#but their parents are too much of the story for this
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JADEEEE i'd love to see an interaction between hotch and teacher!reader outside of school? maybe jack sees her first and step away from hotch for a moment to say hi, hotch gets scared when he realizes jack left but reader comes with him just a moment later because she's panicking too like 'why are you alone? where's your dad?' and jack takes her to him. is that ok??? i hope so! love you <3333
I love you ty for your request! —Hotch flirts with Jack’s favourite teacher, because he’s never as subtle as he should be. fem, 2k
Jack reads a couple of books a week now his dad is home more often. His mom used to read to him some because he loves them, but she preferred to tell her own on the fly. His dad isn’t as good a story teller, and when he does try the stories don’t end up very happy, so they read. Sometimes two or three books a night if they're short ones.
With Jack’s library card they can borrow ten books. With his dad’s, another ten. Twenty altogether, enough to last the month if they’re careful or if dad gets called away a lot, which he usually does.
“Can I look for Super Pup?” Jack asks his dad.
Aaron sits on a chair a little too small for him in the kids section. “What?” he asks, looking up from the back of the large picture book Jack’s just handed him.
“Super Pup?”
“I’ll help, buddy.” Hotch looks like he’s going to stand, then hesitates. “In a second. Don’t go where I can’t see you, Jackers.”
Hotch is tired. He didn’t come home until very late, but he’d woken Aunt Jess anyway and, when Jack woke, there his dad was sleeping in the beanbag by his bed. He’s sore all over now and exhausted from a restless night. Jack feels sorry, as much as he can for being six nearly seven, but he also knows that his dad doesn’t mind the hurting. It was nice to wake up together after a few days apart.
And now he’s brought him to the library, and after that they’ll go for groceries. Jack should be quick. If they get home before dinner time his dad will ask him if he wants to nap together, which is the best. They just lay there in the big bed with the fan on and snooze until it’s too late to cook, so his dad breaks out the takeout menus, and promises he won’t do it again with a quick hug from behind.
As though it makes him a terrible parent for feeding his kid. Jack can’t know how guilty it makes Hotch feel to do it, and Hotch doesn’t seem to notice how much Jack loves these days where his dad is exhausted and totally his.
Jack runs around looking for Super Pup. Hotch’s phone beeps in his pocket, and he fights to keep his eyes open.
A ways away, you browse the fiction section in a crouch, knees somehow totally under your skirt, flicking aside spines of skinny books for something you can read at lunch time. Something that doesn’t require much attention, and could be read in short intervals. You used to demand a half hour to yourself when you first started teaching, but that was before the lonely kids started cropping up. Kids with no friends, or sad smiles, who want company and quiet alike.
You reach for a pink-spined Japanese translation as a little hand pats your elbow. You’re so used to kids you say, “What’s up?” before you remember you aren’t at work.
You turn in your crouch to look behind you. “Oh, hi, Jack! What are you doing here?”
“Me and dad are looking for books.”
You smile at him genuinely, happy to see your favourite student, even if you’re terrified on the inside at the prospect of his father. He’s the most gentlemanly man you’ve ever met. He’s arduous in how respectful he is, he’s understanding, and he’s tall, dark, and handsome. It is a chilling collection of traits. You stumble whenever you have to talk to him.
But Jack is easy. You and Jack talk every day. “What sorts of books? Just for fun?”
“I want to read Super Pup.”
The kids love Super Pup and his magic bark. You stand promptly, suddenly much taller than Jack as you brush down your skirt. “Wait,” you say. Mr. Hotchner gets called away for work all the time, but he wouldn’t leave Jack alone, would he? “Where’s your dad? You’re not by yourself, are you?”
Jack laughs. “No! I’m looking for Super Pup! Dad’s tired.”
You can’t decipher exactly what those two things have to do with each other, but you can guess how panicked his dad will be to find Jack so far from the kid’s section. Fiction is the other side of the library. “How did you end up over here?” You offer your hand. “Should we go back and find your dad?”
“I saw your skirt, Miss L/N. I like the flowers.”
He takes your hand, clumsy to your gentleness. “Thanks, honey. Let’s go find dad before he calls his scary friends and has your name on the news.”
