begin?” He spoke quiet here, a reference to you taking the responsibilities of the head priest after your father - none of his usual, no smiles or groans - A God.

Unsolicited silence did fall - tension.

Satoru was aware - he just preferred his own comfort over others.

“It is in the works,” your father muttered, your jaw clenched.

You should have been it already - should be respected as he was - should be where he was.

Cowards, however, turn every stone - even against their kin - to hold close what they considered power.

You watched your father’s weight shift towards the King.

“It has been there long enough,” you muttered back - subconscious a move - you shifted your weight towards Satoru Gojo, all there had to be said was through.

“You seemed giddy when you were approaching us - what happened,” The God mused, his hands held behind his back, his form looming beside yours - a sigh you passed.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder sounded.

“You, better than everyone else do understand the why and the what,” forlorn a stature you carried now, his gaze was stuck on you - human emotions that he couldn’t register as yet, not properly.

“So you do remember we are friends?” playful - you scoffed, “i was afraid you wouldn’t remember that I was your best one,”

This time, his scoff - “Wouldn’t remember you? Some tragedies are difficult to forget - you befall that category,”

He laughed and you did too.

Normal - this seemed normal, finally.

A blink of your eye - lightning struck again.

“Father thinks I’d sway easy - thinks I’m not…conniving enough,” bitter you sounded, bitter you were - when hundreds questioned your Devotion, mocked you for it - your father was the first in line.

“And what part of that would he be wrong at?” you could hear the smile in his words - a gasp slipped far too easy, “I would not.”

“You would.”

“Would not.”

“Would too - must i remind you every time you’ve come crying to me when those around you troubled you? Or when you begged me to absolutely obliterate those children because they mocked you,” a snicker he passed, “you’re no better than me - just as maligned as I am.”

Ironic.

No better than him - A God so humane he blurred devotion and desolation - A Human so angelic they blurred Horizons of Earth and Heaven.

Another laughed passed, another beat fell.

The clouds sounded now - your head snapped to the sound - it would rain, a storm mayhaps.

“Where to now, My Lady?” this time his hand rose and fell again - round your shoulder - friends, something closer - pulling you towards him.

“Ah well, that was the news, of the four shrines we had to see, the routes to two are in no condition to accommodate your travel - we mustn't see those,” he shook his head - “I didn’t understand the point anyways, a whole God in flesh and you wanted to see inanimate stones.”

A roll of your eyes - head slowly coming to rest on his shoulder - “it was for you - to show you but regardless,” you held up a hand to pause him before he spoke again - he obeyed all too easy - “we might see the third one tomorrow.”

A loud sigh he passed - “and where to at the moment?”

“You must head to your Hall, I must head to my dorm too - it seems it will rain tonight.”

A pause - he held your gaze - close, too close - you felt the first drop of the rain - “leave your God alone? How woeful,” he spoke soft, “take me with you - to your dorm.”

A lick of your lips - shy - your hands felt clammy, unsure of the placement all together - “it’s- it’s small, you wouldn’t…may not prefer it,”

“Dare you assume I wouldn't like something that is yours? That is Y/n’s?” no humour - no mischief - his voice was deliberate, his hands held you perfectly, almost cradled you.

Drops continued to fall - who were you to deny him?

“Apologies my lord, I…of course, this way.”

Your dorm - his favourite shrine.

And as you lead him, the lightning struck one last time - a deep rumble felt, not by you - not by him, but by the rest of the town.

Devastation had ensued.

