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musedblues · 4 months ago

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AMORE ~ FATI (part 1)

a/n: wait until the movie? nah. haven't stopped thinking about this freaky fucker since the trailer dropped! eat up, babes. also the horny police called and there is a warrant out for my arrest.

description: after winding up in a crime related to the royals, geta strikes up a deal with you.

warnings: down right hoe shit, sexual descriptions, gruesome descriptions, minimal historical research/ distant memories from high school test, cliff hanger. MINORS DNI

Part 1 of 2 (at least)

///

The afternoon was like any other, the day your life changed. You awoke to an empty home, gathered your cart of crafts, and headed to the stalls. You sold your paintings there and begged the clouds to cover the swelter of the sun.

For your landscape art, you accepted coin. You accepted food. You accepted a jeweled ring that afternoon, just as well. An exchange like it wasn't out of the ordinary. You pawned the adornment for cash that evening, and made the trek back home. With plans to paint pictures into the night, to sell off the next day.

Your home was quaint, once big enough for two, now only you haunted the halls. The man you'd once been forced to marry had been dead for many months now, and a certain freedom was found in his absence. But a certain monotony about your routine seemed to predetermine the days ahead as far as you could see them. So, you painted.

As you fiddled with brushes and stained your grey dress with speckles of deep amber, a bursting knock came across your door. The guest gave you no time to greet them before turning into an intruder. Two royal guards burst into your home, shouting and grabbing you and dragging you away. All so quickly.

You went fighting. You cursed as they held you in a carriage. You demanded their silence broken. But they remained stone faced as you begged to know why you'd been abducted from your home.

Your captors rode into the city, past the colosseum, right through the gates that led to the home of the reigning family. Your heart hammered in fear, knowing what you knew about the rulers. Caracalla and Geta had only just taken over the reign of their father, their mother looming near, picking sides; as you understood. Since the change in leadership, Rome hadn't suffered en mass. But a growing dread hung heavy over the population, knowing the brothers were struggling to join together in power. Knowing their clash divided not only their power, but all of Rome.

You were grabbed at once more, forced out of the carriage and into the great hall of the estate. Gold and red statues lined the entrance. A plum rug stretched before your feet, a welcoming cushion as the rest of your senses were drowned by harshness. Before you, pacing near his throne, Geta waited.

You'd seen him and his brother before, trailing behind their father at rallies. Lingering near the stands at games. You'd always let your gaze settle on Geta, if ever you'd seen him. You'd always been drawn to gawk at the trimness of his figure. The enigmatic expressions he would pull. The presence he commanded. He was easy to admire, from afar. And the towns ladies often gossiped of how alluring he could be up close, if they were lucky enough to be invited to do so. No one spoke as much of Caracalla. In his name, fear and loathing often followed.

With a glare in your direction, Geta ceased pacing. He nodded toward his guards to relinquish their hold on you.

"What is all this?" You demanded, refusing to bow or humble yourself before this ruler in anyway. How could you dare offer up respect when little to none had been offered to you? Geta seemed taken aback, for a flash. His brows furrowed and his lips parted in shock, at your boldness. But then a grin flickered across his lips and his pacing started up once more.

"You're in possession of something of mine, no?" Geta alluded. Want as you might've to argue, to proclaim your innocence, you were too baffled. What could he possibly be on about?

"You were seen taking a ring as payment today, at your stall." Geta boomed, voice filling the room, echoing off the tall painted ceilings. He started into a story, then, that made things clearer. You learned that ring was a family heirloom, stolen by a servant only one night ago. That he'd sold it to a carriage driver for freedom. You learned that servant had been slain. But the ring was still gone. And you were the last person seen with the distinct bluish jewel in your palm. There were many a shopper along the street market this morning. Several were looking into your stall as you accepted the ring for payment. You couldn't deny the action. But you didn't have it any longer, anyhow.

"I exchanged it for money. With the sellers near the river." You decidedly conceded. "I've got nothing more to do with this now release me." Your voice shook, out of fear for your fate, and anger for your circumstance.

"Names." Geta stalled his meander, a few steps away from you. His dark eyes had cast across your figure before boring right into yours. You couldn't look right at him without feeling a shiver up your spine. And you were not about to let on that Geta had this effect on you. So, you cast your gaze to the hands at his sides, and scoffed at what you saw.

"Why? Are the rings already on your fingers not good enough? You cannot be allowed to want for what you don't have, if you're in possession of more than enough already."

"What's mine is mine! No one else's." Geta yelled, keeping his eye's boring into yours. His voice shook through the halls, and fueled your rage further. Your rage for your circumstance, and for that of this nation.

"Your greed shall poison this empire." You spat at the man.

"An empire I was born to rule cannot be soured, destiny has been at work since my conception and my father's before me." Geta grinned, an all-knowing sort of smile that was meant to belittle you, you were certain. But you couldn't be made to feel so worthless.

"We are all born to die, your highness."

"Your opposition will result in bleakness if you do not answer my call for this information. Give me their names." Geta shouted, still inches from you. Geta was giving you a chance to answer. And that shocked you. You voiced your opposition only because you thought you were surely moments away from being killed, and refused to die without standing your ground. But here you still stood. Geta was letting you.

As taken aback by his patience as you were, his arrogance and demanding shouts were only deepening your desire to withhold. To stand resolute. Who were you to ruin some poor people's lives over a bit of jewelry? Your silence was deafening, each passing moment tensing at Geta's shoulders. You watched his jaw clench, you watched his eye's dance between your own. You smiled.

"Get her out of my sight." Geta hissed, waving his men to capture you once more. You rolled your eyes as they grabbed at you. "Keep her in the cellar until she starts talking. Do not, however... take drastic measures."

You shot a perplexed frown the rulers way as he shook his head in your direction. A scowl turned Geta's lips down. But as he watched you begin to growl in unwillingness to go, his smile curled to life.

"And what of you? What punishments are you allotted?" You yelled as the guards dragged you away. Geta kept his furrowed smirk pointed at you, a puzzled sparkle in his eye.

///

The cellar smelled damp as it felt, your feet squelching along the dirt paths. You'd been taken past a row of prisoners, all in various stages of wither. You closed your eyes too them, offering silent prayers for their fates in passing.

"In you go," A guard shoved you toward the back of a small cell, chuckling as he locked the barred off door. "When you're ready to talk, we just might be around to listen. Let's hope we don't forget about you all the way over in this corner."

How had you ended up here? Hours ago, you'd been at peace in your quiet cottage, paint brush in hand. Now you sat on a wooden bench, senses filled with cold. How were the gods so cruel? Why did you have to accept that stupid ring? Why didn't you admire it longer? Maybe you would've found evidence of its owner, somehow, in the royal gleam of the thing. Maybe you could have returned it with honor, the promise of your home awaiting you. But none of that was happening. Now, you were unsure of everything. But you weren't going to go down without a fight. You weren't going to rat out the innocent fellow you pawned with, for simply surviving another day of this confounding life. You weren't eager to play into the rulers demands for more, as if he didn't have enough. As if he deserved to be granted assurance when himself and his brother offered Rome none.

Hours must've passed. Guards floated by time and again, jeering at you through the bars of your cell. As they passed you by, the voices grew louder yet, giving other prisoners hell. You heard shouts and screams. You heard begging for torture to cease. You heard the stabbing of flesh and the gurgle of blood. You heard the quiet from your own cell. Why were you being spared of such treatment? Why was your confinement different from the others?

As you began to question your own sanity, and the fate the gods had in store for you, a guard was passing by your cell once more. He stopped there, jamming a key into the lock. This was it. Your turn had come. You braced to be berated as the man reached in and yanked you to stand. The guard demanded you to follow as he dragged you through the cellar the same way you'd come in.

Suddenly you were in the great hall again. The purple carpet like clouds under your step. There were servants arranging decor as if an event were to be taking place soon. Your observation of the hall was short lived as the single guard dragged you up a marble staircase. The home was vast, and full of well painted statues and portraits and windows. The sun was long gone from the sky. It had to be later than midnight. As you soaked up your surroundings and let your imagination run wild, you tried not to worry how you'd be executed. You tried to remind yourself that death waited for no one. You tried to remember the last picture you'd been painting, a field of sheep under a setting sun.

Your captor stalled before a great carved door, twisting the handle. Your captor dragged you inside.

Candles lit a room with a bed in the middle, the biggest you'd ever seen. The amber glow of the space was welcoming, despite the terror that resided about your situation. Beyond the bed was a table full of wine, bottles of all sort decorated the clothed stand. Before the table, was Geta. His slump on a stool shifted when he saw you. Moving to stand, the man dressed more scarcely than before was slow to approach you. His expression unreadable.

"Leave us." He demanded, pointing the guard to exit the room. The man's parting left chills in his wake. What was to become of you now? What was this all about?

Geta did not stay still at your front. He instead let his head roll from one side to the other as his pace turned back toward the cloth covered table. Among the bottles of wine were a scattered few chalices. He filled one with a drink. And then another.

"We caught the carriage driver who initially accepted the ring." Geta announced, back toward you all the while. You admired the tone of his shoulders, as one was left uncovered by his robe. The cloth stayed tied among his waist. "We also captured the man you pawned the ring off to. We have the ring." Geta continued, bringing both cups of wine over to where you stood. Ah, so poison was to be your execution?

Accepting the chalice in a fist, you stayed silent all the while. Geta locked his tired gaze on yours and kept talking.

"The ring was my fathers. Something he left just to me. Caracalla was given finery as well, just for himself. We do not do well with equity, my brother and I." Geta raised his wine for a sip and kept his dark gaze locked on your own. His eye's were red from lack of sleep, it seemed. His eyes were bright, all the while, as they peered into yours. This leader had a way of drawing you in. This leader had a way of making you forget you were probably on the verge of slaughter or worse.

"And while this mission to hunt down the ring has been my mission alone, Caracalla's wrath has still been promoted since he learned something of our fathers had gone missing." Geta explained.

"What's become of the carriage driver and the man I sold your ring to?" You dared to wonder.

"The servant was killed as you know, by Caracalla's own sword. The driver has been exiled at my command." Geta said. "But the man you sold it too was killed as well, by my brother's guards. Before I could get to him. You see my wrath is often equal to Caracalla's. But my bloodlust isn't as insatiable. And I can see his way of violence has stirred fear among our people. Would you agree?"

You had to nod.

"I do not wish death upon you. Blood should only be shed in battles and in honor. You were a simple moving part. You should not deserve to be killed in the crossfire. But you should pay for stumbling where you dared not have stepped. Otherwise, Caracalla will catch wind that I let you slip away without a punishment. And he will do worse."

"So, what is my fate?" You wondered, clutching the wine in your fist, unmoving. Mind whirring. Had you really been shown a backhanded kindness by the ruler you'd always believed to be more unyielding? His already alluring nature becoming more attractive as you understood this to be true.

"Exile seems drastic, yes. But it's an option." Geta raised his glass to gesture, moving to pace before a cushioned chaise. This room, his room, wanted for nothing. There was space and comfort and treasure promised throughout its expanses.

"Then there could be a fine. You'd be meant to pay every fortnight." Geta reasoned drinking once more. Still not entirely trusting of your own wine, you rested the chalice on a nearby chest, crossing your arms with a scowl. As if this Empire needed more money.

"I'm too poor to keep that up." You spat, expressing displeasure in your tone. Geta raised a brow and frowned when he realized your implication, how much work needed to be done for the betterment of the population. With a sigh, Geta cast his gaze about the room. When his pace turned naturally closer to you, his eye's locked on your face as a realization dawned across his. Geta let a smirk hint at his lips as his dark eyes glanced into yours.

"There is... another way..." Geta implied something you didn't see coming. As the man continued his languid back and forth, his gaze stayed ever fixed on your figure. And you hadn't really been ashamed of the glances you'd stolen of his, this day. He was drawing closer, as if to entice you. He didn't need to know that it wouldn't have taken much seduction. He didn't need to know that you'd already been wondering what it would be like to untie the robe at his waist.

Geta didn't need to know that you were becoming less wrought with terror by the second. You'd hoped he'd never known you were afraid, before. But now, in the flickering candlelight of his lavish room, you saw him. The persona Geta had put on all these years, all this time, was just that. You could see plain as day. Geta was full of anger, yes. But he seemed full of so much more, to you, now, too. The man seemed to hold a brewing mixture of depth about him that felt so obvious all of a sudden. Now, more endeared to the ruler, and just as attracted, you made up your mind.

"Seeing as I have no funds... let's just get this over with." You sighed, feigning impatience for the wrong reasons.

Geta circled you, eyeing you up. You wanted to melt under how hot his gaze was. But right now this was all happening far too slowly. Your interest had skyrocketed. But your time had also been heavily wasted here. You had plans, after all. He'd held you captive long enough.

"Sit down. I'm tired of waiting." You barked at him, shoving his shoulder so he collapsed into the chaise. Geta fell seated at your order but looked up to you with an irate sneer. An anger passed over his expression but morphed into curiosity in a blink.

"Seeing as to how I'm getting what I want out of you, I don't mind giving into your demands." Geta announced, as if to remind you he was the one calling the shots. You couldn't help but grin, struggling not to roll your eyes at the man's obsession with power. Humming so he knew you heard him, you settled either knee at Geta's sides.

As the ruler's fingers reached to grab at your hips, your day flashed before your imagination. Funny how life worked. How days could be spent so monotonously for so long only to become upturned and scattered about the next. You never imagined you'd find yourself straddling one of Rome's emperors over a payment for your latest painting.

Geta's kiss surprised you. Not the fact that it was bruising, and harsh. But the fact that it was. You assumed this would go quickly, without much effort put into anything besides a quick and vulgar shagging. Granted, his lips didn't press into yours longer than a couple minutes, before his teeth were digging into your neck. But the way his hands wandered to grab at your limbs and claw at your skin was a welcomed affection you had not expected.

When you finally got to untie the robe around his waist, you couldn't help but admire the build of his core, the shape of his figure. You'd heard girl's oggle over the emperor before, he was no stranger to trysts of most kind. You'd heard girl's trade deadly details of their nights spent with Geta, his lust unbridled. But the sight of his body bare before yours was better than any rumor you'd caught wind of.

As you lowered yourself into Geta's lap, he was quick to rock his hips against yours with force you had been bracing for. His grip on your hips threatened to turn you over, but you'd be damned if you let him gain complete control. You rose a hand to the man's head, raking a set of fingers through his hair. Your fingers curled to grip with perhaps too much gusto, and your hips rolled to force Geta back, more fully seated.

You heard the man let out a hoarse curse as his grip lightened, as he accepted your dominance. Did this really count as payment if you were getting more out of it?

Geta pushed you away when it was all said and done, a steady hand stayed holding your side as he nudged you off of his lap. You maneuvered to stand, adjusting the skirt of your dress with a sigh.

"I suppose I should thank you for sparing my life. Surely thought you'd take it. Shame our exchange has come to an end. Didn't quite feel like a payment at all." A daring smirk painted your face as you turned to head for the door. You heard Geta lumber to stand, perhaps drunk off wine and pleasure. His feet padded as your hand reached for the handle of your escape.

"What was the painting?" Geta asked, stalling your leave and perplexing you to turn to face him. He was shrugging his robe back into place with a raised brow. "The painting bought with my ring, what was it?"

"Oh," You realized, pursing a frown. "I- I don't exactly recall. I do a lot of landscapes. Seascapes. Could've been anything like it." You noted. Geta watched you speak, mouth opened, stalled to say more. His tongue glided over the ends of his teeth as the man nodded and sauntered back toward his table full of wine.

"My guards will see to your return home." Geta called, back facing you. You took that as your leave, anxious for some rest after exhausting your mind with wonder all day, and your body with pleasure this night. As you shut the emperor's door with a soft click, a gratitude filled your chest. That could've gone a lot worse.

///

The next day seemed surreal. You recalled the night like a fevered dream, like a plot from a book. But there were scratches along your thighs that reminded you what had happened was very truly real. You recalled the feelings Geta stirred in you with warmth.

You milled from room to room, mind in constant awe of the way your life had been spared. Since the brothers had come into power, so many senseless killings had been threatened and followed through. So much violence had afflicted common criminals and the odd person out of place alike. Was it more to do with Caracalla? Was he truly the more cruel? Did Geta have a softness about him? Or had you just gotten damn lucky?

You went about your daily chores and sat down to paint. Your art displayed sheep dotting across greyish green land. Your setting sun was in progress. A breeze flowed through the window, and you imagined it in your painting as well. A knocking rattled your door. It's persistence grating your nerves. Only now, at least, no one was intruding.

Maybe that's why you were shocked more so now than before, to see two royal guards at your front door.

"Geta is demanding your audience." One of them chuckled lowly before reaching to grab at you. He was too strong to fight off, though kick and yell you did.

Oh God, he'd realized he'd let you off easy, hadn't he? You should've pretended to hate rocking against his lap in that chair. You should've begged for freedom. Or maybe it was Caracalla after all. Maybe he'd heard of your involvement with his father's stolen ring and wished you dead. And these guards were luring you in with a false promise that Geta was the one wishing for a meeting.

While your mind raced, and the carriage took off into the city and passed the colosseum, you cursed the guards for dragging you away again. For being such fowl scum of the earth to manhandle women like they did.

It wasn't long before you were being yanked from the ride and marched into the great hall with that luscious purple carpet underfoot. Geta was there, assessing a scroll with a couple of servants nearby. His shock surprised you, when his glance looked up from the papers.

As you squirmed against the holds the guards kept on you, Geta shoved the scroll he held onto, into the grasp of a servant. He drew his sword from his side, the instrument of war and horror blinding you in its brightness. The emperors stomp in your direction was quick, his footfall shaking the building and you to your core. This was it. This was your fate.

"Release her now!" Geta yelled, directing his fury to one of the guards at your side. Before the words fully formed from the man's mouth, either of the guard's grips had unlatched from your arms. You did not see that coming. You almost couldn't comprehend that his blade had missed piercing straight through you.

"You were gone for all of a few seconds before you bring her back here?" Geta quizzed, face red with anger. He held the end of his sword to the man's chin, forcing his footsteps back.

"You- you told us to go fetch the girl from last afternoon, is that not what we did your highness?" The guard was bold in asking, though his voice trembled.

"I told you to ask her to come. I told you to remain at her door in patience. And you dare drag the woman back in the matter of mere moments? With force? That's a direct disregard of my orders!" With speed that rallied a gasp from your throat, Geta whipped his sword to slash at the knees of the guard that defied him. The man let out a cry as his legs gave way, sending the fellow to collapse. Geta ordered the other guard to take the injured one to a medic and stay there until he was ready to deal with them further. His blood pooled and stained the purple carpet.

"Why am I here again?" You couldn't linger in uncertainty any longer, once again failing to greet the leader without any respect of his authority. Geta plunged his red stained sword into its sheath as he demanded his servants get out. The workers scattered at the sound of his command, scurrying toward exits. The room was filled with quiet as Geta turned to face you fully.

"I'm sorry they dragged you here. You were only meant to show up if you so wished." Geta's voice was lower, his rage subdued. He confounded you, the way he held so much darkness and contempt about him. The way he eased into constraint. These were not the stories you had heard. This was not the man described to you by retired servants and wives of soldiers. He was more withheld, before you. And it caught you by surprise time and again.

"But since you are here now, and you have not yet raised a hand to lash across my cheek, I shall tell you," Geta went on, letting his eyes do what they had done before. Letting his gaze sweep across your figure. "I asked you here to present to you a proposition. An invitation to spend more evenings like the one we shared just before."

"You cannot be serious." You let a breath of a laugh fan from your throat.

"I'm hardly ever anything but." Geta reasoned with a curled lip and a shrug of his shoulder in a way you knew was meant to get you to chuckle for real. This man continued to confound you. This man contained multitudes. How had no one else, in all their gossip, mentioned this?

"Is this more to do with payment? Did our exchange not suffice?" You reasoned, still uncertain of the terms in which Geta was asking.

"I think you know exactly how well our exchange sufficed. Well enough for me to not have stopped dreaming of doing exactly that time and time again. I'm merely asking because I wish too." Geta was so close, his breath ghosting across your cheek, his eyes searching yours. "And now you get to decide what you wish. Who am I to deny you a choice?"

"What happens should I turn to leave?" You wondered.

"A guard would take you home. And with fair treatment, I'd make certain."

"What happens should I stay?"

"A servant would take you upstairs. And your imagination could fill in the rest."

Well, this certainly wasn't how you expected your day to turn out. That painting of all the sheep and the sunset would have to wait another long day. You suddenly couldn't dream of plans outside of those featuring Rome's half reigning emperor.

With a nod toward the door you'd seen Geta's servants go through, he grinned.

With footsteps more certain of the direction of his room, you found yourself locked in there, waiting.

///

The next weeks were filled with plans you couldn't tell anyone without fear they'd think you'd gone mad. You spent days milling about the stalls to sell your landscape paintings, careful of the payments you accepted. You'd harvest the fruits from your garden for meals and wait until night fall, when your promised escort arrived.

Nights were spent in Geta's room, on his floor, against his wall, in that blessed chaise. Nights were spent shoving the emperors head into the pillows as your hips rocked together. Nights were spent demanding he speed up and slow down at your desire. Nights were spent with Geta sharing wine in between drawn-out romps. You'd drink and laugh and carry on, a couple times until the sun peaked dimly into a new day. You'd stay drinking, sharing stories about where you had come from and your hardships. Things you'd hardly spoken of before. Things you couldn't believe Geta would listen so intently to.

It started off as only a few times throughout any given week. But at the end of those nights Geta would always ask about the next. You'd offer up a day or a time and he'd promise you that he'd see to it happening. He would pour you more wine and tell you the dirtiest jokes, and ask what pleased you most before those nights ended.

But after a while, he stopped asking. And your escort showed up outside your door more nights than most. And it became a rather expected part of the schedule of either of your days.

This night as you padded across the purple carpet, following behind a servant you'd come to trust; a ruckus was sounding from the stairwell you headed toward.

There you found Geta and his brother spitting fowl words in one another's direction. The men were swarmed by guards, ready to take on any outcome of the boys spat. And while they argued about political things you weren't privy to the full details of, you understood they spoke their father's name. You heard Caracalla remind Geta that their father had decidedly upped Rome's soldiers pay to ensure their loyalties to the empire. You heard Geta shout something about how his father was dead, how the brothers needed to learn to ensure loyalties in their own manner. And then he noticed you had arrived.