You get to the kids section slowly. Endearingly so, but nerve-wracking, too, because Mr. Hotchner can be intimidating. Jack likes holding your hand, you think, clinging to your fingers as he guides you across the library, past the staircase down to the first floor, and back to the kids section.
“Jack?” Mr. Hotchner asks loudly, turned away from you both near the graphic novel selection. “Jack.”
“Mr. Hotchner,” you say.
“Dad!”
He spins on his heel. His shoulders relax noticeably, but the stress in his gaze remains.
“Jack, I said stay where I can see you,” he says, not half as scolding as he could be as Jack lets go of your hand and runs to his legs, where he stops. “Please, buddy. You gotta listen to me.”
Jack turns between you and his dad with a smile, “But look, it’s Miss L/N.”
“I can see,” he says softly.
Mr. Hotchner leans down, taking Jack up into his arms with impressive ease, and begins the walk to you where you’ve stayed.
“I hope he didn’t interrupt you,” he says.
“Please,” you say, “he’s my favourite. Just–” You wince. “Don’t tell anybody at school I said that, Jack. Please.”
“I think we can keep this secret,” Mr. Hotchner says.
“He was just telling me that you’re looking for Super Pup. If you don’t find it, we have copies at the school library. And we can always order you one.”
Mr. Hotchner gives you a small, and what you know to be rare, smile. “I don’t think he even looked.”
“I did look!” Jack disagrees, though his disagreement barely has any attitude to it, a credit to his upbringing.
“You clearly weren’t looking in the right place.”
“I was too. How would you know, you were sleeping!”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Mr. Hotchner says to you.
You tuck your hands behind your back. “It’s okay, Mr. Hotchner, I believe you. In my classroom we like to say we’re resting our eyes.”
“Aaron,” he says, as he says whenever you speak to each other, and as you always forget to call him. Not a demand but a suggestion you’d swear to be bordering affectionate.
You’ve been Jack’s teacher for two months this year, and almost the entire year previously. In the summer when they leave, you’ll find out if you’re moving up a grade with him, but until then, you’ve made the most of such a nice kid, and you aren’t shy to tell that to Aaron. You don’t mind that Jack spends his lunch time with you. He embodies all of the reasons that pushed you to become a teacher in the first place.
And his father is a good reason to stay. He’s one of the only nice (hot) dads.
You do worry often that he can read your expression. His lips have quirked into a bemused smile, what’s so funny? He’s terrifying.
“Aaron,” you rush to say, and fill the silence you’ve made, “It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you, too. You’ll see me on Monday, so you’ll be sick of me by Tuesday.”
You rock ever so gently on your heels. “You aren’t working.”
“It’s Jack’s birthday.”
You nod, pleased. “I know! I know, we already talked about what cupcakes he wants, didn’t we? Everybody’s gonna have rainbow sprinkle, and for a treat we’re going to watch a movie before lunch.”
“Do you do that for every kid?”
“I do.”
“How do you afford it?” He lowers his gaze. “I just mean, it’s expensive to do that for every birthday.”
“Luckily for me and unluckily for the kids, quite a few of them have birthdays outside of term time. Thirty students is three trays of ten, and that doesn’t usually break the bank, even if things get tight. But… I don’t know, I guess I just have to make room when it does. It’s special to feel special, and,” —you smile, exuberant and a little shy at once, clutching your elbow in your hand— “Jack always makes everybody else feel special. ”
The boy in question turns into his fathers chest, pleased beyond words.
Aaron gives you a long, long look. “Thank you,” he says.
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
You say goodbye to Aaron and Jack and wish them both a good weekend, which you spend wondering what the pressure of Aaron’s hand would be like on your shoulder, and if you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking about it at all. He seems like he’d give a good hug. You catch yourself picturing him opening a door and ban yourself from thinking of him at all.
Monday morning, you stand at the door ushering your students inside, and you can’t help beaming when Jack and Aaron arrive.
“Aw, Jack, where’s your birthday badge?” you ask, fall air nipping your nose.
“He was feeling too shy,” Aaron says. He’s in casual dress again. Some men should be banned from half-zips, it’s inhumane.
“You were?” You bend just a bit, hand in your pocket. “Well, I thought you might be, so I brought my badge from home. It’s super shiny, bud. What do you think?”
You show Jack the badge, It’s My Birthday in silver against a rainbow backdrop.
