#especially as his illness worsens

[confused-disaster32]

I saw someone headcanoning that the twins (especially Geta who is more aware of these things, though maybe Caracalla too kinda earlier on before his illnesses really took over) were probably at least a little bit insecure of the fact that they were ginger bc it wasn't common in Rome and they probably resembled the more barbaric people from Europe whom they were fighting off instead of their own people and now I legitimately cannot stop thinking about it.

[ana-bananya]

Help Mohiy and his family

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[potato-lord-but-not]

HOLY GHOSTS OCS 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

these guys (except Abraham) show up in the first part of the story, playing a large role in exploring Oscar’s relationship with his church and community. I think about them too much oufhh…..

Yapping about them (mainly the old priest guys) under cut because I’m ANNOYING

We’ll get Cynthia and Jamie out of the way first- they play a larger role within the current plot. Cynthia and Jamie are childhood best friends and are leading the new wave of younger folks working within the church. Jamie is new his responsibilities as a priest but is determined to serve the lord and his community. Cynthia is also very hospitable, constantly seen at the soup kitchen. Both of them look up to Oscar as an older brother of sorts, even when he’s at his lowest they never lost faith in him. Oscar has a hard time separating himself from his duty as a man of God, and sometimes fails to realize the impact he has on those around him, good and bad. Yeah idk they’re both very silly, Cynthia is the certified yapper and gossiper while Jamie prefers to sit back and listen. I love them sm….

NOW FOR THE OLD MENNNN OUFFGHH

Abraham and Seymour are very very old friends, having worked together for decades. Abe always joked about how they were inseparable by the will of God, as no matter what they always seemed to end up back together. Seymour is more reserved, calculated, he prefers to stick to the book. Abe was more spontaneous, he liked to go with the heart and gut. Abe took Oscar in when no one else was willing to, even Seymour was skeptical but trusted Abe’s judgment. He helped Oscar find a path that he could channel all that anger and need to help others, he supported him throughout everything and never gave up even when it seemed like everyone else was against them.

Abe was also an exorcist. Seymour thought he was being reckless with his decision to dabble in that practice, but Abe was determined to help those suffering through the horrors beyond this world. He had plans to have Oscar take his place when he passed, and was slowly preparing him on how to deal with such things. However, he was struck with a sudden illness a few years before the events of malevolent, and passed away. This shook up the whole church, but mainly Oscar, starting his downward spiral back into alcoholism and worsening his lingering depression. Seymour didn’t take it well either, but had to put on a brave face since he’s the pastor of st Jean Baptiste. Seymour has grown more protective of Oscar, knowing those two had a father-son relationship of sorts, and wants to be there for him as much as he can. Even if he’s less outwardly empathetic.

Were Seymour and Abe lovers ?? hard to say. They would never say they had any sort of romance going on, obviously, but if they hadn’t chosen this path I think they would’ve moved out of the city and grown old together in the same home.

Are Cynthia and Jamie lovers ??? most definitely. Their families were not keen on interracial relationships, especially Jamie’s, and that was a big factor in him deciding to become a priest. He decided if he couldn’t be with her, he didn’t need to be with anyone. Cynthia felt the same, refusing to date and instead focusing on helping her community with her favorite person.

OKAY INCOHERENT YAP SESSION OVER SORRYYYY

[cottoncandiescupcakes]

( SPOILER WARNING ) I LOVE their makeup because Geta later on sees himself as a God right so I think he's probably wanting to look like Apollo because of all the gold

Apollo has been recognized as a god of archery, healing and diseases, the Sun and light, poetry, and more. One of the most important and complex of the Greek gods, he is the son of Zeus, He is considered to be the most beautiful god and is represented as the ideal of the kouros (ephebe, or a beardless, athletic youth). He also looks exactly like those statues of Apollo, especially the hair and obviously Joseph's features and slim frame also help sell it

Carcalla has syphilius that went to his brain and skin and applies makeup to hide that, which then gave him lead poisoning and worsened his health even more. The strong blush, along with having male companions, makes me think Carcalla wants to look more feminine or even like a young boy. He also says he did not get enough oxygen at birth because of Geta's umbilical cord choking him, I think.

He seems to regress mentally because of illness so it's possible he wants to look boyish and the blush gets stronger and they both go from having matching armor to each having a very distinct look, Geta's darker eye makeup and extreme capes and Carcalla almost wearing a childlike colorful outfit, so they grow apart as Geta's pride grows and Carcalla's disease worsens

[myladysapphire]

My sweet pathetic prince

Jace had always had a pathetic obsession with is aunt, but she was never afraid to show her dislike for him and his heritage, even when his head was between her thighs.

based of this request

Jacaerys Veleryon x Aunt!reader

Word count: 3,562

CW: MDI, 18+, smut, oral (f reciving), p in v, unrequited love? slight bullying? bastardphobia, pathetic jace, sub jace, dom reader, brat reader, slow(ish) burn, angst, teasing, self deprication?, degrigation, virgin!jace, incest. not proofread!

authors note: may be out of the groove of writing for house of the dragon but hope you enjoy!

Divders by @zaldritzosrose

For as long as he could remember Jaceaerys Veleryon had pinned after one person. You.

You, someone who had never shown the slightest interest in him. Someone who ignored him at every turned or if you ever did it acknowledge him, it was in the form of scowls and insults.

You had never thought much of him. He has always been your silly little annoying shadow. Following you around the castle, begging you for attention, and ding anything he could to make you impressed or the slightest bit interested in him.

You never where, only ever annoyed or finding ways ignore him further.

You had never much considered giving him any attention, believing he didn’t deserve it. Your mother had made you think as much, installing in your head that Jace’s infatuation with you was a plot set about by Rhaenyra to win you over to her side and betray your family. That he and his brothers were bastards, unworthy of the title princes and unworthy of any attention they begged for from you.

As they years went on and Jace’s crush became infatuation, ignoring him no longer became a choice and instead you started to treat him the way your mother always wished, with nothing but disdain.

But despite the scowling eyes, the cruel words and the constant use of the word ‘strong’ around him, it all seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect that you so desperately craved.

Jace grown more and more enamoured with you, with each insult or taunt. With every time you pushed him into the mud, or stole his clothes and left him to run bare through the halls of the keep, after you convinced him to swim in the lake. With every childish prank you played that would make others cry and scream, he seemed to care little, finding them funny or often not thinking it was you at all. With Aemond often being left to face the blame, the ‘prank’ with the pig was near evidence enough of that.

And yet you, A girl, four years his senior, ill mannered and prone to tantrums, especially when you didn’t get your way. Something that seemed to worsen the more Jace’s pathetic Crush grew on you.

With every insult you spat from your pretty mouth Jace seemed to adore you even more.

Every word out of your mouth he worshipped, he was always the first to comfort you, when you grew angered at the smallest inconvenience, always egar to help out in anyway, and more than happy to take your lashing words.

In truth he mustn’t have heard the words the same as you did.

The cruel insults must have sounded like sweet nothings to him.

It was pathetic, he was pathetic.

And you, well you were a spoiled brat, a princess in every sense of the word. A princess who knew the world was at the tip of your finger.

Perhas it was the fact that you were Alicents oldest child, or the only one of her children that Viserys seemed to acknowledge if not love. But in truth it was Jace that made you that way.

By saying yes to your every order and command, for giving you gifts of jewels, flowers and of your favourite things that only he seemed to know of.

Your entire youth seemed to revolve around him whether you liked it or not.

So much so that when he moved to Dragonstone you found yourself longing for him, whether it was to throw insults and have him grovel at your feet, or perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to be the only one who wanted to truly know you. Or that seemed to know you at all.

Memories of him seemed to haunt you as the years passed, his letters became ones you waited on, even though you would never admit it.

Nor would you admit that you replied and that as time passed your words grew less cruel and started to instead come from the heart.

In fact as the years passed you changed, gone from the favourite to the scorned child.

The eldest and yet looked over, called Rhaneyra by your father and pushed to the sidelines.

With Aegon’s marriage to Heleana, Aemond’s betrothal to Floris Baratheon and the rumours of Daeron’s own betrothal in the works. You began to grow restless and became more and more of what the court already called you, a brat.

Your restless behavior, the eagerness to be afforded the same opportunities as your siblings spun you on, the want to force an outcome driving you even more so when you learnt of your half-sister’s arrival.

“Lord strong” you spoke in greeting, at the sight of Jace. Dressed in a gown of green, embroider with lace and a sweeping neckline, that was just deep enough to show of the top of your breasts.

Jace’s eyes quickly drew up from the book upon his lap, his eyes going straight towards your breasts. A deep blush rising to his cheeks “Princess” he greeted, rushing to his feet so fast he nearly stumbled over. Ignoring the choice of name you gave him.

You laughed at the sight of him, his cheeks flushed red, and eyes following you dreamily as you started to move through the gardens.

“i- how are you?” he stuttered his words, chasing after you.

“how am i?” you repeated, the words said in a teasing manner, “I am perfectly fine…” you spoke as you plucked a rose form a near by bush.

“fine?” he spoke, finally catching up you, “Good, so am I -…how about your day? What have you been up to? my days has been rather busy, but perhaps I- we could-…” he stumbled over his words, nervously following you around the garden.

“we could?” you urged him on, forgetting how fun it was to taunt him.

“we could have dinner” he rushed out, finally falling into place beside you.

“dinner?” you spoke, as if tasting the word on your tongue, “and here I thought you would invite me to lunch”

“Then lunch…yes lunch” he rushed out even more quickly, eagerly lacing his arm with yours.

“oh but you must be so busy…you said so yourself and having just arrived I’m sure you have much to do”  you spoke, easing your arm out of his in favour of picking more flowers.

 “I can make time…for you” he spoke, as he reached out and grabbed his own rose and tucked it behind your ear.

You huffed a laugh, attempting to cover the slight blush rising in your cheeks, “fine” you agreed, making no more effort to speak as you contented your walk through the gardens. Jace on your tail and endless questions falling from his lips.

“how have you been?” Jace asked, pulling out your chair for you to sit.

You huffed, looking over to your far to egar nephew, a smirk pulling at your lips as you watched him nervously play with the buttons on his tunic.

“haven’t we been over this already” you spoke, before ordering a maid to bring out food.

“yes” he spoke, straightening his back, “I- it has been so long…you have changed”

You huffed once more, “so have you”

“no…I mean last time I was here you would have torn the book from my hand and thrown it into the hedges and demanded I fetch it.” He joked, his voice steadying itself, his nerves slowly evaporating.

“true” you nodded, reaching for the food placed in front of you, “perhaps my days of such things are behind me” they weren’t, but you remained calm, instead focusing on the fact that Jace had suddenly gone from the boy you always knew him to be, to suddenly having the confidence to jest about what you would so easily had done had your mother not given you a lecture about tantrums just days prior, and your stubborn self was egar to prove her otherwise.

Though his eyes were no longer fixed on you, his cheeks no longer flushed.

His eyes were instead fixed on someone else, someone you had met once before, at Driftmark.

Driftmark had marked a significant change in your life.

You had gone to mourn the loss of a cousin you had never met and watched as Aegon moaned about marrying Heleana, and Heleana mourned the loss freedom.

You yourself felt scorned, not that you wished to marry Aegon or were unhappy with your mothers blatant refusal at Rhaenrya’s request of a union between yourself and  Jace.

But instead at the fact that that day you we’re entirely ignored, your future looked over and you became nothing but a ploy, a bullet point in a plot set forth by your grandsire.

That day you had turned sixteen, a woman grown and older that both your mother and half-sister had been upon there own weddings. You instead celebrated the day with mourning, both a cousin and the loss of your brothers eye, in a fight you got the blame for.

The words ringed in your head even to this day, the blame placed on you and the scornful gazes you received from your father a man who hence forth became simply the king.

“who spoke these lies to you” the king had demanded, his voice dripping venom.

Aemond spoke your name his yes dropping with guilt as he looked at your tired face.

Having been roused from your bed and playing no part in whatever transpired you were confused and half drunk from drinking with Aegon before being ceremonially thrown in bed by your grandsire.

“me?” you mumbled confused your eyes darting to were Jace stood before you,

“and you, girl?” the king sneered his gaze turning to you “Where did you hear such calumnies?”

You looked to Aemond in shock and confusion, your mind blank as to what you should say.

Your father looked at you again, his face filled with rage and anger as he yelled your name “Tell me the truth of it!”

Looking around the room you saw everyone eyes where on you, some faces egging you on waiting for you to say the truth, others where angered, some were begging for you not to say what others wanted you too.

You looked down as you spoke “we know, father” you spoke, now looking up and gazing towards where Jace stood, his face shocked and angered, “just look at them”

The king sneered at you, his face red and angered at your words, as if what you where saying wasn’t the truth.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” he shouted, “All of you!...We are family!” he spoke, looking between you the clear division in your family. With you and your siblings stood to one side, and Rhaenyra and her children to the other, “Now make your apologies and show good will to one another…Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!”

After that day everything changed.

No longer were you the favoured child, you were now scorned and thrown to the side.

And though you hadn’t seen your nephews and half sister in near six years, the repercussions from that night seemed to haunt you.

Aemond looked at you as if you had taken his eye and your mother, though had commended you for defending your brother and herself and too pushed you aside. As if your uttering her words had caused the entire conflict.

And now they were back, and though you hated to admit it, you had been waiting for this day.

“Baela, is it?” you said speaking calmly, as she approached you and Jace.

She looked you up and down, a smirk on her lips and she looked at you.

Taking the seat beside Jace, her hand moving to grasp his in hers.

“princess” she greeted in kind, “I hadn’t expected to and Jace to be so…friendly” she spoke, her voice drawing out the word friendly.

You eyed were her hand gripped Jace, a feeling of envy taking over you.

Jace’s eyes darted between the two of you, his hand slowly pulling away from Baelas.

“why wouldn’t I be friendly, with my sweet nephew?” you said, grasping Jace’s hand in your own.

Baela sent you a glare. “my betrothed and had plans.” She stated, her eyes turning to glare at Jace, who’s eyes were focused on your hand and his.

“oh?” you teased, running your over hand up the length of Jace’s arm. “betrothed? I didn’t know.”

“well its not official-“ Jace spoke quickly.

“no but-“

“but what?” you questioned, your eyes turning to Jace, and your hand moving from the length of his arm to thigh,

He let out a gasp, “Baela, I promised my aunt lunch” he said, his voice strained, as you began to move your hand to his crotch.

She huffed, standing quickly and leaving, but not before sending you a glare that you were sure caused offers to recoil from.

Your hand moved from his crotch and pushed Jace away from you.

“Betrothed?” you questioned, voice harsh.

“its not official…I- “

“I? what? Hmm…” you interrupted, “gods your pathetic” you mumbled, and stood up.

Walking towards your chambers, Jace rushing after you.

“please, I didn’t… I’m not betrothed I begged to marry you, don’t be jealous!” he begged, as he followed you into your chambers.

“Jealous?” you said, turning around quickly. “oh you pathetic little thing.” You laughed, “you think I’m jealous of her? That I desire you so thoroughly that I would be jealous over a woman claiming to be yours?”

Jace swallowed roughly, his hand reaching for you.

“I could have anyone, I have men begging for my hand and you think that I – me a princess of the realm, would wish for some bastard as my husband?” you scoffed.

Your eyes moved down his body, your eyes focusing on the growing tent in his pants.

You laughed “you do don’t you? Oh you sweet pathetic thing” you said, moving to him and caress his cheek.

“why would I marry you? hmm? what could I possibly gain?”

His face was flushed as he spoke, ��I – am my mother heir, I will be king…you could be my queen”

“queen? Hmm I do like the sound of that” you hummed, your mouth grazing his jaw, “but still there’s you…sweet, pathetic Jace, what makes you think your worthy of me?”

His mouth dropped open as you placed soft teasing kisses to his jaw.

“Beg.” You said as you stepped back, and Jace dropped to his knees.

“please” he begged “all my life I have thought to be worthy of you…I have admired you and loved you, please…please I need you” he begged.

“good, you whispered, moving behind him and grasping his hair, pulling his head back, “now tell me how pathetic you are”

He didn’t hesitate, even when she began to kiss his neck, “I am so pathetic” he near moan “I am just a silly, pathetic bastard”

“kiss me” she muttered, moving around to kneel in front of him, and Jace wasted no time.

He moved quickly and sloppily, groaning as he tasted your lips.

You grabbed his hair and pulled him back, “so eager” you muttered, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

“please” he begged.

“do you love me?” you asked, desperate for him to say yes.

“yes, gods yes please…please I have only ever wanted you”

“you want to marry me...have me as your wife…your queen?

“yes.” He moaned.

“they’ll never agree” you whispered, even your inner thoughts were scared to admit that you wanted him to. Even though you had been taught to hate him, taught to despise him and his family, and what he was.

And yet he was the only one ever beg for your company, to choose you over everyone else, to love you.

 “unless…” you started, eyeing him slowly.

“what?” he pleaded, ever egar to make you happy.