"Thank God." Geta seethed, waving his brother off, taking the stairs two at a time to lower himself to greet you.

"For you, Geta, trust is easily earned, isn't it?" Caracalla shouted, still domineering about the stairs. "A bat of your lashed eyes toward any common whore and they come flooding through our halls." Caracalla cast a snarl in your direction that turned Geta's blood so hot you swore you could feel the smoke coming off him. With a decidedly quick hand, you rested your fingers to grip Geta's arm, stopping him from running up the staircase to rip his brother in two. You didn't care so much what Caracalla thought of you, so long as Geta's opinion remained unchanged.

"But my powers of persuasion are not so charming. And I must demand trust more harshly. And I must remain harsh to keep control. And I do control the half of this empire entrusted in my name!" Caracalla was seething, fists balled at his sides, eyes bulging with rage. You'd never known anyone to be fueled by such negativity. Geta had slowly started toward his brother, letting your grip remain on his arm.

"We'll reach an agreement. But not till morning. Go back to your side of the estate, now." Geta demanded, taking the staircase slowly, keeping his eyes on his brother. The younger one stood shaking with fury as the elder led you to his room. Guards and servants followed, wordlessly seeing the pair of you behind closed doors. A couple of soldiers usually waited on either end of this hall, but tonight a few more lingered near in addition. These boys really hated each other.

Once locked in his room, safe from rage and question, Geta had you pinned against the wall. He'd usually greet you. He'd usually ask about what paintings you'd sold that day, or if you'd had any great stories of your family before they sold you to a husband. Or of your husband before he died. But tonight, Geta was ravenous. Tonight, he moved more accordingly to the rumors you'd once heard about him.

The emperor didn't fuss with your clothes. He didn't give you time to unravel his either. No sooner than his hand had crept up the skirt of your dress, was he rocking his hips into yours, pounding your back against the wall.

Your nails clawed at the back of his neck and your legs curled to flex around his waist. Geta was relentless as his body hammered into yours. He huffed harder with each new pulse and let out some cursed sighs when your teeth pierced into his shoulder, to keep from screeching all the same. You knew the guards could hear from the hall. But they didn't need to hear more than they had too.

His efforts had ended, his face stayed buried in your neck. But you weren't ready for it to cease.

"You think you're finished? You're only just getting started." You barked, pawing at Geta's head and forearm, shoving him downward. He didn't hesitate, his knees cracked to the floor with force you knew had to hurt. But he didn't seem phased. Geta seemed entirely entranced on bending your knee over his shoulder. Scratching his fingers along your skin. Burying his head between your legs. And he did so consciously, like a duty being fulfilled. He was relentless tonight, and you felt lucky to be relented against.

When your pleasure had ended, and you were left to slide from the wall to find footing, you found the wine too.

"Well, I can't help solve Rome's problems," You began, pouring you each a drink. "But I hope I've just helped solve some of your own, your highness." You half mocked, but half spoke in well-meaning regard. Geta hummed somewhere behind you. His voice sounded nearby. But his hands fell to close the space between you, gripping at the hilt of your hips.

"Dunno, might need to try a couple more times." You could hear the smile in his tone, and you felt his sultry chuckle against your neck, where he nearly dared to place a kiss, but didn't. Geta only reached ahead for his chalice, and asked about your day.

///

You didn't need to sell paintings. You could've lived a basic enough life, fed from the food you grew in your garden, rested from the comfort of your own bed. Secure enough in your late spouses left over finances.

You had known married life for all of five years. Wed before you'd even turned old enough to know better. All because your parents thought it best. They said you'd been sold to a husband to take care of you, in the long run. He did care for you, in his own twisted way. He kept you fed and housed until he died. And he left all his meager earnings to you in his passing. It wasn't much, but it was enough for you, for now, for a while.

You started painting when you moved in with him, to fill the days that dragged on so endlessly. You dreamed of freedom from the man for so long. And kept painting when he died, to fill those same days that were just as endless and a lot quieter to boot. He'd left you all alone in the expanses of the great wide world, yet freedom seemed even more unobtainable to you then, somehow. So, you painted. And decidedly started selling those paintings when the house filled up without room for any more of them. You kept selling them when you realized how eagerly peers bought from you.

You'd made friends down at the stalls. You found a quaint routine there, waiting in the sun to trade paintings for coins, and chattering with townspeople while the mornings stayed young. Bakers and seamstresses and writers alike shared your routine, all becoming familiar faces you were pleased to see each day.

"Goodmorning, you!" A trio of girls your age came giggling your way. Girls you'd invited over a few times. Girls you were happy to see now.

"Listen, are you going to the games in three day's time? I'd like us all to twirl about the colosseum buzzed on vino, carefree!" The small brunette leaned across the table your art was displayed on.

"She just wants to go to wait on Geta, afterward. He always invites girls in after the games." The blonde rolled her eyes, leaning against the post of your stall as you chuckled in understanding, and out of sudden apprehension. You and Geta agreed to your trysts because he trusted how discreet you could be. When you refused to bend your will to give the names of the people you pawned his ring to, he admired that. You couldn't give yourself away, now.

"But haven't you heard?" The redhead leaned in, waving you all to listen closer. "Geta hasn't invited any of the girls that wait at the empire gates in, in weeks."

You'd often trailed in past that very line of girls in question, much to their growing displeasure. Luckily, none of them were from the side of the country you had resided. None of them could spread your name around in whispers, as they did not know it.

"I'm still eager to take my chances." The brunette joked, going on to beg you to come to the games at the colosseum.

"I don't know." Was the best answer you could give without disappointing your friends, or thinking up a messy lie on the spot.

///

Another night in Geta's room was unusually spent in his bed. You'd been used to being forced against a chest of drawers, his voice growling in your ear. Or yours demanding the emperor sit on the stool before the table of wine, and wait in agony like a good, obedient, merciful ruler.

But tonight, Geta had you moving slower in his sheets. He'd closed his eyes as your hips rocked atop his, nice and easy. And when he reached to flip you over, his core pierced languidly into yours. His hand brushed across your cheek and his eyes stayed steadily locked on yours.

"Are you feeling quite alright?" You couldn't help but worry, too overcome with the silence that fell about the room. Geta had been resting at your side, his finger tracing the same pattern against your stomach forever.

"What if you stayed, tonight?" The ruler asked, after a while.

"You didn't answer my question. You realized, still confused as to what mood you'd found Geta in tonight. You'd been often surprised by his wit and his resolution. But this wasn't a way you'd known the emperor before.

"You didn't answer mine either." He pointed, finger still dancing across the skin of your abdomen. You turned your head to find Geta's gaze. His head rested on a pillow at your side, his eyes rolling up to lock with yours. His dark brown stare was illuminating. His curls graced his head so delicately. His silence was so reticent this night. Maybe it was the fact neither of you had had any wine.

"I'll stay if you tell me what's going on in that head of yours." You shot a pointed look to the man at your side who let a lifeless smile flash across his lips as his eyes turned away from yours. Silence filled the room once more, but you got the sense that Geta was choosing his words a while.

"Nothing... none of this is how I thought it would be." Geta spoke. You kept your eyes cast across his amber lit room, fixating on the pattern of the wallpaper. What did he mean?

"What's this?" You quizzed. "Ruling an empire? Sleeping with me? Sobriety from wine for a night?" You tried to joke, desperate for some kind of clarity.

"None of it." Geta responded, his inflection implying everything you listed was weighing on his mind then. And that surprised you. He was always surprising you. Silence settled yet again, and stayed for a while. It was Geta who broke it, after so long. He sat up to meet your eye, searching your gaze before offering a nod. You nodded back, knowing that meant your promise to stay here had been sealed. He rose from the bed to dim the candles, and crashed back into it with a sigh.

When Geta rested his head of golden curls on your chest, in the dark and quiet of his room, you finally understood what he meant. This was all very different now, than it started. None of it had turned out in an expected way. But you felt at ease with it all. You hadn't shared a bed with anyone since your late husband, and those times simply did not count in your mind. You did not care for that man as you had come to care for the one laying against you now. And that dawned on you in fear. But then, a realization that it didn't matter. Not now. Now, you got to rest under the weight of the emperor, for one peaceful night.

///

The next morning was bright and felt early in your bones. And it wasn't long before it hit you, the games were meant to happen today. Geta's stirring at your side was a relished wonder, as his smile widened to see you upon waking. But it all came crashing down as servants and soldiers demanded quick work of getting up and ready for the day of events.

"It will be too hard to send you away now, with all the crowds starting to gather." Geta realized, peering from the window of his room to the public below. "I'll have some appropriate attire sent for you. You shall join us today." The emperor's smile was bitten back, but you saw it reached his eyes as his looked into yours.

Things were shifting with Geta. Night's were turning into days with him. Festivities were offered to be shared. You knew better than to ask. You knew better than to wonder why. You simply thanked him for his offer and waited for clothes to change into as the leader headed out of his room, yelling for a guard to hurry along and follow. You milled about Geta's room, admiring the wallpaper in the daylight. Admiring the stained glass of his window. You traced your finger along carved chests and bed posts. You dared to open a drawer, finding a collection of jewelry there, a familiar blue stoned ring at the front of the collection.

You snapped the drawer shut in a hurry when a knock came across the door.

"Hello." A familiar face entered. Julia, the Emperors mother, twirled in the room with a stack of garments. "These are mine from seasons past. I brought a few, just in case." The woman was dear, with soft curls that matched her sons, gold earrings that brightened her blue eyes. She smiled and introduced herself as if she needed too. For her, you bowed.

"Such a pretty thing, you are." Julia cooed, resting her clothes at the foot of the emperor's bed before turning to consider you. "I've seen you come and go. Quite the feat to boast over. Geta never struggled to make friends, not like Caracalla. But he has failed to keep so many of them."

Julia kept a studying gaze on you as you thanked her for her kindness and watched her saunter out the door. The woman told you to meet the family downstairs once you readied yourself. That's when a certain anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach. What was this? What had you gotten yourself into? Worry plagued your mind as you squeezed into a bright blue and plum skirt. The fabric hugged at your figure but fell so elegantly to the floor. You never dreamed of such finery adorning you. You'd never dreamed of a life so different from the one you'd been used to living.

Downstairs, everyone had gathered, gearing up to head out. Guards of every kind kept the ruling brothers on either side of the room while Julia flitted about, laughing with a man you didn't know. Senators and councilors seemed to mingle with the family just as well, their wives and children patiently lingering on the outskirts of the gathering.

When Julia found you descending the stairs her first greeting after a smile was to tell you how perfectly the dress fit, how powerful you seemed entering the room. She said you held a certain presence about you, keeping a watchful eye on your expression as you gushed to thank her for such continued kindness.

And then you were off, trailing with the wives and the children of the party as the royal family presented themselves before the public. They were loved and hated so that the cheers and boo's from the crowd muddled together in an indistinguishable roar. Your heart pounded to realize how close you were to the action of the day, to realize how viscerally the opinion of the public mattered to the fate of the royals.

You watched Caracalla pull some face, pointing a finger at a citizen who cursed his name on the families walk toward the colosseum. You watched women line themselves along the path Geta walked, his politics be damned. You watched as he turned to look back, smile stretching wider as his eyes found yours. You watched then, as Julia stalled to join your side, and failed to calm the quickening of your heart as she held your arm to walk with you. None of this was how it used to be.

The woman leaned in, explaining exactly how today's games were meant to go. She yammered about the history of it all and pulled a few giggles from your throat as she threw in some personal deadly details about old games she'd bore witness too.

Once you'd all reached the colosseum, the brothers were ushered off to find their royal box, while Julia strategically placed you just outside of there. She frowned when she reminded you could not be allowed to join them further than here, but smiled when she hoped you'd enjoy the day's events. You watched her saunter off, stopping a guard and pointing in your direction before she disappeared in the box all the while. The guard locked his gaze with yours, offering a respectful nod as you considered your surroundings.

All kinds of vendors and stalls were open around every entrance of the arena. All kinds of people wandered about, sampling food and drink, playing cards at tables until the event's kicked off. You decidedly began to wander about, accepting free samples and smiling to people you'd seen in passing. You shielded your eyes from the sun and noticed that guard trailing nearby, keeping a steady eye on your every move.

When the crowds began to clamor toward the inside of the arena, you realized the games were about to begin. You downed a free sample of wine and found your way to watch from afar. Caracalla and Geta were announced in, and greeted with that same muddled roar of praise and disregard. You watched as Geta ate up the attention. You watched as Caracalla fought against it, spitting and arguing with some poor guard in the box. There was something so volatile in the air, as if one wrong move from either of the emperors would unleash havoc. The public was only one excitable realization away from realizing their joined forces could rip the royals from limb to limb. Geta was quick to shift focus to the games, demanding the publics energy be reserved for the battles that were begun, turning the spotlight away from himself. It was a tactical move, but you worried if he and his brother did not change the course of their political actions soon, no amount of pantomime could save them.

Another few swallows of wine helped ease your nerves, all the while. You'd forgotten how on edge the public had only just seemed. You'd been entranced by Geta's presence even from so many miles away. His distraction's had worked wonders on the crowd, his excitable reactions to the winners and losers kept the arena entertained for the better, for now. He kept you entertained all the while. When he would tear his gaze from the games every once and a while, you liked to imagine he was looking for wherever you might've been.

When you wandered off to find more wine, the guard that had been following you stayed back, glued to the battle that was happening. You returned with two cups, to share. The guard tried to deny your kindness but caved with a smile at your insistence to have at least one drink. It was a day of festivities after all.

"We thought you weren't going to make it!" A voice familiar echoed over your ear. Turning from the view of the battle, you found your friends. You chuckled as you greeted the small brunette, buzzed enough off wine to shrug your nerves away. You couldn't exactly explain how you ended up here, to them. Or how you'd come to dress so finely. But they didn't pester you too much about it, drunk all the same. The girls swarmed you with giggles and hello's and how are you's.

"Change your mind, have you?" The blonde teased, raising her brow at you. But your mind was too slow to understand why.

"This is the gate the royals always leave from. Isn't it obvious?" The small brunette pointed, waving her hand to gesture around. When you glanced up, you noticed a particularly increasing population of young women that had begun to collect around the area. Geta always famously exited from this path, and always famously collected a girl or two to follow him back to the royal hall.

"Oh, no, I just sort of-" You stumbled over words, "ended up on this side." How were you to explain this all away? "I actually... should be going now that it's nearing an end. Get home before sun set." This reason sounded good enough in your head to speak aloud, as you began to walk backward, waving to your friends all the while. You spun on your heels, anxious to get away, making up your mind to head home should that be your only sound escape. But you'd barely walked a dozen paces before that guard was gliding close and halting your leave.

"You're not to go. I'm to see you united with her highness when she passes through that exit."

"Is- is that what she ordered?" You asked meekly, looking up to the roman soldier who loomed over you with his bulky build, yet kind eyes. The man did not speak, but lifted a hand to spin you around by the shoulder, placing a gentle palm there to guide you back where you came from. You saw your friends notice, perplexed gaze's settled on your march as you stepped closer to where they'd stayed waiting.

Caracalla was the first one to storm through the arched entrance, scowling at you on his storm toward his chariot. But then, a spectator, too drunk for his own good, began to slur insults to the emperor. The fellow had barely began cursing Caracalla's name, before the ruler stepped close to grab the man by his throat, strong enough to lift him to the tips of his dirty toes. The citizen struggled to breathe, squirming for relief. Caracalla shouted in the man's face, something about knowing better. The ruler let go, the citizen dropped to the floor in a rattled gasp. When Caracalla demanded the guards that followed him, to slaughter the citizen still choking for breath on the ground, you'd had enough.

"Do not do that. Have you such little mercy?" It wasn't to be helped, the way your body and mind worked together to force out a shout. You should have been more afraid of the way Caracalla turned to fix his fiery gaze on you. But rage at the senseless violence was all you could feel. Yet, the guards were already slashing their swords at the belly of the the citizen, so he might suffer still before passing.

Caracalla stood considering you, longer than you expected. The crowds fell silent, the only noises were the hoarse cries from the dying man. And your heart hammering in place.

Caracalla moved his look from you, to the guard steady at your side, and back to you. His head shook, and a scoff left his throat. He turned to leave, kicking the man he'd murdered on his exit. Your body shook with panic. Your stomach churned at the realization that you'd escaped yet another royal execution.

The crowds parted to let Caracalla pass, steering clear of the angry little man. Your friends seemed to think of walking closer to where the guard had stalled you to wait. But their confounded and horrified expressions morphed into something more wonder filled, as their collective eye unfocused from your position.

You were too busy assessing your friend's questioning gazes to see he'd appeared. But instead, you heard Geta's voice in your ear.

"I'd say you're lucky he spared you. But I think there are more powerful forces than luck working on your side." You heard him say. Your friend's gazes had no doubt been locked on the emperor, but soon fell more perplexed onto you, yet again. And then you realized everyone's eyes had shifted to you. The entire crowd that had watched you speak against the vindictive leader just ahead. The same crow that had pushed closer to wait for a scrap of attention from the man that spoke to only you, now, was casting a collective stupefied glare right at you.

"I'd like to take you away now, but I'll have you wait on my mother. She hasn't stopped bringing up your name since this day has begun." Geta stayed speaking lowly, and you nodded to assure you understood, keeping your nervous gaze cast on the crowd that had fixated their attentions on you. "Do not worry though, tonight we can debrief in more ways than one."

You had to turn and grin at him then, pleased to see he'd waited to share a smirk with you. He was off no sooner though, parting through the crowd with little acknowledgement their way. Your friends kept their slack jawed gazes set on you as you wondered for a beat about saying something to them. But then Julia was sweeping you away, resting her clutch at the bend of your arm like she'd done before.

They watched you leave, just as everyone had. You shot your friends a quick shrug and an expression you hoped they'd understand meant you'd catch them all up later, if ever you could dream up a good enough fib.

Unlike your journey here, Julia asked all about you on your trek back. You gave thoughtful answers, not daring to spare the truth of your meager life to the woman, but hoping the way you spoke of it would endear you to her somehow. It wasn't like you needed to be adored by Julia. But you did long to be respected in some basic human way, by the royal woman.

///

That evening went on strangely. Caracalla locked himself away in the furthest parts of the halls. No one dared speak about him in his absence. No one had dared to allude to his fury or righteousness at all. Instead, the tone of the evening was rather merry. You shared a meal with a mile long table of strangers, glad all the while to have been welcomed in the celebrations of the day. You gabbed with socialites and senators alike, until one by one they headed for home and bed. Try as you might to take your leave, Julia would not let you. She only kept dragging you from guest to guest to introduce. Until you were the last one standing. Until even Julia had made her exit from the room, Geta too. Leaving you to wait in the parlor until further command.

A pair of guards stood unmoving near the doors, as you sat at the head of the dirty table. There were plates and glasses and saucers left awry, covered in crumbs for the kitchen maids to come and handle. There was a steady crackling fire on the opposite end of the room. There was wallpaper that didn't put your senses at ease the way the kind in Geta's room often had.

When the sound of the door opening stirred you from blank thoughts, you shifted to stand. Julia was easing into the room, smile and curls soft as ever. Eye's full of a certain kind of knowing. Behind her, Geta followed. His mother spoke your name, as if to grab your attention, as if she didn't already have it.

"You're not to return home." The woman began, gliding to stall before you. Geta shouldered past her, moving to stand at your side and watching as his mother spoke. "I've noticed you come and go, as I mentioned." Julia went on. "And I've noticed how my son has been less fraught, during the time you've been around. I've heard you speak, and I've seen you command a presence in any room you enter."

"What are you on about? What is this?" Geta demanded, that brooding gaze of his beginning to darken as understanding evaded him.

"As good as she has been for you, son, I'm certain she'll benefit our empire just as well." Julia glanced to Geta before her gaze settled unmovably on yours. Your chest filled with the weight of a realization. Your mind buzzed with wonders of her implications. "You will marry in two days time. Enough to spread the news across the public, and plan something grand."

"Marry?" You breathed, feeling your heart hammer in your stomach.

"You actually don't-" Geta began.

"I actually am watching this empire teeter on the edge of collapse." Julia interrupted Geta, causing his jaw to clench and his brow to darken further than before. "If we do not start moving more intentionally in the direction of change, you and your brother will ruin everything. If you marry this girl, you will marry someone from the very public you've been so often accused of dismissing. This girl is clearly capable of not only earning our family greater public favor. But she would be your bride, and you two together would have a better chance of making sense of this empire than your brother. Caracalla cannot be allowed to overpower your rule, Geta. Do you realize how close that idea is to becoming our reality?" Julia was insistent. "You do not have a choice. This has to happen. For all our fates." She was looking right at you again.

You were shaken, stunned, totally unprepared. Just days ago you were living such a carefree reality, all you knew were paints and pleasure by way of the emperor's hands. But now all of a sudden, all of Rome's fate depended on if you stayed standing here or made a break to sprint for the door.

"Get out." Geta pointed, coldly dismissing his mother. She began to argue back, pleading his name to listen. "Get out! I command it!" Geta was fuming, rage becoming his entire essence. You couldn't help but screw your eyes shut at the boom of his voice. You heard a guard approach to see the royal mother out of the door. She went without a fight, but insisted Geta had no choice, insisting she was already making plans to assure this fate for the both of you. As one guard saw her out of the room, the other followed, leaving you and Geta alone in the room with the ugly wallpaper.

The fire stayed crackling in the corner. The table stayed dirty. Geta began to pace, like he did, hands on his hips, head shaking in an effort to make sense of things.

"You are quiet." He spoke up, softer than he had spoken all night.

"I am choiceless." You warbled. Hadn't this already happened to you? Hadn't you already been forced to wed a man for the betterment of some kind of future? You thought you'd already paid your dues. You thought freedom was supposed to be promised at some point. You thought you'd had it, just days ago. But even still you were captured by the powers that be. It wasn't like you were opposed to being Geta's bride. But you were rocked to realize it didn't matter what you wanted, in this life. It was just going to keep happening to you, against you, despite you.

You watched as Geta sped up his pace, thinking. His eyes danced as if to keep up with an invisible coming together idea. And then his moving stalled. He rolled his shoulders and let his eyes rake up your figure, like they so often did. Geta's brown stare bore into yours, as if to search for an answer to a question not yet asked.