Maybe it was silly to bring, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t want to wear one, and maybe he should. He deserves for all his friends to give him some attention, and to have them fight over who gets to sit with him at lunch.
“We have something for you,” Jack says.
You stand straight. “You do?”
Aaron hadn’t been expecting to be the one to give it to you, that much is obvious. He hesitates for a second before he passes you a small brown box, the top of which is made up of four leaves folded into a dome. You have an inkling of what it might me.
“Thank you… Can I open it now?” you ask.
“I think you should wait for lunch,” Aaron says.
You raise your eyebrows but abide by his suggestion, murmuring another thank you as Aaron bends to give Jack a hug. “Have a good day. I’ll be here to pick you up, I promise,” he says.
It’s a great day. The kids are excited for cupcakes and overjoyed to get them before lunch. Not a crumb goes uneaten, and as they all sing for Jack with his borrowed badge, he’s actually happy for the attention. He doesn’t eat with you at lunch, which is a great thing even if you love his company.
Alone, you fold back the leaves of your mysterious box and smile like an idiot when you confirm what’s inside. A cupcake slightly more sophisticated than rainbow sprinkle spreads icing across the brown carrier, and a business card leans against the other side.
The front of the card is as you’d expected it to be spelling out Aaron’s contact details from work, and you combust thinking he wants you to call him, but it’s the back that you’d been meant to see. You read it as you fold down the leaves of the cupcake carrier,
Thirty students, three trays of ten. What does that leave for you? —Aaron.
Flirt, you think firmly, happily. He’s such a flirt.
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner x y/n#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner blurb#aaron hotchner drabble#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fanfiction#hotch x reader#hotch#hotch x you#hotch blurb#hotch drabble#criminal minds
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it always ends with i love you ft. wriothesley — in which you, a small floral shop owner, meet the duke of meropide by a chance encounter—and then you meet a bunch more too…but not so much by chance anymore
contains: 20.3k work count (please give it a chance i put my soul into it) ; female reader ; mature content—not suitable for minors ; strangers to friends to lovers ; flower shop au + florist reader ; reader has a small backstory regarding her dead father ; use of canon flowers and and lore, meaning i did my best so please be gentle on me with my botany facts ; heavy spoilers for wriothesley’s story quest and backstory, explores themes such as murder and hints at child exploitation and trafficking—all pertaining to his adopted home life ; slight oc’s because i gave a few of his adopted siblings names ; a fun neuvillette and clorinde appearance! ; a not so fun childe appearance + jealousy ; a short argument ; love confessions and getting together ; wriothesley is scared of love (anyone who had to kill their parents should be tbh) ; reader sits on his lap/lays on him ; there’s sex in every scene lol i got carried away—includes vaginal fingering ; cunnilingus ; nipple play ; hand + blow jobs ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie
the first time you meet wriothesley is by accident.
he doesn’t exactly come up to the surface regularly—he sees the sun frequently enough to remember what sunlight feels like if he tries to recall, but not enough that most people of fontaine would know he’s the duke of meropide just by looking at him.
he likes it that way. the duke is no small title, and he’d prefer the trip through the streets of the court without being stopped for idle chit-chat.
he doesn’t intend on stopping on his way to the palais, but you’re a bit of a unique circumstance.
he hears the smashing sound of something breaking before the scream, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the noise. nothing could have prepared him for a flower shop to be the source of such chaos—what could be chaotic about selling petals on a stem?
except you’re clumsily chasing after a man as he stumbles past your door, knocking over the potted plants on display in the process as you follow him.
the look of distress on your face as the pot falls and shatters compels him to investigate the scene. (of course, there’s a note of distress on your face before the pot falls, but the way it deepens when it does is almost criminal. your face is too lovely to have such creases in your forehead, even if he won’t admit as much out loud).