That night, you lay unaware of what the world would resolve into - that night you slept in the arms of your God, that night the God slept in the arms of his Devotee.

a/n: first, thank you to the one person who requested this months ago💀because i'd been having this idea soo long, second, gojo might seem a bit? different? but it made sense to me so <3 third, slight refernces to Bible and greek as well as indian mythology are everywhere because essentially these are the only ones I'm accustomed to so yes and finally major thank you and kisses to @stxrysnow @sukunim and @elysian-chaos for beta reading this🎀

tags: @starmaiya11 @devastyle

All of this work is original and entirely my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

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stupidlittlespirit · 2 months ago

Note

feel free to play with the context in which this happens hehe but imagine: hand cradling ford’s jaw, your thumb moving to press gently into the plush of his lips in a very polite cue of ‘shut up’. for whatever reason, maybe ford’s feeling cheeky or maybe the gesture simply sparks some baser desire to life, but his lips part and he takes it into his mouth.

maybe it happens already in the middle of some fun, maybe you were just having a conversation and tried to playfully yet affectionately shut him up that way in midst some banter and now his own reaction leaves him flustered and stumbling whooooo knowwwwwsss

a-anon..... I don't know how you knew this but this is one of my Top Things.....

Because like now I'm thinking about being kinda tipsy with Ford. It's late evening, you're both out on the porch together. Stan has long since retired to bed and left the two of you unsupervised, under the warm glow of the fairy lights that are strung up out there.

You're both halfway through a couple bottles of your drink of choice, curled up on the garden couch, talking quietly and being silly together. And you're sitting apart from one another, trying to maintain reasonable distance just in case someone comes back and catches you, but you're both clearly leaning in a little more than you ought to.

And you're arguing about something stupid, because you're drunk. Let's say you're putting forth your case on why a scientific theory is, actually, just a fancy word for a guess, and Ford is absolutely disagreeing. (an argument I have had myself before)

You're trying to maintain your point and Ford is just not having it. He's (good naturedly) interrupting and correcting you all the time, and you're totally having a back and forth about it all, shuffling closer to each other as things get more intense/as you get more worked up. He's super close, right in your face almost. Ford is just not gonna let you win your case; he's totally convinced about his point of view, he's making smart ass remarks, he's being a dick and riling you up in a strangely attractive way.

You recognise that, so you laugh and roll your eyes, and you reach up to push his face away gently. You cup the side of his cheek to do it because you're both only playing, you don't want to actually push him away, and (just as you said) you press your thumb to his lip.

"Shut up already, mister scientist," you tell him, smirking.

Ford is surprised. He's caught off guard by the contact, but he's playing his favourite role (know it all), so he presses into your hand and says against your thumb "actually, that's doctor scientist to you...."

And the two of you just sort of look at each other for a little while. Like it's only a moment, barely a few seconds, but it's full of something meaningful and you both know it.

Ford's mouth is still slightly parted from his words. Only a bit, but enough that when you swipe the pad of your thumb along his lower lip again, the tip just slightly presses against the innermost part, and Ford doesn't even think. His brain just makes him do it before he can reconsider. He tilts his head a bit and takes your thumb into his mouth. It's very slow, very deliberate, and he watches you the entire time.

It's super bold, especially for him, but he's equally as tipsy so what does he care right this second?

And you make a soft sound of surprise. You're startled by it, but you don't move away. You let him do it. You can feel your face get warm and you can definitely feel another heat spark up in your lower belly..... So, you watch with rapt attention as he draws your thumb into his mouth until it meets his tongue.

You can feel it brush against his taste buds, you can feel it lave away at the pad. And you bite your own lower lip to stifle your arousal because there's no way you're letting Ford get the upper hand here. You draw your thumb out halfway and then slowly, you push it back in again. And again. And again.

Ford's turning red (doesn't he always in times like this?) but he isn't stopping. He lets you do it, enjoys you doing it, and when you draw your thumb all the way out, he whines like a disappointed dog at the loss.

And poor Ford turns an undiscovered shade of pink when he makes the noise. It's completely unintended and involuntary. But he does it and you hear it, and he knows you hear it.

Your thumb slips from his mouth with a trail of drool following it, and you let yourself grin at Ford's display of desperation. He opens his mouth to stutter out an apology, or an excuse, whatever he thinks of first, but you cut him off by pressing your thumb back over his lip so he has to shut up. Smirking, you tell him "oh, don't look so disappointed, doctor scientist.... I just wondered if you'd like to test a new theory....?"