"You claim to have been born to die." Geta gestured, sauntering closer. "I claim to have been born to rule. But we have failed to consider what there could be to live for. I have reason to believe my answer to living lies within you." His speech was imploring. He meant it. He only ever spoke with authority, by that you weren't surprised. But by his meaning, by the tenderness in it, you were. "As ruler, I shall make the final decision regarding my mother's demands. But... I shall also wait here in silence as you choose your fate. I will command no guard after you should you flee. This time, this wedding, you'll be allowed to choose."

"Should I flee, will there be fines? Will I forever be in your debt somehow?"

"I shall see to it that you owe nothing to this empire if you leave it. But you must leave it entirely, you must go far from here. It's the only way I could make these guarantees."

"Should I stay..."

Geta loomed closer, until his breath fanned across your face. So close you could see the golds speckled across the brown of his eyes. Close enough to kiss.

"I would see to your value." Geta breathed, stalling an inch before you. "Your profile on coins. Your voice heard above others. Your throne... My bed... I'd see to it."

Your heart hadn't stopped pounding since this conversation spun to life. But it beat harder yet, at Geta's tone and implication now.

"Take my hand." Geta held an open face palm before you. "Or turn away." You glanced to the door.

You considered all that lie beyond it, the quiet, the vastness. The race to the finish line of life would be slow and steady outside these doors. Your freedom would be quiet and lonely. Then you turned to Geta and saw a different kind of future to consider. And then a thought dawned on you. What if the freedom you'd always been in search of, was not just yours alone? What if an entire empires fate had always been pressed into the back of your heart, clear in the front of your mind only now that you understood everything Julia had said. You thought of your latest painting. The one with the sheep and the sunset. You wondered if maybe it was a sunrise all along.

Your hand flexed, knuckles deciding between clenching and raising up. Until suddenly your palm was in Getas. Until suddenly your fate, and all of Rome's, had been sealed.

///

Part 2 Coming Soon...

#joseph quinn #joe quinn x reader #joseph quinn x you #emperor geta #emperor geta fanfic #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #joseph quinn x reader #fem!reader #joe quinn smut #minors dni

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sordidmusings · 2 months ago

Text

Well Earned Praise - Mihawk x Reader

Art by mugibara

Summary: Mihawk is a man of few words and many gestures. Lucky for him, you understand them all quite well. Lucky for you, he knows when to use those spare few words.

A/N: This is a little celebratory piece for @feral-artistry ! She's made a huge landmark in higher education recently that she's worked her ass off for and deserves all the treats and hype!! I was lucky in getting this one out for it too bless up lol I usually can only get possessed by ideas to flesh them out but being able to get them into actual words in a timely manner??? Near unheard of lol That said, it's only a ficlet but I hope you and anyone reading enjoys!!

It’s heaps of domesticity and Mihawk being what could even be called playful lol there has to be at least a tiny bit of that in there for him to have suffered Shanks for so many years so well 💀 in canon its hidden in stuff like him calling Zoro a rabbit - like you can’t tell me he doesn’t also say that shit to amuse himself on top of belittling opponents

Word Count: ~2.1 k

Warnings: gn!reader, straight up fluff, banter, Mihawk being the Most Obvious in his own way, favoritism, Perona and Zoro are there too, you have a place in all their hearts, found family undertone, family dinner with the edgelords, Mihawk being supportive of your accomplishments in a hopefully in character manner lol

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

“And what has you so happy?” Mihawk drawls.

You’ve barely set foot in the kitchen by the time the question leaves him. Your bright mood from your recent accomplishment is undoubtedly buzzing from you and likely tripped off his haki. Or at least you’d write it off as that if you hadn’t been speaking about it coming up the past few weeks.

Despite his prodding tone, you know that’s just his normal voice and not his grumpy one from all your time living at Kuraigana. There’s also a lack of the miniscule brow or eye twitch that usually precedes The Grumpy Voice. Instead his face is its usual stony facade, looking much too brooding in contrast to the apron Perona had complained him into. It lacks any of the color or frills she wished, but you are sure with enough prodding she will one day get one or the other on your dour host. The one thing that truly binds you all together at Kuraigana is an innate persistence (easily gaining the name “stubbornness” when not in your favor). It is a formidable weapon you wield both for and against each other. Usually against, but that ratio is growing more favorable by the day. Luckily its bad run is mostly in bickering and banter, not actual harm.

“I know you’re getting old, but I didn’t know your memory was already going,” you goad, walking to join him at the prep table at the far end of the kitchen.

“I don’t make the effort to remember the chirping of birds,” he responds blandly, disproving his statement by alluding to the fact that he listened to your frequent gushing about it to Perona. All the while, he continues chopping vegetables with insane speed and accuracy. It will always amuse you to see the world’s greatest swordsman use those skills to harvest and chop veggies. His choice on which you’re starting to recognize as the mix to make your favorite meal.

“Uhuh,” you reply, obviously incredulous. “I suppose you don’t have much room in that head of yours for anything besides swords play.”

“It’s dangerous to insult the one handling your food you know,” he warns with the barest hint of humor warming his low voice.

“This cook wouldn’t stoop to poisons,” you assure him, “though I will need to watch my back during sparring.”

“If you’ve actually taken to my lessons, you’d know to do that anyway,” Mihawk chastises with narrowed eyes. You chuckle at his predictability - always so prickly if he felt you weren’t taking your crafts seriously.

“We both know I’d be dead if I didn’t,” you point out. The silence, save for the steady thumping of knife on cutting board, is his begrudging agreement.

That silence quickly turns comfortable, its ease built on a few hundred hours of peaceful companionable silence that you’ve shared. Mostly they were filled with quiet sips of wine, rustling pages, crackling logs, and calm music. Your favorite is when the sweet serenade of the night’s bugs leaks in the cracked windows, heralded by a cool breeze playing with the curtains. A few hundred more hours spent in travel and training built quite the familiarity and warmed your heart from simple attraction to true affection for this untouchable man.

That affection only makes you treasure these moments more. Seeing him in an apron performing a homemaker’s duties isn’t only amusing; there’s a twinge of vulnerability to it. This man, who is an embodiment of death collecting its due for most, is comfortable with you seeing such human pieces of himself. He’s connected with you and your housemates enough to let you each have your mark on him in subtle ways. There is proof enough of it in this kitchen - now always well stocked with sake and sweets, the allowance of a few cutesy mugs ready for use, fresh eggs from the chickens he’d gotten for convenience and definitely not because of your love of animals. (You hadn’t broken him on goats yet but you were far from giving up on that one).

Your thoughts are interrupted by him breaking the hypnotizing motion of his knife to back away from the counter.

“I need to stop in the garden,” Mihawk explains. He casts a pointed gaze at you on his exit. “Don’t go in the fridge.”

The moment he’s taken his exit, you disobey the order. More like a poorly veiled hint. The bright lights of the fridge spotlight quite the treat for you. There’s a menagerie of desserts taking up the top shelf, everything from macaroons to tiramisu to cheesecake to fruit tarts. The colorful display almost kept you from noticing the restock of your drawers of charcuterie below. He really spared no expense; rare cured meats and exotic cheeses were huddled around a large supply of all your favorites, a variety of mustards, jams, and preserves in cute little jars tucked neatly to one side. You can’t help how gooey the gesture makes your heart and how that feeling’s definitely still going to be all over your face when he gets back.

Accepting that fate, you don’t even try to hide it when he comes back through the door with fresh herbs in hand. Mihawk goes through the motions of wiping off his boots and making his way back, all nonchalant confidence, until he looks at you and is struck frozen. He stands and holds your loving gaze for a long stretch of breaths. He’s the first to break your eye contact, looking the closest to unsure that you’ve ever seen him. His face would never tell, but his shoulders curl just a bit up and forward before you see him shove them back into their usual sure posture.

You think he’s going to leave the whole thing unacknowledged, as he’s wont to do with your increasingly common Moments. He shatters that thought when he lays a hand on your arm as he passes, giving it a gentle squeeze. The warmth from his large palm leaves a lasting impression on you. The ravenously yearning part of you - the one you try to keep settled - begins telling you how deliciously warm he must run, how he must be the perfect spot for a nap, how those warm hands would feel easing your muscles, how they would feel-

“Managing to get lost while standing still? Should I worry about that with you too?” Mihawk teases. It’s quite impressive how droll he can be when he lets himself.

“If I say yes, does that mean I’m free of being his human compass?” you joke.

“Only until it’s time to be rid of you both,” he answers easily.

“What?” you ask in mock offense. “No send off party? No tearful goodbyes? And here I thought you were the sentimental type.”

“Obviously,” he agrees, gifting you the first tiny, crooked smile of the night.

Wanting to end on a high note, you let the conversation go and instead focus on trying to find ways to help. It goes poorly. Every task you make for is suddenly already being done by Mihawk, or he’s suddenly blocking you from the means to start. Many an ingredient is intercepted, dish grabbed first, or scraps thrown to trash and compost. The absurd game of keep away it makes is funny to you at first but soon becomes frustrating.

“You’re treating me like an invalid,” you huff.

“I didn’t know you were so fond of labor,” Mihawk drawls. Sly eyes slide your way. “Should I put you back on prepping the new beds?”

“No,” you answer quickly. The new garden spot was chosen for convenient location not ease of creation; the ground was mostly clay and full of rocks with the top carpeted thick with sod and weeds. It would have to be cleared off, rocks dug out, manure and sand and peat moss shoveled in, then all mixed thoroughly to break up the clay. It was grueling work. It was Zoro work.

Mihawk goes back to his cooking with an air of satisfaction. You settle for watching and stealing bites to eat from the food he’s making. He pretends to be annoyed. It lets you both play a new game of keep away where you try to sneak and snatch and he tries to swat you away, usually without even taking his eyes off his task. This continues until the meal is nearly done, when he sends you off to your room to “look proper for a nice meal”. You pretend to be offended but he doesn’t buy it.

You don’t want to spend long getting ready, much more set on spending time with the others, but you also didn’t want to let an excuse to dress up go to waste. By the time you’re headed to the usual dining room, you’re layered in expensive fabric with a fresh face and freshly styled hair.

Mihawk is awaiting you at the grand doors, unfortunately lacking that apron. Instead you get him in a flowing shirt, textured in subtle filigree the same deep red as the whole. It is, of course, open to show off his Kogatana and the sun-kissed skin it rests on. As you get closer, you notice his pants are tailored slacks and his boots have been replaced with dress shoes you wouldn’t have even guessed he owned. Not for a lack of class or style, but for a lack of people and occasions he’d deem worthy of the effort.

You feel almost silly thinking he’s going through all this effort for you but there’s no other explanation. When you stop next to him, you could swear that even his beard is freshly oiled and combed. You’re too lost in your appraisal of him to notice how his own heated eyes are roving over you. You catch them for a brief moment before they fix to your face. To interrupt the loving taunt about to move your tongue, Mihawk holds the door open for you and gestures you inside.

Zoro and Perona are sat at the table behind pristine place settings. They haven’t even noticed the sound of your entrance over their own bickering. Perona always looks dolled up, but there’s something a little extra in the detail of her makeup and not a single hair on her head is out of place. What’s much more surprising than her is that Zoro looks all cleaned up. He’s still in his usual style but not a speck of dirt is on the clothes and his hair looks slightly damp from a recent shower. It’s hard not to laugh at the idea of Mihawk commanding him to bathe like one would a defiant child and Perona having to throw him in the bath like he’s a hissing cat.

Before you move to join them, Mihawk’s hands catch your shoulders. Their capability for gentleness will always amaze you, and this caress to halt you is no exception. His thumbs swipe across your skin a few times, seeming to relish the motion, before he leans forward. There’s a moment where his cheek brushes the crown of your head before his breath floats over your ear and neck, raising goosebumps over your skin. His lips, surprisingly soft, tickle the tip of your ear as he whispers to you. The words strike you and leave you frozen even as he brushes past you towards the table, leaving the scent of spiced cologne in his wake.

Your housemates finally notice you and both send toothy smiles and celebratory cheers your way. You feel almost bad that you have to shake yourself off to match their energy. Once you get close to the table, Zoro is trying to convince you to share his best sake with him while Perona tells you that’s dumb and you should instead focus on looking through the gifts she’s gotten you. You only laugh as dark fabric and frilly stuffies are shoved your way to intercept the persistent attempts to place an o-choko by your plate.

Mihawk sighs at the commotion, muttering something about wanting a peaceful dinner for you as he pulls out your chair. His grumbling is undercut by the softness easing the lines from his face. When you meet his eyes as he pushes your chair in, you notice the usually violent amber of them has darkened to flowing honey. His words ring in your head loudly again, causing a loving smile to warm your face. He answers with a brief smile of his own, the smallest curl of his lips and crinkle of his eyes, but it's enough to set your heart racing. It pumps electricity through you, tingling your fingertips and sending his words to spin even faster in your head. Even when your heart calms and is instead made full from loving company, you hold the sound of his voice in your mind.

It’s the first time you’ve heard the words from him, and now that you know their sweetness, you’ll chase that high in all your endeavors.

“I’m proud of you.”

#mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #one piece #also wrote this instead of kinktober hsjdfkjsdkfdjsk #dedication?? who is she #one piece fluff #gn reader #reader insert #one piece x reader #mihawk x you #opla mihawk x reader #mihawk fanfiction #my writing

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dalamjisung · 3 months ago

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A muted shade of green ✧ Chapter 3: X marks the spot

genre: finally some fluff! still some angst, but some fluff too!

word count: 5804

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: you need spencer back home. so spencer comes back home. simple as that.

a muted shade of green masterlist

previous chapter // next chapter

author's note: you folks are amazing! thank you so much for the support and I know this chapter is a bit duller (aka famous filler chapter) but y/n needs a break from pain and suffering all the time lol <3 if you want to join the taglist for this series, please let me know in the comments!

“She knows who I am.”

That is the sentence that sets off Plan B.

Spencer’s instructions are clear: call Penelope and go to the BAU. Office Kaper is to stay with you at all times until you enter the FBI and even then, he will personally deliver you to her caring hands, and for once, you don’t argue. In what has been a very dark past few days, you think that Penelope’s bright colours might do you well. “I have to close the shop,” You tell him on the phone, already changing from your sleeping shorts into some jeans, but keeping his hoodie. Right now, you’re not focused on appearances; you’re focused on getting the hell out of there.

“That’s fine, but keep Officer Kaper with you. Was the envelope delivered to my place?”

“No,” You breathe out, backpack on and ready to go. Nodding to man that has become your loyal companion, the two of you walk out of the building like any civilian couple. It’s unsettling, watching a man that is not Spencer wear his clothes, but he had to blend in so you two didn’t stand out.

“And he’s wearing my clothes?”

You turn to look at Officer Kaper and you snort despite the situation. “As best as he can, though he is considerably shorter than you, Spence.”

“You’re calling me Spence,” He says, and even his voice sounds a bit more at ease. Somehow, in the midst of this craziness, you two find time to ease back into what once was and you manage a small smile despite the anxiety rushing through you. “I missed that.”

“I miss you,” Is what you say back, and you blame it on the adrenaline of being outside, so open and vulnerable to prying eyes. “I… I feel safer when you’re here.”

“I know,” You swear you hear something skin to a smile on his voice. “I’m on my way back.”

“Yeah, in like three days,” Talking on the phone and closing your shop is no easy feat. You’re no genius and having to split your focus onto two different tasks is quite hard, but you manage. You don’t want to let him go yet, scared that one you can’t hear his voice, he’ll be as good as gone.

“No, I’m on the jet right now, I should be landing in an hour.”

You shouldn’t feel this happy about having Spencer come back this soon and probably in the middle of an active case, but when a psychotic killer starts sending you handwritten letters, you feel entitled to being a little selfish, even if guilt and anxiety are mixed it like the perfect emotional cocktail. “You didn’t have to,” You say, biting your nails when you finally grab everything you need and lock the door behind you. “Spence, I– thank you.”

“You need me home,” Is all he says before announcing he has to go.

The silence doesn’t make things easier. Now that you don’t have to split your mind in two to multitask, you can fixated on the fact that this is serious. This is quite serious– Cat Adams has just confirmed she knows you. She has also, however, confirmed she does not know where you are, and just like you told yourself before, you have to believe that there is something better than this out there. There is a moment in time, reserved and crafted by the sisters of fate, in which Cat Adams gets bored with you. You are no longer a struggling rat under the weight of her paws, and she is no longer entranced by how you try to wriggle out of maniacal grasp. In another moment, another sliver of an alternate reality, Cat never even finds out who you are. You like that reality a bit better, because then you also don’t know who she is, and the knowledge of her presence and her impact on Spencer’s life is as weightless as a feather.

While the city passes by you, the taxi ride to the FBI not as quick as you’d like with the early morning traffic, you allow yourself one more scenario. One more reality.

In this one, you live in an apartment with muted green walls. Your furniture is that fancy, dark shade of oak and you don’t have to keep your books on the store; instead, you have space to add them to your decoration. You have shelves and shelves of books lining your walls and you think you’ve never seen anything more beautiful than that place. The windows, large and usually covered by cream blinds, are open to allow some sunshine inside. In this reality, you’ve told Spencer all about the benefits of sunlight to your books– none of them true, of course, but he still pretends to believe you, and he still opens the windows before leaving for work. This time around, you dream big– in this alternate life, Spencer never even met Cat Adams. He never even applied to the FBI, in this odd, hallmark version of your story. It doesn’t really matter what he does, but all that matters is that you get to be with him. You get to wake up next to him, to talk to him, to call him… hell, you even get to kiss him!

This reality, as utopian as it seems, it’s fragile, though. Unrealistic. Spencer loves his job, you know that now. A world where you keep him from it can’t truly be a perfect world, not when he’d be so, so unhappy without his team standing next to him. “Ma’am,” Officer Kaper calls. “We’re here.”

“Oh!” Grabbing your backpack, you follow him inside, feeling a bit awkward at the way people started at your with puzzled looks on their faces. “Wait! Before you leave, this is for you! You mentioned your daughter likes stories and that she’s about five or so, so these should be fun!” Children’s book is one of your secret passions, and you’re happy to see him smiling as he looks through the titles.

“You really didn’t have to, Miss Y/L/N.”

“I really wanted to, though,” You smile. You need some light in your life as you walk those beige hallways. “Let me know if she wants more– her dad is a hero, so we have a special deal at the store for you.”

“I’ll tell little Jane that a very nice lady from work gave her new books then,” He says, nodding as Penelope rushes to your side. “Call me if you need anything else, Miss Y/L/N, I’m happy to help. If it makes you feel better, you’ve been dealing with this exceptionally well. It can’t be easy.”

The validation has you pursing your lips, trying to hold back the need to hug him. In no way, shape, or form are you two close– to be honest, this is the most you’ve spoken with Officer Kaper during the forty-eight hours you spent together; and yet, his opinion seems to mean something to you. Your hands hide behind your back and you exhale sharply, nodding at him, eyes glassing over with emotion. “Thank you,” You whisper, head whipping at the familiar sound of heels waddling down the hall. “I’ll uh, I’ll go… but thank you. For everything.”

He just nods, leaving with a wave and a smile.

“Either you joined the FBI since we last saw each other or this sweatshirt belongs to a certain genius man,” Penelope says, looking at you with the ghost of a smile. If you didn’t know any better,

“What? Oh. Yeah, I borrowed it from Spence,” You mumble, hands nervously fidgeting with your backpack. There isn’t much of anything inside, and you think you got flustered when you had Spencer on the phone telling you to get ready to go. All you remember is packing your toothbrush, a couple of books, and some underwear. “Oh, sweet girl,” Penelope sighs, her arm light on your shoulders, guiding you through those horrid halls. You think you hate the FBI headquarters more than you hate Cat Adams, and that is saying something. “Everything will be okay. Boy genius is on it, and he’ll figure this out in no time.”

“Seven days is quite a lot of time,” It’s not fair, how your words make her frown, but you have no one else. The words tumble out of your mouth before you can control them because this is what you’ve been dying to do since you first left that goddamned office, seven fucking days ago. And that is your regret– not talking to Spencer when you had the chance, not letting him talk to you, not… not letting him be therefor you. “God, seven days is a lot– it’s a whole week! I don’t know what you believe in, but if you’re Catholic, God created the Earth in seven days and– well, six days and Sunday he rested, but honestly, semantics. And it’s a whole week, one-fourth of a month. Seven days, and– and–“

“I am not judging you, because I am the biggest yapper of this team,” Penelope cuts right in, hand up in the air between you two. “But you need to breathe. I know seven days is a lot. And I hate that you’re in a position that you feel like you need to count the days. But there are no better people to have on your corner than this team. I promise you, Y/N, and– look!” She shakes her phone in front of your face. “Lover boy just landed! He’ll be here soon, so for now, please sit down and drink some tea?”

The door in the end of many, many hallways later is her office. You don’t really understand the juxtaposition of Penelope Garcia, and that’s okay– you might not understand her, but at least, with her, it feels like what you see is what you get. She wears her authenticity on her sleeve and you actually feel at ease around her because of it. There is not an ounce of ambiguity, not a shred of secrecy coming from her. She looks at you– really looks at you– and in her eyes you know how she feels. Penelope, unlike the rest of the team, is not a trained profiler, and even though you are quite limited in your knowledge of what exactly a profiler like Morgan and JJ does, the internet provided you with enough general background that you know just how… proficient… they are in hiding their own selves from the world. Apparently it’s a part of the job, but at one point, you have to wonder just how intrinsic is the job and their overall selves, and if when Spencer comes back home, does he leaves the job behind or is he always on the clock?

“Here, it chamomile,” The mug is bright pink and purple, and despite the room being dark and cold, you see how she has made it her own. The figurines and stickers on the screens around you make you smile weakly, sipping on the tea while sitting down next to her. Her screens are locked, and you are thankful for that– it makes you feel like at least someone is trying to separate you and the world you never wanted to know existed. “How are you feeling?”

You shrug a little, finger running around the rim of the cup. “I… I’m scared. And this feels really stupid, you know? It’s not even about me, but I’m the one kicking a fuss about everything,” Shaking your head, you let out a big exhale, like you have been holding it in for the longest time. “All because of a silly crush, oh my god…”

“Wait… Wha– What…?”

“I know,” You laugh at yourself, that type of chuckle that is so dry and void that even you worry. Underneath it all, underneath all the anger and the confusion and the disbelief, you think you just feel… dumb. You feel stupid. Like you’ve played yourself, and poor Spencer doesn’t even know. “How stupid am I? Getting a serial killer on my back, all because I liked a boy? And it’s not even like he likes me back, so this is all just… so fucked up. I wish I could go visit her and tell her that I don’t have Spencer, not like how she thinks I do.”