“stop! please,” you call, “you haven’t paid for those!”
thievery. wriothesley knows a thing or two about pocketing things that don’t belong to him.
first, it’s because he spends a portion of his life on the streets, surviving more than living. those moments reduce him down to a simple pocket thief at times. (he had standards for his crimes: never too much and only enough to survive for a bit. always from someone who dresses expensively and looks like they’re comfortable enough not to feel the damage to their wallets. and, of course, never from women).
second, it’s because people, on the streets or in the fortress, love to steal from those who are weak and vulnerable. people who are sleeping are of that classification of individuals, so wriothesley learns how to keep his things hidden and how to be a light sleeper. he’s never had too many things that are precious to him, of course, but he owns little enough that he’d notice his losses harshly should they come.
he hates thievery. partly because it reminds him of his past and the darkness that taints it, but mostly because it always involves someone innocent who doesn’t deserve to lose. not even a little.
his feet carry him over to the scene before he can stop himself—not that he would stop himself even if he did have control over his body, but it’s just that this particular circumstance seems to have him in some sort of trance. one that won’t allow him to look away from your face.
“please,” you follow the man past your shop’s door, “those are the last of my glaze lilies—i promised them in an order!”
the man running doesn’t seem to care about your pleas, snickering as he turns to give you an amused look, as if your distress is entertaining. he doesn’t make it far, though, before he bumps into a muscled chest.
“what the—”
wriothesley cuts him off, raising a brow. “i do believe the lovely lady here has asked for her flowers back. or did you miss that part?”
“and just who do you think you are, mister?” the man barks, glaring wriothesley up and down. (it’s a bit funny, considering he’s much shorter, so it takes a tad bit of effort on his part to give wriothesley the menacing once over it’s meant to be). “i don’t remember asking you what she asked.”
“oh me?” wriothesley cracks his knuckles casually, shrugging as he says, “duke of meropide at your service. i must say, i’m not very popular around here—not a lot of people know me, it seems.”
your jaw drops. the man’s face pales—which is a nice confirmation, at least, that he does have some sort of a brain.
“w-what? and just why would i believe that? you expect me to think the fortress’s duke is just prancing around the streets as if he hasn’t got duties? as if!”
wriothesley’s lips quirk up at the edges as he hums, fishing through the pocket of his shirt before he pulls out an envelope, sealed with the stamp of the iudex himself. there’s writing on it in clear letters, bold and italicized, as if just to mock the man.
to: duke wriothesley
from: iudex neuvillette
“that clear things up for you?” wriothesley asks, traces of a cheeky glint in his eyes as he raises a brow.
instantly, the man is clasping his hands, head bowing as a string of incoherent apologies flows past his shaky lips. “i-i’m sorry! i’ve never done anything like this before, you can check! my records are clean! i-it was a moment of weakness, but it won’t happen again, sir. p-please don’t take me to monsieur neuvillette. or court. or—”
“your first thieving gig, and you picked flowers?” wriothesley snorts, “i almost don’t want to bring you to court just save myself from the embarrassment.”
the man flushes, bashfully shrinking as he mumbles, “w-well i just…i just wanted to get flowers for my girlfriend for our anniversary and these…th-they’re her favorite you know? b-but they’re hard to come by since liyue is so far and…and the lady wouldn’t sell them to me so…you know…i uh…” the man trails off, wilting as wriothesley’s stares down, unimpressed. “i promised her i’d get them,” he adds, as if it’ll help.
“what a tragic sob story you got there,” wriothesley deadpans. “your girlfriend must love your honesty.”
“if i may interrupt,” you call from behind, making both men glance over to where you stand some distance away.
wriothesley forgot you were there, truthfully. but now that he’s taking in your appearance up closer, he can’t help but appreciate it. your features complement each other well—like an assortment of carefully arranged flowers, hand-picked one by one by celestia themselves.
“hello miss,” he nods, raising a hand to half-wave at you, “don’t worry, i’ll get this man out of your hair in a moment with your flowers too. just give me a sec—”
“no,” you say softly, “no it’s okay. he can keep some of them…i’m sure i can make do with a shorter hand than usual.”
he blinks. you couldn’t have possibly offered to let your thief keep his earnings at your expense, could you? he can’t decide if you're just that naive, just that foolish, or truly just that kind.
maybe all three, if he’s being honest.
“uh…are you sure?” he tilts his head in disbelief, “you want to let him keep the flowers?”
“partially,” you confirm, “it’s alright. everyone deserves flowers on their anniversary. especially their favorite.”
wriothesley decides you’re just that kind—and in some ways, it’s worse than being a bit on the naive side. at least you can sharpen yourself to become untrusting and skeptical if naivety gets you in trouble. kindness is as easy to take advantage of as it is to take for granted, and it’s not just something people like you can turn off like a switch.