And Ford, being a man of science, can't help himself. He says, whispers, chokes out, a "yes", and you smile. You replace your thumb with your index and middle finger, bringing them up to rest on his lower lip. Ford, sweetly, obediently, opens his mouth and you slide them past his lips and into his mouth.

"I've been wondering if that smart mouth of yours is good for anything other than correcting me," you tell him with a smirk. "My scientific theory is that it is....." and Ford is so struck by the moment that he just does what he's told.

Ford takes them perfectly, accommodating them in his mouth with a soft little hitching sigh that whistles through his nose, and his eyes flutter shut momentarily. He's so cooperative with barely even an instructing word from you that you can't help the automatic, genuine "good boy" that slips out.

And Ford groans, shy but so hot for whatever the fuck is going on right now. His eyes open and he meets your gaze, and he's so fucking red, he's so evidently embarrassed by his own carnal reactions, but he's not about to stop. Not if it means getting to hear that again......

aaaaaaaand uh that was the not really necessarily in the ask you gave me, I went a bit off topic there but uh. yeah. I like that. I like fingers in mouth. It is nice. I am. normal about this.

#uuuuuhhhhhhhhh haha...... sweats #asks #anon #ford asks #ford pines x reader #nsfwsls #finger sucking is very underrated i do not see enough of it #i will probably make this a proper drabble at some point

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slashbitch2 · 7 months ago

Text

i'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you

Summary: reeling from the sting of rejection, you're surprised when a certain witch approaches you with a dangerous offer Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader TW: none actually W.C: 3k words I believe

Autumn had fallen across Salem like a blanket, wrapping its way around the trees and shaking until every golden-brown leaf had fallen to the damp ground below. The leaves began to meld back into the Earth from whence they came, and the smell of rot which accompanied such a time filled your nose: fresh and earthy. It was the smell of home. The damp air settled upon your clothes and chilled you to the bone, while leaves crunched underfoot, clinging to your mud-caked boots. Yet you marched diligently on.

The bucked swung by your side with each step, rusty joints at the handle creaking into the empty night air. The forest was always eerie after the sun had set, and you had regretted volunteering to go and get water for the coven the very minute the words left your mouth. Truth be told, you had seized the opportunity to escape, to continue avoiding a certain brunette witch who had been eyeing you up all evening.

Somewhere in the far distance, an owl screeched and you jolted, fist instinctively tightening around the metallic handle of the bucket and causing pain to shoot through your hand.

You forced yourself to stand still for a second and took in a deep gulping breath, feeling the fresh air enter your body and soothe your nerves.

It was a new moon tonight, and so the usual silvery light illuminating the woodland was lacking. It also meant it was an important night for the coven, and so you ought to hurry. You resumed your original pace to the well along the outskirts of a nearby town, memory guiding your movement. The nearby town was rather suspicious of your coven’s activity, and thus the only opportunity to access this source of water was under the cover of darkness.

Tonight, the water was crucial. On every new moon, the entire coven gathered together to cast a protective spell over the land, and you could imagine them all sitting around the fire, patiently awaiting your return.

Between the silhouettes of the trees, you caught sight of warm, orange light emanating from the distance. You were nearing the town. Squinting, you paused to peer around, trying to remember where the well was situated. It was so dark you could barely make out where the ground merged into the roots of each tree. You would have to be careful not to trip. Any sound could alert the dogs which vigilantly guarded the town, and in turn, call attention to you.

You hesitantly stepped forward, fixated on the distant light source like a moth to a flame. The lanterns which hung from each house roughly guided you, promising that the well would be somewhere close. A twig snapped underfoot, and you froze, scrunching your eyes closed and waiting with bated breath for the telltale sound of violent barks and howls.

A beat passed and nothing. You reluctantly opened your eyes, your head whipping around to check the forest remained still. Each oddly shaped tree or slight movement in the corner of your eyes held your attention for a second longer, your anxiety running rampant and conjuring impossible images into your mind.