“they catch us…in a compromising position” your voice was teasing, and yet dripped with desire of your own.

“yes…please, please” he begged, his lips hovering over yours.

Your lips took his, your mouth dominating his in your heated kiss.

Your tongue begged entry into his mouth, your tongue dominating his, as your hands gripped his tunic.

You pulled back suddenly, moving away from Jace and towards the bed, pulling your dress of as you did, leaving you in your small clothes.

They were sheer, hiding nothing.

Jace’s mouth drawled, as he crawled to were you sat against your bed.

His hand gripping your legs as you pulled up your chemise to reveal your wet heat.

“please” he begged, as he placed desperate kisses from your ankles to your thighs.

you nodded, leaning back on the bed as Jace moved to lick your slit.

He placed slow testing licks up your folds, tasting you and seeing your reaction.

You gave an encouraging moan as he moved to kiss your clit.

Focusing his attention there, you gripped his hair, letting out small moans as he pleasures you.

his fingers began to tease your whole, entering you slowly as he licked at your clit.

The intrusion caused you to moan and grip his hair harder. Your legs wrapping around his head and pushing him closer into you.

He moved to grip your thigs, and his tongue began to fuck you. You rode his face until you came with a shout, your hands gripping his hair so hard you were surprised you hadn’t ripped any out.

He pulled back from you, sitting calmly in front of you, the tent in his pants as prominent as ever. His eyes hooded in lust.

“Take off your clothes” you commanded, your own hands reaching to pull of your chemise.

He groaned and swallowed roughly at the sight. His hands hastily moving to take his own clothes of.

So egar he tripped over is own clothes as he came towards the bed.

Sitting side by side you reached for his face, pulling him into another searing kiss. Your hand moving towards his cock, giving a teasing tug as you kissed your way down his neck.

“Lay down” you ordered, and Jace willing as ever did.

You crawled over him, hovering above him as you kissed him deep and slowly, your hand reaching for his cock.

Spreading your juices along his length before you slowly eased your way down onto him.

You both moaned as you did so.

Jace’s face was tense as you moved back to sit on his cock. your hips giving a testing roll as you took in his tense nervous face.

“something wrong lord strong?” you teased, moving your hips in slow taunting circles.

“i-um..i I’ve never..”

You gasped in mock shock, “my, is my strong nephew a virgin?” you taunted, moving forward to lean over him, your lips hovering over his.

He nodded, his hands awkwardly reaching to grip your hips. “Are you?” he asked, letting out a moan as you decided to pick up the face, your hips moving faster as you lowered ne of his hands to circle your clit.

You scoffed, “when you look like me, sweet prince, and you have every man eating out the palm of your hand, do you really think id be a maid?” you said, letting out a moan as his cock began to hit that one sweet spot inside you.

“gods” you moaned, your hips moving faster. “fuck” you said, as you worked hard to reach your peak, moans emitting from your mouth, until your peak finally washed over you.

You slumped over Jace’s chest. Pressing a soft kiss to him before flipping him over.

“fuck me Jace” you ordered, your hands wrapping around his neck, and legs around his waist as he began to fuck into you with slow testing thrusts.

He started of slow, his movements erratic, before finally finding a rhyme, his cock hitting that spot inside you once more, as he tested to find your reaction with each thrust.

As is climax approached, his movements grew faster, both your moans and groans echoing the others as he fucked into you, until he finally came and filled you with his seed.

He lay on top of you for a time, breathing heavily as you cradeled him in your arms.

He looked up at you, his lips looking more kissable than ever before.

Gods, had you not known your mother wouldn’t be storming into your room at any moment, sure that your guards had quickly gone to fetch her after hearing the moans you and Jace were emitting, you might of kissed him again.

But your mother barged on in, a look of horror on her face as she took in the clothes on the floor and you and face naked on the bed, your thighs spread and displaying the product of your union dripping down your thighs.

“fetch Rhaenyra!” she demanded.

Her face angered as you and Jace lay in bed, reaching quickly for a blanket to cover you.

The argument that went down went surprisingly better than you had expected.

With your mother demanding you be married immediately, and only calling you a whore once, and with Jace begging his mother desperately for your hand. You and Jace were quickly married in the sept and Jace become more pathetic than ever after you were officially made his.

taglist

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to be added to taglist

[yandere-daydreams]

Screening: Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978).

Pairing: Yandere!Carlisle Cullen x Reader (Twilight).

Word Count: 2.1k.

TW: Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Medical Malpractice, Blood, Controlling Behavior, Deliberate Social Isolation, Misuse of Prescription Drugs, and Generalized Twilight. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

It might’ve just been the isolation getting to you, but you were starting to think that your doctor wasn’t completely human.

Not that you’d ever say so out loud. At best, it was awful thing to think about a man who’d only ever been kind to you and, at worst, it proved yet another symptom to your ever-developing, ever-worsening illness had cropped up and would need further treatment to correct. You knew better than to say things that would make you seem more sick than you already were, but it was hard to stop yourself from lingering on the idea – especially considering you only had books, sleep, and his company to pass the endless time. Admittedly, it’d been a while since you’d seen another person, but you could’ve sworn he was paler than he should’ve been, to the point of bloodlessness. He never ate or drank around you, but sometimes when he spoke, the light would catch on his teeth in a way that made them look too sharp, too prominent. You might’ve been dreaming, but once, after you took your medicine but just before you fell asleep, you swore you saw him taking the cap off of the blood sample he’d taken a few minutes prior, like he planned to do something aside from—

You heard a door open and instantly, your paranoia was dismissed in favor of more interesting stimuli. In this case, that came in the form of your doctor, Carlisle Cullen, stepping into your bedroom, an inhumanly perfect smile already painted across his inhumanly perfect lips.

…maybe you should tell somebody about your little conspiracy. If only to be absolutely sure that you were really losing your mind.

“Good morning,” he said, and it occurred to you that you hadn’t thought to check the time, yet. Your life existed in three states: alone, asleep, and with Carlisle. Only that last one really mattered – the other two could easily be lumped into the same category helpfully labeled ‘waiting for Carlisle’s next visit’. “Have you been keeping yourself busy?”

“I’ve only been awake for a couple hours,” you explained, shrugging as he took his usual seat in the chair left next to your bed. He was always polite enough to ask about the boring details of your day, and you were always embarrassed enough to skirt around just how little you had the energy for. Most of the time, it was all you could do to pull yourself out of bed and yourself to eat before retreating back into your little safe haven. On a good day, you’d be able to go for a walk, maybe respond to a few of the calls you were constantly missing, but most days weren’t very good. “Reading, mostly. Thanks again for the recommendation.”

The book he’d lent you – a dry historical drama with characters as bland as water and a plot as boring as sin – sat open on your lap, but you’d only gotten through half a chapter before giving up. It was hard to believe Carlisle was only a few years older than you, sometimes. You couldn’t imagine how someone who seemed so young could have such awful taste.

Still, he looked pleased, his pleasantly aloof expression taking on a defined note of satisfaction. “It’s important to keep your mind occupied while your body’s recovering. You wouldn’t want to waste all of my hard work by letting yourself die of boredom, now, would you?”

“No, doctor.” It was stupid to try, but he’d set himself up for it. You couldn’t seem to stop yourself, your heart beating just a little faster as you grasped blindly for the impossible. “You know, there’s this friend of mine who keeps asking when she’ll be able to visit, and I thought it might help pass the time if—”  

“You’ll have to find a way to let her down.” Carlisle’s voice was smooth, calm. You did your best not to sulk, but still, he let out a labored sigh, only a touch too professional to roll his eyes. “It’s for the best. It’s good that you stay active, but you know what’ll happen if you overexert yourself, don’t you?”

Vaguely. It was hard to remember the details of your condition, and you weren’t in the mood for another lecture. “I do, doctor.”

“And you’re going to behave your check-up, aren’t you?”

“I am, doctor.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite patient.” Your compliance was rewarded with a beaming smile, an appeased nod as he pulled his old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag into his lap. “We better make good on that promise before you change your mind, then.”

You didn’t protest. Honestly, you didn’t say much of anything. You never talked during your exam, preferring to let Carlisle go through the necessary motions with as little interference as possible. Instead, he filled the silence with mindless chatter about his children and how they were doing at the local public school, the hospital’s ongoings since you were unofficially discharged, and your favorite – Forks’ particularly colorful smalltown gossip, from the sheriff’s wayward daughter moving back into town to the spike in bear sightings on the local hiking paths. “It’ll be a busy week,” he mentioned, as he finished taking your blood pressure. “You might have some unexpected company, after all.”

At that, you perked up. You met nearly all of Carlisle’s assistants (medical students, you guessed, judging by their ages) by now, and even if you didn’t care for all of them, it was still nice to see someone other than him. Your least favorites were the dark haired twins – the wiry boy who always seemed to be biting back a smirk and the pixie-like girl who always acted like she knew something you didn’t – and you were particularly fond of the blonde girl… Rosemary, or maybe Rosaline. She was nice, compassionate, kind enough to keep you company even when Carlisle wasn’t in the room. More importantly, she brought interesting books – romance and horror, novels like Dracula and Carmilla and Interview with a Vampire, always handing over with a sweet smile and a hushed reminder not to let Carlisle know she was breaking his rules. Looking back on it, you probably shouldn’t have accepted anything she tried to give you. You would’ve hated for her to get in trouble just because she was trying to be nice.

Rather than voicing your overwhelming bias, you watched intently as he slipped the loose cuff off of your arm, tucking it back into his bag and removing something else, something long and silver and sharp. Immediately, your gaze shot back to your lap, your throat going dry in an instant. The next time you managed to spit something out, it was nearly too quiet to be audible. “…is there any chance we could, uh, I don’t know,” You paused, shrunk into yourself. “…skip the phlebotomy, this time?”

Carlisle’s answer was as swift as it was ruthless. An airy laugh, a jagged twist to this smile as he took up the needle properly and turned it over in his hand, looking for defects. It was already attached the glass syringe and, even worse, an empty vial; just a touch bigger than you remembered it being, the day before. “And take that kind of risk? How little do you think of me, (Y/n)?”

“It’s not you, it’s just—I already feel a little faint, and you take one every day, and—” You cut yourself off, inhaling sharply. “I just don’t know if it’s really necessary. Considering how careful you are and everything.”

“You’re right, I am careful. Which is exactly why I have to do this each and every time I come to see you.” He sighed, shook his head – suddenly more of a patronizing, paternal figure than any kind of medical professional, let alone peer. “You understand, don’t you? Without regular testing, your condition may worsen, and if you get any sicker than you are now…” You stiffened as he trailed off, bracing yourself. You knew what came next, what always came next.

“You’ll have to go back to the hospital, angel.”

It was strange, how a voice as smooth and as beautiful as his could be so difficult to listen to.

You didn’t like Carlisle. You hated his condescending smile, his repetitive rambling, his terrible taste in books and his creepy little students. You hated how little he let you do, how he talked about your illness – always skirting around the details, never giving you enough information to know whether you were on the verge of dying or a few days away from making a full recovery. No, when you were honest with yourself, you didn’t like him. Hated him, even.

But you couldn’t go back to the hospital, with its blank white walls and sobbing patients and strange, mind-altering drugs that put your sleep and made you feel like someone was biting into your throat. It’d been a miracle when Carlisle first told you about his domestic services, when he offered to have you discharged in exchange for only the promise that you wouldn’t seek care that didn’t come from him. Arrangements were made, your rent and bills taken over by some nameless, faceless local charity, and for the first time in months, you got to go home. You could live with Carlisle and his once weekly, now daily check-ups. You could live with the fact that you didn’t remember the last time you’d gotten to make a decision for yourself.

And, if you had to, you could live with paying for your freedom in blood, too. As long as it meant you didn’t have to go back to that terrible place.

Once again, you didn’t say anything, but you didn’t resist as he sighed and ran a sterilizing pad over your forearm, the antibiotic strong enough to burn. You clenched your eyes shut, but that did nothing to block out the feeling of a thin elastic band being wrapped around the crook of your elbow, of his needle pushing through your skin and burrowing into the vein underneath it. There was a second of pressure, of knotted soreness, and then, the syringe was gone and you were left feeling just a little colder, just a little more empty than you had before.

Even after opening your eyes, you kept them trained on your lap. You easily could’ve spent the rest of his visit in silence, but metal clinked against glass as he rushed to cap his vial and suddenly, you needed to hear the sound of your own voice. “I think I might be getting paranoid,” you managed, with a breath of a laugh. “For a few minutes this morning, I was able to convince myself that you were… I don’t know, an alien studying humanity, or something.”

“If I was, I’m sure that I would still pick you as the best possible specimen for my examination.” It was hollow comfort, but you smiled anyway, nodding along. Your medication came next, in the form of a small, chalky white pill that you still struggled to swallow under Carlisle’s vigilant gaze. You managed to choke it down, though, and as always, the effects were instant; a sudden clearness, blankness, followed shortly by an exhaustion so thick and so heavy, you couldn’t remember what it’d ever felt like not to be tired. You tried to hold yourself up, but faltered – buckling under your own weight. Carlisle chuckled as he caught you, helping you lay down with a soft squeeze to your shoulder, a feather-light kiss to the top of your head. “Sleep, angel. It’s good for you.” And then, his grin still pressing into your scalp. “And try not to dream about vampires, this time.”

So he did know about Rosalie’s books. Pouting, you shrunk into yourself, letting him drag the comforter over your abruptly immobile body as your eyes eased shut, as he pulled away – a vial of your blood still warm in his hand. It would’ve been impossible to stop yourself from falling asleep, but you managed to stave off unconscious long enough to watch him remove the vial’s carefully applied seal, to unscrew the air-tight cap with the kind of tenderness you’d only seen him use while taking your temperature or petting his fingers through your hair after he thought you were already too far gone to remember. He did a lot of things when he thought you weren’t looking, didn’t he? You’d never really noticed that, before.

Through your eyelashes, you watched him bring the vial to his lips before everything went dark.

[rose24207]

Can I request something where reader and Mafia Lando are together and Reader gets like sick, and she brakes up with him because she doesn’t want to burden him with her sickness and she also doesn’t want him to be sad because of her but Lando figures it out when he looks into what she’s been doing and he gets suspicious when his guys tell him that readers been going to the hospital a lot. He also looks into her finances and sees she’s making big payment and when he finds out about her sickness he confronts reader at her apartment and she tells him but he promises to be there for her and to pay for the best treatment.

In sickness and in secrets

Summary: When you break up with Lando to protect him from your illness, he uncovers the truth, confronts you, and promises to stay by your side, ensuring you receive the best care and his unwavering love.

Genre: Mafia!Lando, angst, fluff

TW: sickness, breaking up

A/N: English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The first time you met Lando Norris, it was in the most unconventional way possible—at the end of a loaded gun. You had stumbled into his life purely by accident, an unwitting witness to a deal gone wrong. Instead of pulling the trigger, though, Lando had taken one look at you, decided you weren’t a threat, and walked away.

That was two years ago. Now, you couldn’t imagine a world without him. The enigmatic and sharp-witted leader of an underground empire, Lando had always treated you with a rare tenderness that seemed at odds with his dangerous reputation. He was your safe harbor, your anchor in a stormy world.

But life had a cruel sense of humor.

When you’d first started feeling unwell, you had brushed it off as stress. It wasn’t until the symptoms worsened—intense fatigue, frequent headaches, and moments where your body simply didn’t seem to cooperate—that you finally sought medical advice. The diagnosis hit you like a freight train: a rare autoimmune disease, one that would require extensive treatment, medication, and constant management.

Your world crumbled, and with it, so did your relationship with Lando.

“You’re breaking up with me?” Lando’s voice was sharp, laced with disbelief as he stared at you across the living room of his penthouse.

You stood with your arms wrapped around yourself, the weight of the decision pressing down on you like a physical force. “It’s for the best, Lando.”

“For the best?” His brows furrowed, anger simmering beneath his calm façade. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Y/N. What’s really going on?”

“I just... I can’t do this anymore,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can’t be in your world. It’s too much.”

His jaw clenched, his piercing eyes scanning your face for the truth you weren’t telling. “After two years, you’re just realizing that?”

You bit your lip, tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough.” Lando took a step closer, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can fix it.”

You shook your head, your heart breaking as you turned away. “Not this time, Lando.”

He reached out, but you were already walking out the door.

For weeks, Lando tried to respect your decision, though it ate away at him. You had been his constant, the only person who saw past the walls he’d built around himself. He couldn’t fathom why you’d left so suddenly, especially when everything between you had seemed perfect.

When his men started reporting that you’d been visiting the hospital frequently, his suspicions grew. Lando was a man who thrived on control, and the lack of answers gnawed at him.

It wasn’t just the hospital visits. He’d had your finances investigated—a move that left him feeling slightly guilty, though he justified it by telling himself it was for your protection. What he found made his blood run cold. Large, frequent payments to a private medical facility.

Something was wrong.

The knock on your apartment door startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone, least of all *him*. But when you opened the door and saw Lando standing there, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of anger and concern, your stomach sank.