“You like Reid?” Her smile is so big that her voice comes out all weird and squeaky. “You actually have a crush on little boy genius?”

“I–“ The hesitation in your voice is obvious. “I did. Spence is just so kind. And gentle, and loving, and he has this huge heart, you know? He used to bring me coffee every day he visited, and he would tell me all these really cool facts about the most random things, and I swear, I loved listening to him talk.” Without even realising, you’re smiling, wide and true, for what it felt like the first time in forever. You bring your legs up on the chair, hugging your knees close just to feel that sense of security it brings you, grounding you in the moment. The memories of your time with him, your favourite customer, are precious to you; and much like old time treasure, you hide it in the depths of your mind, away and untouched by prying hands of people around you.

Except, Cat Adams found your map.

And X marks the spot.

It’s just a matter of time until she finds the golden chest and picks at the lock.

Slowly, your smile slips away. “But now… now things changed, you know?” You gulp, not having the capacity to face the pitiful look she gives you without crying. And you’re tired of crying.

“You didn’t change. Reid didn’t change, he’s still the same kind and gentle and loving man…!” You’re almost swayed by the desperation behind her voice. Penelope is a great friend and you can’t believe you were once jealous of her, but even then, you grimace. It’s not like you don’t want to let yourself be guided by these feelings– you want to let the butterflies loose, you want to allow yourself the giddiness of being with him, you want to have this quintessential girlhood experience, but the threat looming over your head pushes you down and away. You’re scared and you have all the reason to be.

“Haven’t I?” You ask, cocking your head to the side. “Anyways, at the risk of sounding like a middle schooler, it’s not like he likes me either.”

“Y/N, he– he’s different,” Penelope whispers, reaching for your hand. “He’s afraid of germs and rambles a lot and he’s been hurt before, but please, if you just give him a shot, I think you could be really good for him.”

“How would you know?” You’re not trying to be rude, you even smile a little, but the question stood– how would she know? You two had very limited interactions.

“Because he talks a lot about you, and… well,” She confesses, chuckling like she had just done something naughty. When she points at the screens though, you gasp. “I know more about you thank you think.”

That makes your blood run cold. “You– what– what did you find out?”

“Not as much as I could’ve!” She quickly promises, turning to the screen and quickly pulling up a file. The first thing you see is your driver’s license, and you wince at the picture. “This is all I managed to get before Reid put a ban on me!”

“He put a ban on you looking me up?”

“Yes, he said he didn’t want to cheat and that he wanted to wait for you to tell him whatever you wanted to tell him,” Her words come out so fast you barely understand them, but it still tugs at your heart. “He said you didn’t know who he was because you didn’t know he worked for the FBI, and I tried telling him that’s not all he is! I did, but Reid is a stubborn, stubborn genius and wouldn’t listen to me! But he is, Y/N, he is much more than this job and–“

“I know that,” You whisper, eyes running through the documents on the screen. Degrees, past addresses, old jobs, family… and past relationships. Your body tenses up at the small list of names, one in particular making you gulp, glancing quickly at Penelope. “This is all, right? You… you didn’t dig more, right?”

“Yes, this is all! I promise! To be very honest, I could find anything I wanted, but as I mentioned, I’ve been banished and threatened with a long, long lecture on privacy laws.”

Her words echo in your mind for a moment, eyes unmoving from the bright screens. “Anything?”

Penelope looks at your with hesitation. “Anything that has been online, yeah. Why?”

Sitting back down, you take a deep breath and nod. “Show me Cat Adams.”

“Oh… Oh, Y/N, no, no no no, I can’t–“

“Yes, you can! You just said you can find anything and, honestly how hard would it be for me to pick up my phone and Google her? If the FBI made the arrest, I’m sure media has picked it up!” Before you can even reach for the device, Penelope is grabbing it, hiding it behind her. “Penelope, please! This woman wants to kill me, I deserve to know what she looks like!”

Your voice is hushed, the undertone of desperation seeping through every word. “What if she gets out?”

“Y/N, she has a life sentence, she’ll never get out.”

“You don’t know that!” This is what scares Penelope, the way you screech in panic, hands flying to the neck of the hoodie and tugging it away from you like you need it to breathe. “You don’t know that and I need to know what she looks like! Please, Penelope, I’m begging you!”

The tension in the room is palpable, but you know you got through her when she sighed. “I’m doing this for your protection,” It’s more like she’s talking to herself, so all you do is nod quietly, getting up and walking to the back of her chair. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” You are holding your breath while you squeeze the back of her chair, trying to keep yourself upright for a moment that could easily throw off your balance.

In all honesty, you are not sure what you’re expecting. The little you know about black widow killers comes from a fictional world of made up characters, a place where the fantastical magic of made up stories meets the trauma ridden lives of turbulent characters. In them, these killers are beautiful. In fact, their beauty is their weapon, right before their grace and intelligence. It’s almost sick, how you remember liking those stories so much you once called it ‘a form of female empowerment’, and just thinking about it has your stomach tied in a bunch of knots, each one pulling and tugging at you in a rhythm that is too chaotic to not have you hunched over, panting next to Penelope like the photo she pulls up on her computer has just punched you in the gut.

Because despite all your silent prayers, Cat Adams, in her orange jumpsuit and messy prison hair, is gorgeous. It’s something about her eyes, so cold and distant, yet holding an invitation that even you might not be able to resist. Is this how she draws men in? Is this how she drew Spencer? “I–“

“Garcia, what are you doing?!”

Both of your turn around at the same time, both of you shocked at the sight of Spencer, in all his sweater vest glory and red face anger, marching towards you both. “Take it down.”

You have never heard him sound so cold. “Spence, I asked her to pull it up. I was curious.”

“She should’ve known better, she’s an FBI agent!” Now he is screaming, and you can’t help but feel overcome with a familiar type of shame. Part of you, a specific part you left back in New York, expects him to to keep screaming. It’s the part of you that unconsciously pushes the tea mug away. It’s the part of you that looks at the door and feels relieved to see it unlocked. It’s the part of you you’ve been hiding from him and everyone else you met since you’ve moved.

It’s the part of you Spencer just noticed.

“I’m sorry,” He says, squinting his eyes at your so quickly it’s almost imperceptible. Almost. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have screamed, I’m just–“

“On edge,” You whisper, nodding in agreement. “We all are, Spence. Don’t scream at her, please.”

“I know, I know, I’m really sorry,” This is more like him– shy eyes casted down between glances here and there. “I just don’t want you wasting your time on someone like her. She doesn’t deserve it.”

No one says anything for a while. Until you notice it.

“Spence,” You mumble, smiling a little in an attempt to ease the high emotions in the room. “You cut your hair.” It’s shorter now. His shaggy curls still peek out, but it looks more… grown, even if it enhances his boyish charm.

“I did,” He mumbles, blushing a little. For a second, he looks at Penelope, like he’s asking her what to say and what to do. “It was getting too long.”

“It looks really good.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” God, you love when his voice gets low and airy like that. Garcia is looking between you two with a certain kind of spark in her eyes and it makes you shift on your feet. “Uh, shall we go home?”

“You’re going back to your apartment?”

“Yeah, Officer Kaper said that the letter came with the batch of mail they got from Y/N’s apartment, so it’s safe to assume she has no knowledge of her current whereabouts,” Spencer picks up your backpack without even asking, smiling at you innocently. “I reviewed the security footage you sent of my apartment entrance and there is no suspicious activity happening during the days I was gone. And, well, you know, I’m here now. She’s safe.”

No one will ever understand the amount of relief you feel in that exact moment. “Thank you for coming back.”

“You need me home,” Is all he says before guiding you away. When you turn to say bye to Penelope, she is smirking, giving you two thumbs up and a giggle. In the midst of all this mess, you actually feel happy to have someone allowing you to enjoy a moment of silliness. “Are you okay? Do you feel a bit better?”

“Now that you’re back, yeah,” You sigh, sticking close to him as you pass by a group of agents. “Officer Kaper is really sweet, but he’s not you, he’s not–“

“Familiar,” Spencer says, but you shake your head.

“He’s not my friend.”

“And I am?” The hope in his eyes crushes your heart. You never meant to make him feel like you had left him behind, but you know you have pushed him away when he tried to stand by you.

No more.

“You are, Spence,” You breathe out, hand gently falling on his arm and squeezing it adoringly. “You’re my favourite customer and I guess now you’re my living room-mate. But you should really sleep in your bed tonight, okay?” The joke is just an attempt to make him smile, and you’re happy to see it works.

“Will you sleep next to me?”

His question is not that unexpected, really, but it still makes you freeze in place. “Uh… What… What do you mean?”

“Sleep next to me,” His bluntness doesn’t help with the way your cheeks fire up. “I know you’re scared, so if you’re next to me, I’ll be watching over you at all times. I’m a light sleeper, so even if something happens, I’ll wake up. We can put pillows between us, if the thought of me that close to you makes you uncomfortable and–“

“It doesn’t,” You say before you can give up on it. “I just… I know you’re a germaphobe and I don’t know how many germs can be shared when you sleep next to someone and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Actually, when you sleep next to someone, there is an exchange of bacteria and skin microbes when we turn and move around, but your brain compensates by releasing the ‘happy’ hormones because you’re sleeping next to someone you care about, so I wouldn’t mind the former much considering we would wake up pretty content.”

Someone you care about. You hold your tongue back from asking him if he cares about you– at this point, you should know he does. You shouldn’t need the reassurance, as nice as it would feel to have it, but you really, really want it. In a time where everything is uncertain, you pray so that Spencer can be your constant. “Okay,” You nod, hand slowly slipping down his arm, brushing yours fingers through his, before letting it go altogether. Looking down to the ground, embarrassed with your own courage, you follow him out of the building. “The subway is that way.”

“We’re getting a taxi,” He mumbles, signalling one down as he spoke. “I don’t think public spaces with that much visibility are a good idea for now. I don’t want you paranoid, Y/N, but I need you to be careful, okay? Subways, buses, all of these get crowded and they have a large amount of surveillance. We still can’t figure out how Cat found out where you live or who is her connection that got your name through the UPS delivery, but we’re not stopping until we do, I promise you that. For now, we just ask that you be careful around people.”

“I work with people. I have to talk to them to sell them stuff… I can’t lose my store, it’s all I have!” The two of you turn to face each other on the back of the car. He is shaking his head before you can even continue, and when you feel it, the warmth of his hands covering yours, so much bigger and steadier to the point that is like he’s holding your fists in his palms, you hold your breath.

“You won’t,” He whispers, shaking his head so gently that wisps of hair fall over his forehead and you have to fight the urge to push it back. “Y/N, you won’t. We’ll figure something out, okay?”

“Okay,” The trust you have in Spencer is enough to have you nodding along. Until the car stops in front of his apartment, he doesn’t let go of your hand, and you make no effort in letting go of his.

It’s only when it’s time to pay for the ride that you pull away, faster than him in getting the money to the driver. “Hey!”

“Be faster next time, boy genius,” You say, smiling tiredly while walking next to him through the hallways of his building until you reach Apartment 23. Using your key in front of him, the one he gave you when he went away, feels weird and oddly intimate. “Do you want this back?”

“Keep it,” Spencer says, giving you his trademark tight-lipped smile. The way his shoulders sag a little as soon as he is inside the familiar apartment has you frowning. He is exhausted, tired from flying and rushing through the city, but he still made the effort to come get you at the BAU. “What do you want for dinner? We can get some pizza.”

“I have leftovers in the fridge,” You mumble, suddenly too out of place in the apartment you know at the palm of your hand. Standing in the entrance, you just look at him, watching him walk around the apartment so carelessly and you wonder if Spencer knows just how meaningful it is for you to have him back home. “I bought groceries, don’t worry, I didn’t use any of your food or anything like that.”

“I wasn’t worried, but now I am. I told you to be comfortable Y/N.”

“I am…” You mumble, moving to sit down on the armchair.

Under his watchful gaze, you’re not sure how much Spencer can get out of your behaviour right now. It’s a bit sad that you’re even thinking about this so consciously, observing him as he observes you right back. You know you will never win a battle of wits against the genius across the room, but no ones knows you better than yourself and that is currently your only leverage in this entire situation. But… why do you even need leverage? What is this war you have started with yourself and pulled poor Spencer in without even letting him know? The blanket you adore so much is right by your feet and you pull it up to cover your whole body, all the way up to your face. At this point, you don’t want him reading you because you’re afraid of what he will find. Specially because you don’t know what he will find.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” When he sits on the corner of the chair, your body dips to the side, rolling closer to him. “Are you hiding?”

“Yeah.”

“And why are you hiding?”

“Because you’re an avid reader,” Even you want to cringe at your own words. “And I’m not really sure what story I’m telling, right now.”

His laughter takes you by surprise– this has to be the loudest you’ve heard Spencer be. “Y/N, what are you talking about? I’m not going to read you!”

“Spencer, you can’t help it! It’s what you do– I see the way you look at me, okay? I know what you’re doing, and I have to say I am not a fan!”

With one tug on the blanket, your face is exposed again with hair all over it. But then you see his smile, and it looks so honest and happy, like a version of him you thought you had left behind days ago. “You think I’m reading you?”

“Are you not?” You ask, sitting up to try and look at him with a serious expression.

“No, Y/N, I’m not looking at you because I’m reading you.”

There are moments in your life, unique and specific in their own credits, that you are sure you will never forget. The day you decided to leave New York is one of them– you bought tickets last minute and left with only a rucksack you found in the back of your closet. On the way to the airport, you called your parents, waking them up at three in the morning to tell them they were going to need to ship your stuff to a PO box address. Y/N, where are you going?, your mom cried out. What is going on? To which all you said was I’ll tell you when I can, before hanging up and throwing your SIM card out of the window.

Opening your store was high in the list too. Not the day that you conceptualised it or rented the place– the day you truly opened it. The day your first customer, your favourite customer, walked in, that’s the day you truly opened the place. The day he bought a book and promised to come back again.

Of course there are other dates, too; simpler dates. Birthdays, christmases, random family dinners. The small things that build-up to be big memories. But then there are the big things that are even bigger memories, and you’re intimidated, with the size of it all. It’s too big, too tall, and when you fall, it might just be high enough to break all your bones, but not kill you completely. No… that would be too merciful.

This– Cat Adams, Spencer, the box– this is not just big.

This is huge.

In comparison, tonight is not all that big. In fact, his living room feels quite small now that both of you are back inside. The green walls descend and it’s just you and him, squeezed close in an arm chair you both love, surrounded by books you both love, and you still can’t help but feel afraid. This is as small as it gets, as monotonous as it gets, and yet, this is the most scared you’ve ever felt, because no matter what you do, it’s like you can’t stop climbing– you go higher, higher, higher. His words, replaying in your mind, keep pushing you up, without any regard of how you’ll ever come down.

Truthfully, you don’t want to come down, even if he brings you down gently.

“Then… why do you stare at me, Spence?”

He doesn’t answer you, shaking his head slightly before looking away and clearing his throat. Uncomfortableness doesn’t look good on him, and that is saying something, coming from the one person who thinks everything looks good on him. “I uh, I’ll heat up some of those leftovers. Shall I get you some, too?”

Spencer might the profiler, but you are still able to read the blooming colour in his cheeks. “Yeah,” You say softly, I would love some, Spence.”

Dinner with him is peaceful. You’re learning how to live this new life with a plus one. You learn his habits and his quirks– you learn that he likes to put ketchup on his pizza and that he drowns his coffee in sugar. That despite his immense IQ, he still can’t quite cook for himself– or prefers not doing so. That he made sure his cleaning lady came during the times he was away to avoid small talk and human contact. You learn, through a lot of trials and a lot of success, that you are his one exception.

For you, Spencer is malleable, and he has no qualms in moulding himself to your needs, except… except you don’t want him to do that. You don’t want him to be someone he’s not and you don’t want the Spencer you know and adore to be someone curated just for you.

“I’ll go take a shower and change into some comfortable clothes,” He says after he finishes eating. “Thank you for the food.”

“No problem.”

“And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You can keep that hoodie. You look good in it.”

Just like that, you chuckle, shaking your head when he disappears behind the bedroom door. If Cat Adams has the map to your past memories, Spencer Reid has the map to your future ones.

X marks the spot.

And for him there is no lock to pick– the door is wide open.

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

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aethelwyneleigh27 · 2 months ago

Text

A little something of Simon Riley x Bookworm!Reader

A/n: Did you guys miss this format? So do I, hope you guys are doing well because I would not wish my suffering on my worst enemy, for the first time in a while, school makes me want to self exit. These days have been the busiest for me and I doubt that it will get better from here. I'm just exhausted from life but never from you guys <3

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @duck-a-doodle @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam @drewsmusee @konigceo

My CoD Masterlist <3

My Simon "Ghost" Riley Playlist <3

Simon Riley who absolutely adores your reactions when you read, a little bored on a lazy day in bed with him with your reading material in hand. The way you squeal and wiggle your feet made him want to peek onto what you were reading but he didn't need to, the moment you notice him curiously trail on you when you've finished a chapter or a moment you can't help but rant about.

Simon Riley who absolutely adores the way you get passionate about romantic stories, sometimes it motivates him to get a little creative with date ideas although you insist that simple dates are just fine.

Simon Riley who loves sneaking up behind you to peek at what you're reading, to see if you hide it while all flustered or if you bolt so he could playfully chase and pin you down.

Simon Riley who actually picks up an interest in reading because of you, he loved the idea that he's able to be more connected to you, having heated sessions of ranting together, dissing on annoying characters and such.

Simon Riley who was thankful you for introducing him to audiobooks, he was usually busy with some of the repairing and some maintenance of your shared home whenever he comes home after months. It gives him time to catch up while doing something productive so you can have your book review sessions.

Simon Riley who likes it when you look for him in the house after he went to do chores while you immerse yourself in another world. The sound of his name being called over and over by you is the best to him, sometimes waiting for you to say his name a little more before responding.

Simon Riley who builds you your very own bookshelf at your third anniversary, he went through the effort of finding a wood color that he knew you'd like and crafted the intricate bookshelf with a matching ladder that had wheels at the bottom so you could slide down like belle in that scene from beauty and the beast.

Simon Riley who gifts you reading material that you told him you were dying to read, your birthdays and other special occasions, even merch of hyper fixations you have, the same ones you use to decorate the bookshelf he made.

Simon Riley who likes to experiment in the bedroom based on what you've noted and annotated scenes on the spicy romance novels you've kept. He does it in his absolute spare time, sometimes when you aren't home, he likes to see what turns you on, so you'll come home to a surprise.

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sadnymi · 8 months ago

Note

Mattheo making a girl cum by praising her and its in class just little whispers and she dry humps him so desperately in a slytherin party he calls her bunny

「 ✦ Duel of Desires. ✦ 」

Mattheo riddle x reader

Summary (Request) : Furious at what Mattheo did in class, I set out for revenge. But my carefully crafted plan takes an unforeseen twist

Warning : Dry Humping , public sex ,fingering , dom/sub dynamics , praise kink

Words : 2.8k

A prickling sensation on my thigh interrupted my meticulous Charms notes. Glancing down, I found Matteo's hand, his fingers tracing idle patterns against the soft skin of my thigh .

A playful annoyance bubbled up inside me. Here we were, Professor Flitwick droning on about the Levitation Charm, and Matteo was turning my thigh into his own personal canvas.

"Mattheo," I hissed, swatting his hand away without breaking eye contact with the restricted professor.

He winked at me, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Just admiring your concentration, love. Makes you look positively fierce."

My cheeks flushed, not entirely from his suggestive comment. Professor Flitwick, with his booming voice and magnified eyes, felt like a hawk perpetually circling the classroom.

"Focus, Mattheo," I murmured, trying to reign in my scattered attention. Transfiguration had been a disaster this morning thanks to his constant teasing, and I wasn't about to let Charms suffer the same fate.

"But you're so much more fascinating than Levitation," he countered, his voice barely a whisper. He brushed his hand against my thigh again, this time lingering a beat longer.

Frustration bubbled over. "Mattheo! We have an exam coming up, and I need to actually learn something."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm against my ear. "Relax, love. You're a natural. Besides, who needs a wand when you have me?"

My irritation morphed into something a little more heated. This wasn't the first time Mattheo's playful teasing had crossed the line in class. The thrill of stolen moments was undeniable, but the risk of detention or worse, Professor McGonagall's withering stare, loomed large.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to play his game. Leaning in close, I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Alright, Romeo," I said, using a nickname reserved for those rare, stolen moments,"but if you distract me any further, your punishment will be far more… delightful than detention."

A surprised laugh escaped his lips. He met my gaze, his eyes darkened with desire. "Game on, then, witch."

As I attempted to focus on the lecture, a sudden touch on my knee jolted me. Glancing towards Matteo, I found him diligently transcribing the board's contents into his notebook, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his lips. His left hand remained hidden under the table, adding to the clandestine nature of his actions.

I tried to discreetly shake my leg to deter his advances, but his hand deftly maneuvered to my thigh, securing a hold on my skirt. His touch sent a tingling sensation through me, disrupting my concentration.

Professor Flitwick's voice cut through the room, requesting me to read aloud from the textbook. Despite my racing heart, I began to read, acutely aware of Matteo's lingering touch inching closer to a more intimate area.

Despite the electrifying distraction, I forced myself to continue reading, attempting to ignore Matteo's provocative gestures. However, his subtle movements became more daring, culminating in a direct contact that made my breath hitch.

His whispered words added to the tension, leaving me flustered and unable to fully focus on the task at hand. The classroom seemed to fade into the background as Matteo's actions dominated my senses.

As Professor Flitwick instructed Matteo to continue reading, a mischievous smirk played on his lips while his hand, hidden under the table, ventured into forbidden territory. His index finger delicately teased my clit, sending a shiver down my spine as I tried to maintain composure and focus on his reading. The weight of Professor Flitwick's gaze lingered, making every movement feel amplified and dangerous.

"Thank you, Mattheo," Professor Flitwick's words acted as a temporary interruption, drawing attention away from our covert exchange.

His touch became more daring as his whole hand began to rub circles against my clit, causing me to clench my legs tightly together. “ don’t close your legs bunny “ A hushed command slipped from his lips when he ensured that Professor Flitwick wasn't observing our clandestine interaction.

"You're so beautiful when you struggle for me," he murmured, his words a tantalizing mixture of praise and provocation.