“oh, thank you!” the man exclaims as soon as the words come out of your mouth, not wasting a second to grin at you as he says, “you’re really so kind! if you’d just tell the duke here that it was all a misunderstanding and that you’d like to drop all charges, then i’ll be on my way with partial the flowers—”
“make no mistake,” your hands find your hips as your face hardens with a certain strictness even he’s a bit startled by, “if you should come here and cause trouble again, i have the duke’s word to press double the charges next time. i would tread carefully if i were you—don’t ever let me catch you stealing from me again.”
wriothesley stares at you and gapes. he’s sorely mistaken about you—kindness is not the absence of your spitefulness, and the man shrinks back as you stare down at him expectantly.
“o-of course,” he says quickly, “it won’t happen again.”
“good,” you nod, “that’ll be five hundred mora, please.”
“b-but—”
“is there a problem?” you raise a menacing brow, making the man scramble to shake his head.
“wow,” wriothesley snorts as the man scampers off after fishing enough mora from his pockets, “i suppose i underestimated your ability to handle the situation, miss.”
“i think i owe a good portion of my success to you, your grace,” you bow your head slightly, unable to meet his eyes as you nervously chuckle, “i don’t usually have robberies. the people in this area are familiar with me. they’re quite kind—i’ve never had someone as stubborn as him.”
“well, rest assured, if he bothers you again, you can come to find me for my word at court.”
“i’ll hold onto the offer,” you grin.
that chance meeting becomes history after a while. he comes and pays you a visit every time he’s at the surface, which isn’t all too often, but often enough that you start to look forward to at least one routine visit per month. sometimes, he teases you about whether or not you’ve had new thieves pay you a visit. other times, you make use of his strong hands and built muscles and cheekily order him around to move heavy bags of fertilizer around.
he likes tea, you learn—he takes a very piqued interest in the jars of dried petals you keep on shelves, ones you tell him are good for making blends for tea, or to boil with water for natural remedies, or to make syrups for beverages like lemonade. it’s a slow, steady, blossoming friendship until, all at once, you feel incomplete without the routine visit from the fortress’s warden. you’re too reliant on the familiarity of explaining flowers, their origins, what stories they share, and what they mean—and likewise, you feel incomplete without his stories from the fortress, what the inmates are up to, and what changes he’s developing to make things better for the people under his wing.
you like to think he feels the same way; otherwise, he wouldn’t come around as much as he does.
sometimes he walks you home, and sometimes you invite him for tea. you drink coffee, but you don’t mind the trouble of brewing two beverages if it means some extra time with him in your cozy little home.
like today, where he sits comfortably at your dining table while you cut fresh bulle fruit as tea steeps in the hot water. he watches you with fond eyes, listening as you ramble intently about your recent endeavors at your flower shop.
“—and i think i’ve finally managed to grow a cactus from sumeru long enough to bloom my own henna berries,” you grin, looking at him brightly, pride settling into the crinkles of your eyes, “it did take some trial and error—fontaine rains far too often for cacti to survive, but this one i managed to grow indoors.”
“couldn’t you just get the berries delivered from sumeru? since you have plenty delivered from there already,” he asks in amusement. you huff, rolling your eyes as you walk over, setting the platter of fruit down before him.
“of course, you’d want to take such a simple route—but plants are far more rewarding when you grow them yourself, you know. plus, every fruit i’ve managed to grow on my own here in fontaine has had a bit of a unique flavor as opposed to ones grown from their original nation. i’d like to see if that’s the case with these berries, too.”
“well, if that’s the case,” he hums, taking a slow sip from the tea you’ve brewed for him—it’s perfectly made to his liking, with two sugar cubes and piping hot just as you’ve learned he prefers. he closes his eyes and lets out a content sigh as the warmth trickles down his throat. “let me try one when they’re ready.”
“of course,” you brighten excitedly, as though the prospect of someone to share such a moment with is one you look forward to. there’s something that tickles in his chest, right beneath his ribcage, at the sight of your wide grin.
you chatter until the sun sets, warm, honeyed rays of orange and pink pouring through your windows and painting his skin vibrant hues. it’s about time for him to leave—you can tell even before he clears his throat and stands, grabbing the plate and mug and heading to the sink.