“We need to talk,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You stepped aside, your heart pounding as he walked into the small living room. He looked out of place in the modest space, his tailored suit and commanding presence a stark contrast to the worn furniture and cluttered coffee table.

“How did you—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, turning to face you. “Don’t lie to me, Y/N. I know something’s going on. The hospital visits, the payments—what’s wrong?”

You froze, panic rising in your chest. “Lando, I—”

“Tell me,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “I know you. I know this isn’t about me or my world. So stop pushing me away and tell me the truth.”

You swallowed hard, tears welling in your eyes. There was no point in lying anymore. “I’m sick, Lando.”

His expression softened instantly, the anger draining from his face. “Sick? How?”

You sank onto the couch, your hands trembling as you explained. “I have an autoimmune disease. It’s... it’s not curable, but it’s manageable with treatment. It’s expensive, though, and it’s going to take a toll on me physically. I didn’t want to burden you with it.”

Lando sat down beside you, his eyes locked on yours. “Burden me? Is that what you think this is?”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered. “And I didn’t want you to feel like you had to take care of me. You have enough to deal with already.”

He reached out, cupping your face gently. “You’re not a burden, Y/N. You could never be a burden.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I didn’t want you to be sad because of me. I didn’t want you to watch me struggle.”

Lando’s thumb brushed away your tears as he leaned closer. “You don’t get to decide that for me. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. And if you’re struggling, then we’ll struggle together. I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a choked sob, leaning into his touch. “Lando, I—”

“No,” he said firmly, his voice steady. “No more pushing me away. No more secrets. I’m going to take care of you, whether you like it or not. And don’t even think about arguing, because you know I’ll win.”

Despite the tears, you let out a shaky laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “We’ll get through this, Y/N. I’ll make sure you have the best treatment, the best doctors—whatever you need. You’re not doing this alone.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest began to lift. Lando’s unwavering determination and love gave you a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to face this battle alone.

True to his word, Lando spared no expense in ensuring you received the best care possible. He accompanied you to appointments, held your hand during difficult moments, and made it his mission to keep you smiling even on the hardest days.

The world might have painted Lando Norris as a cold, ruthless leader, but you knew the truth. Beneath the tough exterior was a man who loved fiercely and unconditionally.

And as you sat together one evening, his arms wrapped around you as you watched the city lights from his penthouse, you realized that no illness could take away the bond you shared.

With Lando by your side, you knew you could face anything.

Thank you for reading!

[pineconepie]

Platonic yandere doctor? Like he’s had his little for a while but he’s just fed up with them trying to leave so he uses a more permanent solution to the problem of them trying to run away (take that as you will)

I hope this is good!! Its slightly different than what you asked, but if people want I cand make a part two of them trying to escape!

TW: Platonic/parental yandere, drugging, gaslighting, kidnapping, infantilization, slight ableism(?), psychiatric wards

...

You've been seeing Dr. Warren as your doctor for... wow, how long has it been? Several years now. He's always been a kind guy, and sometimes he'd break past that overly polite, professional demeanor and let his soft spot for you shine through.

You liked that about him.

Sometimes, when there wasn't anybody in the waiting room but you two, he would kneel down to give you a little toy while you waited, usually one of those plastic eggs filled with surprise toys or jingling keys or something like that.

You always thought it was a little strange how the doctor was giving you children's toys, but you tried not to overthink it.

There were some other weird things you tried to overlook, but recently it was getting harder to do so.

Warren would always prescribe you medications for all kinds of things, and every single one of them made your mind feel numb. Like static, almost.

Your appointments became very regular, as well. At least once a week, even if nothing felt wrong.

And he'd give you a little plastic medicine bottle filled with gummy vitamins every time you went in.

You started to notice how instead of actually checking your health, he'd cuddle by your side and just ask how your day went, almost acting more like an over-caring therapist... which, he did technically have his degree in both psychology and medicine, but still, the lack of any medical care was suspicious, especially coming from the usually very professional doctor.

"Um, Doctor Warren?" you nervously ask, fiddling with the toy he gave you today, a little green caterpillar with bright colors on its back.

"Hm? What is it?" he asks while marking a few things off on his clipboard.

"Well, uh..." you swallow down a lump in your throat as you work up the courage to ask this. "I've noticed that our sessions lately haven't been productive. And the medications you give me make me worse. I wasn't even having a lot of issues until I started taking them. It's like they just make my mind foggy... and I always feel so sleepy, and my coordination is off..."

"Those are just the side effects," he reassures. "That's why I wanted you to come see me regularly; to track any changes or side effects."

"But I don't think the side effects are worth it. And these constant check-ups are annoying, no offense," you mutter.

"None taken," he says calmly. "The check-ups are for your benefit."

"Yeah, but..." You rub the nape of your neck. "I think I want to see a different doctor... if that's okay."

Suddenly, the warm aura radiating from him grows cold as the man glares at you, dark eyes sending a chill down your spine.

"Do you trust other doctors more than me?" His voice comes out icy, stinging you like cold water.

Your heart pounds. You open your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again.

"(Y/n). You're mentally and physically ill. Your judgement is too clouded by your conditions that you can't recognize proper care. I'm trying to help you get better. Can't you see that?" He runs a hand through his hair. "You need constant monitoring, love. I'd consider yourself lucky I haven't put you in inpatient care." His expression changes, like a light bulb goes off in his head. "Actually, would you prefer that?"

"No, of course not!" you cry out. "Please don't-"

"Why shouldn't I? It's for your own safety," he says matter-of-factly. "You can't even tell what's good or bad for you. Your condition is worsening."

"Because of the medication," you retort.

"That's just the side effects. I explained this already."

"Why would medicine that's supposed to cure me make me worse?!" you yell. Tears well up in your eyes. "Why won't you listen to me?!"

He looks like a parent dealing with their crying toddler; confused yet confident they'll get over it eventually. "Hmm... I think you need a nap."

"A nap? What, am I in timeout now?" You fold your arms across your chest like a pouting child, realizing a little too late how funny the doctor probably finds the gesture.

Warren gets out some medical supplies: a needle and a vial. Filling the syringe with a clear liquid from the small container, he turns towards you and grins menacingly. "This'll only take a moment..."

Before you can stand up and try to run away, he plunges the needle into your arm.

You cry out and flinch away, but not before all of the syringe's contents empty inside you. He holds you against him, shushing softly in your ear as you sob until suddenly your eyelids grow heavy.

He keeps you firmly tucked in his grip, and you find that you're unable to move, paralyzed by whatever substance he injected into you.

As soon as he sees you drifting off, he lies you on the bed and rushes out, yelling something that sounds too far away to hear.

...

When you wake up, you see white walls all around you. Blinking your eyes, you look down at your clothes to see an outfit totally different from what you had been wearing when you were in Warren's office. This looks more like hospital garb.

Speaking of which, where was Warren?

Turning your head weakly to the right, you notice you're attached to a heart monitor, the wires running to sensors on your chest and fingers.

You struggle to prop yourself up and sit properly on the bed.

Warren walks into the room. "Good morning! Or, should I say good afternoon?" he smiles teasingly, closing the door behind him. "How are we feeling?"

"I'm feeling like you drugged me! What am I doing here?!" Your throat feels like its on fire, but you continue trying to speak regardless. "Can't you talk to me without having me admitted to a hospital?! Oh god- please don't tell me I'm in the psychiatric ward..."

"You are in the psychiatric ward, yes," he confirms smoothly. "But don't worry. I pulled a few strings to make sure you got the best care." His voice dips into something softer, almost affectionate. "I even had them set up a private room for you. No noisy roommates, no prying eyes—just me, looking out for you."

A chill runs down your spine. This isn't normal. This is too far.

"For what? Telling you I wanted to see a different doctor? For wanting to get off my meds?!" You glare.

He doesn't seem too bothered, pulling out a clipboard. "Well, it says on your chart you attacked me with scissors during our last meeting when I wouldn't give you prescription opioids. That's pretty serious."

"WHAT?!" Your jaw drops. "You liar! That never happened!"

Warren feigns worry. "Oh, sweetheart..." He caresses the side of your face. "You poor thing. Those delusions have you again, huh?" He shakes his head. "I don't know how to tell you this... but you have a problem. A very, very severe one. Which is why you need constant surveillance from someone trained to handle people with your particular condition."

You blink away tears blurring your vision. "This is crazy. You can't do this to me."

"Baby, I'm not 'doing' anything. This was all in your best interests." Warren moves closer to you, rubbing circles into your skin. "You're sick, (Y/n). I've been your doctor for multiple years now. Why would I lie about this?"

You sob harder. You want to believe him so bad.

You trust him, and it's always been easier to follow along with his suggestions rather than try to fight or argue back, but...

"You like treating me as if I'm a baby. Does that have anything to do with this? Or why the medications you've given me make me feel like I'm regressing into a toddler every day?" you spit out bitterly.

He sighs. "That's because you have the obvious mentality of one. The regression isn't a result of the drugs, (Y/n). It's your disorder acting up." He pushes some strands of hair out of your face. "If it helps any, I like taking care of you. Really, I do. I've never considered myself a parental person until I met you. You need me, just as much as I need to be needed by someone else. Like you."

"I'll tell everyone you basically kidnapped me," you threaten. "They can look on the security cameras for proof I didn't do anything!"

He clicks his tongue, chuckling. "I might have accidentally deleted the security footage from the day. Oops," he adds innocently. He kisses your forehead. "Now, get some rest, kiddo. Papa will check on you in an hour. And please don't try anything bad while I'm gone; otherwise, we'd have to add assaulting an orderly or nurse onto your file... We really don't want that, do we?"

All you can do is stare dumbly up at him as the words sink in.

Yes, Warren could definitely get in trouble for this... but who's going to believe you when you've been labeled a danger to yourself and others with a laundry list of mental health disorders, prescribed enough pills to tranquilize an elephant daily?

No one.

He leaves with a final, "Be good," shutting the door with a soft thump, leaving you alone, staring after him long after he's gone.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Bound by Affection Part 2

Emperor Geta x healer!reader x Emperor Caracalla

Warnings: Fluff, rivalry between siblings, Caracalla being sick and more himself from the movie

Authors Note: this is now based off of what we see pretty much in gladiator 2. I know the first one wasn’t the Geta and Caracalla we know, but this one is more like the Geta and Caracalla We know now

Masterlist | Previous 

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+  

The balance within the palace was fragile, each day bringing new challenges that deepened the complexity of your relationship with the two emperors. The shifts in their behavior were subtle at first, but you noticed the cracks forming beneath the surface.  

Caracalla’s once-boundless energy had waned. He still sought your company, his charm as sharp as ever, but there was a heaviness in his steps, a pallor to his skin that he couldn’t hide. His free-spirited nature was giving way to moments of brooding reflection, his illness creeping into every aspect of his life.  

“Don’t fuss,” he muttered one evening as you pressed a cool cloth to his fevered brow. His voice was weaker than usual, though he tried to mask it with a smirk. “You’ll spoil me, and then I’ll never let you leave.”  

“You’re in no position to argue,” you replied softly, brushing damp curls from his forehead.  

He sighed, his hand catching yours and holding it in place. “If you leave, the palace will turn to stone, and I’ll be the first to crumble.”  

The vulnerability in his voice broke your heart, and you leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Caracalla.”  

Across the palace, Geta was changing too. The carefree, charming young man who had once filled the halls with laughter now carried himself with a quiet strength. He had taken on more responsibilities, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the tension brewing around him.  

One afternoon, as you found him in the library poring over scrolls, you couldn’t help but notice the shadows beneath his eyes.  

“You’ve been working too hard,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.  

He looked up, his hazel eyes softening at the sight of you. “Someone has to, especially now.”  

“You don’t have to bear it all alone,” you reminded him.  

He reached for your hand, his touch grounding. “I know. You’ve been my anchor through all of this. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  

---  

The turning point came one fateful evening when the three of you sat in the palace gardens, the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. Caracalla leaned heavily against you, his energy waning despite his efforts to hide it. Geta sat across from you, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.  

“I hate this,” Caracalla muttered, his frustration palpable. “Being weak. Being watched. Every moment, people waiting for me to fall.”  

“No one’s waiting for you to fall,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.  

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, though the anger in his voice faltered as he looked at you. “Not you.”  

Geta’s gaze shifted between you both, his jaw tightening. “You’re not weak, brother. You’re just human.”  

Caracalla scoffed, though there was no real venom in his tone. “And you? Are you human, Geta? Or have you already ascended to perfection?”  

The jab hung in the air, but Geta didn’t rise to it. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice steady. “I’m doing what I have to, for Rome and for us. I suggest you do the same.”  

Caracalla’s laughter was bitter. “Spoken like a man who’s never felt the weight of mortality.”  

You squeezed Caracalla’s hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re both carrying different burdens, but that doesn’t mean you have to face them alone. I’m here for you—for both of you.”  

Geta’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the tension dissolved. “You’re too good to us,” he murmured.  

---  

As the weeks passed, Caracalla’s condition worsened, his sharp tongue and unpredictable moods becoming more pronounced. There were days when he barely left his chambers, his illness sapping him of the vitality he once wielded so freely.  

Geta, meanwhile, grew more composed, his presence a calming force in the palace. He had stepped into the role of leader with a grace that belied his youth, though the strain was evident in the quiet moments he shared with you.  

One evening, as you found yourself alone with Geta in the gardens, he finally let his mask slip.  

“I’m losing him,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You placed a hand on his arm, your touch steadying. “He’s still here, Geta. And he needs you now more than ever.”  

“I’m not sure I’m strong enough,” he confessed, his hazel eyes clouded with doubt.  

“You are,” you said firmly. “I’ve seen it in the way you’ve cared for him, for Rome, for me. You’re stronger than you know.”  

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around you as though you were his lifeline. “Don’t let me fall, amica mea.”  

“You won’t,” you promised, your voice muffled against his chest. “I’ll hold you up, just as you’ve held me.”  

---  

The palace was a different place now, the once vibrant halls shrouded in a somber quiet. But amidst the challenges, the bond between you, Geta, and Caracalla grew stronger, forged in the fire of shared struggles.  

Caracalla, even in his weakened state, refused to let go of his playful charm entirely. On one rare good day, he cornered you in the library, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  

“Tell me,” he said, leaning against the table, “what did I ever do to deserve someone like you?”  

“You mean besides being endlessly stubborn and impossible to deal with?” you teased, earning a weak laugh from him.  

“Exactly,” he said, his grin faltering as he looked at you. “You could have walked away a hundred times by now, but you stayed. Why?”  

“Because I care about you,” you said simply. “Both of you.”  

“And we’ll never let you regret it,” Geta said, stepping into the room and resting a hand on your shoulder. His calm presence was a stark contrast to Caracalla’s fiery energy, but together, they balanced each other—and you.  

As you stood between them, you knew that despite the challenges ahead, your bond was unbreakable.  

---  

The empire was shifting. Whispers of discontent stirred in the Senate halls, and the weight of leadership pressed heavily upon the two brothers. With each passing day, the strain on their relationship grew, their once-shared camaraderie fraying at the edges.  

Caracalla’s illness worsened, his temper becoming as unpredictable as a storm. His moments of charm and levity were fewer, replaced by bouts of frustration and melancholy. Yet, in his rare good moods, he was still the same man who could make you laugh with a sly comment or warm your heart with a fleeting touch.  

Geta, meanwhile, was transforming before your eyes. The carefree dreamer had hardened into a composed and calculating leader, his every action measured and deliberate. His affection for you remained constant, but his moments of vulnerability became rarer, hidden behind a mask of imperial duty.  

---  

One night, you found Caracalla in his chambers, staring out at the city. The soft glow of oil lamps illuminated his pale features, and the tremor in his hands as he gripped the windowsill did not escape your notice.  

“Caracalla,” you said softly, stepping into the room.  

He didn’t turn, his voice bitter as he spoke. “The city sleeps, unaware of how fragile it all is. They praise us as gods, but look at me. A god who can’t even stand without trembling.”  

You approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re no less powerful because of this illness. Your strength isn’t just in your body—it’s in your spirit, your will.”  

He turned then, his dark eyes searching yours. “And what happens when the will fades too? When all that’s left is a hollow shell?”  

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over his skin. “Then you lean on the people who love you. You’re not alone in this, Caracalla. I won’t let you face it alone.”  

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the vulnerable boy he once was peeked through the cracks. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured. “Too good for either of us.”  

---  

Geta, ever the steadying force, had thrown himself into his duties with relentless determination. He spent long hours in the Senate, navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics with a sharp mind and unwavering resolve.  

You found him late one evening, still seated at his desk, scrolls and reports spread before him. His head rested in his hand, exhaustion etched into his features.  

“Geta,” you said gently, setting a cup of wine beside him. “You need to rest.”  

He looked up, his hazel eyes weary but warm as they met yours. “There’s too much to do. Rome doesn’t wait.”  

“Rome needs you strong, not burnt out,” you replied, taking his hand and tugging him away from the desk.  