You shook these impossibilities away, and deciding all was clear, you turned to face forward once more, only to crash directly into something.

Gasping was all you could do not to scream at the sudden intrusion. You stumbled backwards, realising it wasn’t something- rather someone blocking your path. The person reached out to grab hold of your arms, steadying you.

She shushed you, and before you could even adjust to the darkness and make out her face, you already recognised her. It was Agatha Harkness who stood before you, that particularly annoying, brunette witch you had been trying to avoid.

“Careful now.” Agatha admonished, though you could hear the smirk in her voice.

You exhaled, feeling your fear melt away into annoyance. “You scared me, Agatha.” You shook off her hold, immediately missing the heat of her hands against your clothed skin.

“Scared, why? What’s out here that a powerful witch like yourself wouldn’t be able to handle?”

The way she emphasised the word 'powerful' made you frown. You knew she was trying to flatter you, though you didn’t understand why just yet.

“An angry mob from the village.” You answered after a beat.

“Please.” Agatha scoffed. “It’s not that you couldn’t handle them, you just wouldn’t want to.”

You rolled your eyes at her subtle jab. Agatha was more inclined to use her magic against people, whereas you didn’t think it was a fair fight. She always seemed to believe there was some kind of competition between you, as two witches of the same age who had cultivated a similar level of power. Therefore, anything she perceived as a weakness, she would frequently remind you of.

Refusing to let her aggravate you any further, you changed the topic. “What do you want?”

“I just want to talk.” Agatha shrugged, and before you could react, she reached out, her hand brushing past your face to your hair, gently twirling a strand around her finger. “You know, girl to girl, witch to witch.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Sinner to sinner.”

The lack of distance between you, the soft touch, the secretive tone to her voice; it was almost affectionate, perhaps seductive. But you knew better than to fall for her act. This was Agatha Harkness, after all.

“Well, too bad 'cause I really don’t want to talk to you.” You said simply, hoping she would pick up on the finality you had imbued within your words. Instead of waiting for a response, you sidestepped and pushed past her, determined to finish the job you had been tasked.

“That wasn’t the case a few nights ago,” Agatha called out.

You cringed first at the volume of her voice, not having forgotten how close you were to the town, and then again upon taking into consideration the meaning behind her words. You stopped, inhaled slowly and forced your tense shoulders to relax. Then, in a quieter tone, “Can we please just pretend that never happened?”

There was a rustling behind you as Agatha drew closer. “Sure.” She responded simply, though the word was anything but simple to you.

As much as you loathed how Agatha had treated you, how carelessly she had played with your heart, you couldn’t forget how well you understood her. Like now, at this moment you recognised the mask of indifference in her voice, hiding beneath it a vulnerable admission of guilt, sadness even. You watched with shallow breath as she pivoted slowly to stand in front of you, her attention ever fixed on you, observing your reaction.

“We won’t talk about it if that’s what you want.” Her eyes searched yours, ice cold even in the lightless forest. “But I didn’t follow you out here for a heart-to-heart.”

You paused, frowning. “Then why did you?

“Because I need you”

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t hide behind her usual cocky attitude. Her statement was simple and true, sufficient to steal your breath away.

“I’m forming a group- well, a coven within a coven I guess you could say.” Agatha continued, quick to move past the tension, though you were still reeling from it.

Agatha pursed her lips thoughtfully, as if considering each individual word and how you might respond. Whatever she was about to say, this was big.

“I want to walk the Witches Road.”

“Are you serious?” You spluttered out in disbelief, then remembering to keep your voice down, added, “That’s suicide!”

The Witches Road was notorious. Infamous. A suicide mission you all had been warned about from the very moment you started to learn the craft. To hear that Agatha planned on confronting this risk head-on was hardly surprising, but you thought she was smarter than that. You were disappointed in her. That she would think of doing such a thing, that she would believe even for a second that you were stupid enough to join.