As his fingers sadly ceased their movement, I closed my eyes in an attempt to steady my racing heartbeat. Our pretense of innocence continued as we both feigned concentration, with him jotting notes in his notebook and me doing the same, all the while feeling the lingering heat from his touch between my thighs.

My quill trembled in my hand as his middle fingertip teased my entrance, a subtle reminder of the delicious tension that pulsed between us.

"You're doing such a good job," he whispered, the words dripping with desire and satisfaction.

As his finger continued its tantalizing dance on my clit, my senses heightened, and the room seemed to blur around us. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me , his right hand came to my notebook and reading what I wrote

His whisper in my ear sent shivers down my spine, his words laced with admiration. "So smart," he praised, his voice barely audible over the classroom's ambient sounds.

A soft moan escaped my lips as his finger teased my sensitive clit, drawing attention from those around us.

“Is there a problem Miss (Y/L/N)?”, Professor Flitwick's inquiring voice momentarily broke the spell

Mattheo sped up his pace and i gulped, shaking my head “Nothing just…I hit my leg.”

His thumb pressed against my clit, a silent command for me to focus, even as waves of pleasure washed over me.

"Silence, darling," he whispered, his touch igniting a fire within me, making me stand at the edge of my seat “it makes me smile when you drip like that before i even touched you “

The intense sensations brought tears to my eyes, but I fought to maintain composure, desperately searching for any distraction. ,and then I noticed his bulge deliberate flex of his thigh muscle all added to the dizzying mix of pleasure and tension I moved my hands but he catch them with his free hand .

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned firmly, his smirk evident in his voice.

Mattheo's skilled fingers pushed me to the brink repeatedly, each pause amplifying my desire. I felt like I was on the verge of losing control, his smirk and chuckle signaling his triumph.

"I admire your strength, bunny," he praised, pushing me closer to the edge. "Cum for me, pretty one," he commanded, igniting a blazing inferno within me with his mere touch. It was a paradox of ecstasy and frustration, and I cum so hard it was insane, leaving me questioning how such intense desire could be evoked with such minimal contact.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

I sat in my dimly lit room, wrapped in a cozy blanket, my favorite book lying forgotten on my lap. The decision weighed heavily on my mind—to go or not to go to the Slytherin party. Earlier that morning, Mattheo's teasing in class had left me flustered and frustrated, but now, as I replayed those moments in my head, a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

The memory of his touch, his whispered words, and the forbidden thrill of our secret interactions still lingered, leaving me feeling a delicious ache between my thighs. I pretended to be mad at him for crossing boundaries during Professor Flitwick's lecture, but deep down, I knew I was equally to blame for letting the tension build to such intoxicating levels.

As I contemplated my next move, the allure of the party beckoned to me—a chance to indulge in the forbidden, to dance on the edge of danger. I could almost feel the pulsating music, the dim lights, and the whispered promises of excitement and pleasure.

"Two can play this game," I thought, my heartbeat quickening with anticipation. The thrill of the unknown, coupled with the lingering desire from our unfinished business, fueled my decision. With a determined grin, I tossed the blanket aside and rose from my bed.

I selected a tiny, short green top , hugging my curves in a way that exuded confidence. Paired with a sleek pair of black shorts, a bold statement . Adding a touch of glamour, I applied a vibrant red lipstick that accentuated my lips, and I let my hair cascade down in loose waves, framing my face.

To balance the daring look, I threw on a large black hoodie( that won’t stay on for too long) , leaving the zipper slightly open.The contrast between the snug, the revealing outfit

Tonight, I would embrace the tantalizing dance of temptation and desire, fully aware that every step taken towards the Slytherin party would lead me deeper into the seductive web we had woven together.

"Hey, y/n! Glad you made it," Enzo greeted me with a mix of surprise and warmth as I entered the party. He glanced at me, momentarily taken aback, before announcing my presence to everyone in the room.

"Y/n's here!" Enzo exclaimed, drawing attention to me. "Matt said you were sick and wouldn't be able to come."

I flashed a smile, inwardly amused by Matteo's excuse. "I feel so much better now," I replied, playing along and maintaining an innocent facade. Despite trying to act casual, I couldn't help but notice the gazes lingering on my chest, emphasizing the alluring effect of the green top I had chosen. I met Matteo's eyes, silently acknowledging the unspoken game between us.

He was clearly irritated by the attention I was drawing, but I couldn't help but feel victorious in my little game. With a determined smile, I made my way over to where he was seated, bypassing the available seats and settling directly onto his lap.

I leaned in, planting a kiss on his cheek and greeted him, "Hi, handsome." His eyes reflected a mix of frustration and anger as he tightly wrapped his arms around my waist, though I played innocently by running my fingers through his hair.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked with a harsh tone, clearly not pleased.

"Just here to see you," I replied, my gaze batting innocently at him. "Felt terrible staying angry after our little disagreement this morning." A sly smile played on my lips. "Didn't you miss me?"

Before he could reply, a voice cut through the charged atmosphere."Matteo, mate, another drink?" Jack, or perhaps that was his name, stood beside us, his gaze politely averted. A flicker of something unreadable crossed Matteo's face.

After Jack melted back into the crowd, Matteo's voice dropped to a low growl. "I see what you're doing."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off again. "And zip up that damn hoodie." His hand reached for the zipper, but I caught his wrist , realizing how close it was to my sensitive areas.

"No," I countered, my voice firm but playful. "It's stiflingly hot in here. Perhaps I'll just take it off ."I strategically brushed my hips against him, scanning the surrounding area for any watchful eyes. Thankfully, the party was in full swing, a blur of dancing bodies and overflowing drinks.

"Stay still," he said through gritted teeth, a hint of desperation lacing his voice.

Despite his demand for me to stop moving, I couldn't resist the temptation to tease him further. My actions were deliberate, a playful challenge to his control.

"Why? Does it bother you?" I asked, feigning innocence but knowing exactly the effect I was having on him. His grip on my waist tightened, a silent warning.

"You're playing with fire, sweetheart," he warned, his voice low and tinged with desire.

I leaned in closer, our faces mere inches apart. "Maybe I like the heat," I whispered, my lips brushing against his ear.

A startled gasp escaped my lips as his hand squeezing the plush of my ass , a possessive gesture that sent a tremor through me. The heat of his gaze seemed to sear through the carefully constructed facade of innocence, the tell-tale flush creeping up my neck a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. My breath hitched, a silent whimper escaping my lips as I unconsciously pressed closer, the frantic rhythm of our breaths mirroring the rising tension.

He could see the flustered look i had on because of the thought of being caught trying to dry-hump him. But he could see the reddened tips of my ears and hear my small whimpers along with your breaths heavying the more i pressed myself against him.

He leaned in, his lips trailing a path of fire down my neck before finding a more sensitive spot. A jolt of electricity shot through me, a strangled moan almost escaping my lips.

"Did you truly believe you held the reins, darling?" he murmured, a sardonic edge to his voice.

"Still dwelling on this morning, aren't you, my love?" His words came out in a murmured tone, a sly smirk forming at the corner of his lips. "I find this new side of you quite appealing—so eager and yearning for me that you couldn't resist acting on your desires."

He could discern the flustered expression I wore, a result of the daring move of trying to dry-hump him. Yet, he also noticed the reddened tips of my ears and heard the soft whimpers escaping me, blending with the deepening breaths as I pressed myself against him.

After a teasing kiss to my neck, his tone turned huskier as he remarked, "Did you honestly believe you were in control, bunny?"

In response, I nodded, a small whimper escaping my lips, as I ground my throbbing need against his hardened bulge. "P-please, I need you," I pleaded, my desperation evident.

"You look exquisite when you're craving my cock to fill you up, love," he whispered, his voice filled with lust and desire.

"How badly do you want me to satisfy you, baby?" He inquired, his hand moving forward to gently stimulate my neglected bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb.

"Badly, very badly," I replied quickly, my voice trembling with desperation, as I lifted my head to meet his gaze, my eyes silently imploring him to fulfill my intense yearning.

I took a deep breath, my voice quivering with need as I angled my hips to align my still-covered entrance with his cock.

"Please," I breathed, my plea hanging in the air as he teased me, moving my hips against his bulge with his hands firmly gripping my ass.

His teasing sent shivers down my spine, making my heart race. "Please, Matt, I need you. Please stop teasing me," I begged, leaning forward to press soft kisses along his jawline and down to his neck.

A guttural groan escaped him as I sucked on his skin, leaning his head back , giving me more space marking him as mine, marks he would wear with pride the next day. "Fuck, bunny, you don't know what you're doing to me," he grunted.

His hardened cock rubbed against my clothed pussy, sending a delightful tingling sensation through my entire body. "Feels so good," I moaned breathlessly, my hand entangled in his dark hair, while I moved on him with increasing fervor.

His hips bucked against mine, his cock rubbing me just right through our clothes. "I could cum like this. Do you feel good too?" I asked, pulling his hair slightly to lift his face as I demanded his lips to meet mine. Our kiss was messy, his tongue taking the lead effortlessly.

Despite us being almost fully dressed, he made me feel incredible, my pleasure building rapidly as I rode him and rubbed my clit on his cock eagerly.

Suddenly, he took control, moving me faster. My head fell back, and I trembled heavily in his hands. "Don't stop, please, Matt. I'm close," I whimpered, my hands balling into fists on his chest, crumpling the fabric of his shirt.

He encouraged me with soft kisses, his hips bucking harder against mine, causing me to feel him twitching. That was my breaking point.

I came hard, my moans and profanities filling the air. I barely noticed how tightly I had clenched my hands into his chest, quickly withdrawing when I realized I might have left a few marks. What would our friends say? Panic started to set in.

But he cut through my thoughts, burying his face in my neck, his lips grazing against my shoulder. "Don’t panic, bunny. No one was watching, and if that makes you feel any better, I would kill anyone who did."

I smiled, reassured by his words, and felt his hands roam around my back.

"Now, lets take this to your room. Enough with the games " he said, zipping up my hoodie before standing up.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle masterlist #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #smut

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merakiui · 16 days ago

Text

the symptoms of being human.

jade leech x (gender neutral) reader note - being human comes with its fair share of very specific symptoms. or: jade has lived in saltwater his entire life. never has it leaked out of him before. // HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO MY BIRTHDAY BESTIE @heyyy11!!!!!! 🎉 many wonderful wishes of health, happiness, and good fortune for you!!!! :D it isn't a lot, but please enjoy this little gift i prepared in celebration!!!

But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.

A long time ago, a human penned that line in reference to merfolk and their inability to shed tears. A fact as intimate as that couldn’t have possibly been common knowledge amongst humans, or so Jade assumed every time the story was regurgitated at bedtime. He always did that: apply logic to areas where logic wasn’t needed. His teachers used to tell him, “Jade, sometimes you need to suspend your disbelief in order to immerse yourself in a fictional world.” He could try—and try he did—but he’d find himself lingering on that quote every time.

A slight amendment to that: merfolk can cry and they do suffer, but whether they suffer more is impossible to know without further study.

Jade operates under the notion that there are explanations for everything, even the wildest of lunacy. There is comfort in comprehension. He would spend hours holed up in his sleeping nook, poring over stories and texts on humans and beastfolk. He would compare and contrast them. Can a tearless cry indicate the amount of suffering per species, or is such an abstract concept even remotely quantifiable? Perhaps it is because merfolk cry silently that they suffer. Because there is no one who can hear their weeping in the deep sea. Because there is no physical proof.

It’s easier to recognize the physical signs of grief, for what happens within is shrouded in secrecy, veiled in the depths of the heart.

So when Jade comes onto land for the first time, human skin stretched over a skeleton altered with a potion, every inch awkward and aching, the sea leaks out of his pores. He feels like a pufferfish not yet expanded but on the verge of bloating, deflated and weak, salt still spilling. And he knows it’s salt because he swipes two fingers under his armpit and brings them to his mouth to taste. It’s saltwater.

He later learns, while sitting in Professor Crewel’s class and listening to him drone on about anatomy, that this is the phenomenon known as sweating. Jade sweats when he exerts himself, when his body temperature rises degrees over what’s internally comfortable and he needs to cool down, when he ingests something spicy, when he’s sick with a fever, when he’s stressed… It’s a fascinating facet of human biology he was previously unaware of.

Azul called these peculiarities “symptoms of being human,” and what intriguing symptoms they are! He hopes to experience even more as he completes his education on land, regardless of how troublesome they might be.

Having a symptom of something implies the affected is ill in some way—as if humanity itself is an illness and this human body serves as more of a hindrance than help. Jade will forever be an eel merman, and this body is just a clever cloak crafted to make his life on land habitable. Although there are moments where he thinks his original form would suit a certain task. Like swimming or any sport in the water, really. But he likes to struggle and fail, learning from every human mistake.

These symptoms are not terrible. Not to him, at least.

He meets you in the woods. You’re hunched over the ground, patting a compact lump of freshly disturbed soil. A burial, he thinks, but then he’s not certain. When you fashion a little marker out of sticks and ribbons, it occurs to him that he was right.

“Hello to you, too,” you say, turning to glance at him.

There’s something that stills in the air. A feeling catches and tugs at his heart. He can’t explain it—still can’t even to this day—but something trickles out of his eyes then. A droplet of water and then another and then more until silent streams are falling thick. He blinks until his once-blurry vision clears, only to find you’re looking at him fully now.

Jade gathers the wetness on his fingertips and licks curiously. Salt.

Horrifyingly, he’s sweating from his eyes.

He doesn’t panic. A grotesque part of him wants to know what else these eyes are capable of in this body.

You draw in breath through your lips. A gasp. “Oh! Are you all right?”

He nods because even if his brain doesn’t understand it yet his heart does.

You are the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with.

This isn’t fiction, and he doesn’t have to pretend to accept it as his temporary reality just to enjoy the story it promises. He knows. His heart—the eel-mer heart—knows. This salt is a symptom of being human, but a symptom of being a mer is that there is the strongest sixth sense for finding one’s other half.

“Are you sure?” you press, rising to your feet, digging through your bag for tissue. “You’re crying!”

He blinks back at you. I’m…crying.

He’s not sweating. He’s crying.

“Forgive me,” he says even though he knows there’s nothing to apologize for. “My eyes must not be working today.”

A sympathetic smile spreads on your face. “Did you come here with anyone?”

He shakes his head and explains rather simply that he’s come on account of club business. “I’m the only member in my club,” he elaborates unnecessarily, “and so I often come here to hike and forage. I suppose I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone on this route.”

“Club? You’re a student?” Before he has a chance to respond, you add, “No way! What school? I’m from Royal Sword.”

“Night Raven.”

“Whoa! That’s so cool. I’ve heard lots about that school. Oh, sorry, I’m totally chatting your ear off. If it’s not an issue, would you like to walk back together? Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just worried about you.”

The affable conversation was so smooth Jade almost forgot he’s been leaking—crying—the entire time.

“Why would you be worried? I assure you there’s nothing in this forest that could harm me,” he says, holding a hand over his heart.

As if it isn’t the woods that might hurt him but, rather, the person standing in front of him. He has never felt any need to protect his heart, but now he thinks he must. If he’s to offer it to you in the future, he wants to do so when it is perfectly whole and packed full of happiness.

“Um… Well, I just don’t want you to do anything…harmful,” you say, stringing the words together awkwardly. “People care about you. They’d miss you.”

He glances past you at the burial. Just above, a nest of baby birds chirp noisily. He understands now.

“As it happens, I’m currently quite content.”

“You are?”

He tilts his head at you and smiles, teary-eyed and most likely red in the face.

“I am. Very much so. I’ve experienced another human symptom. I couldn’t be any happier.”

You exhale a quiet, semi-amused breath. “I’m glad.” Your hand is held out next. “I’m (Name). It’s nice to meet you.”

His webless, clawless hand closes around yours. “Jade Leech,” he greets.

— — —

“You look good,” Floyd compliments, watching Jade fuss over himself in the mirror. “Shrimpy’ll think so. And Mama. Pops, too.”

“So everyone,” he replies smartly, his hands shaking as he smooths the nonexistent wrinkles in his suit. They reach for the jewelry strung around his neck. He’s wearing his mother’s pearls. Tradition and memory are twined throughout each one. For every hand that holds this chain, a new pearl will be added. It has been in his family for ages. After today, he’ll add his and the necklace will be a pearl longer.

He feels like he needs to pace up and down a mountain. Like he needs to strip this seaweed-esque suit off and jump into the ocean to feel free of constriction. Clothes are always so…unique. That’s the word he chooses to use. Another symptom, he’s certain, because clothes are to humans as colors are to merfolk. Humans attract each other with fashion styles just as mers flash colors and patterns at those they intend to charm.

“Everyone,” Floyd echoes, grinning to ease the tension. “C’mon. You know everything’s gonna be fine.”

Logically, Jade is aware of that. There were rehearsals and lists and triple-checks. Everything is in order. He’s ready. You’re ready. Illogically, he thinks he’s about to shake out of his skin from either excitement or anxiety or a combination of both.

Floyd’s hand comes down upon his shoulder. He relaxes beneath the squeeze. “You got this.”

“I do,” he whispers, turning away from the mirror with a smile.

He waits for you at the altar. A feeling he knows well enough claws at the back of his eyes. It’s been steadily encroaching since this morning, or perhaps it’s always been there ever since he first met you.

When he sees you, his world comes together and everything is warm and wonderful. There are tears on his face, tracking down his cheeks in hot streaks. It’s not embarrassing even though, somewhat flustered, he mouths to his parents that he’s simply sweating from the eyes. A symptom they’ll soon experience in their temporary human bodies.

Out of every human symptom he’s experienced, he thinks this one is his favorite.

You meet him at the front, and beneath an awning of the prettiest flowers you join hands.

“How do you feel?” you murmur, your thumbs running over his palms.

He’s going to say he feels like his world is brighter and wrapped in silk—like he’s looking love right in the face.

Through his tears, he smiles and says, “Like my eyes are working properly today.”

You giggle around a rising sob. Happy tears, he notes, much like the ones sticking to his face. “Weird. Because mine don’t seem to be working today.”

“A shame. You can’t see how beautiful you are.”

“I trust you.”

“I can’t promise mine won’t sweat halfway through the ceremony, but I appreciate your faith in me.”

“It’s fine. Mine are already doing that.”

And it’s everything to him—you, this union, the tears, these messy, complex symptoms of being human. Everything.

Jade thinks he’d like to rewrite that old quote from his childhood.

But a mermaid has no tears and so that may be true in storybook blue, but it is her heart that weeps for everything she has experienced, is experiencing, and will experience; the good and the bad, the happy and the sad.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #jade x reader

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porcelain-siscon · 2 months ago

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noticing your doll has always had trouble walking, something it rarely does because you carry it in your arms almost everywhere you go and wondering what the problem is. the issue isn't hard to pin down, as when you slide its socks off, you can see that its feet are just a single part. no joints below the ankles, just a mass of the porcelain like material that makes up most of the rest of its body

even if it doesn't walk on its own very often, you can't be having that. it deserves better. you measure the foot as carefully as you can, making sure it'll still be able to wear its old shoes, and take extra care with the ankle dimensions so you can make a clean fit. for days, you toil away, often with the doll at your side, crafting a new pair of feet for it

gone will be the solid lumps of material, replaced with jointed toes, themselves attached to a jointed part to allow for more range of motion with each step, even adding a bit of range to the heel. though the feet are no longer sculpted to be cute like the old pair was, there is a beauty in the new jointed model, an appeal in how it allows for more motion. you can't help but feel proud of your work

you motion for the doll to hold out its arms, allowing you to more easily lift it up onto the workbench. you brush its hair away from its face, smile, and ask it to stay still, making sure to guide it through the process to ensure it knows it's safe. it's always been good at staying still, and it's trusted you for a long time, but you always make sure reassure it whenever you're doing anything to change or repair it

you bind its legs to the workbench at the shins, tightening the leather straps so you can pull on the first foot. you don't wince at the sound of tightening cable, something that takes effort on your part, as you don't want any worry to show on your face. a snapped cable wouldn't irrevocable harm the doll, but it would still feel pain and it would be a lengthy repair, to say nothing of how its trust in you may suffer as a result

once the foot is separated enough, you place a spacer between the joint and the leg to keep the cable loop locked, then unhook the old foot. the most difficult part is over, and now all you need to do is hook the new foot in place. you make sure you have the correct one, not wanting to make the same mistake you did when repairing its hands some months ago, then hold it tight as you remove the spacer. once the spacer is out of the way, you keep holding onto the foot and slowly guide it into space so that it doesn't snap, potentially harming the leg and the ankle

a perfect fit. you smile at the doll, brush its hair for a few seconds, and call it a good girl. you're already halfway done and it's done a fantastic job. in its stillness, you can feel its appreciation

the second foot is replaced just as easily. the cable in this leg isn't as old, having been replaced some time ago, so the tension change isn't as audible. you place the spacer, you unhook the old foot, and hook in the new one. just like the last one, you slowly move it into place, making sure it's secure in its fitting

with both new feet in place, you loosen the straps and lift its legs up at the knees to let it know it's able to move again. you smile at it, then move each one of its toes one by one

"can you do that for me?" you ask, waiting to see what happens. it takes a few moments, but soon enough, in the exact order you moved them, the doll moves the toes on its own

"keep going" you say, hoping it takes the hint

it does

the joint further up each foot moves down and then up, as it tests the full range of motion, then moves its feet independently of its heel. finally, it curls its toes down along with the rest of the foot, then flattens it out. it turns to look at you and even though its face remains static, you can tell it's smiling

you help it down off the work bench and hold its hands as you guide its tentative first steps on its new feet. it's clumsy at first, but soon manages to adjust itself to the new feelings and the new range of motion. it leans back and forth, side to side, adjusting itself in ways that it was never able to in the first place

it does not smile, but it does hug. a quiet hum resonates through the porcelain like material that makes up its neck, almost like a high pitched purr

you're glad you could make it so happy

#dollposting

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alastor-simp · 9 months ago

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Hugging Them Out of Nowhere - Lucifer Morningstar, Cherri Bomb, Vox and Valentino

Here is the second part of the hugging headcanon with the other hazbin characters. I am going to try to make Valentino be a bit more approachable in this story since I know he is on this fandoms hit list.Will contain spoilers from some episodes. Enjoy!

Lucifer Morningstar🐥

🐥"OH! Ummm.....something wrong? Did you want to play with one of my rubber ducks?” Lucifer would have no idea what is going on. He will be stood like a statue, while holding one of his signature ducks. Despite being the king of hell, this man is an awkward softie.