He allowed you to guide him to the couch, his resistance half-hearted. “You’re the only one who can talk sense into me, amica mea.”  

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, earning a faint smile from him.  

As he leaned back, his head resting against the cushions, you sat beside him, your fingers brushing through his curls. He closed his eyes, his shoulders relaxing under your touch.  

“Sometimes I envy him,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost lost in the silence of the room.  

“Caracalla?” you asked, surprised.  

“He still has you to distract him,” Geta said, his tone tinged with sadness. “I’ve buried myself so deeply in this role that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to just be... me.”  

“You haven’t lost yourself,” you assured him. “You’ve grown, yes, but the man I care about is still here, behind all the responsibility. And I’m not going anywhere, Geta. You don’t have to face this alone.”  

He reached for your hand, holding it tightly. “You’re my light in all of this. Without you, I’d be lost.”  

---  

The tension between the brothers reached a boiling point during a Senate meeting. Caracalla’s fiery temper clashed with Geta’s calculated calmness, their differing visions for Rome threatening to tear them apart. You intervened before their argument could escalate further, pulling them aside into a private chamber.  

“This has to stop,” you said firmly, looking between them. “You’re both fighting for the same thing—a stronger Rome. You’ll never achieve that if you keep tearing each other down.”  

Geta’s jaw tightened. “He refuses to see reason. His impulsiveness endangers everything we’ve worked for.”  

Caracalla scoffed, his tone biting. “And your obsession with control makes you blind to anything outside your narrow vision.”  

“Enough!” you snapped, startling them both. “You’re brothers. You’ve been through too much together to let this divide you.”  

They fell silent, their gazes turning to you.  

“I love you both,” you continued, your voice softening. “But I can’t watch you destroy each other. You’re stronger together than apart. Find a way to make this work, for Rome and for yourselves.”  

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, and slowly, they both nodded.  

---  

That night, the three of you sat together in the gardens, the tension from earlier giving way to a tentative peace. Geta poured wine for all of you, his movements precise and deliberate, while Caracalla leaned against you, his head resting on your shoulder.  

“We’ll find a way,” Geta said quietly, his hazel eyes meeting yours.  

“We will,” Caracalla echoed, his voice laced with determination.  

You smiled, hope blossoming in your chest. Despite the challenges ahead, you knew that as long as you stood together, you could face anything.  

--- 

The palace had become a volatile place, the air thick with unspoken tension. Caracalla’s illness, far from softening him, had hardened his demeanor. The playful charm he once wielded so effortlessly had given way to a sharper edge, his words cutting and his temper volatile. He moved through the halls like a storm, demanding absolute loyalty from those around him.  

You found him one evening in the atrium, pacing like a caged animal. His tunic hung loosely on his frame, a testament to his deteriorating health, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity.  

“Caracalla,” you called gently, stepping into the room.  

He turned sharply, his expression unreadable. “What is it now? Come to lecture me, like Geta?”  

You took a cautious step forward, your voice calm. “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here because I care about you.”  

His laugh was bitter, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Care? You care for a dying man who can barely command his own body, let alone an empire?”  

“You’re still the same man I’ve always cared for,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze.  

He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching yours. “Then prove it. Stay by my side. When they whisper about my failures, remind them who I am.”  

“Caracalla,” you murmured, reaching out to touch his arm.  

He caught your hand, his grip firm. “Do you love me?”  

The rawness of his question took you by surprise. “Of course I do,” you replied without hesitation.  

His expression softened, if only for a moment, before the hardness returned. “Then don’t pity me. Stand with me as my equal, not as my nursemaid.”  

---  

Geta, on the other hand, had become a beacon of stability in the chaos. His calm, measured approach to leadership was a stark contrast to Caracalla’s fiery unpredictability. Yet even he could not mask the strain of their growing rift.  

You found him in the Senate chambers late one evening, his head bowed over a map of Rome. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face.  

“Still at it?” you asked, stepping beside him.  

He looked up, his hazel eyes weary. “Someone has to clean up the mess he leaves behind.”  

“Geta…” you began, but he shook his head.  

“I’m not blind to what’s happening,” he said quietly. “He’s slipping, and I can’t reach him. Every decision he makes pushes us further apart.”  

“He’s scared,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.  

Geta sighed, leaning into your touch. “Fear doesn’t excuse recklessness. Rome can’t survive on fear alone.”  

“You’re both stronger together,” you reminded him. “Find a way to bridge this gap before it’s too late.”  

He reached for your hand, his grip warm and steady. “I don’t know if it’s possible anymore. But for you, I’ll try.”  

---  

The fracture between the brothers reached a breaking point during a meeting with the Senate. Caracalla’s impatience boiled over, his temper erupting as he dismissed the senators’ concerns with a wave of his hand.  

“Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. “I am not here to beg for your approval. I am Rome. You will follow my commands or face the consequences.”  

The room fell silent, the senators exchanging uneasy glances. Geta, seated beside him, spoke calmly. “They are not your enemies, Caracalla. They are our allies, and we must treat them as such.”  

Caracalla turned to his brother, his expression cold. “Allies? They are vultures, circling for scraps. Don’t mistake their flattery for loyalty.”  

The tension was palpable, and you intervened before the situation could escalate further.  

“Enough,” you said firmly, stepping between them. “This isn’t the time or place for this.”  

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you, his jaw tight. “Stay out of this.”  

“I won’t,” you replied, your voice unwavering. “You’re brothers, not enemies. If you tear each other apart, Rome will fall with you.”  

Geta rose from his seat, his tone measured but firm. “She’s right. We can’t afford to let our differences destroy everything we’ve built.”  

Caracalla’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes.  

---  

Later that evening, you found Caracalla in the baths, his expression distant as he gazed at the water’s surface. You sat beside him, the silence between you heavy.  

“Do you ever wish things were different?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft.  

“All the time,” you admitted.  

He turned to you, his vulnerability laid bare. “I don’t want to lose him, or you. But I don’t know how to stop this spiral.”  

“You start by trusting us,” you said, taking his hand in yours. “We’re not your enemies, Caracalla. We’re your family.”  

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening. “I don’t deserve you.”  

“You deserve more than you think,” you replied, leaning closer.  

---  

Meanwhile, Geta sought solace in your presence, his moments of vulnerability growing more frequent. One evening, as you shared a quiet moment in the gardens, he spoke of his fears.  

“I’ve always admired him,” Geta confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “His fire, his determination. But now, I wonder if that fire will burn us all.”  

“It won’t,” you said firmly. “Because you’ll be there to temper it, just as he tempers your reserve. Together, you balance each other.”  

He looked at you, his hazel eyes filled with gratitude. “And you balance us both. Without you, I don’t know where we’d be.”  

---  

The path ahead was uncertain, the weight of their roles as emperors pressing heavily upon them. Yet, as the three of you stood together, you knew that love—complex and imperfect as it was—would be your guiding light through the storm.  

---

The shift in Caracalla’s demeanor had grown sharper, and the palace felt it. He moved with a predator’s confidence, his steps echoing through the halls as servants scrambled to avoid his gaze. Power radiated from him, but so did a sense of chaos. His illness, now a public secret, didn’t weaken him in the eyes of others—it made him all the more dangerous, as if compensating for his failing body with sheer force of will.  

In stark contrast, Geta embodied a quiet stability. Where Caracalla demanded, Geta negotiated; where Caracalla ruled by fear, Geta sought respect. Yet even he was changing, his patience thinning under the weight of his brother’s antics and the empire’s demands. The only thing that kept their growing animosity from boiling over was you.  

---  

One evening, Caracalla summoned you to his private quarters. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the brazier in the corner. He stood by the window, gazing out at the city with a glass of wine in his hand.  

“Do you know why I called for you?” he asked without turning around.  

“I have an idea,” you replied, keeping your tone light.  

He turned then, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Do you?”  

There was an edge to his voice, a challenge in his gaze. You stepped closer, undeterred. “You’re testing me.”  

He smirked, the expression both cruel and amused. “I test everyone. Why should you be any different?”  

“Because I’m not just anyone,” you replied firmly.  

He set the glass down, closing the distance between you in a few swift strides. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice low. “You’re the one thing in this entire empire I can’t control, and it drives me mad.”  

Your breath hitched as his hand came up to cup your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “But I don’t want to control you,” he continued. “I want you to stand beside me. To remind me that I’m not just a tyrant, even if that’s what they all see.”  

“You’re more than that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.  

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “Stay with me tonight. I need you.”  

---  

Across the palace, Geta sat alone in the gardens, the cool night air doing little to soothe the storm within him. When you found him, his expression was distant, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.  

“Geta,” you said softly, sitting beside him.  

He didn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the fountain ahead. “I envy him,” he admitted after a long silence.  

“Why?”  

“He takes what he wants without hesitation,” Geta said, his voice laced with bitterness. “Meanwhile, I hesitate, I overthink, and I lose. Not just power, but… you.”  

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You reached out, placing a hand over his. “You haven’t lost me.”  

He turned to you then, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of hope and doubt. “Haven’t I? Every time I see you with him, I wonder if there’s any room left for me.”  

“There’s always room for you,” you said firmly, leaning closer. “You and your brother may be opposites, but you both have a place in my heart.”  

His hand tightened around yours, and for the first time in days, a faint smile crossed his lips. “You’re the only thing that keeps me grounded in all of this.”  

---  

The tension between the brothers finally erupted during a council meeting. Caracalla’s temper flared as he dismissed one of Geta’s proposals with a wave of his hand.  

“Your caution will be the death of Rome,” Caracalla sneered.  

“And your recklessness will destroy it faster,” Geta shot back, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.  

The senators exchanged nervous glances, clearly uncomfortable with the brewing conflict. You stood at the edge of the room, your heart pounding as the argument escalated.  

“This isn’t about Rome,” Caracalla snarled, stepping closer to his brother. “This is about you wanting to prove you’re better than me.”  

“I don’t need to prove anything,” Geta replied, his calm façade cracking. “Your actions speak for themselves.”  

“Enough!” you interjected, stepping between them. “This is not the time or place for this.”  

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you, his anger momentarily replaced by something softer. “You’re defending him?”  

“I’m defending both of you,” you said firmly. “You’re brothers. If you can’t find a way to work together, Rome will tear itself apart.”  

Geta’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “She’s right. We need to set aside our differences.”  

Caracalla hesitated, his pride warring with his affection for you. Finally, he sighed, stepping back. “For now.”  

---  

That night, the three of you sat together in the atrium, the tension from earlier still lingering but softened by the shared bottle of wine. Caracalla leaned back against a column, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light, while Geta sat beside you, his presence steady and comforting.  

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we weren’t emperors?” Geta asked suddenly, his voice thoughtful.  

“All the time,” Caracalla replied, surprising both of you. He looked at you then, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “But if I weren’t emperor, would I still have you?”  

“You’d have me no matter what,” you said, your voice filled with conviction.  

“And me?” Geta asked quietly.  

You turned to him, taking his hand in yours. “Always.”  

Caracalla smirked, though there was no malice in it. “She’s too good for us, Geta.”  

“Maybe,” Geta replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.  

As the night wore on, the three of you sat in comfortable silence, the weight of the empire momentarily forgotten. For now, you were just three souls bound by love, trying to navigate a world that demanded too much of all of you.  

Previous 

Hope you enjoyed it! Please consider liking and reposting! – Midnight💜 

[ps-cactus]

Headcanons for the Gaunts in the early 1890s

...and for Ominis staying at the Gaunt Manor, a place he calls "there."

Disclaimer: These are headcanons that work for me in my writing (recently posted a chapter of Ominis at home and my head nearly exploded of everything I had to keep in mind for that, so I'm 'clearing my storage') Of course I don't expect these will work for everyone.

CWs: Any you would expect from these people. Primarily - Toxic Family Dynamics, different forms of Abuse. General darkness.

The Gaunts

General

The family is still recognized for their pureblood lineage, but they're far less financially comfortable than they'd like people to believe. They rely on old connections rather than building new ones.

They had some issues with Aurors, with certain conflicts becoming personal for a while. Investigations have put more pressure on the family and forced them to spend a lot of money buying their way out of trouble.

Other pureblood families are growing more hesitant to marry into the Gaunt line—especially when it comes to the Gaunt sons.

Innate abilities, in addition to Parseltongue, can include Legilimency and/or Occlumency. More about Ominis in his section below.

The transition to Parseltongue can be unconscious, reflexive response to hearing it.

Ivraxus Gaunt (Father)

Works at the Ministry, Department of International Magical Co-operation, the International Magical Trading Standards Body, handling inspections, audits, and licensing. He will last there few more years while his 'friends' let him.

While he maintains a polished front at work and formal gatherings, his methods at home are far harsher, relying on intimidation to keep others in line.

He arranges (or tries to arrange) marriages for his children to maintain sacred alliances.

His wife’s declining health disturbs him—not out of love, but fear. Her loss would represent the crumbling of his already fragile household and it reminds him of his own eventual end. This fear alternates between withdrawal and bursts of anger.

Disapproves of Ominis holding a wand in his hand unless it is absolutely necessary for navigation.

He has a collection of expensive firewhiskeys and usually drinks after work.

Merope Gaunt (Mother)

Her voice is frail and ghostly, and her presence seems to fade into the background. Chronically ill all her life, and her health worsened with every child she bore. She was unable to have more children after Ominis.

She never blames her children in her state and avoids conflict at all costs—not even for her children’s sake, but to protect herself.

If some fight breaks out, she leaves, never offering comfort to anyone involved.

If forced (typically by her husband, if he’s busy) to intervene, she will do the bare minimum to diffuse tension before hurrying away. She prefers to turn away and forget.

Yes, Marvolo named his daughter after her. No, he never loved either of them.

Marvolo Gaunt (Older Brother) sighs

Volatile and aggressive, quick to issue threats or escalate conflicts.

Since graduation, he’s spent much of his time abroad; because of this, he didn’t meet Ominis for a year and a half.

Engaged to Miss Burke, he shows no real interest in the marriage but never opposes it. It’s possible he has feelings for someone else.

He was openly hostile to Ominis from the moment his younger brother was born, seeing him as competition for attention. Marvolo also felt unnerved by Ominis' perceived 'abnormality,' a term whispered frequently at home.

Korentha Malfoy, née Gaunt (Older Sister, the oldest child)

Embraces the family's traditions and social obligations, enjoying all the gatherings and taking pride in her pureblood status.

Quick to lecture Ominis for his "manners." For her, he is an unfortunate disgrace in the family, that affects her as his relative.

Married shortly before the mentioned major conflicts with Aurors. Her marriage into the Malfoy family is seen as the Gaunts’ greatest alliance in years, one their father takes immense pride in. It won't last, though: the marriage will 'cease to exist' within a few years. She also has a son who will never have children of his own.

Side note for their names: The same "alphabetical distance" for father and kids: I-K-M-O

Property

The Gaunt Manor is large, drafty, and perpetually cold. Ominis is constantly freezing despite fireplaces (that are too small for the vast rooms), and warming charms that seem to wear off too quickly.

Noctua's house, the family's second and last property, was left to Ominis in her will. He deeply resents how his parents treat this inheritance like a tool to control him. He has no intention of living there and plans to sell it the moment he gains true independence (after graduation), using the money to start a new life (tells himself it's to not feel like a burden to anyone ever again)

Noctua-Marvolo-Ominis side note (Korentha didn't like her): Noctua was kind to all children, including Marvolo, who loved her back. Until Ominis was born. With Ominis needing protection the most, Noctua's attention shifted to him. Marvolo's jealousy soon turned into violence toward Ominis and their aunt. Their father subtly encouraged Marvolo’s behavior, leading him to think, "Daddy loves me and loves me more than them." He'd kill and maybe die for his father's approval.

Ominis at home there

Keeping Appearances

He rarely spent much time there during summers, usually staying just long enough to prepare for school: he had to buy new clothes, books, etc. He had to maintain connections to use them (like saving Sebastian from detentions).

After fifth year: For the first time since starting Hogwarts, Ominis was forced to endure an entire summer break there.

While there, Ominis is obligated to attend all the dinners and gatherings, where he must act polite and respectful to the honored guests.

He is aware that every move he makes is monitored. Sending or receiving owls while at the manor won't go unnoticed. Ominis avoids it, and his friends understand to do the same to avoid questions and more threats.

Traumas & Coping

He flinches at loud sounds and tries to hide it (by shifting his weight or clasping his hands tightly).

Doesn't allow himself tears, even when he's alone.

Keeps a countdown of how many months/days remain until he’s free of his family.

Has nighttime anxiety and sleeplessness that worsens there.

Dissociates during punishments, struggles to recall them afterward.

Has an innate ability for Occlumency, it comes from a strong instinct to protect himself and stay safe within his mind. This powerful mental resistance once injured his father when he attempted to access Ominis' thoughts.

Some of Personality & Inner Conflict

Mr sarcastic remarks.

Skilled at masking his emotions, maintaining control during conversations. However, this control can slip if his anger is repeatedly triggered. (When alone and spiraling, he may physically lash out by punching things. When it happens near someone he doesn’t feel threatened by, he raises his voice or shouts.)