“Not for us.” Agatha smiled sinisterly. “Maybe the others… but we’re strong. Stronger than any other witch in this coven. We can do better.” She implored, her hand snapping out to grasp your own free one, bringing it toward her chest. “So, what’d you say?”

Her hand was cold, her grip unrelenting, yet as she pressed you closer, you swore you could feel her heart pounding in her chest. It was endearing, and still, you weren’t a fool.

“Who are the others?” You questioned instead, partly deflecting having to answer, and partly in disbelief that anyone would even hear Agatha’s proposal out, let alone agree to join.

She quirked an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” You challenged. “Have other witches actually signed up for this?”

“Oh. You’d be surprised!” Agatha sneered. “Loads of them, queueing up around the block to be part of my team.” Her expression morphed into one of excitement, though you guessed she was merely teasing.

“Huh, really?”

“You bet. I can be persuasive when I want to.”

“Irritating more like.”

“Maybe.” Agatha rolled her eyes fondly, unable to hide the way the corners of her lips twitched upwards before taking on a more serious straight line. “But look, I’m not going to do this without you, Y/N.”

This gave you pause, and then, a sense of indignant frustration.

“Why? Isn’t the all-powerful Agatha usually a solo act? What was it you said? You don’t want anyone tying you down?” You spat.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about the other night.” She said, slowly, seemingly waiting to see how you would react.

The other night. When you had taken a chance, and it hadn’t worked out. When, in a moment of bravery, you had been honest with yourself, with Agatha, about how you truly felt, only to be met by derision and cruel laughter. The other night, when upon realising you were serious, she had tried to soothe your hurt feelings, but by that point, you had lingered long enough in your humiliation, choosing instead to turn and run. You would rather surrender to spending the rest of your long, long life avoiding Agatha than face that again.

“You’re right.” You sighed. “But I’m also not going to talk about, or even entertain this idea any further” You tugged your hand out of her grip like it had scorched you. “Actually, idea’s a strong word. I don’t think you’ve put any real thought into this.”

Agatha had the sense to look at least a bit ashamed of her suggestion and paused for a moment, as around you, the wind picked up, carrying leaves through the air and rustling the trees. It was as though the forest had come alive for a second, filling the silence between you. Shivering, you wrapped your cloak tighter against yourself, loathing how you regretted having been so quick to put Agatha down. She looked disheartened.

“Look…” When Agatha spoke at last, you were unnerved to see how she didn’t meet your eyes. “When I said I wouldn’t do this without you, that’s not strictly true… I already promised the others we’d meet in the clearing when the sun rises.”

“What?!” You exclaimed, your annoyance being instantaneously overpowered by a mix of anger and panic at this sudden revelation.

“So-“ She interrupted, throwing her hands in the air to pacify your outburst. “Just take your time to think about it. Either you’re in or you’re out and either way, that’s fine.”

“Ohh, a whole half a night to think about it. Very generous as always Agatha.” You spat, incredulous that she would leave you so little time to decide, should you even have entertained the idea… Not that you were thinking about it. Nope. Not at all.

“Well, I wanted to ask you first, but you kept running off!” She explained- or rather argued, as of course, she would pin the blame on you and your hurt feelings rather than take responsibility.

“I wonder why.” You muttered, irritably folding your arms.

“Okay.” Agatha mirrored your pose, crossing her arms across her chest. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but clearly this,” she gestured between the both of you, “needs to be addressed.”

“I don’t think-“

“No.” She interrupted, harsh and unforgiving of your clear reluctance. “I know I wasn’t exactly considerate to you, maybe a little meaner than I should’ve been.”

“That’s an understatement.“

“But regardless of what I said then, I want you by my side now. Walking the road, together-“

“So, you only want me when it’s convenient? When you need my help.” You snarked. “How lovely of you to say, I feel so much better already!”