🐥Lucifer was officially staying at the hotel now after its renovation after the fight with Adam. It was nice that he was finally making an effort with Charlie’s dreams and acting like a father.

🐥However, this poor man suffered from depression, due to being stressed being the king of hell and also thinking about his wife leaving. Man couldn’t catch a break.

🐥His bedroom is where he would stay when he was like that, crafting another duck figurine at his desk. He hadn’t noticed you coming into his room to see how he was. The minute he felt arms wrap around him is when he realized your presence.

🐥 “Ummmmmmmm….hi there?” Lucifer just remained in the position he was in, staring at you, trying to figure out what was happening. Soon, you had let him go, wearing an apologetic smile.

🐥 “I’m sorry, your highness.” Lucifer jumped when he heard that and waved his hands. “OH! Just call me Lucifer or Luci! Don’t need to be formal with me!” You smiled at him and nodded your head. The both of you stared at each other for a bit before he broke the silence and asked why the sudden hug.

🐥Feeling shy, you rubbed the back of your neck, “Well, I noticed you seemed more melancholic than usual today. Usually when I am sad, a hug always makes me feel better so I thought maybe that would help you.” Red pupils continued to stare at you making you feel nervous, wondering if you had upset him

🐥Your body was met with a strong impact, as Lucifer tackled you in a hug, squeezing you tightly to the point it was hard to breathe. His face was in the crook of your neck, as he continued to squeeze. “C-can’t br-eath.” Gasping out an answer, you felt Lucifer let you go, by still placed his hands on your shoulder.

🐥 “S-sorry! Sorry! I forget my own strength sometimes haha! You okay? No broken bones?” He kept moving his head to peer at you, making sure you were alright. His actions caused you to laugh, surprising him. “You’re such a dad.” Lucifer then smiled at that, placing a hand on his chest, “Of course I am! I am hells number one daddy!” That sentence caused you to cackle, confusing Lucifer even more. “Hahahaha! Don’t ever say that again!” Lucifer tilted his head at you: “Wait, what did I say?”

🐥His clueless side to him was quite cute at times. You managed to calm down. “Lucifer, if you ever need someone to talk to or have another one of your depressed episodes, come find me okay. I’ll be there to listen and also provide comforting hugs." He wore a shocked expression, before he broke into a kind smile, patting your head. "Thank you."

🐥The relationship the both of you had improved a lot. He was more open with you and would discuss his problems. He was kind enough to bring you to his workshop, showing you how to make his prized ducklings. You received a nice surprise when you went into your room and saw a duck figurine that resembled you, with a red rose lying next to it.

Cherri Bomb🍒

🍒"Woah! Hey bit✪✪!! Why the sudden tackle? You looking to throw down?" Cherri is very hyperactive and fun-loving, you almost never see her depressed about anything. She is either throwing bombs during turf wars or partying at the club with Angel Dust. She wasn't close with everyone at the hotel except Angel, but she was friendly as long as you didn't do something to piss her off.

🍒However, she does have a sensitive side to herself, but she puts up a tough guard to hide it. The three of you, yourself, Cherri and Angel were partying at a popular sex club, chugging down shot after shot. It took you a while to notice, since you were slightly buzzed, that Cherri had a more sad expression on her face then usual. You were about to question what was wrong, but she got up quickly from the bar, saying she was going out for a quick smoke.

🍒Sensing something else was going, on you let Angel know that you would be right back, before following after Cherri. Looking everywhere, you were able to find her on the patio deck of the club, smoking a cigarette while leaning on the metal bar. She didn't noticed you until she heard the sound of the door sliding and saw you walking towards her.

🍒 "Oh! Hey hoe! Whatcha doing out here? Craving a smoke too?" She was smiling wide at you, but you can tell that it was forced. Walking closer to her, you threw her arms around her, causing her one eye to stare at you in shock. ""Woah mate! Whats wrong with ya?" She patted one of your arms, wondering what was going on. "Cherri, drop the act already. I saw that look on your face in the club. There is obviously something going on. So come on, spill it."

🍒 Cherri's eye just widen further and the smile on her face dropped. She turned her head down, not saying a word to you as you kept holding her. "AGH! I'm just pissed with myself at the moment! I'm trying so hard to obtain the level of overlord, but it's not working. I need that status, so I can help Angie to be rid of that moth fu✪✪face!!" Cherri yelled out, as she threw the cigarette from her hand, while punching the metal bar with her fist. You continued to listen to her, and hugged her tighter.

🍒You both stayed like that for a bit, before you spoke: "You will do it Cherri Bomb! I believe in you and so does Angel Dust. Its gonna be hard in the beginning, but you can do it. I want the same for Angel too and I'll try to help in anyway I can." After that little speech you gave, you felt Cherri shaking with laughter. "AHAHAHA! Sorry mate, but you fighting in turf wars? I'm sorry, but your baby face is way to sweet to be considered a threat!" Her words cause you to pout. "Still, thanks mate for coming out here and making me feel better." She moved her body, positioning herself so she could hug you back.

🍒The both of you let go after that, just in time for Angel Dust to come, wondering where the both of you went. "Cherri? Toots? What's going on? Y'all been gone for a while, I thought you bailed on me!" The both of you laughed and walked closer to Angel. "Nothing Angel. Just having some girl talk." You didn't want to tell Angel what had happened before since you probably expected Cherri didn't want to worry him. You felt an arm wrap around your shoulder, and pulled you closer to them. Cherri smiled down at you before looking back at Angel. "Sorry Angie, got distracted. Lets get back to the party! I owe you a drink Y/N!" Cherri looked down at you when she said that before pulling you to the bar, with Angel following behind, wearing a smirk.

🍒Cherri exchanged numbers with you after that. She chatted with both you and Angel on the regular. Her messages were very wild and enthusiastic, either sending a picture of herself in a fight or just making funny inappropriate jokes. She had invited you to her crib to hang out at one point. You should consider yourself lucky, cause she only invites the people she cares about to her place, so the fact that she did that means she considers you a very close friend. She has offered to help train you too, since she noticed your lack of skill in combat, so she wanted to help prepare you. She knew that it would help you in the long run and also allow you to tag team together in a turf war.

Vox📺

📺Hugging Vox was not as simple as you think. He had a reputation to uphold as one of the three Vee's. Also he didn't like being touched.

📺He was an alright guy despite his massive ego. You had been in his business for a while, so you knew quickly how he function and acted in certain situations. His mood had been very sour lately, since he had just realized his arch enemy, the radio demon was back after disappearing for seven years. His great plan was to call Alastor out during one of his video podcasts, only to be mocked down by Alastor, causing him to short circuit and cause all the power to be cut off.

📺Vox remained in his office after that, fuming. His screen was flickering every once in a while, as blue sparks kept popping up around him. You hesitated a bit, as you stood at the door to his office, contemplating if you should go in a calm him down or just let him cool off on his own. Finally reaching a decision, you walked in.

📺He was sitting in his large red chair, in front of his multiple screens. The back of the chair was facing you, as you walked closer to wear he was. Having reached closer to him, you look at him, seeing if he was okay. He was leaned back against the chair, hands covering his screen. It was mumbling something to himself, which was hard to make out, but you heard some words like "alastor" and "a✪✪hole."

📺Clearing your throat, you allowed your presence to be know to him. Vox jumped a bit, before removing one of hands to look at you. He was clearly irritated, given the scowl on his face. "The hell you doing in here? I made in clear I was not to be disturbed." You bounced back a bit at his tone, but you stood strong. "I apologize, sir. I had come to see if you were alright, since you have been in here for a few hours." Vox continued to glare at you before putting his hand back to cover his face. "Argh! That old fashion radio di✪✪head still has me pissed off!" You listen to him rant, and wanted to at least find a way to ease his emotions. "Will you allow me to help calm you down?"

📺Vox removed his hands from his face, his screen eyebrows arched up a bit. He gave a sigh and just waved his hand in the air, saying to do whatever. Taking a deep breath, you walked closer to Vox, leaning down to wrap your arms around him. Vox just froze, hands raised up in shock. He wasn't expecting something like this. After a few seconds, you let him go and stood back up, rubbing your neck. "Sorry! I- That always use to make me feel better whenever I am upset about something, so I though that would help you." You continued to look down away from Vox, afraid that you overstepped.

📺You slowly look back at him, hoping he wasn't more enraged. He surprisingly wasn't, but was more stumped then anything. Soon his screen face lit up with his blue-teethed smile. "Well that was a surprise! Didn't expect you to do that?" He continued to smirk at you, which made you twiddle your fingers. "Sorry." Vox just gave a huff, turning his face away. "Well I didn't hate it." That comment surprised you. You weren't able to see his face,, but his screen looked a tad pinkish, but it was hard to make out. Letting out a cough, he turned back and stretched. "Well time to get back and do some overlord work. You can head back and do whatever." Smiling, you bowed your head a bit, "Very well, sir." You turned around, beginning to walk back to the sliding doors. "Vox." You stopped and turned back, "I'm sorry?" Vox spun his chair, around facing you, "You can call me Vox." His face was hard to read, since you never seen him with that kind of expression before. He slowly turned back around, back of the chair facing you now.

📺He was a bit different after that whole interaction. Yes, he was still the egotistical Vox, but he acted a bit softer when he was with you behind closed doors. He would ask how your day was and how the new Voxtech sales were coming along. He tried to have you around more, whenever he was doing his podcasts or having a meeting with the other Vees. You noticed his eyes staring at you, with a sort of soft look, but he would quickly turn around like nothing was happening.

Valentino🦋

🦋It wasn't easy to offer Valentino a hug. He was one of the the three V's, the overlords that dominated most of Pentagram city. Valentino was a busy man, since he controlled a lot of the lustful side of the city, so he was either surrounded by hot demons or working as the director for his porn videos.

🦋 However, he was prone to hissy fits, that would result in him either breaking multiple things in his office or injure one of Velvette's models. You weren't sure what caused this tantrum, but you could hear Valentino's squeaks of rage from his office.

🦋After a couple minutes, it began to quiet down, giving you a sign that it was safe to enter his office now. Opening the door to his office, you saw the mayhem that was now his office space. Papers had scattered the floor, some clothes were throw on the ground and broken pieces of glass were scattered everywhere on the floor. In the middle of the room was a giant red smoke cloud, likely containing the moth himself. You could see him a bit through the smoke, wearing a scowl, but his eyes were closed.

🦋You didn't say a word, and just started to clean up the mess. Valentino peeked his eye out to look at you, and closed it again. After fixing his clothes and throwing away the shards of glass, you picked up the papers, assembling them in a stack and walk over to his desk. Placing them down, you looked up at the moth man in front of you. He was still wearing a scowl, while muttering little curses under his breath. "Umm..Mr. Valentino?", calling out his name, you approached a bit closer, to where you were standing near his chair. Valentino opened his eyes, flashing crimson at you. "What is it?" his tone was still agitated, and his eyes were glaring at you.

🦋You fiddled with your fingers for a bit, then you slowly got closer to him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. He was very tall, but since he was sitting down, it was easier for you to place your arms around his back, putting you head next to his neck Valentino let out a little squeak in shock, his multiple arms jumping up, which caused the pipe in one of his hands to drop to the ground. "Oh~ You looking to play gatita?" You could tell he was smirking at what you were doing. You shook your head, "I'm not doing this to have sex with you. I'm giving you a hug to cheer you up." Valentino was quiet after you said that. You were about to let go, thinking you made him more upset, but you felt his arms pull you closer, lifting you up to have you sit on his lap. His head bent down as well, leaning closer to your neck.

🦋None of you had said a word, as you continued to hug each other. You felt a pair of lips kiss your neck, giving you goosebumps. Slowly Valentino removed his head from your neck. His two hands moved to push you back, before placing the both of them on your cheeks. He was wearing a very tender expression, it was quite a surprise to see since you only saw him with a smirk or glare. "Gracias hermosa." Leaning down, he placed a kiss on your forehead, causing you to blush.

🦋His attitude with you change entirely after that. He was still a horny bastard, but he cooled it down for you. He wanted you with him at all times, either next to you or sitting on his lap. Vox took a notice to how different Valentino was being, but he didn't question it, since it saved him time and prevented him from having to come and calm Valentino down himself. Valentino began to send you little gifts as well, you expected something erotic like vibrators, but surprisingly, you got roses and beautiful jewelry. He started addressing you by your name more, or he would called you "hermosa" like he did when he kissed your forehead. Welp, looks like you have a giant moth demon attracted to you now.

~END~

(Sorry no Velvette in this headcanon. It is hard for me to write her character. Maybe i'll do a separate headcanon for just Velvette when I have time)

Tag List:

@pepperycookie , @yourdoorisunlocked, @ghostdoodlen, @aceofcards0-0, @jyoongim, @saturnhas82moons, @unholycheesesnack , @luujjvi , @forbidden-sunlight, @pinkcrystal44 , @veethewriter , @rains-sleeping , @danveration , @demoarah, @cookiekyo , @iiotic, @delectableworm , @91062854-ka , @alastorsgoldie , @lokis-imaginary-friend , @themysteriousslenderman , @huntlowfan , @pawstrey , @futureittomainn , @christinaatyourservice92 , @littledolly2345 , @just-trash-yeah-thats-it , @angelinevalentine89 , @yunimimii , @staryosh1 , @mihawksdemoness , @crystalreads , @blahblahbruhmeow , @madam-strawberryrose , @inkslayer , @azazel-nyx , @lixanjewel , @ainsliemac

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duelacadatoolshed · 2 months ago

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it's a bitch convincing people to like you {Evan/Reader/HABIT}

Part 1/4

{ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 }

Summary: You really, really love your boyfriend, but you also really wish he'd told you he was occasionally, and very literally, possessed by the most irritating murder-goblin you could ever imagine before HABIT woke you up instead of Evan one morning. Except how would he have even started that conversation?

Warnings: violence, brief graphic imagery (like a sentence, courtesy of HABIT, naturally), knives, implied HABIT cruelty & behaviour. Unedited.

A/N: emhposting in 2024. based on this post if U wanna see the full fic concept. I have like 4 chapters locked and loaded but I can't promise anything beyond that. Future chapters do contain darker themes and sexual content. but I love writing HABIT and I like his dynamic with the reader here. like it if you like it, or comment, or anything. Print it out and eat it. If you hated it send it to your enemies.

The only thing worse than enduring HABIT was the thought of letting Evan suffer him alone. That's what you'd remind yourself when it's the middle of the night and your Advil is wearing off and the wounds along your body have started to ache again. Evan was sleeping soundly next to you, arm across you, holding you tightly, which he tends to do now more than he doesn't on the nights that he's home. Sometimes you wonder how the hell he even gets to sleep; you know he's not faking it because he always wakes up screaming. Still, you prefer those nights to the ones where HABIT wakes instead. That was how you'd meet him that first night.

The feeling of nails digging into your side wakes you.

"You're new," you hear the incredulous, raspy voice of what you think is your boyfriend, and you try to shove his hand away, mumbling that that hurt. Like a lightning flash, however, your hands were pinned to the bed either side of your head, as the creature wearing your boyfriend's face straddles your hips. But you don't notice the malevolent grin, nor the cruel glint of intrigue in his eyes, still waking up. You actually were a little excited by this unexpected show of dominance, and couldn't help the sleepy, flirty grin that spread across your lips.

"Oh, it's like that?" You purred, hips shifting beneath him, "good morning."

For a moment he seems caught up in you, then he looks around.

"Where the fuck are we?"

"Evan," you start to grow more confused, watching him, noticing more and more how out of character he was behaving, "we're at my place, remember?" He looks around again, slower this time, then back at you. There's no missing the malevolence in his eyes this time. This time, when you whisper his name with concern, he grins.

"Not quite."

He calls himself Evan's worse half. He calls himself HABIT. He calls you Little Rabbit with a dark grin.

HABIT talks more than he doesn't. That first night he paces your room, tearing things apart looking for some sort of weapon even as you insist you don't have -

"Not even a box cutter for arts and fuckin' crafts? What the fuck is wrong with you, don't you have a fucking hobby?" He bites out, and you, still utterly confused and now downright terrified, tremble in the corner of your bed. He bemoans not being able to stay and have fun, says he's got a schedule to keep, but before he leaves, he approaches you. When your foot lashes out, kicks him, he snags your ankle. His grip is so fucking strong, so tight; your lip wobbles, there's tears in your eyes.

"I'm gonna go, because I'm a busy man, but I promise you - I promise," and he grabs your chin forcefully, making sure you're looking him in the eyes when you start to cry, "I'll be back for you." He watches the first of the tears trail down your cheeks, looking almost hungry as he does so, "I can see why he likes you," he muses, "fuckin' soft little rabbit," he wets his lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut, quietly asking why this is happening, but all he does is laugh, "I'm gonna have fun with you." But it makes your blood turn to ice in your veins.

This wasn't normal, this wasn't the man you'd been falling for in these past few months, this wasn't a side of him you'd seen before, or even felt he was capable of having. Part of you thinks you should break up with him, terrified of what this could all mean, what he could be capable of, but another part has begun to love him, and wants answers.

It takes a bit of online investigation, but soon you come across EverymanHYBRID and The Seven Trials of HABIT. Things... start to make a lot more sense after that. Days later, there's a banging at your apartment door in the dead of night. You know it's not your boyfriend, not really.

"Go away, HABIT," you tried feebly, yawning. He shouts that he'll make a scene if he has to, and it'll be all your fault. If your research proved anything it was that HABIT making a scene usually ended with bloodshed. You didn't want that on your conscience.

You open the door. HABIT's laughter is mean when he calls you obedient.

You don't ask if he's okay, or why he's covered in blood, or whose blood it is, you really would prefer not to know. He seems surprised that you're not, almost gleeful at how nonplussed you appeared as you looked him over, gaze only pausing to linger on the knife in his hand.

"Are you going to kill me now?" You sighed, as if resigned to your fate. HABIT cocks his head to the side, regarding you curiously.

"What, no response? No fear?" He passes the knife back and forth between his hands. You simply ask him to close the door, turning your back on him as you head back into the apartment, "this isn't how this is meant to go," HABIT says, sounding almost annoyed, but he at least closes the door.

"I'm not going to scream in terror just because it gets you hard," you sniped back, heading to the refrigerator, "you want a drink? How long since you've eaten - fucking ow!" You felt the blade against your back barely a second before it bit into your skin. It's only a shallow wound, enough to sting, but he holds the blade there like it's a threat, hand around you throat, pulling you against him.

"You have a lot of fucking nerve, rabbit," he snarls in your ear, and your traitorous body is unfortunately kind of into it in this moment. Whatever fucked up fantasies you may or may not have were much healthier staying just that. So you just try and focus on all of the awful shit you know he's done, and how he's covered in someone else's blood - actually not that, he's kind of hot covered in blood.

"So do you," you bit back, not fighting his hold, refusing to struggle or give the kind of reaction he was hoping for, "kill me or piss off, HABIT, do you want a drink or not?" Before he can even properly answer, you turned your face to his for a moment - wow he's closer than you were expecting, "and if you say some edgelord shit like you want to drink my blood, I'm gonna kill myself."

For a few seconds the two of you are locked in a starting contest; you bored, HABIT scowling. He twists the tip of the knife in your back, but you force yourself to remain stonefaced, simply muttering a deadpan 'ow'.

"Have you restocked your fridge since I left?"

"Went shopping this morning."

"What do you have?"

"Get the fucking knife out of my back and I'll tell you."

You wonder if HABIT knows you're bluffing, knows that you're terrified of how he could snap at any minute and hurt you. He's playing along, sitting at your tiny kitchen table, carving something into it with his knife as you make you both hot chocolates.

"There is something fucking wrong with you, rabbit," HABIT laughs as you set down the mug in front of him and take the opposite seat.

"I care about the guy you stole the steering wheel from," you answered simply with a shrug. HABIT begins to smile again, to laugh all mean and cruel.

"Fucking hell, despite all of me you're still interested in him? Seriously you're out of your fucking mind; earlier today I gouged out a woman's eyes and made her husband eat them -"

"Sounds like your kind of party."

The realisation hits him very suddenly. You watch as it occurs. Still, you continue, rolling your eyes as you explain that you're dating Evan, not him, and every relationship has issues.

"Issues?!" HABIT gets to his feet, indignant, "I'm just a fucking relationship issue to you? Do you know how much pain I'm going to put you in?!"

"So much, I'm sure," you give him a thin, mean smile of your own, "and I'll scream and I'll cry and I'll beg for it to stop, but that's because that's the natural human reaction to tremendous amounts of pain, not because I'm actually scared of you, HABIT."

HABIT slaps you so hard you crash out of your chair and to the ground. Your face smacks into a low cabinet and there's the metallic taste of blood in your mouth as you find yourself reeling. No normal human should be able to hit you that hard. It will undoubtedly bruise. HABIT's ranting now, about how your so stupid for not fearing him, pacing and gesturing with his knife.

"Eight," you interrupt him, not bothering to get up off the floor.

"Eight what?"

"Out of ten."

"On what? The pain scale? Jesus fucking Christ you people are soft -"

"On the quality of the slap, HABIT," your self preservation skills are shocking; he's definitely going to kill you.

"Why are you like this?" He asks flatly, deflating as his anger leaves him. You sit up, cross legged, leaning against the cupboard.

"Like I said, I'm not gonna scream in terror just because it gets you hard. You're not getting a proper reaction from me because you're not the one in that body who deserves to get the satisfaction from me."

HABIT stares at you for several long moments, just wearing that eerie smile. Slowly, he approached you, squatting down to be at your level, before he reaches out, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. It comes away red and slick, and neither of you break eye contact as he sticks his thumb into his mouth to taste your blood.

"I'll get you, little rabbit," he threatens lowly and you have to pretend like he's not turning you on right now.

"I look forward to it," you give him a cold smile, "can I have my boyfriend back now?"

HABIT groans loudly, like a petulant child, but concedes, and in the next instance he's gone, leaving Evan's body collapsed on your kitchen floor beside you.

Finally you feel like you can breathe again.

#emh habit #habit x reader #evan myers x reader #evan emh #habit everymanhybrid #evan everymanhybrid #habit imagine #habit emh x reader #everymanhybrid x reader #evan emh x reader #emh x reader #habit emh #habit emh imagine #EverymanHybrid imagine #evan x reader #Spotify

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nostalgebraist · 9 months ago

Text

the light, and the glass

So there's this particular quality I have, as a fiction writer, and I have very little sense of how common or rare it is.

The quality is closely related to that famous Michaelangelo quip, about his sculptures being "already complete within the marble block":

The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.