He's adept at giving his father the answers the latter wants, or at least enough to deflect suspicion (works only if his father is willing to listen, of course).

Would feign indifference toward people he cares about to shield them but feels physically sick afterward for saying things he doesn’t mean.

Deep down, he feels unworthy of help, friendship, or love. These thoughts overwhelm him when he feels he’s made mistakes.

Even so, remembering the voices, presence, and touches of his friends, calms and grounds him.

Still, he clings to the idea of leaving home forever, refusing to become like the rest of his family. Noctua's voice in his memories encourages him, saying, "You’re nothing like them." He's not interested in any kind of revenge, he just wants to be free.

[qvrcll]

Warnings: mentions of political marriages, strangers > friends > lovers, kissing near towards the end, mentat at mind, lover boy at heart

The ordeal is simple — at-least on paper. You and Paul are meant to be wed on the single promise of a shared goal between the two of your houses, which come down to one thing and one thing only: security. Wealth, power and standing do not surmount to what, in Leto’s words, the Emperor has planned for the futility of house Atreides. He knows, Thufir knows, everyone knows, that Arrakis wasn’t branded to be some sweetly wrapped gift that fell into his lap when the time came to reward the duke. No - matters of this sort were much too systematic, especially at a scale such as this. Something must be done, to solidify the house of Atreides upon the rain-swept expanse of Caladan. Something to bind the Atreides to their mother planet long enough, so there might not be strife or conflict that sharpens whatever blade is held against them. So, wed Paul you must.

Simple doesn’t translate so easily against the obscurity that is the real world.

In the real world, the two of you are mere strangers. The only thing that binds the two of you is the responsibility bourne from the insignias that you wear, that are soon to culminate as two adjoining houses; whilst his happen to be two thick lines of silver against his collar, yours take on a different shape, a strange alterity between curves and striking lines, and shot through with gold against the sleeve of your garments. There is it — the mere tellings of your differences, as pure as day. He wonders how the symbols will look like, meshed together and serving as one. He wonders how he will appear next to you - frail boy or able man?

Half of the time, you catch his eye simply because you are there, sitting duly next to your father and ascertaining the weight of such a marriage past paper, when all is said and done. Other times, you are a blurring fragment in the hallways, swathed in your house’s colours and too fleeting to get a hold on, sometimes even flanked by your house’s livery. Mere strangers, he reminds the indiscernible feeling in his chest.

-

“Where is your head at? Focus!” Gurney growls out, more harsh tempered than his usual mood, as he crouches and takes Paul’s fair strike for what it was - a clean swipe that was meant for his chest, which now deflects smoothly off of the older, more haggard man’s shield, and sets the room abuzz with vibrations. And so the smell of ozone worsens, Paul calculates in his head, as he shakes his head thoroughly and shifts his grip on his weapon. Gurney isn’t impressed — not in the way he usually is. Paul knows he must answer.

“This is me focusing,” Paul offers, and doesn’t grit his teeth or possess a sudden candour with his strikes because he respects Gurney. But he cannot help the mood that has blanched him - voids, how he wishes he could confess those words, verbatim, to the older man who currently encircles his passes like a seasoned ring-fighter. But the word ‘mood’ had gotten him in line last week, when Gurney had simply upped his antics with the mere mention of it, “I’m just out of breath.”

“No, you’re not.” Gurney smiles, clenching his palm around the ragged hilt of the Kindjal. He knows, Paul thinks bitterly.

“No, I’m not.” Paul confesses. He tests a low swoop of his dagger - ill-advised - and reigns his laugh in when it catches Gurney off his feet, his back staggering against the training table.

Let’s see how you like this, lad, Gurney formalises in his mind, as he presses his defence like a bull and keeps his attacks slow and pulsing through the air, blinding all of Paul’s spots, “Is it the marriage?”

Cornered for tactics, and focusing mostly on not getting cleaved to pieces during training, Paul scoffs, “Of course it’s the marriage.”

“You’re scared.”

At this, Paul counters metal with metal, bounding back when it rings against his ears, rings against the room, “I’m not scared. I’m prepared to fulfil my duty, even if I am given options,” a dull parry, which still creates momentum, and thus space, between the two men, “I’m only uneasy because I’ve never actually met her.”

“You have. Several times. Or have you been asleep throughout your father’s meetings?”

Paul stresses a firm strike against Gurney, which repels off of his own shield by how close the dagger strikes the space between them. But he’s good at catching himself. Gurney, unused to Paul’s strange and newly learnt manoeuvres, falls short. He tries to counter, but cannot, but he is most impressed for it.

“Concede.” Paul breathes, low and attempting a threatening veil, as Gurney’s back meets the floor. The old man grunts, before nodding deftly as Paul hauls him to his feet with one palm alone. They settle in different corners of the room, silence beseeching both of them suddenly - they’re not two men for silence, but in Gurney’s head, Paul is undergoing a strange part of his life. He wonders if Paul fears it in the night.

Paul interjects Gurney’s thoughts.

“Do you - have you… met her?” his voice is meek. Uncharacteristic. Gurney smirks.

“Once or twice, in the hallways.”

“And? How is she?”

Gurney laughs. The boy is eager today.

-

The next time I see her, I will speak, he promises.

Better said than done. With no similar companions his age - a course of action being the very result of his heritage, his mother reminds him - he truly doesn’t know how to properly seek you out. You are more shadow than friend, more idea than person, and the more he sees you, the more he forgets.

“Something on your mind?” Duncan nudges him with the edge of some Fremen equipment, that bothers him well enough to dredge out Paul’s concerns. Not that he needs to. It is written on his face.

“Yes,” Paul confesses, readjusting for comfort, “It’s about my marriage.”

“You speak as though you will marry tomorrow. It is not set it stone. Not yet.”

Paul scoffs, “I know that. I just haven’t met her yet. And I want to.”

Duncan, in the midst of polishing some hardware and solar devices, that smell quite faintly of hot sand and the sun, pauses to glance away from Paul’s face. When his gaze returns, it is almost teasing, a smirk ripping across his face, “You’re in luck today.”

“What?” Paul swivels and —

Oh. Oh.

You’re standing there. Hands clasped behind your back, yes. Stoic, assessing expression, yes. Clothed in rich colours of your house, as you always are in his passing vision - only this time, it is a green so deep that it comes across as black. Suddenly, realising that you have been found out by not only Duncan Idaho, but by the Duke’s son himself, you uncharacteristically let slip your own embarrassment through wide eyes.

“Oh. My apologies — I, uh, didn’t mean to intrude. I was just curious by the - er - gadgets.” you fumble for words at a rate that would be comical if not for the morbid embarrassment seizing you by the seconds. You’re shaking your head politely, smile strained and legs rooted where they are and ready to melt into the various corridors - back to your own duties, you assume. Away from company. Paul, however, stands linearly and full of purpose, face constructed of hard lines that all smile at you.

“No, please. Join us,” his voice is smooth - you’ve never heard him talk, even around those board room meetings - and his hand is extended to gesture within the space, “I insist.”

Duncan raises a brow in amusement and Paul wants to tamp his feet down with a neat blow. That pulls a chortle out of the man, which only further startles you. Paul invites you cordially to take a seat, where you fit awkwardly, like you were truly imposing. However, in a manner of minutes, that is all erased when Duncan lets the two of you weigh the objects in your hand – sand compactor, weapons, stinted devices that were far too aged to be still of use but gathering attention nonetheless. When Paul passes it to you, he feels your soft fingers pass underneath his own, where a warm feeling curdles as an afterthought.

“This—is a sand compactor?” you ask warily, tilting the device as though it would spring up on you and dissolve to bits. Duncan barks out a laugh.

“For sand compacting, yes.” he humours you. You, however, are too lost on the object, still swirling it around in your palms; eyes peeled downwards.

“Yes. I see.” you reply.

The two men dissolve into a fit of laughter. You look up, eyes helplessly trailing from one to the next. The day is easy.

-

Paul is thankful for the event, and so are you. It doesn’t solve all his problems, and his head is always probing with inquiries and worries, but he can count on the off chance of seeing you in the hallways. He can count on the fact that you will pause, meet his eyes and smile.

You’re walking the countless hallways of the estate - Caladan had so much water to offer, but no one on your native planet ever mentioned the striking architecture, the hollowed out walls and think-pieces painted across rooms. High domed ceilings, with absolutely nothing to offer but soft light. Some rooms contained scintillating glass, chairs of different shapes and mediums, tables too big for just a few affairs. Others were bound shut, but that didn’t discourage nor intimidate you, nor your entourage.

On one such day, you’re caught in your explorations by none other than the Atreides heir.

In actuality, it is you who catches him first, stood perfectly still at the end of the corridor and holding a terse expression. When he spots you, his shoulders relax and he manages to blink once, before his mouth opens underneath the realisation that you were really here.

“Hello.” his voice is strong, and carries well.

That was awkward. This is always awkward. He curses himself.

You smile, and it swipes at the ground beneath his feet, “I didn’t expect to see you here.

“This is my residence, yes?” more jest than anything else. You snort.

“I am aware. Your residence is quite beautiful. I like to wander,” you say, finding yourself fixing a meandering pace beside him, and he smiles softly when he realises that he, too, steps beside you at a similar speed, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Never.”

It is quick work after that – by pure coincidence, that you joke to Paul that is it is methodical instincts and ground-work as a mentat that he is able to summon himself almost anywhere you are present from that point onwards, you two bump into each other more and more in the corridors, and from there, it extends to the rather large library, the training space with Gurney skirting its edges, the ever-blossoming gardens even, which held more water than shrubbery in retrospect. Meetings pertaining to your marriage held an element of amusement now, as Paul actually tries to catch your eye this time, drumming his lithe and smooth fingers against the table in a way that could’ve passed off as a wandering of his mind as his father droned on about security measures and fuel caps, but you notice.

You hadn’t, not before, but you did now. To his pleasure, you even respond in a tiny flickering of fingers against the age-old meeting table, the vibrations a blur against his obvious contentment.

-

“You look glad.” Gurney comments and Paul realises how uninvolved his attention had been on the room before him. He quickly assesses it and whatever lays within it; table, check. Light source, check. Scratchy walls, check. Gurney’s ever-gracing height, check.

When had his habits, trained and chained to duty, begun to sweep towards you?

“Do I?” Paul asks, keeping his voice as still as he can manage. He had swiped at his face to rid the itch off his brow, but he unwittingly catches how warm he is. Not uncomfortable, no. But enough to leave a mark on his consciousness. It was like he was simply losing grip on his own composure when he thought of… something. It was still fleeting in his own mind.

He is too afraid to retrace his steps and find a familiar pair of eyes staring at him in the recesses of it.

Gurney slaps a hand on Paul’s shoulder, seemingly articulate with the latter’s feelings. Old man, Paul would curse out in jest, but he merely smiles. It is strained, and strange. Paul never puts an effort into his smiles, Gurney notes.

“Something is on your mind.” Gurney clicks his tongue.

Paul blinks, swallows, “Something is on my mind.”

“Out with it.”

Paul hesitates, which is strange, because in all his fights he is the first to stoke the flame. He isn’t vengeful – at-least, he doesn’t think he is – that’s why his strikes lack a hunger for blood and instead, settle for calculation. Briefness. No means to an end just yet. Or ever, he thinks.

But with you, it’s different. That’s what he spits out, what he lets Gurney work with. How you were a supposed intrusion into his life – something he had assumed would be awkward, like a stab wound that had scabbed over and began to weakly throb in pain, always to remind itself of its own compromise to work around demise. He thought you would be that; but upon meeting you, you were anything but that. You were curious and brilliant in your own way – similar to him, yet miles apart so that you were the form of a friend he had always wished for in his youth. You talked about your interests and spent double your time inquiring about his. When your hands brushed, his own grew clammy – that’s the strangest one of them all, Gurney – And something was blossoming – was it friendship? Was it trust? Was it fear?

What was this spattering and gooey mess slipping over the swell of his heart whenever you appeared? What was it?

He talks and talks and talks until Gurney squeezes his palm over Paul’s shoulder in a way an uncle would do to his nephew who he might want to reassure. Or a brother would to his youngest companion, as if to say: I see you. I hear what you say.

“Sounds to me like there’s an awful lot of trust between the two of you,” Gurney clicks his tongue again, only this time, Paul scoffs. Ah, there he is – there is the Paul Atreides I know, Gurney smiles, “And something else too.”

“What is it?” Paul asks. His eyes are curious, brows furrowed. Gurney holds down the laugh building in his chest, and the emboldened words in red: you’re falling in love with this friend of yours, boy, and instead, pats him on the shoulder.

“Piece of advice, if you’ll heed to anything I say,” Paul straightens with attention, “Let the truth flow. Do not stop it. Do not push it back. To live with the truth, you must learn its ways and be one with it.”

That night, Paul walks back to his room with the truth beneath his skin, and listens to his own heartbeat against his pillow. The rest of him warms with the realisation of, oh, oh, oh.

-

The next time you see Paul, you think you’d done something to offend him. Or bore him. Or something other.

It had become a pleasant habit; meeting him at the Caladan gardens, opting for a spot and sitting with your backs to the grass, counting the stars as you talked. Before, conversation had tipped forth whenever. Now, there was something in the air – tension. And it is him that brings it.

Paul avoids your eyes, settling instead for the vast colouring of grey across the hallway walls whenever he caught you in it. He had stopped sending you the familiar drumming of his fingertips across the meeting table, and instead always froze up when you met his gaze, whereby he turned red with anger – or was it anger? What was it?

He’d always be staring at your face, and you would wonder if there was a piece of parchment stuck to it, or if he was merely bored around you; most days, you allowed it. It stung, yes, but you had nothing ill to hold against him. But it accumulated, unbeknownst to you, and for him to miss your question yet again made you sigh in defeat – disappointment?

“You seem distracted,” you say, not bothering to shield the hurt in your words, though you couldn’t begin to understand why and when you had ever begun to crave expect the attention of his earthen-dusted eyes, “Am I boring you?”

He straightens up, his eyes wide, which in turn surprises you, “Bored? Seven hells, no. ‘Course not.”

“What did I just ask then?”

He cringes, “I promise I’m not bored. Just…”

His fingers flex in his lap, before curling into themselves, and his cheeks warm slightly. Is it happening now? Is he doing it now? The weather was right; a typical Caladan breeze, heavy with the wetting of the sky from the day, and now shrouded with clouds and a darkness that was impenetrable. Even as the two of you laid against the bare grass, no one outside could tell either of you apart from the ground itself. In the moonlight, you were almost one with it.

“Just?” you ask. You were curious of this now, “Just what?”

“Just!” he sucks in a harsh breath, his sharp face now boyishly soft and pliant in a way you hadn’t seen it before, “I… Just promise you won’t take offence to this.”

How ironic.

“I promise, Paul,” you smile, shoulder bumping against his as you glance at the side of his face, the way his nose shapes perfectly against the dampness of the Calandan wind, “Tell me.”

Be one with it. Be one with it. It is a mantra in his head.

“I realise that I have begun to grow a certain, uh, affection for you. Yes, I like you. I don’t know how it had begun. And I know it’s foolish of me to even act this way when we are set to marry. But I know, in my heart, that—“ a breath, as he nervously glances at your now surprised face and oh, he shuts his mouth. He opens it again, panicked, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—let me—”

“Paul.” you stop him, hands against his one arm that seems to be quivering ever so slightly – how much of it can he hold?

He waits. Bated breath.

You smile, shy and sweet and it whips against him in a way that the wind of his mother planet had never managed to. Here is my dear friend, he thinks, my dear friend who was but a stranger a long time ago and is set to marry me once talks have been concluded. Here is my friend who I have poured my stupid, ill heart to and who still looks at me with kindness.

“I like you too.”

He blinks. He looks at you when you speak and watches, really watches, how your mouth forms against the words. I like you too.

“As a companion? Or friend, at best? Is that what your ‘like’ refers to?” he asks, nervous in the face of your admission. It makes you smile, as he rambles slightly, and though his countenance is that of poise and grace, beneath he is a a boy of tender heart. Smiling, you grab the front of his thick coat lapel and watch his words die on his tongue as you place a feathery, warm and soft kiss against his mouth. It was so unbelievable, he thought he’d conjured it all up – that you weren’t here, timidly kissing him with a sheepish smile on your face, and the stars of his home glinting against your skin. He lets his finger brush your cheek, still dumb-struck.

“Again.” he whispers. His heart hammers at the sound of your breathy laugh, as you repeat the action, conviction in your palms as they lay upon his cheek, “Again, please.”

“Again?” you ask, voice soft and muted as he hoists you atop of his front, chest to chest, and gazing at him like he was everything. Within the action, your golden insignia brushes his own, silver ones so briefly that he can make out a shape bourne from the contact of either two, before they separate. You wanted him, as he wanted you. And soon, you would wed, and the image of gold upon silver won’t be so unclear anymore. Maybe, somewhere warmer and less unbelievable, he could let himself grow familiar with the reality of you. But for now, he could settle for this to be a mere dream he had grown to relish so very much. Even now, he could almost believe none of this to be real, just a trick of the mind. Maybe fatigue or delusion.