“i should go,” he says kindly, washing the dishes with so much familiarity that it almost feels domestic and natural to have him here. you shake the thought out of your head as quickly as it enters your head. “thank you for having me this evening.”
“oh, i think we’re past the formalities,” you huff a small laugh, “you’re doing my dishes.”
“technically they’re my dishes,” he chuckles, “since i did dirty them.”
you hum, walking over to where he stands as he turns the faucet off—until a small twist of your ankle has you gasping as you stumble forward. you brace yourself for the impact of the hardwood floor, but instead, you’re met with a firm yet soft chest as strong arms wrap around your waist and catch you before you can fall.
“oh,” you breathe as you open your eyes, staring into him with just as widened pupils as him.
“are you okay?” he asks quietly, voice just barely audible as he whispers to you—he’s so close, so painfully close, you think the only reason you heard him was because of the proximity.
“yeah,” you nod. it’s hardly a nod, really—if you were to move your head too much, you’d risk brushing your nose against his. or maybe even your lips. “i’m fine. thank you.”
“yeah, no problem,” his eyes are still trained on yours, and neither of you can find it in yourselves to pull away. you can’t, and he definitely doesn’t, and nothing seems to give as you stare at each other. you’re pressed against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around you, and there’s a strange beating in both of your chests that you think you can just barely make out.
they almost seem to beat in sync, rapid and untamed. so, so fast, you wonder if it’s even healthy.
you don’t know who does it first—or maybe it was the both of you. all you know is that one second, you’re staring at each other, and the next, your heads are tilted so that your lips meet tentatively. he hesitates at the first brush of your lips, but your hands cup his cheeks and pull him forward, making his eyes flutter shut as he shakily breathes into your mouth. it’s so slow, so dizzyingly slow, that you wonder if time has just stopped altogether to grant you a moment with no interruptions.
he fits perfectly against you, the soft flesh of his cheeks spilling over your palms, your thumb rubbing affectionately into the skin as he nips at your lips, kissing you like he’s waited his whole life to feel you. the curves of his mouth connect with the curves of yours like pieces of a puzzle, like he was carved to match you from the same stone.
you’re not sure how long you kiss like that, but slowly, it grows needier, more quick and hasty as your hands leave his cheeks to wander to his hair and gently tug at the strands as his hands wander to your waist and lower back, feeling every curve of you as he groans into your mouth.
he tries to pull away, but you chase after him, unwilling to let go.
“w-wait,” he mumbles, “maybe we should stop—”
“you really want to?” you ask breathlessly, and all it takes is one glance down at your glossy, swollen lips for him to close his eyes and shiver.
“no,” he admits hoarsely, “i don’t. are…are you sure about this?”
“yes,” you whisper instantly.
he doesn’t waste a moment, quickly pulling you into your bedroom as you both collapse on the mattress. you climb onto his lap, crotch pressing against the semi-hardened erection in his pants, the press of your heat against his bulge earning a low, drawn-out groan from him that shoots straight to your clit with a dull ache.
“sweetheart,” he says in between kisses, making you inhale sharply at the pet name, “you’re killing me here.”
“okay,” you smile against his mouth, pecking it sweetly before you add, “then let me do something about that.”
he doesn’t expect you to drop down between his legs, face to face with the obvious tent in his pants—wriothesley is a gentleman, a giver before he is a taker. his first instinct is to protest as he opens his mouth and starts to say, “hang on—you don’t have to—”
“i want to,” you pout, looking up at him, “please? i want to.”
when was the last time someone looked up at him like that, staring up at him like pleasing him is the only way they’ll survive? he doesn’t recall, doesn’t think it’s ever happened, in fact. he groans, head falling back against your bed frame as he nods slowly.
“okay,” he concedes, lifting his hips up so you can pull his pants down his legs, leaving him in his boxers. there’s a wet patch where his tip meets the cloth, the evidence of pre cum drooling from his swollen head that makes you hum in satisfaction as you leave a tender kiss on the spot through the fabric. he gasps, hips jolting as his thighs clench at the teasing touch.
“can i?” you purr, hand rubbing soothingly over his tense thigh as he swallows and nods, looking anywhere but at you as he breathes harshly.