This is how I feel, too, about my works of fiction. They feel like "real things" that "already exist," in some important sense, before I write them down -- or, indeed, before I even fully know what they contain.

So, for instance, if I haven't yet thought of an ending for a story I'm playing with in my mind, I nonetheless have a vivid sense that this particular story has an ending, and that this ending already is whatever it happens to be. It's only that I haven't managed to "see" it yet.

To clarify the point, consider the contrast between this thing, and two relatively familiar ways of thinking about how fiction gets made:

Conscious, goal-directed craft/artifice. Intending to write a Satisfying Plot in which each character has an Arc, the Story Beats follow logically from one another and are arranged with what is called Good Pacing, the proverbial Cat is Saved, etc., and "solving for" these desiderata in a conscious manner. Or, intending to create something much more outré and unsettling than all that -- but having some specific set of (outre, unsettling) intentions in mind, at the outset, and concocting/arranging the elements of your work in a conscious way guided by these intentions.

Free-wheeling, self-expressive "creativity." Just do whatever, man! Follow your bliss. The canvas is blank and anything is possible. Whatever you feel like putting into that empty space, go ahead and put it there. (The key thing being that, after "putting something there," you'll look and recognize something with origins in you, and your own whims and feelings at a particular moment.)

For me, though, the process of writing, and even of "ideating" (plotting, etc.), feels like a kind of transcription or channeling, as opposed to either of the above.

When I say "channeling," here, I don't mean that I have some actual, mystical belief in a supernatural object revealing itself through me. Not in the woo-woo sense anyway; whatever is really going on here, I am sure it "merely" involves the mechanics of the human mind, as implemented in the physical human brain and body.

But I do mean that it feels a lot like that. Like the story -- and not just the story part of the stories, but the whole thing, the "art object" -- has some real prior existence outside of me, first.

Like I am merely doing my best to "get it right," to be a perfect transmitter for the radio signal. To "do justice" to the "real thing," in the secondary act of writing words onto a page.

To be a courier who transports a valuable object from some originary otherworld into a place which happens to be called "existence" -- and to ensure, as much as possible, that it suffers no disfiguring scrapes during the journey.

----

I should say, though, that there's a lot of the "#1" above in my process too, the conscious-artifice thing.

Except... when I do that kind of thing, the intentions all come from the "real object," and my goal is to fill in whatever I can't see of that object so that everything I can see is preserved.

So: I will come to know, surely and indefeasibly, that the story must have some particular feature. (An event, a little moment, a character feeling a certain way at a certain time, even a specific turn of phrase.) Better to say: I know the story does have this feature. I see it in the marble.

But I can't see everything that's there, already, in the marble. And sometimes these glimpses-from-the-beyond are strange, inconvenient, difficult to "fit" into the current story (or perhaps into any story) in a natural-seeming manner.

And that's my task, when I'm doing the conscious-artifice thing: to take this collection of axiomatically-present glimpses, and build a structure around them into which they can "fit," naturally and even logically, just as if they were ordinary story-building-blocks like their neighbors, being placed here and there for ordinary story-reasons.

----

This has various implications. For one, it determines which kinds of writerly anxieties I suffer from, and which types leave me alone.

Like, I have virtually no self-doubt about my "ideas." About the overall, large-scale goodness-or-badness of the thing I'm creating. At least, not when considered "in principle," in an idealized sense that abstracts away from my actual capabilities as a guy who puts words on pages.

"Was this story, as a whole, a good idea?" is a question I find difficult to ask myself. Even when applied to smaller units, like specific plot points, this kind of question simply goes nowhere when I attempt to think about it. Insofar as my mind can cough up any answer, that answer looks like:

Yes

(after a moment, with mounting bewilderment) Yes, obviously -- how strange even to ask!

(after another moment, and as an afterthought) ...but if it weren't any good, is that really my business? It's not like I came up with it. I was asked to keep it safe and bring it into reality, and I take that duty seriously, but once it has reached its destination I wipe my hands of the matter. Don't shoot the messenger!

It's not, just, that I feel like the "real thing" "already exists." I also feel, always, that the real thing is... really good.

I deeply, thoroughly trust the Muse / Higher Power responsible for originally "making" this stuff. (To speak in relatively woo-woo terms, for ease and clarity.)

The Muse / Higher Power is a seriously skilled artist, much more so than little-old-me; if She makes any errors at all, they are not really mistakes, but "are volitional and are the portals of discovery."

And what's more, there is a sacred, unearthly gleam to the artifacts She makes, perhaps having something to do with that Fairyland, that place-other-than-"existence," in which they are originally made.

It feels like an honor to be designated as a courier for these enchanted things. Perhaps not a deserved honor -- on which more below -- but it's never the nature and value of the transported goods that I doubt.

(There is a definite sense of ritual to the thing that I do, here; a sense of connecting with some other place, definitively apart from our mundane here-and-now, and likewise more important/primary/etc. than the latter. Hence, perhaps, my tendency to not-write for long stretches, and then write in long sustained bursts for many hours at a time, which need a good deal of preliminary building-up-steam before they fully get going; it takes time to pierce, and then fully cross, the veil between worlds. And the various imprints of this stuff on the works themselves are not hard to see, once you're looking for them; they are of course especially transparent in TNC.)

All that being said, I do suffer persistently from a different anxiety.

When Michaelangelo said the thing about the sculpture "already complete within the marble block," he said it as... Michaelangelo.

As a famous, incontrovertibly masterful craftsman. Not a guy likely to suffer from doubts about his ability to put the chisel to the marble block, and reveal precisely that shape which was already there, inside.

But I'm not Michaelangelo. I'm not even sure I'm a good craftsman, much less a great one.

Certainly I've never conceived of myself in this way, even aspirationally. (Well, maybe I did in childhood and adolescence, but that was a very different thing from what I'm talking about now.)

I don't do what a person would do, if they wanted to be a Writer, and strove to be the best one they could. I don't, for the most part, practice my craft. I write because there's a Real Thing that only I can see, and it's not going to make into Existence any other way.

And since I don't write by habit or as practice -- since I only write at times when a Real Thing is in need of some incarnating-work, and I'm the only one around to do it -- I'm not exactly an ideal candidate for the job.

I am like a man who never especially wanted to be a sculptor, never practiced the trade, and was never more-than-ordinarily good with his hands, even... who is then, suddenly, struck with a very literal version of the experience Michaelangelo described.

Who, suddenly and inexplicably, begins to actually see a sculptural masterpiece lurking inside, whenever he looks at a faceless marble block.

What is our protagonist to do? Naturally, he will find a chisel, and begin chipping away. He will feel that these things need to be freed from their prisons, released and revealed to all the world, so that all the world can delight in them as he already does.

But he will be very aware of the unfamiliar way the chisel sits in his hand; of the way that hand trembles, and fails to meet the mark, and sometimes shaves off precious bits of what was really and originally a beautifully formed hand -- so that the hand, in the realized artwork, forever bears some oddity of shape which was not a part of what he saw inside the block, but only a consequence of his own shameful incompetence.

He will feel that his works, such as they are, are an odd mixture of amateurish craft and direct, divine inspiration. Insofar as he is Great, it will be because he has had Greatness thrust upon him, from without. He will feel, sometimes, that his successes have been obtained through a kind of cheating, not won fair-and-square.

And he will feel, always, a particular kind of (justified) impostor syndrome: an awareness that what he is doing, when he sits down before the marble block with the chisel in hand, is a very different sort of thing than what is usually called "sculpting," and what is being practiced by careful, hard-working aspirants just down the road, at the local workshop. The students there call themselves "sculptors," and our protagonist supposes he must call himself a "sculptor" too -- but he knows that behind this coincidence of language, a vast and strange chasm is hidden.

(I worry that this metaphor sounds flattering to me -- I am divinely inspired, they are merely toiling away and following the rules -- when I don't mean it that way at all.

In particular, note that there is nothing in our story to rule out some of the "real" sculptors down the road from also being visionaries who see the finished work in the block. Indeed, I got the metaphor from Michaelangelo, who was precisely this way.

I am only saying that all the conceivable configurations of craft/inspiration are in fact possible: just as it is possible to be skilled but uninspired, it's possible for inspiration to strike someone who lacks the capacity to fully realize its content. And that is how I feel, about my own attempts to create.)

----

When I was getting near the end of Almost Nowhere, and struggling with this kind of feeling, Esther would often reassure me by saying: "you are the light, and you are the glass it shines through."

In other words: you are a transmitter, and you are the source of the transmitted signal. Remember that in actual fact, the "real thing in the marble" came from your own little brain, just as much as the rest of it did. In actual fact, if there is a Muse and a Higher Power, it is really just an additional part of the same creature that holds the chisel, and worries over its trembling hand.

I did, indeed, find this very reassuring. And that's a funny thought, in a way! I imagine that for some people -- and indeed for me, in many other endeavours -- the same sentiment could easily have the opposite effect.

"It's all on you. It's all your responsibility. If any of it is bad, there's no one else to blame. If there is any 'Higher Power' at all, it is only the one inside you at all times, and not able to save you through unexpected intervention, from some true outside."

But I already believed, thoroughly, in the magical potency of the goods I was charged with transporting. If I was (somehow!) their maker, too, then (somehow!) the root of that glimpsed, alien magic was in me.

And so, perhaps, I could trust myself to ferry them into Existence without ruining, without even much dimming, the fairy-gleam from elsewhere that made them what they were.

#blah blah blah

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qingxin-dream · 1 year ago

Text

“Just One Good Thing”

summary | it’s hard to love someone who is broken, and even harder when two broken people love so deeply it hurts. (art credits: @/pastahands on twitter).

warnings | not proofread/vent writing, scaramouche lore spoilers, brief graphic depiction of death, illness, loss, profanity, TW heavy mental health topics, self-hatred, dissociation, depression, suicidal thoughts/ideation, graphic description of self-harm wounds, fear of abandonment, guilt, reader is hospitalized

genre | angst, hurt, comfort

word count | 2.5k

pairing | wanderer x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

This was not the first time the puppet experienced betrayal.

How could you have known? It was long before you came into existence, hundreds of years of anguish buried in layers upon layers beneath his artificial constitution. He had once been but an innocent, naive babe with the world sparkling in the reflection of his violet eyes, meant for something greater. He had once fulfilled a purpose.

To be brought into the world against your will, crafted from the divine hand of a grieving Archon, only to have every semblance of your being ripped from you and cast aside in the name of so-called mercy—is a fate akin to death itself.

You never knew his past.

How he was once an eccentric named Kabukimono who wandered from Shakkei Pavilion and made friends with the blade smiths of Tatarasuna. His first taste of human life was amid a blazing furnace and the clamoring of a hammer onto hot metal, learning what it meant to labor and create. He had grown to love the little village as his own, playing with the children and sipping on the bitter taste of tea leaves with his comrades.

The puppet who had called himself Kabukimono was painfully ignorant to the cruelty of fate.

He could have never fathomed the day he would hold the future of his village in his trembling, pale hands as the toxic Tatarigami fumes envelope him in chemicals. There he climbed deep inside the Mikage Furnace, the unique resilience of his artificial body left unharmed by the inhospitable temperatures glowing hot against his divine skin. Any normal human would’ve perished a thousand times over.

Inside the foreign device that promised to save his home lay the bloody, withering heart cut fresh from his closest companion’s chest.

“You are a human, Kabukimono,” Niwa had insisted with a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a comforting hand resting on the eccentric’s shoulder. “You just don’t have a heart.”

Yet there the puppet stood, his voice robbed from his aching throat, cradling the very essence of his friend’s humanity in his palm.

It was his fault. What a foolish creature he was to ever involve himself with humans, whom he could only bring suffering. His tears were evaporated instantly as the grotesque realization dawned on the distraught young Kabukimono. He would later discover that he had been betrayed by a man who introduced himself as Escher but was known among the Fatui as The Doctor.

The dirty pads of his bare feet had thumped through the rocky village path and down the dirt roads leading to the outskirts of the rural Inazuman wilderness. Crows rustled in the trees and flapped their feathers into the sky, jeering at the desolate and abandoned settlement.

The village should have been evacuated. All who could have been saved were rushed as far away as possible from the poisonous Tatarigami. Rows upon rows of homes and businesses were eerily vacant. Kabukimono, in his watery hysterics, had not paid any mind to his surroundings, leaving behind the only home he ever had for good.

That is, until he stumbled across a young boy who lived under an old sakura tree. Kabukimono immediately felt the void in his chest wrench with visceral guilt upon learning that the child’s parents were crafts-people. The house was utterly empty except for the lonely little boy.

For as much as the puppet wanted nothing more than to rid himself of human companionship, he felt responsible for the loss of the boy’s parents. He had an obligation to see that he was taken care of and safe from the Tatarigami. If he could not have saved his friends, perhaps he could atone for his sins in raising the orphaned child—who reminded him too much of himself.

“Promise me,” Kabukimono spoke up with a bit of a hoarse tone, his voice cracking with emotion, extending a shaky hand to the young boy. “That we can be family. I will watch over you.”

“Like a big brother?” asked the innocent boy with a hopeful smile. He wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, taking the eccentric’s hand in his own. “I’ve always wanted one… I promise, we will be family.”

For a short while, the puppet had learned to push the turmoil plaguing his conscience to the back of his mind. His focus had shifted entirely to ensuring the boy’s safety and happiness, trying to scavenge food for him and exchanging stories under the moonlight. Although, Kabukimono flinched with each cough from the boy that shattered the silence between them as they went to sleep.

He hated that he recognized the symptoms. The residue of the Tatarigami had somehow infected the child, no doubt. A dreadful thought occurred to him—perhaps he had given the sickness to the orphaned child after what happened at the Mikage Furnace. The idea was enough to eat him alive with worry. Kabukimono had secretly prayed that the boy would endure the illness.

The puppet had worked tirelessly to give him the best he possibly could. If his coughs were dry, he would fetch him water. If his stomach rumbled, he would prepare some Lavender Melons. If he needed a friend, Kabukimono would be there to hold his hand as he slept like a guardian angel.

The day the elderly sakura tree shed its pretty pink blossoms was the day the boy was found unresponsive.

Kabukimono, too, found himself hollow and devoid. What did it mean to be family? What did it mean to love? What was the point of having such worthless emotions?

A blazing inferno consumed the darkness of the night sky. Crackling embers swirled and smoke bellowed in the rural countryside as a rickety house succumbed to a hellish fate. No one was there to witness the flaming spectacle. No one to help, or save the vacant violet eyes of a nameless puppet who clutched a small doll in his lap.

It was laughable, truly, how sick and twisted the world could be. The puppet couldn’t fulfill his creator’s wishes, nor could he befriend humanity, or have a heart of his own. Oh, to perish in a fiery death would be far too simple for Celestia’s liking, wouldn’t it?

For five hundred years, Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche—no matter who he became—the feeling of inadequacy remained.

His divinely-created body was an immortal prison, shackling him to his sins. As a Fatui Harbinger, no needle, blade, or poison of the Doctor could kill him. No enemy or magic of the Abyss could ultimately break him. The puppet was built to withstand the likes of the Cataclysm that had taken his creator’s sister, yet the scars of these experiments litter his fair skin are a reminder that he is indeed alive.

Wanderer vividly remembers his dark fascination with testing his limits in the depths of his dissociation. Anything to serve as penance for the irreversible destruction he had inflicted upon his friends, his family, and his home. If he was lucky, perhaps the Doctor would find a way to end his misery or the maddening darkness of the Abyss would swallow him whole once and for all.

Even forsaking his autonomy and identity as Scaramouche to ascend to godhood would be a fitting death for the puppet. After all, the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom would never bow to his emotions like a weakling. Losing himself to infinite knowledge and truth would be a good ending, despite the insanity that would befall him.

All that mattered is he would cease to exist.

But it was you who defeated him, in all his might and glory as a fake Archon pumped full of divine wisdom and the sludgy remains of dead gods. It was you who found him after he tried to erase every part of his worthless being from Irminsul, and helped him pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath.

The reality that lies within Irminsul had given him a new perspective as the Wanderer. Though he retained the poignant memories of his sins, Wanderer made sure to carve a special space in the void of his artificial body just for you. His savior.

Not a single one of those instances—absolutely fucking none of them—could ever compare to the morbid and desperate pit of despair that ravages Wanderer at the sight of your fragile body curled up in a white hospital gown. You are hooked up to a myriad of monitors and machines, wires and tubes tangling your frame like chains. The distant beep of the electrocardiogram is burned into Wanderer’s mind.

It’s your heartbeat, and the very reason for his continued existence. You had been reduced to small blip on a computer screen.

The hospital room was otherwise silent. The windows had the blinds slightly drawn, a cool ray of moonlight washing over Wanderer’s disheveled indigo hair from behind. Even if you were unconscious, Wanderer had wanted to tuck you in for the night, but he was terrified of hurting you. The fluorescent white light above your bed was off, bathing you both in warm darkness.

In the late hours, all Wanderer could do was stare at you with eyes reddened from crying, his crimson eyeliner smudged at the edge of lashes. He would occasionally lick his dry lips, which were chapped and peeling. The sting of the dead skin on his lips being tugged between his teeth was a momentary release from the overwhelming anxiety dwelling within.

His thin fingers are intertwined with yours on the hospital bed, one of the few ways the puppet can keep himself grounded in this moment. Every once in awhile, he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze followed by a few broken wishes for you to open your eyes again. To see the life in you and hear your sweet voice again.

Sometimes it would get to be too much. Wanderer would raise your hand and kiss your knuckles with hot, salty tears pricking at his eyes. The stinging sensation would force his eyelids closed, sorrow streaming down his stained cheeks. He was sure that this was a result of his own shortcomings.

Your arms are wrapped in bandages with a few stitches here and there lying underneath. A deathly pale color flushed your beautiful face. And oh, Archons, those eyes of yours he had always adored endlessly were sunken darkly into your face, hidden in your slumber. His gaze drifted to your lips, still full and pink, perhaps his last vestige of hope as they parted for your sacred breaths.

To imagine you’re suffering as much as he had in his past is utterly unthinkable to Wanderer.

The only difference is your fragile mortality. He knows your pain now, he can see it carved onto your wrists in what must have been a frenzied meltdown.

Some cuts are lighter and faded, meaning this certainly isn’t the first time you hurt yourself. Other gashes in your arm are deeper and swollen, each one weighs on the puppet’s heart greater than the last. He couldn’t count how many times you must have taken that razor to your wrist. Wanderer silently curses himself for letting this happen to you.

“How stupid could I be? Letting her away from me,” he quietly lamented with his head in hands, fingers curling around his indigo locks tightly. “I had just one good thing.”

Rocking himself gently in the chair next to you, Wanderer continuously tugs at his hair to an almost extreme degree, unable to handle the anger, betrayal, and sadness overcoming him. He was practically attached to you at the hip, he should’ve noticed when your voice faltered or when your eyes betrayed your words. He should’ve seen the signs of you slipping through his fingers.

Even if every day wasn’t perfect, even if sometimes you both said hurtful things to each other, neither of you never truly meant it. Wanderer couldn’t bear to imagine not waking up next to you, the morning sunlight kissing your silhouette like an angel. He never thought that he’d find his purpose in you, in the most mundane moments that he cherished so deeply.

He knew you had a history of mental health struggles. So did he. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give you his everything—fingers entwined and sweat glistening on your bodies as he made you his for the umpteenth time.

The echo of the puppet’s soft sobs dissipates into the emptiness of the hospital room. His whole body is shaking with emotional agony. It’s the first time in centuries that he has allowed himself to feel vulnerable like this. How could he not when the love of his life—the meaning of his existence—had tried to take themselves out of it?

Wanderer finally releases his hair, taking your left hand again and passionately pressing his lips to your bare ring finger as an unspoken promise. You both had worked so hard to love better and be better. He wasn’t about to give you up.

There would never be another you in eternity.

He couldn’t bear the heavy burden on his heart anymore. Carefully, he pulled the thin blanket back and climbed into the hospital bed next to you. His fingers trembled at the contact, feeling your faint warmth. Wanderer gently pulled you close so that your head was safely tucked into his chest and he could rest his chin on your soft hair. He sighed, covering you both in the blanket once more.

Sobs tugged at his chest and his grip on you momentarily tightened. Though tears glistened at the corner of his broken violet eyes, Wanderer blinked them back with a shaky breath. You were in his arms and his world was made whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice is gravely and barely audible. “I love you so fucking much… don’t you dare think otherwise.”

The puppet nuzzles his nose into your scalp, breathing in your familiarity like it’s home. He begins to play with your hair gently, combing and caressing your soft strands with his fingertips painted in black.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know…” Wanderer kisses your hair, closing his eyelids for a long moment to memorialize the feeling of your skin on his lips. “But I’m gonna get you out of here, baby. I’m gonna get you help, okay?”

His toned arms keep your body pressed to his, wanting to feel every part of your being entangled with him as it should be. The tickling sensation of your little breaths on his neck brought a small smile to his face because it meant you were sleeping comfortably and most importantly, alive. You were the missing piece in his puzzle, fitting perfectly into place with him.

“It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” the puppet whispers to you, hoping you could hear and feel his love in every way, shape, and form possible. His words also served as an assurance to himself because in this moment he felt so helpless, seeing the wounds on your precious skin.

“I won’t let anything hurt you anymore,” Wanderer solemnly vows, his voice slowly but surely trailing off as he succumbs to his exhaustion with you held close to his heart.

“Goodnight, my love.”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

#wrote something much darker for a change #been listening to ‘heather’ by ruby haunt💔#[opulent dreams].✿#[dreams of delusion].✿#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin wanderer #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer angst #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche angst

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screamingatanemptyroom · 8 months ago

Text

The Healer pt 2

Decided to continue this, let me know if you want me to keep going!

Part 1 linked here

Enjoy!

________________________

“What have you done?”

My voice was strained in a horrified whisper.

Jack the Hero was calm despite my obvious distress. He leaned back in his chair, his face smiling but his eyes freezing cold. “That’s the wrong question, Healer. The right question is: what have YOU done?”

“Everyone… they’re dead… you promised you needed it to clear the gate… you told me…”

“I told you a lie.” His smile didn’t change. “You were the fool who believed me. Their deaths are on your hands as much as mine.”

I stood up, checking my inventory and beginning to drop any group items. “I’m quitting your team. I’d rather die alone out there then stay on under you. After what you've done."

“I’d rethink that, Healer.” He held up a hand, and a bright red gleam shined between his fingers.