He says your name so quietly, a plea, and it has never sounded sweeter, “Please.”

And yet, the soft press of your mouth upon his convinces him that it is so much more.

-

i wanted to incorporate some inferences of paul’s character from the early novel (mentat, solitude in terms of companions, great fighter), as well as the film, whilst wanting to stray away from the destruction of house atreides after the gifting of arrakis, which would explain why the marriage needs to take place. sooo no one dies! HURRAH!!!!!!!!! enjoy :]

© 2023 qvrcll. Do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[owliellder]

Two's A Crowd

College Bully! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

MDNI 18+

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5)

Description: College is proving to be a lot harder than you imagined. You cannot fail this math class. So when you've tried everything else, a well-known student is recommended to you by your professor for tutoring lessons, not really leaving you with much of a choice but to work with him.

Warnings: Not proofread, No Use of Y/N, Dub-Con, Unprotected Sex, Bullying, Yelling, Cursing

Tags: College AU, Bully! Leon, Shy! Reader, both are in their early 20's, Leon is Rude AF in the beginning, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Fingering, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Tags to be Added

Author's Note: Yay!! New multi-chapter fic in honor of 800 followers!!

I'm a sucker for tropes and mean Leon is one I can't keep out of my head. If you're not good at math then this is the fic for you! (also don't mind me slipping some Sky lore in here...)

Cross-posted onto AO3

Chapter 1

Growing up, college had always been a big dream of yours, leaving you fantasizing day in and out about all the possibilities that would open up, along with actually getting to live through the renowned “college experience”.

In reality, college was a lot harder than you were expecting. Your parents had told you to jump right into it after high school, fearing taking a gap year would ruin your good streak. The stress was starting to get to you and it was only a semester into your freshman year. All the tests, projects, and general studying really wore down on your mental health, not to mention you were failing the one math class you had.

You couldn’t tell your parents, no, they’d probably have a heart attack, especially since that math class was a prerequisite to another class that you needed to take. They were already worried enough that you hadn’t picked a major yet, so who knows how they’d take the news that you were failing right off the bat.

It was hard enough that you were feeling homesick. This was the first time you’d ever been this far away from home, studying at a university when you would’ve been perfectly content going to a community college closer to home. Your roommate was nice, but the two of you weren’t growing any closer than mere acquaintances, so it always felt awkward to just exist in your own dorm room.

Your eating habits worsened with the lack of any real food within five miles of campus. Sure there were a couple fast food chains on the campus itself, but they closed incredibly early. By the time you finished studying, which was around six in the evening, it had already closed. Not to mention that when they were open, the lines were comically long. University food was out of the question after you got violently ill from their “chicken nuggets”, so you were left with the little money your parents provided once a week to order takeout or make quick trips to the store to buy a frozen meal. Only one, since the mini fridge in your dorm was almost always occupied by your roommates stuff.

Everything was so exhausting and you were way out of your comfort zone having to use the community bathrooms for all your hygienic routines. Walking in always made you feel like you were interrupting a meeting in the president’s oval office with how many nasty looks you were given when all you were trying to do was brush your teeth.

The first thing you saw whenever you opened up Canvas was a massive F staring you down from the little box that comprised the majority of your math assignments and tests, making you feel less than worthless. This one semester alone helped you understand why so many people dropped out, this was hard.

By now you’d already gone to your math professor multiple times asking for redos or extra credit work. He was probably sick of seeing you since you showed up after almost every single assignment’s grades were submitted.

“Heeeyyy, Mr. Lebovic..” You said after knocking your knuckle against his open door to grab his attention. “Listen, about that last quiz, I-”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand before gesturing towards one of the chairs sitting in front of his desk. You hurried to sit down, watching nervously as he slowly pulled his eyes off his computer and onto you. “I get it, you don’t need to explain yourself.” His relaxed tone and faint smile was enough to ease your nerves a bit, letting your shoulders slump with a sigh. “You’ve been trying really hard, I can easily recognize that.”

You nodded eagerly, licking your dry lips as you opened your mouth to speak, only to be cut off again. “I’ve been looking into studying options that might help you. Resources are scarce for this material, but I think I finally have a tutor to help you out.” 

A wave of relief washed over you at the mention of tutor. Maybe you wouldn’t have to face the wrath of your parent’s disappointment after all! “Oh.. o-okay…” you stuttered, eyebrows furrowing as you silently beckoned him to continue.

“I teach another math class, it’s higher level, but I have a student in there that’s just taken up tutoring the material you’re learning.” Your professor seemed just as happy as you were about the opportunity. “His name is Leon Kennedy, he’s got one of the study rooms in the library from three to five in the afternoon on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

It took you a second to process everything Mr. Lebovic was telling you before you scrambled to pull out a sticky note and a pen to write all the information down on. You heard the older man chuckle softly, looking over at him when he held out a small piece of paper to you. “I wrote it down already for you, don’t worry.” You wished you could’ve thanked him tenfold, but his office hours were closed for the day now, so you said a quick goodbye and hurried back to your dorm, holding onto the piece of paper like a lifeline.

Contrary to what your math professor thinks, you knew the name “Leon Kennedy”. You had a couple friends that you hung out with occasionally out in the grass in front of the science building and they’d brought him up before. The few vague bits of info that you’d heard weren’t flattering, painting this Leon in quite a bad light; the stereotypical jock in a frat flying by on a full-ride scholarship. However, he was your saving grace now and you needed to develop more of an unbiased opinion of him if he was going to help you raise your grade from an F.

“Yeesh, sorry I’m not better at math or I would’ve helped you.” One of your friends, Sky, spoke up as they read the piece of paper your professor gave you yesterday from over your shoulder. “Even if you were better at math, I still wouldn’t trust you.” Ella, your other friend, laughed out.

“Ha ha, yeah, Sky failed math four times. Big whoop.” Sky waved their hands dramatically before walking over to sit down next to Ella in the dead grass. “Seriously though, you’re better off taking a failing grade and dealing with your parents. Kennedy is the devil incarnate.”

“The devil incarnate sounds easier to put up with than my parents, so I’ll take my chances..” You grumbled, taking a seat on a medium-sized rock close to the pair. “Maybe he’s turning a new leaf? Deciding to tutor?” 

Sky crossed her arms and rolled her eyes which made Ella elbow them in the side before giving you a sympathetic smile. “Maybe so, but please just be careful. I don’t want you having to put up with some jackass that has an ego bigger than Texas.” 

You nodded with a slight frown, moving your foot side to side lazily to push the grass blades around. You didn’t even think to consider the repercussions of studying with some random junior. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. Besides, just tell Sky and I if he’s giving you any trouble. I know damn well no man likes to put up with two women yelling in his face.” Sky nodded and pointed to Ella for added dramatics. “Yeah, and I bite. My top six teeth are porcelain so that shit hurts. Trust me.”

Your friends never failed to make you laugh, a slight resolve in a pool full of worries, you suppose. “Don’t worry, you guys’ll be the first to know if Leon is mean.”

“Good. Now, when’re you gonna go see the guy?” Sky rested their arms on their knees before looking up at you. “Uh.. in a couple hours I guess. I already made the appointment.” Your response seemed to surprise both of your friends, giving them a confused look in response to their shocked ones. “Is that.. Is that not a good time?”

“No no, just.. I thought you would’ve maybe taken a little longer to go and see him.” Ella shrugged, reaching a hand up to scratch behind their neck. “Proud of you, taking the initiative like that.” She then looked at her phone before pulling herself off the ground with a small groan. “I got class in a couple minutes. Good luck with the frat boy.” 

She patted your shoulder as she walked off towards the larger building on campus, leaving you and Sky alone for the rest of the time. Part of you wished both of your friends could walk you to the library when the time came, but having Sky was enough. “So.. Leon’s bad bad?” You needed a bit more clarification on the guy you were going to spend one-on-one time with, something to calm you down after running through countless scenarios in your head.

“He’s not all bad, 'least I don't think. I’ve exchanged a few ‘hello’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ with him here and there since we apparently frequent the same building.” Sky scooted over to the rock you were sitting on, placing the back of their head on your legs. A couple brown leaves blew over from a nearby tree which they grabbed and crunched with their hand. “I haven’t personally experienced any bad happenings around him, but he is part of a pretty notoriously rowdy frat, so you have to promise me that you’ll only study with him on campus and never go to that frat house or any frat house in general, alright?”

Sky pointed up at you, poking the underside of your chin which made you laugh again and swat their hand away. “As much as I rave about wanting to have the stereotypical college experience, going to a frat house was never part of my daydreaming.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” They switched their fingers to give you a quick thumbs up before letting their arm flop down into their lap, eyes closing with a sigh. “Anyways, besides all that, wanna go get some food? I don’t have another class today and you’ve got about an hour and a half to spare, so actually you have no choice. Get up.”

You stood up with a shake of your head once Sky pushed off of your legs who stood up as well with a small stretch. “Don’t burn me at the stake, but I kinda want grocery store sushi. I’m feeling lucky.”

“Please don’t.” You sighed, pocketing the piece of paper before beginning to follow behind Sky as they started to walk across the grass. 

After the two of you shared a sandwich from some random shop not too far off campus, Sky walked with you up to the library, stopping just before the front desk. They agreed to not wander in with you under the condition that you’ll go to their dorm straight after to discuss details.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. Most of what you heard about this guy meant he was bad news, though you really didn’t have much of a choice when it came to seeing him. Like your math professor said, there weren’t a lot of options when it came to studying the material you were learning. Sure you had the internet and other students in the class, but you preferred the idea of a tutor since you’d already exhausted yourself trying to follow along with various youtube videos. You needed the in-person teaching, it just stuck better in your head that way.

Slowly starting to walk, you made your way over to the study rooms lining the back of the library. The rooms seemed pretty private with the only window being on the door, which had glass nearly top to bottom. Thankfully the rooms were numbered and Leon had texted you which room to go to when you made the appointment with him, you had no idea what he looked like and you didn’t want to look like a creep eyeballing people through the door until you hopefully found the right person.

Standing off to the side, you could see the number you were looking for sitting above the door, taking a brief moment to collect yourself and hype yourself up to talk to someone who didn’t have the greatest reputation. Set aside everything you’ve heard and just hope for the best..

You took in a deep breath as you strode over to the door, glancing inside through the window before knocking to let him know you were there. The table was angled off more to the left so you didn’t immediately see him until he leaned over the table to see who had knocked. Confidence left you as soon as you made eye contact with Leon due to the groan you could hear through the door. It took you a couple seconds, but you eventually managed to get your body to work with you, hand turning the handle to let yourself in.

“-the last thing I need..” You caught the end of his little rant to himself as you opened the door. The saying “fake it ‘till you make it” is harder than it sounds since your entire body decided to betray you, deciding that shrinking in was the best move. Quietly, you shuffled over to sit across from him at the table, placing your backpack in your lap in some weird way to provide comfort in this situation.

“You weren’t supposed to show up.” Leon grumbled, sitting far back in the tilted chair as his feet lifted the front end of the chair slightly. His arms were crossed and he was giving you probably the nastiest look you’ve ever seen, next to your parents, of course. All you did was sit there giving him a blank stare. It was obvious what he’d said, yet the sheer forwardness of that snide comment had you more than confused. “What?-”

“You weren’t supposed to show up.” Apparently he felt the need to repeat himself with some added bite, barely letting you get a word in. “No one ever shows up to these shitty tutor- whatever the fucks.”

Wow. Okay. “Uh..” You didn’t even know what to say to that. It completely caught you off guard. You’d run through countless ways this interaction would go in your head, but this wasn’t one of those ways. The two of you sat in a very tense silence with Leon just glaring at you from across the table, continuing to rock back and forth in the chair.

Without uncrossing his arms, Leon lifted a hand and waved it around slightly while shaking his head. “Are you actually still gonna sit here orrr…?” The sound of his voice finally snapped you out of shock, causing you to shoot your gaze down to your backpack, fumbling with its partially broken zipper. “I-.. Mr. Lebovic recommended you..?”

You pulled out a few of your failed assignments from your bag before setting them down on the table with shaky hands, keeping your eyes glued to the papers to avoid that burning stare the man in front of you has. “I need-.. I need help..?”

“Do you?” Leon let the chair fall forward, his sarcastic tone starting to make your whole body tremble. “You don’t sound like you do.” He snatched one of your assignments from the table and held it up, pursing his lips as he studied the various red marks made on it closely. You chose to not respond to that, letting your hands rest on top of your backpack so you had something to squeeze.

He turned the page around, the sound of the paper wobbling the only thing you could hear right after the sound of the central heat blowing through the vent in the room. Suddenly, Leon started chuckling to himself, shaking his head incredulously as he flipped the paper back and forth a couple times before letting it fall back to the table. “This is terrible!” His laugh grew louder as he tilted his body to the side to pull out his phone, taking a picture of the assignments you’d put on the table. 

How on earth were you supposed to react to that other than just sitting quietly? He was actually making fun of you right to your face. Hell, he might as well point and laugh if he’s going to be this brasen. 

The most you could muster up was a quiet yet high-pitched “... huh?” in response to him. This whole ordeal was spiraling a little too fast for you to keep up with. You were expecting to put up with some grown man with a bratty attitude or even just a very uninterested, not all there jock with how Leon’s been described to you, not blatant bullying.

“Huh?” He mocked, taking one last look at his phone while loudly sucking on his teeth before pocketing it again. “Anyways, this is actually sad. How are you managing to fuck simple math up like this?” He roughly grabbed all the papers on the table and stacked them before partially tossing them back at you, some slipping onto the floor. “You’re too far gone, even I can’t fix that.”

You let out a gasp when the papers were tossed at your face, scrambling to catch some of them. Pushing the chair back, you leaned over to grab the few that fell on the floor, desperately holding back tears. “Please, you don’t understand.” You pleaded, voice cracking as you tried your best not to start crying in front of him. “I-I need to pass this class. I’m passing everything else, I just can’t keep up with this one!” You were speed-talking to try and argue your case, sitting back up with the small pile of papers that you struggled to stack properly.

Leon started rocking back in his chair again, arms back across his chest as he watched you with squinted eyes. The corners of his lips soon turned up into a smirk, taking in your sorry state before rolling his eyes with a dramatic groan. “Alright, alright, stop whining, jesus..” He cleared his throat, letting his head fall over the back of the chair. “I’ll help you only because I feel bad for you.” It’s not like he was going to admit that he was being forced to be a tutor, no one needs leverage over him like that

You couldn’t help but give a small smile despite his implication. It was a start. “And I’m not gonna do it today, either.” Well, the sooner the better, but still, it’s a start.

He then stood up from the chair, fixing his jacket with a sigh. “If you show up even a minute late on Friday, I’m not helping” and before you even had a chance to reply, he walked out of the room, the door shutting with a slam which made you flinch. Luckily, you were a very punctual person when it came to this kind of stuff. This was important, so if you had to show up early, so be it. You hurriedly shoved your assignments back into your backpack, not even fully zipping it up before rushing out of the study room, back through the library, and to the dorms.

“He said that?!” Sky yelled, quickly wiping their hand over their mouth to quiet themself once you shushed them. “I don’t really feel comfortable with you going to another ‘study session’ with that guy if he’s just gonna bully you.”

“I wouldn’t call it bullying-”

“He was bullying you.”

“OKAY! So what if he was?!” You fell back onto Sky’s bed with a sigh, arms splayed out with your legs dangling off the side. “I can handle it. As long as I get my grade up, who cares?”

Sky sat down next to you on their bed, giving you a sad look as you sat yourself up with your elbows. “I care. So does Ella. You shouldn’t put up with that just for a grade. I’m sure if you explain to your professor and-”

“And what? Tell him that I’m a grown woman getting bullied over something I should know by now?” You sat yourself up fully now, leaning forward to place your elbows on your thighs as your head rested in your hands. “It’s only until finals are over and we’re already halfway through October. Maybe I won’t even need that much time, maybe I’m just missing one simple… math move and it’ll get the gears in my brain moving again.”

You tilted your head to the side to look at Sky, head now resting only in your right hand as you took in their annoyed look. “Trust me. I can handle this.”

“If you say so.” They ran their fingers through her hair before looking away from you, directing their attention forward to stare off at nothing. “Just remember that I bite and I’m not afraid to use my fake chompers on that no good-”

“I don’t wanna think about escalations right now, but thank you.” You chuckled, playfully nudging Sky with your free hand before moving it back to hold your head up with the other. Though you were trying to convince Sky on this, you were mostly just trying to convince yourself that you could handle this. Handle Leon and his.. alluring charm..

Only until finals, maybe even sooner.

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine with a workaholic Reader who is usually pretty sturdy, but becomes more prone to exhaustion and illness during colder weather. (Like, sure, seasonal depression and all that, but especially with Reader not just mentally but also physically.)