“I won’t force you to do anything.” She continued, ignoring your comments. “Nor can I promise we’ll return. But I think we have a hell of a lot more of a chance if we’re together.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, listening to her try to reason with you. Not that it would ever work. No way. The Witches Road was suicide, and Agatha was hardly much better herself. “You’re saying this like I’d ever consider joining you.” You said with a shrug.

Agatha smiled suddenly, like you’d said something hilarious, then averted her gaze down for a beat before stepping closer. A lot closer, invading your personal space and causing all rationality to flee your mind. And yet, you didn’t step back. She leaned forward, and you felt her breath fan across your cheek. “You’re an idiot if you don’t see the opportunity in all this.” Her voice was raspy, barely above a whisper. She was so close, her gaze flickering across your face like she could read your every micro-expression or movement.

Your inner logicality screamed at you to tell her no, you would not be joining her, nor did you ever want to see her again. That she should back up, walk away and never look back.

Every other fibre of your being dreamt of the possibilities, imagined how her lips would feel against your own, how her fingertips would trace across your skin. Your heart betrayed you. It urged you to lean in.

Agatha’s normally ice-cold eyes were softer as they darted down to your lips, though you couldn’t be sure that you hadn’t imagined it. After how she had responded to your confession, there was no way she could harbour any kind of feelings towards you beyond that of mild irritation and perhaps a tad bit of insecurity.

Reluctantly, you stepped back.

Agatha’s eyebrows scrunched up, her lips curling in displeasure as another gust of wind blew, chilling the newfound space between you.

While you were certain Agatha’s one goal in life was to rile you up, it seemed as though you had managed to do the same to her this one time. She looked annoyed, slightly sad and clearly disappointed.

In spite of everything, you revelled in this power you currently held over her. “I guess I’ll see you around Agatha. Good luck with your death wish.” Deciding to take this unusual superiority as an opportunity, you sidestepped her to continue on, not daring to glance back as you walked through the woods.

Or maybe you did. Just once. And maybe it was the darkness, or your mind playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn Agatha stayed standing there, watching to ensure you safely accessed the well without alerting the townspeople.

But when you began your journey home, she was nowhere to be seen.

...

As the night wore on, you found your mind didn’t cease.

Agatha’s eyes were constantly on you, carrying an indecipherable weight. You wondered if, perhaps, this would be the last time you’d ever see her. If she would step foot on the Witches Road and disappear from your life forever.

This idea should’ve brought you some form of peace, and yet, it didn’t

How could you go on knowing that Agatha was condemning herself to death, and you weren’t there to witness it? Or even, put a stop to it.

Agatha Harkness was your burden to carry. She was irresponsible, power-hungry and manipulative, and yet, you couldn’t find it within yourself to let her walk the road alone. You wouldn’t let her go thinking that you didn’t care.

You had put on an act to try and protect yourself, something to ease your heart, still reeling from her rejection. But you knew it was futile to try and keep it up. Whether you joined her to walk the road or not, Agatha had already caused you enough pain. And so, what the hell, you might as well indulge in her company a little more.

Halfway through the coven’s ceremony, placing protective runes upon the land, you noticed Agatha slip away from the crowd, fixing you with one final glance before she disappeared into the night.

You waited a little longer, savouring what would possibly be your last time as part of the coven. And then, as you noticed the sky take on a purplish hue signifying that the sun was fast approaching the horizon, you stood, numbly walking in the direction of the clearing Agatha had referred to.

Your mind was empty when you caught sight of a group forming a circle in the middle of the field. You didn’t bother to try and catch a glimpse of anyone’s face, knowing that soon they would reveal themselves, and you would be trapped, relying upon each other on the Witches Road. Fresh dew glistened upon the grass in the morning light, the damp seeping into your boots as you approached. It had been a long night already, and you longed for your bed.

And then you caught sight of Agatha, and she smiled, soft and scared, and all your problems seemingly melted away.

...

notes: bonus points if anyone can name the song lyrics i used as a title cause im too lazy to be original

hope you enjoyed :)

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha all along

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