“You bastard.” I froze at the sight, unable to move, as realization slowly dawned on me of the extent of his betrayal. “You…”

He stood up, not bothering to listen to the rest of my cursing. “Save your energy.” He paused at the doorway, his gaze settling on my tear-stained face without much interest. “You’ll need it. We ride early tomorrow, Healer. Be ready.”

______________________

“JACK!” I sat up in bed, breathing heavily. I was filled with terror and rage, and it took a moment to realize my familiar surroundings. Light blue walls, intricate draperies, stacks of large books on topics ranging from anatomy to pharmacology. My room. I sighed with relief.

Thinking of my dream, and the bad memory contained within, I stiffened again, slowly slipping my hand into my collar and gripping the cold hard surface of the amulet within. I sat silently, clutching it so tightly that the hard edges began to dig into the skin of my palm. Eventually my speeding heart rate slowed, and my breathing normalized. I was in my house, out of Jack’s reach.

As I calmed down, a notice popped up in my vision.

**You have rested through the night. HP and MP are restored in full. Adverse conditions such as fatigue are eliminated. You are encouraged to continue your mission in securing the advancement of the human race! Good luck!**

I waved away the notice with a frown. Since the Downfall, since we had woken up in this strange world crafted after a VR game, there had been only vague references to the “purpose” behind it. The original message had mentioned an “opportunity for improvement” but given little other information. Who was it that trapped us all here? Why did they do it? And are they still watching us?

I shook my head. All we knew was that there were one hundred gates to pass to “complete” this mission. Perhaps then we would understand the purpose behind all of this, the meaning of all this pain, death and suffering.

But we were only on the forty-second gate.

I went downstairs, and paused when I spotted Alton the Great Evil Wizard, looking nothing like his terrifying reputation as he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, calmly sewing a black robe. Hearing my footsteps, he looked up and grinned, waving with the hand holding the threaded needle.

“Good morning, Miss Healer!”

The address caught me by surprise. Jack and the party had always just called me “healer” or “the healer.” The word was always said dripping with disdain. They had hated my profession, hated the embarrassment of having me on their team, made even worse by the fact that they actually needed me around. But when Alton said it… it just seemed normal.

I think my sense of normal has been greatly skewed.

I regained my composure and nodded at him. “Good morning. What are you working on?”

“Repairing my torn robes.” He gestured a pile next to him on the floor. “They have low durability so they break down easily.”

“Shouldn’t you just buy new ones?”

He nodded. “I could… but prefer to save my money for the things I really want. Better to keep it close, since you never know what important things you might need it for… especially in this world.”

“Says the guy who put a 100,000 gold bounty on the head of the Hero?”

“Exactly!” He grinned viciously. “I save my money for important things like annoying idiots like him.”

I laughed at that. After another pause, I sat down on the floor next to him and grabbed a piece of dark cloth from the pile. Pulling a needle and dark thread out of my inventory, I began to stitch.

“You sew?” Alton asked, seeming surprised.

I pointed at his chest, where the stitched wound was still visible. “If I can patch you up, pretty sure I can sew up a sleeve.”

“…Good point… although I guess I didn’t realize the skills were transferable. Did you take on a Tailor side quest?”

“It’s not a skill, not a Fantasy Realm type skill at least.” I kept my eyes on my hands that were picking up speed as muscle memory took over. “I always liked to sew, even before the Downfall… it was a good way to relax. It seemed logical to decompress doing the type of sewing that didn’t have the possibility to kill someone if your stitch came loose.”

“Wait…” He held up his hand, shocked. “Were you a doctor before the Downfall?”

“Yeah, but I was still in surgery residency. So wasn’t like I was operating on my own… “

Alton blinked, seemingly trying to absorb this information. “That’s… impressive.”

I kept my head down, my hands moving smoothly without hesitation. “Not in my family.”

“Ah… familial disappointment. Something with which I am quite familiar.” There was a sad tone in his voice, a look in his eyes that seemed almost close to despair. “Unlike you, I did not go into the family business… making me somewhat of the black sheep of the family.”

“Your family business?” I probed, curious.

“Well, it wasn’t wizardry, that’s for sure.” I sensed he was avoiding the question, and dropped the topic. I didn’t know Alton that well, certainly not enough to push him to open up. I tried to find something else to talk about instead.

“So… what do you think about what I said yesterday?”

He seemed quietly relieved that I moved on. “Which sentence?”

“About finding a couple other people for our party.”

He continued to sew, thinking it over. “I guess it depends…”

“Depends on what?”

Alton looked up, his eyes serious. “On if you trust them.”

I paused at that, before finally answering in a cold tone. “I don’t trust anyone.”

The amulet around my neck felt icy cold against my skin, as always, as if reminding me of its presence, reminding me of the consequence of trusting someone.

“Not anymore.”

Alton nodded seriously at that, and I remembered the title that I saw in his Stat screen. “The Betrayed.” Given the particulars of the system of this world, I didn’t want to know how severe of a betrayal it would have to be to actually bestow a title like that.

Looks like we are both haunted by the consequences of trusting the wrong person. I feel like I already know the kind of person he is... even if it's not been a long time.

As if he heard my thoughts, he spoke up. “We have a lot in common. I’ve been watching you for quite some time. I have a good understanding of the type of person you are… and aren’t. I considered all the options before inviting you into my party. If you have someone you know that well… I would at least be willing to meet them.”

“You were watching me?” I raised an eyebrow at that. “Why?”

“First, I was interested because you were a healer. I didn’t think any had survived. Then I noticed you cleaning up after the Hero’s party’s antics. And then… it was partly because I was scared of you.” He smiled to soften the blow, but I still froze for a moment, before forcing my hands to continue.

“Scared of me?”

“Yeah… since I’m fairly certain that you are the only human in this world who is strong enough to kill me.”

I processed that. “So it’s a ‘keep your enemies close’ type deal?”

“Nah, nothing like that.” He laughed quietly. “It’s just the more I got to know you, the more I couldn’t escape a thought: That I thought you would be a good friend.”

“… You shouldn’t trust me.” My tone was flat.

Alton seemed unfazed. “Why not? Are you planning to betray me?”

I shook my head.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You don’t know everything yet… even if you’ve been watching… there’s things… terrible, awful things you need to know about me before making any decisions.”

“None of us are saints in this world.” He briefly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before meeting my gaze once more. I could see the guilt within. “We were trapped here, forced to survive. We’ve all done things we regret. Don’t forget: I’m not far behind you in human kill numbers.”

There was a long pause.

“What are you thinking?” He finally asked, breaking the silence.

I knotted off the thread as I finished closing the tear, cutting it off with a neat motion. “I think you’re strangely naïve for someone called the ‘great evil wizard.’”

“If you say so.” Alton chuckled.

“I do.”

“So are you going to introduce this naïve evil wizard to your friends?” He finished sewing his robe, tying it off somewhat clumsily.

I froze at the word “friends."

______________________

“I need your help.” Jack’s eyes were intense as he cornered me, my back against a cold brick wall. The solidity of it grounded me, the realness of it reminding me that this strange world I lived in was my new normal.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. If the power gets into the wrong hands…” As I tried to turn away, he grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him. My skin crawled at his touch, but the hard grip prevented me from pulling away.

“We don’t have a choice. The next gate is impossible without your help. If you refuse… everyone will die.”

He finally released me, and I tried to back away, but only succeeded in hitting my head against the brick. After a few long moments, I sighed.

“Just for the gate, right? You promise?”

“Of course…” He smiled. “We’re friends after all.”

______________________

I took a deep breath, ignoring Alton’s concerned look. “No. Not friends. But strong people who might be interested in partnering with us.”

I had no friends. I didn't dare. Not since I stopped calling Jack and his group that.

“Ah of course. `And you think these strong people will be okay partnering with me?” He pointed at himself with a quizzical expression.

I smiled confidently. “I have no doubt.”

______________________

SLAM!

The door slammed in our faces for the third time. Inside the building we could hear a muffled “GO AWAY!”

Alton looked over at me with a smile. “No doubt, huh?”

I frowned. “ I underestimated your bad reputation… or maybe mine.”

“I resent that. My bad reputation is more than enough to scare good prospects away on its own.” He glanced back at the door with a raised eyebrow. “Besides if they are too scared to even join us, I imagine they wouldn’t be that much help in a fight.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’ve run out of suckers… I’m mean strong heroes to ask.”

He grinned at that, as we walked away from the last house and towards the 38th level City. The main road was deserted, this was one of the higher levels, and very few people advanced this far. Many chose to stay in the lower levels, avoiding danger. I kept a close eye on the surrounding forest, tense. The roads were generally safe, but the wariness remained all the same.

“So, just the three prospects, huh?”

“People on the World Leader Board who aren’t already in a party and not total psychopaths?” I shook my head, distracted from my obsessive watching of our surroundings. “You’re lucky I could think of three.”

“Well maybe it will just have to be you and me. I mean we ARE the top two players on the World Leader Board. It could be enough.”

We walked forward as I continued to ponder his words. I had not really seen Alton in action. However, his ranking and reputation as the world’s strongest player couldn’t be denied. “It might be enough, for a while. But I don’t know if that will carry us to the end. The gates are getting harder and harder… “

“Well, it’s not like teammates are going to just fall from the sky…”

“LOOK OUUUUUT!”

Alton and I rolled out of the way of the person falling from a nearby tree, both readying for battle. Alton whispered quietly, activating a dark magical flame that danced around his fingers. I on the other hand, simply stood in place, hands resting at my sides. If there was one thing I was good at, it was killing. I just needed to know if it was necessary. In the corner of my vision I confirmed my filled HP and MP, with some reassurance.

The falling person hit the ground with a loud CLANG and her metal armor slightly deformed from the impact. She the rolled several times, coming to a loud stop on her back at my feet. Her young, bright eyes stared up at me with delight.

“Healer!”

I looked down at her, and sighed. “Hello, Stephanie.”

Alton glanced at her, and then looked at me. “You know her?”

“WE’RE BEST FRIENDS!”

“No.”

Stephanie and I answered at the same time. Alton laughed, and held out a hand to the teenage girl. “Nice to meet you, Miss Healer’s best friend. I’m Alton.”

Her eyes widened. “The evil wizard?” I braced myself for her to scream or run away similar to the prior “strong” people I had tried to recruit. Instead, she smiled with great relief. “THANK GOODNESS!”

“Huh.” Alton seemed just as confused as me. “Never had that reaction before.”

Stephanie in response pointed a group of monsters emerging from the nearby forest, heading towards us. “Can you guys lend a hand?”

I studied the new threat carefully. There were eight wolf like creatures, 5 feet tall with long horns, large jaws and rows upon rows of blood-stained teeth. They moved as a pack, snarling and howling as they closed in on their prey.

Alton shrugged nonchalantly at the sight, and pointed at me. “I’ll help if she says it’s okay.”

“Great!” Stephanie sat up with difficultly, her armor hindering the movement, and placed her hands together in a praying gesture. “Please?”

I pushed up my sleeves. “Sure. I had some energy I wanted to get out anyways. Alton, you take the four on the left?”

He nodded in response and began chanting.

I faced the four beasts on the right with a thoughtful expression. One out of the group was larger than the rest, likely the leader of the pack.

**The Healer has activated wordless incantation. -300MP per use.**

The wolf monsters were racing closer. I sensed the end of Alton’s chant coming and raised a hand, pointing.

**The Healer has cast Immobilization -10MP/sec while active.**

The three smaller wolves froze, tumbling to the ground. The larger stumbled, but shrugged off the spell, obviously having some magical resistance. I moved forward, going at my highest speed. If a spell won’t work… I pulled a syringe out of my inventory. As I reached the leader. I saw Alton finish his chant out of the corner of my eye. A black flame surrounded the monsters he faced, burning them to ash.

**Alton the Great Evil Wizard is credited with 4 monster kills, awarded 160XP and +4 fame. You receive 20XP as a party member.**

The lead monster snapped at me as I leapt over its head, its teeth missing my arm my a hair. I jumped and straddled its back, grabbing its rough, stained fur in one hand, and plunging the syringe into the large muscle near its shoulder joint with the other.

**The Healer has used custom potion – Anesthetic. Patient is paralyzed and sedated for 3 minutes.**

The monster under me let out a groan and collapsed to the ground. Letting out a sigh of relief, I looked over at the smaller wolf monsters and reached out a hand.

**The Healer has cast Debridement x 3. – 60MP.**

Black blood spilled out from large wounds in their necks, pooling under the three bodies, soaking the grass beneath them.

**The Healer is credited with 3 monster kills, awarded 120XP and +3 fame.**

Now that the small fry are out of the way… I waved away the notification and pulled a scalpel out of my inventory, the small blade in my hand reflecting the bright sunlight.

If spells won’t work, then I’ll just do it the old-fashioned way. I couldn’t use weapons, only medical/healing potions and tools. A scalpel although tiny, was the closest thing I had to a bladed weapon. I reached out towards the wolf’s neck.

“WAIT!” Stephanie cried out, causing me to pause before I cut the monster’s throat. “Don’t cut it!”

I raised an eyebrow. “You want me to spare the monster that was hunting you?” I noticed that Alton had kept a small amount of magic around his hand, ready to strike at any moment. It was strangely reassuring to see that he wasn’t always so trusting of others.

Stephanie looked at me, confused. “What? No! I just meant please don’t CUT it! I need an undamaged pelt for a quest. Can you kill it without hurting its pelt?”

I thought it over, still holding the scalpel to its throat in case the potion wore off. “Depends. What about the quest rewards?”

She deflated slightly at the question. “50-50 split? I did spend days tracking them down.”

“Deal.” I put my scalpel away, and pull up a buckled strap. With a quick practiced movement, I placed it around the wolf’s head, and tightened it over the neck.

**Healer has utilized tourniquet. Blood flow to the affected area is cut off. Please utilize caution, patient received 10 damage for each second that the tourniquet is in place.**

I waited patiently.

**WARNING! Patient airway is compressed and is becoming dangerously hypoxic. Please secure airway to continue healing. Patient will receive 50 damage for each second that airway compression remains in place.**

I continued to wait.

**The Healer is credited with 1 level 20 monster boss kill, awarded 200 XP and +5 fame.**

I removed the tourniquet, wiping down the strap before replacing it into my inventory. I glanced over at Alton and Stephanie who stared at me in surprise. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“…Umm… did you just kill a boss monster… with a syringe and a belt?”

“It’s a tourniquet, but yes.”

“Cool.” Alton gave me a thumbs up.

Stephanie shrugged off her apparent shock and ran to the boss monster, using a skill to remove the pelt without any tools. She then paused, and stood in front of both of us, shuffling back and forth slightly.

“So…”

I cleaned my hands with a handkerchief and some water, not looking at her. “What do you want this time?”

“This time?” I waved away Alton’s question and looked at Stephanie, who didn’t make eye contact.

“Well, I guess I wasn’t here JUST for the wolf pelt… I may have also come here looking for you… and remembered to finish the quest when I saw them in the forest on my way over.”

I didn’t change my expression. “What do you want?”

Striking a pose, slightly hindered by her dented metal armor, she answered dramatically: “…I heard you were recruiting… Can I join your party?”

"..."

Alton and I stared at her.

“Wait. How did you know we were recruiting?”

“After you asked three people you are seriously asking this?" She shook her head in disgust. "You both are famous! It’s been all over the world chat since you were first sighted together!”

Groaning, I pulled up the display that I rarely opened anymore. After the Downfall, the people pulled into this game like world had quickly discovered a worldwide chat option. There were many different topics, guides and other discussion available to read through and comment on.

In the first few weeks after waking up in this world, I used to read through the gossip and other new topics daily, hoping desperately that someone would discover what had happened, why we were here, or perhaps some tips on succeeding as a healer. Instead I quickly discovered it was a toxic cesspool of humanity, filled with petty arguments, lies and gossip.

I quickly became a common topic of discussion on the chat board. As the only high level healer, part of the Hero’s party, and the player with the highest number of human kills, I was infamous, with entire forums dedicated to analyzing how I was accomplishing it. The conclusions they often came to were often not very flattering towards me.

There were also fan clubs and forums dedicated to the Hero and his party, and they were also my strongest critics as well, accusing me of dragging the hero and his party down. I flinched from the memories, but quickly pulled up the world chat, noting that the top topic of discussion was about Alton and me.

______________________

“THE HEALER AND THE EVIL WIZARD HAVE TEAMED UP AND ARE RECRUITING NEW MEMBERS!”

The infamous mooching healer from the Hero’s party has officially split from them and joined the Evil Wizard! No one knows what horrific plans they are concocting, but whatever it is must require strong people, as they have been sighted trying to recruit two free agents on the leader board, and were last seen on level 38, likely to recruit Dallas the Barbarian! We’ll keep you posted!

______________________

I frowned at the post, quickly scanning the comments below.

______________________

“ Good riddance! It was always a drag to see her running behind the hero’s party, getting carried by them. “

“That’s terrifying! The Evil Wizard has friends? If you see them, you better run!”

“Who would want to joined such a cursed party?”

“… So who else is shipping them?”

“Weirdos will ship anything with anything. Get out of here with that nonsense.”

“Pieces of trash will always gravitate together.”

______________________

I looked at the last comment, which was posted by Rita the Holy Archer. She was a member of the Hero’s party as well, and not someone I had ever gotten along with.

Alton was staring blankly, obviously scrolling through the chat as well. He made a weird expression and waved his hand back and forth, dismissing it and muttering to himself. I stepped forward, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a bunch of idiots chattering.”

“Worried?” He looked at me, confused. “I’m not worried about the comments. There’s a whole thread dedicated to taking bets on what sort of horrible death I’ll have. This is child’s play.”

“Then why the weird face?”

He looked away awkwardly, mumbling something I couldn’t hear.

“What did you…?”

“I saw FAN ART, okay? They made fan art of the two of us…” He covered his face with his hand.

“Why would they…?” I paused. “Can I see it?”

“No. No. I would rather die.”

What on earth did he see? Before I could ask further, Stephanie pushed again.

“Guys? I’m still here! Can I join?”

Alton stared coldly at her. “I don’t know you, or trust you. It depends on what Miss Healer has to say.”

Stephanie turned towards me, but only received an eye roll in response to her puppy eyes. “I can vouch for the fact that she’s strong. She’s a barbarian warrior, and obsessed on leveling up her strength stats.”

He looked at the girl in her late teens and her tiny frame. “…If you say so”

I sighed. “Show him your sword.”

“Sure!” Grinning, Stephanie raised her hand, an enormous cleaver type sword longer than her body appearing in it. It looked incredibly heavy, but she waved it around as if it were weightless. Alton applauded politely at her show of strength. Finally, she put it away. “I’m forty-third on the Leader Board, partially due to the fame I gained for my strength stats, which are the highest in the world here.”

“The real question is…” Alton turned towards me. “Why wasn’t she on your list of people to recruit?”

“I told you my list was strong people who weren’t in a party who weren’t total psychopaths.” I looked at Stephanie pointedly. “She is absolutely crazy AND she’s in party already.”

She grinned. “Not anymore, Healer! I quit my party the minute I saw you were recruiting on the forum! I owe you my life, how could I not take advantage of that opportunity?”

“And your fan club of a party allowed that?”

“I had to chop off a hand or two, but eventually they got the point and agreed to let me be happy and follow my dream.” Seemingly unconcerned by the intense violent acts she spoke about, she held out her hand to me with a smile. “So do we have a deal?”

I looked up at the sky. “We do need a tanker…” Crazy or not, she is really strong... I took a deep breath, and shook her hand. “Fine.”

“YAY!”

**Stephanie the lovely Barbarian has accepted your invitation to join your party! She will have access to shared inventory, and her stats will become visible upon medical scan.**

“Should we head on, or are anymore of your friends going to suddenly jump out of trees to join us?” Alton finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Who knows?” I turned to Stephanie. “Where do you need to turn in your quest?”

“Where else?” She grinned. “Winter’s General Store.”

"..." Rubbing my forehead, and trying not to cry, I asked quietly, “Are you out of your mind? You realize he would kill you if you didn’t bring back the pelt?” Alton looked at me questioningly, but I gestured at him to let it go and he remained silent.

“No he wouldn’t!” Stephanie burst out. “He promised that since I was your friend he wouldn't kill me! ... He would only maim me if I failed.”

“You’re not my friend.”

“That’s right, we’re not friends… we’re BEST friends!”

“Heaven help us.” I groaned and pulled up a traveling artifact. “Let’s go see Winter before he decides to come see us.”

______________________

As we arrived in level 1 City, we quietly moved towards the back alleys near the water front. It was a mostly deserted area known for its paid killers, black markets and the most desperate part of humanity. The few people we ran into were cloaked and minding their own business, but I kept my guard up, refusing to dismiss wordless chanting despite the mana drain. I wanted to be able to fight at a moments notice.

“Who is Winter?” Alton asked finally as he followed us through the winding and increasingly dark streets.

“An NPC!” Stephanie answered cheerfully. “A really powerful one. He really likes the Healer too”

Alton was shocked, as I knew he would be. There were scattered being that looked like humans, but weren't that could give quests, termed Non Player Characters given their similarity in role to NPCs in the game. However, since their discovery in this world since the Downfall, their interactions with humans were limited. There were a few that would hand out quests, a few that ran shops, but all of them had one thing in common:

They despised humans.

They treated human players as lesser beings, only worthy of cheap and dirty missions or tasks that they didn’t want to take care of. Many attempts at befriending or learning about them were made in the beginning, but universally they responded with only vitriol and disdain.

No one knew why they were here. If they were part of whatever scheme this was that had trapped us in this world. But we knew one thing: Any attempt to harm them went poorly. They could be harmed. Could even be killed. But any player who did so would find themselves hunted relentlessly by the City 1 guard, who wouldn’t rest until the offending player was dead. After a handful of deaths, this became the new normal and people learned to leave NPCs alone for the most part.

I gave most NPCs a wide berth. I didn’t understand them, or trust them.

But Winter was the exception.

We arrived at the store, pushing it open to the sound of a tinkling bell overhead.

“Winter! Guess who I brought?!!” Stephanie crowed as she pranced in, before coming to a sudden stop. I halted behind her, and Alton beside me as we stared silently at the group already in the store, arguing with an annoyed appearing Winter.

“What bad luck.” Alton whispered, and I had to agree.

It was the Hero’s party.

#writing #fantasy #part 2 #video game world #violence #betrayal #monsters #was fun to continue

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