Aventurine noticing Reader being swamped with work the past few weeks (even pulling more than just a few all-nighters) and one night, he comes home and finds them passed out on the couch, maybe slightly feverish and definitely not at all budging when they’re usually a light sleeper.

Softened by Silence

Summary: Aventurine notices that his partner has been pushing themselves too hard, working through the nights and risking their health. As their exhaustion worsens, he finds them feverish and vulnerable, lying on the couch in their shared apartment. Concerned and protective, Aventurine stays by their side, offering care and comfort in a rare moment of tenderness. Though he would never admit it, his feelings for them go beyond strategy and games—he genuinely cares, and for once, he is willing to let go of his calculating nature and simply protect them.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Aventurine, Vulnerable Reader, Exhaustion, Tender Moments, Caregiving, Slow Burn, Emotional Vulnerability, Character Growth.

Aventurine's office was the usual mix of grandiosity and chaos—papers strewn across the table, an ornate glass of whiskey reflecting the faint glow of the dim lights, and a faint smell of burned cigar that lingered in the air. Yet, nothing seemed to capture his attention tonight. His sharp eyes were fixed on the ticking clock on the wall, its rhythm beating in sync with the unease settling in his chest.

He had picked up on it weeks ago—how you had been pushing yourself harder than usual, working through the nights as if there was no end in sight. A familiar and, to him, unsettling trend had emerged: your exhaustion had grown more pronounced, your once-constant energy dwindling with each passing day. As much as he reveled in games of chance, this wasn't a gamble he was willing to let you play alone.

The weather had gone colder, biting at the skin with a chill that seemed to creep under the warmest layers. For you, this meant something more than the simple discomfiture of seasonality; it took tolls on your body and mind. A change of season meant heightened weariness, and that didn't just settle in your head but seemed to sink in deeper in your bones. As much as you could push through it, your immune system was giving in, leaving you more vulnerable to sickness day after day.

The stress of your work had only amplified it. He saw you for days—really, weeks—as you burned that candle at both ends, risking your health to meet and exceed deadlines and expectations. The long hours spent in a hunched position around your desk, fueled with coffee and ambition, slowly took their toll, which you didn't let surface, hiding well behind the stoic determination that you always carried.

But tonight, it had reached a boiling point. Aventurine went back to your shared apartment after another grueling round of meetings, his brain still reeling with figures and strategy. As he entered, the silence greeted him first—the absence of your presence, the murmur of your voice, or the clicking of your keyboard.

He narrowed his eyes as he walked further in. The dim light in the living room was flickering, and there you were—slumped on the couch, curled up on yourself, the faint sound of your labored breathing filling the room. You never were one to sleep through anything, let alone this deeply.

His heart skipped a beat as he approached you, eyes scanning over your flushed face. You were feverish, barely moving, curled up around yourself protectively, in a futile attempt to ward off chills. The sharpness, the composed look on your face, was nowhere to be seen. Only exhaustion, one that seemed far too heavy for you to bear.

He stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. You had pushed yourself past your limits, and now, it was clear that the universe had dealt you a hand you couldn't outwit. You were a force to be reckoned with, but even the sharpest of minds sometimes needed to rest.

Aventurine let out a quiet sigh, his eyes softening as he dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand hovered over your forehead, checking for the familiar warmth of fever. His fingertips brushed against the heat of your skin, and for a moment, his mask cracked—his usual confidence faltering in the face of your vulnerability.

The usual playfulness in his eyes had dulled, giving over to something deeper, almost protective. He reached down for the blanket that lay on the floor and then gently pulled it over you, handling you with fragile care. His eyes hovered on you for another beat, his mind running over a million different strategies in his head, none of which seemed appropriate for now.

"You always do this," he muttered softly to himself, his voice tinged with both exasperation and concern. "Always pushing too far. Never letting anyone help."

You didn't respond—of course you didn't. Your feverish state left you too far gone to notice, too far gone to argue. But that didn't stop him. He carefully adjusted your position, lifting your head just enough to place a soft pillow beneath it. The comforting touch of his fingers brushed against your skin, a gesture that was almost tender, though he would never admit it.

Aventurine sat beside you, never once looking away from your face as he loosened the tie at his collar, the tension of the day slowly draining from his body. His mind reeled with thoughts, but none of them were work-related. For once, the games and risks didn't seem so important.

He leaned back against the couch, watching you closely. "You’re no good to anyone when you’re like this, you know," he muttered under his breath. "You’re not invincible, as much as you like to pretend otherwise."

But in between the two of you stood a silence, comfortable, yet somehow awkward. The strategist that Aventurine was, he just couldn't help but ask himself what game you played with yourself by pushing the limits of your own capacities. But the truth is, you were more than just a pawn on a board. You were somebody he cared about, regardless of whether he said otherwise.

His eyes softened as you stirred slightly in your fevered sleep. The vulnerability you rarely showed was on full display now, and it unsettled him in ways he couldn't explain. He wanted to shake you awake, to tell you to rest, to stop being so damn stubborn. But instead, he remained silent, letting you rest.

Night kept stretching on, yet his watchful eyes didn't blink. Evening chills crept in, and for once, something that he could not vanquish with a well-timed strategy or even the right bet. This time, he would remain by your side—not as a calculating strategist but simply because he refused to let you face this alone.

Tomorrow would come with its demands and the cold realities of their world, but tonight, Aventurine would protect you, even if it meant taking a gamble on something far more valuable than any game he had ever played.

And for once, he didn't mind losing.

[tkomptgoedluv]

a burning hill.

icantbelieveiletyougetaway pt.2

pt.1 here | pt.2 | pt.3 here | pt.4 here

joost klein x f! reader

tags: f! reader, non-famous! reader, reader still really needs to see a therapist, established friendship, joost has always been down bad and no one is surprised, quite angsty, lots of comfort, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.

word count: 2,495.

warnings: references to SA, detailed mentions of non-specific mental illness, rpf.

notes: pt. 2 is finally here! i’m sorry it’s taken so long and thank you all for waiting <3 — i really can’t tell if i hate this part or not. it feels both dragged out and rushed, but i wanted to add more backstory to their relationship and leave a half-open ending incase anyone wants a pt.3. i apologise if it’s awful. enjoy! 💋

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

you hated hospitals.

you weren’t quite sure why, it wasn’t like you’d ever spent enough time in one to actually form your own opinion until now.

but you did. you really, really did. they were too cold and the lights were too harsh, you couldn’t stand all the bare white walls, and seeing so many sick people all together made you feel nauseous. especially the older ones — if it wasn’t for the steady beats of their heart monitors, you would’ve assumed that they were already dead.

you weren’t like them; you weren’t sick. if it wasn’t for joost and his promise of buying you a pack of your favourite cigs, you never would’ve come here. you were the type to take a few ibuprofens and carry on as if nothing was wrong, as if simply taking a couple steps around your living room wasn’t enough to make you cry.

as it turns out though, that actually would’ve made things a whole lot worse for you.

apparently you needed a lot of different stitches in a lot of different places from how badly he had torn you up. the doctor even praised you for coming in when you did, saying that you could’ve died from several different infections had you left it all untreated. you tried not to let yourself think about that for too long.

the good news however, was that it was all an easy fix somehow. the stitching, whilst absolutely horrible, didn’t take longer than an hour or so and you were given just enough painkillers to last until all the bruising goes away. really, not a lot of time had passed before you were being discharged with a stack of leaflets all advertising local therapists. you chucked them into the very first bin that you saw.

you fucking hated hospitals.

it was snowing again by the time you made it out of the main doors, small specks of white collecting in your hair and wetting your eyelashes. you loved the cold and especially the snow, but it was something that you really could’ve gone without right now. the cold that consumed you only worsened each ache and pain that you felt, from the tops of your shoulders all the way down to your knees.

you were already shivering by the time you reached joost. he had perched himself on a nearby bench, a cigarette in one hand and what looked like a paper bag of pastries in the other. it brought a toothless smile to your face, the kind that could actually reach your eyes, when you realised that he still remembered.

it had been three years ago that you had first met joost and the rest of the group; two and half since that day. you hadn’t seen it coming, not when you had been doing so much better than you ever had before. you were going out more and socialising, eating better, and staying on top of the little things like the dishes and laundry. for once you actually felt human and not like just some basket case.

you weren’t ready to wake up that one morning, a fine layer of frost dusted across your bedroom window, and feel like you couldn’t move. you laid there and watched the sun fight to be seen until it dipped below the skyline, leaving you to wallow in the dark, alone. you’d ignored every buzz of your phone until they eventually stopped, and still cried when they did. you cried until your eyes grew heavy, having worn yourself out beyond the point of staying awake.

when a quick knock at the door had woken you up from your sleep, you ignored it like everything else. you curled up further in on yourself and prayed that whoever it was would just give up and leave you be, that they would walk away and let you rot in the sanctity of your own bed. it was there that you listened to their knocks slowly turn desperate until they stopped, only to be followed by the sound of your spare key turning in the lock.

as light flooded in from the hallway, the open door engulfing your small studio in shades of orange and yellow, you heard your own name break the silence.

“psst, hey it’s me, it’s joost. are you home?”

you cried again, right then and there at the sound of his voice.

with your whole entire heart you adored all of your friends but with joost it was just…different. it was on the very first day of that music festival you’d bumped into him, oblivious to who he was and how he was one of the names on the lineup. he still wishes that you could’ve seen the look on your face when he took you backstage, letting you watch his show from the wings. after that, the two of you had more or less been glued at the hip.

for seventy-two hours straight, you had spent every minute with him and the rest of his friends. they all welcomed you in with open arms, and for whatever reason seemed to love you almost as much as he did. stuntje was already referring to you as his ‘little sister’ by the third day, and nathan was set on making you a permanent fixture in the group.

but you were still you, though. the more everyone pushed to get to know you, the more of an effort you made to keep them all at an arm’s length — for both your sake and theirs. except you never really could with joost, and now he was there, fumbling around in your living room as he tried to make a beeline for you in the dark.

no one had heard from you in two days.

what had felt like mere hours, a single afternoon at most, had been two days. that was why he was there with you, sat on the edge of your bed with a hand rubbing your back, begging for you to talk to him. when you wouldn’t, he offered you the compromise of at least joining him for breakfast and revealed a small bag of pastries before you could say no.

“i had a feeling you’d be hungry; call it a mother’s intuition.”

through all of the tears and snot, he’d made you laugh. it was weak and hoarse, and made the very back of your throat burn, but it was still a laugh. joost had taken it as a yes and helped you sit up, fully committing to the bit and ‘mothering’ you in every way that he knew how, like slipping his own hoodie over your head the very second he saw you shiver.

it was like that you had sat and ate each and every single one of the pastries with him, and later forgave him for all of the crumbs you were still finding in your bed a week later.

and now here he was, almost three years later, clutching yet another bag of those pastries in his hand. you became thankful for the snow when your eyes began to turn red and water, your bottom lip starting to tremble ever so slightly. you could blame it on the cold then, blame it on something rational like a snowflake getting in your eye instead of admitting that you were crying over croissants.

“hey! how was -” joost almost slipped on a patch of ice when you near-enough tackled him, burying your face in his chest as you wrapped your arms around his middle. the sheer force of it knocked the cigarette from his other hand; he seemed not to notice. “hey…you good?”

a cold hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers gently scratching the back of your scalp.

“you remembered the pastries.”

even as the words were still coming out, they felt silly; you felt silly. nobody with their head screwed on straight would be getting all teary-eyed and weepy over their friend picking up some breakfast. besides, there was still the chance that for joost, that was all it was — a sweet but small thing that he could do for you on a day guaranteed to be awful.

but joost just wasn’t one to do things small. there was always intent and meaning in everything that he did. you knew there had to be something else behind it, something worthy of all these tears in your eyes.

“well yeah, i’ve got that motherly instinct, remember?”

you laughed as you pulled away from him, wiping your sore eyes with the palms of your hands. there was no point in trying to blame it on the cold or the snow anymore, you knew that just from the big doe-eyed look that joost gave you. he’d caught a glimpse of your wet cheeks and the penny had finally dropped.

it almost hurt him knowing that for even a moment, you had honestly thought he wouldn’t have remembered the pastries.

that day — two years, six months, and thirteen days ago, was burned into his memory whether he wanted it to be or not. he hadn’t known much about you back then, but knew enough to know that you hadn’t gone M-I-A for two days simply because you were caught up with work or family. he also knew that showing up to your place unannounced and uninvited was a bold move on his part; you hadn’t known a great deal about him, either.

joost wasn’t very good at losing people. when you meant something to him, you were like family, and joost couldn’t quite cope with losing family.

honestly, he already really liked you and liked having you around, and that only made it worse for him when all of a sudden you weren’t anymore. you’d been at every one of his shows, every group-meet at whatever bar was deemed most convenient for the night, and every video shoot that was in desperate need of another extra. in his defence, he had tried calling first. infact, he’d called you around six times before turning up on your doorstep that morning.

joost pulled you back into him, resting his chin on the top of your head. it wasn’t your doubt in him that stung like the cold that nipped at his fingertips, but how you could never find it in yourself to believe that someone would want to do something for you. especially him, because surely you knew by now that he would do absolutely anything for you, right?

the words were on the very tip of his tongue. with you in his hold, the both of you together in the snow, he really wanted to say it. wanted to promise that he’d buy you those pastries every day for the rest of his life if you asked him to. wanted to squeeze you and shake you and tell you that of course he would, because you could ask him to jump and he’d only say ‘how high?’

instead, joost simply smiled when he finally let you go. he had to trust that it said everything he wanted to say for him, because you wouldn’t ever let him actually say it, would you? but now also wasn’t the right time, either, because the snow was falling harder and he could feel the tremor in your hands as he held them.

“cmon, you’re coming back to mine.”

you didn’t argue, nor did you resist when he started to lead you in the direction of his house. it made the most sense; it was a lot closer and despite all of the pain medication you were on, you still didn’t feel like walking. plus, you really liked joost’s place. it was bigger than yours, and nicer, and felt a lot more like home than your own flat did sometimes.

he was still holding onto your hand as the pair of you headed back down the highstreet, slipping past the few others that were brave enough to face the weather. with your head kept down low, you never saw how joost keep looking back at you every couple of steps, searching for any signs of hurt or pain.

“you know, you still haven’t told me how it went in there. everything okay?”

“yeah, everything’s fine.” you hesitated saying anything further and only continued once you felt a small squeeze of your hand, a quiet way of coaxing you to keep going. “they had to stitch me up a bit — said i have to take it easy and that i’m going to be on these pain meds for a while, but yeah. i’m gonna be okay.”

“i should’ve broken a lot more than his nose.”

immediately you shook your head, a few strands of hair falling in front of your eyes as you did so.

“no, you shouldn’t have. you shouldn’t have even done that.” it was hard to miss the scoff that immediately followed, as well as the few swear words that joost then muttered underneath his breath. “i should’ve broken his legs, actually.”

you pulled on his arm hard enough to get him to stop, and to turn and face you. there was nothing left of that sweet smile he once had, only a hardened jaw and a look that seemed to worsen the bruising around his eye.

“you and i both know that you’re not that guy, joost. you don’t do things like that.”

“i would for you.”

the way he said it, so obviously as though he shouldn’t have even had to say it at all, took you back. joost was a lot of things, a lot of kind, wonderful, stubborn things, but he wasn’t violent. last night was the first time you’d ever seen him behave like that; it had scared you then, and to hear him say that he’d do worse if he could, scared you now.

he wasn’t like you, he actually had something to lose. if those videos from last night got out, the ones of him throwing punches against three different guys, that could cost him everything. festivals could drop him from their line ups, brands could double back on their partnerships, other artists could pull out on their collabs. you couldn’t make sense of why none of that seemed to matter to him, why his whole career seemed to be an afterthought compared to you.

you couldn’t be worth all that trouble.

“why? why for me?”

joost really did have the worst luck, didn’t he?

had it been any other day, any other place, joost would’ve been screaming from the rooftops by now. he’d let not just you but the whole of amsterdam know just how much he was stupidly head over fucking heels for you. here you were, asking him to speak those very same words that he’s been swallowing down, because finally you were ready to hear them.

how bittersweet it was, that it just wasn’t the right time.

“i’ll tell you later, schatje. promise.”

[quitealotofsodapop]

I had an evil little thought at midnight based on the fight under the mountain Wukong had. Specifically the "Everything I did was for US" line in a context separate from stone eggs.

I still think it's true. We discussed in the DMs how Wukong and Macaque met and fell in love, how Wukong's fight with Havoc had not been as easy as the book would have us believe and how a direct consequence of that fight was Wukong being dragged into Diyu. In the event of Wukong and Macaque being childhood friends who were separated after a very short interaction as cubs and then meeting again as teenagers during the mess with Havoc, he'd recognize his cuboid friends name as someone destined to die soon and panic because he had promised they'd meet again and he couldn't meet with Liu'er if he died! So in addition to wiping his name he wiped Liu'er and then as many other monkies as he could to cover the fact he was specifically protecting Macaque.

In the case of the Immortal Peaches, it was less about the insult to his hard work and more about the fact that Macaque was deathly ill, didn't even know he was sick too since he had always been sickly and simply thought he was jsut having one of his usual episodes, and only two known cures. One that is rare beyond belief and one being regular dosages of a certain type of peach that Wukong was tending to the orchard of at the time when Macaque's illness had worsened.

Thus when he was told that demons were not to partake in the peaches, the only thing that could save his mate's life, he made a desperate, drunken play. He'd already been sneaking peaches down to Macaque, usually the worst of the crop, the ones who still have the immortal properties he was looking for but wouldn't be missed by the celestials. But now he wasn't going to be subtle anymore. The Pills of Immortality were taken in error, being unable to tell what they were from his drunken stupor as after destroying the party and stealing all the peaches he could he had taken the wone and lost himself to it, drinking his sorrows over wasting his time trying to appease gods who never would have saved his mate away. The War was fought for the sake of seizing control of the Orchard for Macaque, nobody but Wukong knew this.

Which brings us to the fight under the mountain. And how Macaque had called Wukong out, claiming him to be a selfish demon who just did whatever he wanted and sought nothing but power for himself. When the truth was anything but that. And then later, the battle where Wukong himself became the very thing to claim the life of the beloved he had fought so hard to spare from the pain of death.

A spare copy of the Book of the Dead, an unofficial prototype of sorts, is found. And Li Jing and Queen Mother opened an investigation on many things, namely the true cause of death for the Jade Emperor, based on that information. One of the record keepers doing the investigation reached out to Macaque upon discovering the inconsistency in his cause of death.

We discussed this idea in the Dms for a while, and the work-in-progress name for the idea is "Drafted Fate" for reasons that will become clear soon:

"The Book/Scrolls of the Dead", like any real official published work, has a draft copy containing most of the details of the final product.

However, while the Draft Copy may have the information of those included in the final Book of the Dead, it cannot be altered to change the fate of those listed. It's also constantly being updated by a team of exhausted record keepers. It also can be pretty outdated in some sections, especially considering those who became immortal afterwards or had a revival or two.

Think of it like an entire room full of jumbled scrolls and files with stick notes and corrections sticking out of them.

After the events of S5 with the loss of the Ten Kings; the Underworld has been scrambling to stay functioning as normal. King Yama hasn't slept in weeks. A few times, Xie, Fan, Ox-Head and Horse-Face are so overworked that they legit forget to collect any souls to process and there was a straight week where no one died.

One too many goofs happen and Yama shouts for the Record Keepers to get him the Draft Copy so he can fact check what's written down in the book.

Soon afterwards, The Six Eared Macaque is summoned forth by the infernal collectors...

Ox-Head: "Liu'er Mihou, according to the records shown in the Book of the Dead and your official Scroll, you really should be dead." Macaque, bored: "Yeah, yeah. All those years ago when I fought Wukong." Horse-Face: "No not that. According to the Draft Copy - you were fated to die nearly two thousand years ago!" Macaque, confused on so many levels: "The what?" Ox-Head, reading a drafted Scroll: "Yup, right here. Liu Er Mihou. Prolonged chronic illness, before you reached adulthood." Macaque: "That... makes no sense. I haven't been seriously ill in ages!" Horse-Face: "The entry is no lie. Although your name is not in the official Book of the Dead, your cause of death was predetermined long before Sun Wukong scrubbed his and many other monkey's names from the records. There is one or two corrections added here for times you should have died later on but somehow avoided those fates as well." Macaque: "I mean... I remember not being the healthiest cub, but I figured that was from being born on the Moon and not adapting to Earth's environment so good." (*The collectors share a look*) Ox-Head: "If I am not mistaken... this particular illness can only be treated and cured by regularly ingesting divine plant life. Namely, either bloomed Crimson Jimsonweed OR..." Macaque, unease growing: "Or what?" Ox-Head: "Peaches from the Empress's orchard." Horse-Face, nods: "There's a reason why they act as an antidote for most toxins." Macaque: "Think the first time I ever ate a Peach like that was when..." (*realising*) "Oh no..."

It quickly becomes clear that the reason Wukong was so insistent on his best bud having his fill of peaches was more than a friend sharing the bounty of his work or theft. But rather it was Wukong's way of treating Macaque's illness without alarming him or making his condition known to those who would have exploited it.

See, Wukong got a good look at the official Book of the Dead when he disbuted his unlawful capture into the Underworld. He saw not only his true name and predicted death... but that of his closest and oldest companion.

A death that would come to pass with or without his name in the Book.

Macaque's mind is reeling with the implications. How long did Wukong know? When did he discover that the Peaches of Immortality could treat his condition? When did he start sneaking the forbidden fruit to him under threat of punishment by Heaven?

Did a loyal attendant seeking panacea for his dearest friend reach his breaking point upon learning he would be denied the same fruit that the immortals fragrantly feasted upon?

By the gods, did he stumble drunkenly into Lao Tzu's lab the night of that fateful banquet seeking a cure?!

Macaque: "Peaches, answer me this question honestly and I will spend eternity taking back the things I said." Wukong, nervous: "Yeah?" Macaque: "Did you know of my intended cause of death all those centuries ago?" Wukong: (refuses to answer) Macaque: (sighs deeply. More disappointed in himself than Wukong's inability to explain his actions) Wukong, quietly: "It wasn't fair… the immortals could eat peaches like candy and you were dying on earth..." Macaque, voice catching in throat: "And I- Under the mountain I had thrown it all in your face... you... you really did do it for us. For me." Wukong: (*smiles wistfully*) (*the pair share a hug. both smell heavily of peaches*)

Macaque never complains about Wukong's habit of offering him peaches ever again.

And the celestial royal family, upon checking the Draft Copy of the Book of the Dead, discover an unusual pattern amongst those Sun Wukong has had contact with...

Namely that they're all supposed to be dead according to the predictions deemed concrete since time incomparable.

See, in Journey to the West; the Buddha describes Wukong's powers as such:

"Knows transformations, Recognizes the seasons, Discerns the advantages of earth, And is able to alter the course of planets and stars."

Wukong seems to be confused by the last line. He's pretty sure he hasn't been tossing stars and planets around.

In the context of this Au/idea; the last part isn't (entirely) literal.

You see, one of the most popular forms of traditional fortune-telling and prediction-making in China comes from careful calculations of a person or thing in conjuncture with planetary bodies i.e the planets and stars.

The Buddha had basically warned everyone present that Wukong had the ability to literally change fate. For better or for worse...

Makes sense for a creature partially formed by the Goddess of Positive Chaos, Nuwa herself, to ignore the plans the universe had set out for everyone else!

[writingescapades]

In the Rain

Fields of Mistria: Balor, Rhys, March, Caldarus

A/N: It's been raining a lot here, so got inspired. Sorry if the characterization seems off. I'm playing the game slow and don't have all the lore and heart events. (I'm dying for an update where we get multiple save files. How will I romance them all????)

Balor

The rain always reduced the number of customers. It made for slippery paths as muddy water sloshed worn clothing. One always became soaked, not matter how well covered they attempted to be. Worst of all, the rain almost always made Balor ill. Suffice to say, Balor disliked the rain.

What the rain taught him was the comfort of shelter. The warmth of an enclosed spaced filled with music and laughter. The fullness of a hearty meal as rainwater serenaded him, and the soft thunder that lulled him to sleep. The rain was a temptation towards indulgence. It was different to experience a space to just exist in and not commoditize. Balor never knew how to feel about that. It enticed him but it also bit at him, as if the rain was attempting to domesticate him. Thankfully, the rain would always end.

It was on a rainy day that Balor, heading towards the inn, stumbled upon you. He instinctively invited you into the inn, especially once he registered your drenched state, but you only shook your head and turned your attention elsewhere. Once inside the inn, Balor surrender once more to the cozy environment. He sat on a bar stool waiting for the familiar warmth to wrap around him once more, holding him there till either the rain stopped, or he stumbled upstairs half asleep. But this time, Balor remained cold.

He kept remembering you. Your clothes and that flimsy hat would not last long under this downpour, yet you did not seem to mind. Instead, you face seemed focused. Balor tried to put his thoughts aside. Tried to chat with the locals, but 30 min later, he felt no different. It was only when Hemlock chided Balor to get on with what he really needed to do, that Balor finally escaped the inn.

He finally found you on the beach, fishing. Had he not been drenched, Balor would have laughed at the scene before him.

“What is so luring about fishing that I find the new farmer paying no heed to the rain?”

You turned and further confused Balor with a smirk. Did the rain not bother you?

“Some fishes only come out in the rain. Also, I seem to get a lot of treasure chests and sunken artifacts”.

Saying so, you pulled in your line to reveal an old treasure chest.

“Open it,” you urged.

It took some precarious locksmithing, but Balor finally opened the chest to reveal, a lump of wood. His expression must have been something for the cackle you let out.

“Sometimes they contain duds,” you consoled as you pulled in another chest.

This time, the box contained a bit of gold.

You urged him to keep the treasure, claiming it as his initiation into treasure hunting. Balor kept the gold, but his eyes locked out into the sea once more, excitement shining in his eyes. As he watched you cast out your line and waited for the next haul, Balor shivered. Maybe it was from the cold, and he probably would have a cold the next day. But the crisp air, the scent of the rain, the roaring of the sea all filled Balor with this familiar ache. He loved the inn and he’d grown on the people of Mistria. But comfort and desire were different, and Balor’s heart beat for this moment right here, where everything was just bit against him and the only thing that would save him rested on a silver line. A line you pulled and cast repeatedly until the moon was up and the rain finally stopped. Many treasure chests and artifacts were found, but for Balor the best treasure was discovered a new way to appreciate the rain.

Rhys

Rain and Carpenters were probably mortal enemies. Afterall, wet wood would worsen wealth for any carpenter. There was always a new customer, unaccustomed to wood composition who got upset when they discovered the damage the rain could do on wood. Like clockwork, the day after a rainfall always had Rhys running around fixing the damages and making repairs.

In anticipation of this, Rhys got into the habit of preparing on rainy days. It just saved time, though it took away from his other hobbies. His uncle always chided Rhys for working too hard, but he couldn’t persuade Rhys much, especially since Rhys’s hard work benefited the business. It was on such a day, where Rhys was walking out to the village square to pick up some supplies that he bumped into you.

You were lying on the ground, spread out like a starfish. Alarmed, Rhys immediately headed towards you to check if everything was well. Your closed eyes did not alleviate the situation, but the smile on your face made Rhys exhale a laugh and call out your name.

You didn’t open your eyes, but hummed along to his questions of concern. Rhys quickly understood that you were just being yourself. For quiet, calm, reliable Rhys, you were interesting. You did what you wanted with little care for the consequences or the opinions of others. It was, interesting and tempting, though Rhys was reluctant to admit it. He was about to go and leave you once more, when you turned towards him, shielding your face with your arm and spoke.

“Stay”.

It wasn’t an order, nor a job. Rhys should refuse. He should go to the market. He should work on new fences, bird feeders, fire circles for tomorrow. He should check the house and make sure everything is intact. He should not close his umbrella. He should not lie down like you, and he definitely should not smile as he got drenched. But Rhys did so.

It felt nice. That was a lie. It felt wonderful. The air really felt different in the rain. It smelled different. And the sensation of raindrops became soothing after a while, each drop a little greeting from nature. It was fun, and suddenly Rhys recalled all the projects he pushed to the side in order to work. All the nights he found himself awake, arms aching not from a hard day’s work, but from the lack of creative output. Rhy loved being a carpenter, and he was good at it. Yet, nothing compared to working on something that had no expectations, were Rhys could just be.

Rhys did not know how long you both lay there. No villager passed by. They were all probably at the inn anyway, passing time till the rain stopped. He probably would have joined them after a few urges, but now Rhys realized, that the warmth of the inn could not compare to the warmth of your hand. Infinitesimally less warm than the inn, Rhys still held on tight to your hand as his heart soared with an excitement he had stored away. He would not go home and work after the rain stopped. He would find those projects and, after a long time, he would have fun.

March

March always worked, rain or shine. A blacksmith’s work was always in demand. Even with his brother, the duo always put in long hours, but the pay off was well worth it. Though it was somewhat egotistical of him, March prided in knowing that he and his brother built this village. Thus, over the time, March became immune to the weather. It was just another day.

He was out making deliveries when he spotted you. You were walking, rather slowly, without an umbrella.

“Are you dumb?” March huffed out when he caught up with you, placing the umbrella above both of you. it wasn’t made for two, forcing March to put up with you drawing closer.

“Where’s your umbrella?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” you asked back.

March scoffed. Sense of adventure. Please. Just because you went into the mines to discover, didn’t mean March did the same. March went to the mines to collect resources. He did not pick up odd things. He did not talk to statues. He made practical tools and armour out the materials. That was all. There was no adventure to life. There was just the skill one developed when one worked hard.

But you would always ask him this question when he challenged your ways. March knew he should comment on your lifestyle. You never did so for him. But he couldn’t help it. There was something about you that irritated March, and seeing you be so, so, so unlike him yet so beloved fueled that irritation. Years as a Blacksmith trained March for expected results. He knew how to craft complex tools from a series of repeated motions and heat. When you came with your grandiose designs, March immediately rejected them, saying it was impossible. He shook his head when he saw you at the smithing table, failing over and over again. On the odd chance that something actually worked, March only sneered claiming it wouldn’t last long. He never learned if they did.

That’s all he did around everyone. Grumble, complain, ridicule. Even now he complained about having to hold his delivery and balance the umbrella over the two of you. Eventually you rolled your eyes, sighed, and took the umbrella. You both made it to his delivery address when March told you to keep the umbrella.

“If you get sick and die, I won’t have you haunting me because I didn’t give you the umbrella,” he muttered and all but shoved you off on your path.

You clicked your tongue in annoyance before a cold smile crept up your face, sending shivers down March. You walked a few steps with the umbrella, then suddenly flung it behind you and scampered off.

“Oy!” March yelled out to the sound of your laughter. You were moving fast, but he still caught your words in the rain.

“You would make the afterlife interesting for me to hang around?”

March picked up the umbrella and uselessly shook it before placing it above him once more. He made his way home but stopped at the blacksmith table. There was an item, one of your designs. Of no practical purpose and rudimentary. But it lasted. March quickly brought in the item and dried it. Staring at the object he traced the metal as his brain started to plan out ways to improve the object. To make it more attractive for customers, or to offer it as a decorative item detail. He could make hundreds of the improved model, but March would always keep this rudimentary one on his desk. It was a reminder; of that cold smile you always gave him before you set out prove him wrong. The one that sent shivers down March, not because it intimidated him, but because it awoke a slumbering excitement. A competition that had to last a lifetime, because March did not know how to make life an adventure without you.

Caldarus

Caldarus experienced rain for millenniums as a dragon and as a stone. It was different as a stone because though he knew when it rained, he couldn’t experience it as a living creature. It wasn’t until you moved into the acre of forest where his statue lay, that Caldarus was provided the opportunity to experience rain again.

You both developed a habit of sitting together in the rain. It was Caldarus who initiated the activity, concerned at seeing you work in the rain. If the rain was nature’s way to put a pause on life, then why were you working? When you sat beside him the first time, you fidgeted a lot, unused to doing nothing. You began to talk and ask him questions, and though Caldarus enjoyed your conversations, he intentionally slowed his responses to push you into experiencing the moment. It took time, but you changed. You slowed down. Took more breaks. Did nothing. Said nothing, and basked in the comfort only a familiar and age-old company can provide.

Then everything changed and Caldarus experienced rain differently for the third time. Experiencing rain in the human form was quite different. As a dragon, Caldarus paid no heed to the rain. It was more of a bath if anything else. As a stone, it was something he merely sensed through his magic. In both forms, rain allowed Caldarus to watch the world be cleaned. To experience a moment of silence as all sounds fell under the sound of rain. But as a human, the rain altered all his senses. He could hear it, smell it, feel it, even taste it. It was all wonderful and all too much. He now understood why many rushed to shelter, after all, who could endure this onslaught of the senses for longer durations?

In his human form, Caldarus expected rainy days with you to cease. He thought you would prefer time indoors as most humans did. But instead, Caldarus found your sitting on a stone bench, doing nothing.

“Dear one, why are you sitting on the bench? Would you not prefer the warmth of your home?”

You laughed and gave Caldarus a cheeky smile.

“Can’t stand the rain anymore Caldarus? What happened to experiencing nature’s pause?”

Caldarus ducked his head and looked away. The number of times he asked you to sit beside him in the rain, not once it crossed his mind that this act might make you sick. He opened his mouth to apologize for this negligence, when he saw your outstretched hand. Tentatively holding it, Caldarus found himself being pulled towards you. He landed on the stone bench while you sat on the ground beside him. The familiar positions you took when he was stone.

“I want to experience this moment with you, Caldarus”.

He would never tire of hearing you say his name, nor of spending time with you. It was a world you both created, a language you both understood, and a familiarity that long eluded Caldarus. He would forever cherish it.

“Of course, dear one”.