“y-yes,” he grunts, “please.”
you’re freeing his cock as soon as he utters the plead, letting him spring free and meet the cool air. he hisses, gritting his teeth as his chest rises and falls erratically, labored breaths that he tries to use to calm himself as he stands painfully hard between his legs.
“pretty,” you murmur, entranced at the sheer size of him—he’s flushed an almost painful red at his thick tip, leaking enough pre cum that you’d think he might have already had his release with the way it runs down the side of his hardened length.
your hand wraps gently around the tip, thumb smearing the pre cum along the tip before coating the rest of his cock, using it as lubrication for the steady stroke of your hand along the girth. he throws his head back, groaning as his hips buck into your touch before he stops himself, frantically trying to keep himself still and let you take your time.
“f-fuck,” he rasps, “that…that feels nice.”
“yeah?” you breathe, smiling as you press a kiss to his thigh as he chokes on a grunt while your hand slowly pumps him. “am i doing it right?”
“you’re doing just fine,” he assures, biting his lip as he finally can’t keep himself from bucking impatiently into your fist any longer, “feel free to do more, though.”
you giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his lip before gliding your tongue through his slit and watching as he melts against your bed frame at the gesture, body loosening up like he’s limbless as you slowly take him into your mouth, swallowing around his cock and bobbing your head, pumping the rest with your hand that you can’t fit down your throat.
“shit,” he curses, hand cupping the back of your head as he guides you up and down his length, moaning your name when you swirl your tongue around the tip, “you…you’re so good at this, yeah? take me so well in that pretty mouth of yours.”
you hum around him, making him cry out at the vibrations around his cock, one hand running through his hair as he tries to keep himself grounded, the other still cradling the back of your head. he’s a gentleman, though, living up to one just as much as he always lets on to be when he doesn’t force you to take more of him by pushing your head down or burying himself deeper into your throat by fucking his hips into your mouth. he lets you do things at your own pace, and you think it’s enough when you feel the telling signs of his release as his panting grows harsher and his cock twitches in your mouth.
“w-wait, wait,” he says frantically, “i’ll cum—i’ll cum. not yet, not until i have you.”
you reluctantly pull away, a trail of spit connecting from your lips to his tip that makes him close his eyes and groan, clenching his jaw as his near-orgasm dies down to nothing again. his cock is achingly hard, hot and swollen and throbbing after denying himself for the sake of feeling you.
“c’mere,” he motions for you to climb onto his lap. you do, sitting on his thigh as he slowly trails a thumb under your shirt, rubbing the skin with a feather-light, heated touch that has you shivering against him. “you sure you want this?”
“i want it,” you whisper, leaning to press a kiss to his lips that he reciprocates with a low hum of approval, “with you.”
“such a sweet way with words,” he murmurs, slowly pulling your blouse over your head and unclasping your bra, tossing them to the side as he marvels at the view of your tits. “such a sweet view, too. beautiful.”
you flush at the praise, looking away. but his hands grab at your breasts, large as they cup them and massage lightly, thumbs running over the pert nipples as you shudder and breathe out a light gasp.
“wriothesley, need more—”
“give me a moment,” he shushes you, “and then i’ll give you what you want.”
he admires you like that for a bit, sat on his thigh as your eyes flutter shut and his thumbs tease your nipples, wetness pooling in your core that he can feel on his thigh—you’d be embarrassed, you really would, but it’s not as though his cock is any less leaky at the head.
finally, he inhales sharply, sitting up slightly to unbutton his shirt, revealing the scars down his chest before he helps you out of your pants. you stare at the harsh, jagged lines that pain his skin, raised, discolored skin, the only evidence of some brutal, vicious past that he survived.
your thumb traces down the lines, making him shiver at the fragileness behind the touch.
“where’d you get this?” you murmur, staring at him curiously.
“hmm? oh the scar on my body? it's from a gash i got while battling a gigantic undersea monster that tried to take over the fortress of meropide…” he stares at you cheekily as you blink, looking at him unimpressed. “hah, just kidding.”
“do you ever take anything seriously?” you shake your head and huff, but there’s endearment on your face as you fight back a smile.
“on the contrary, milady,” he murmurs, grabbing your hips and pulling you back slightly, exposing your drenched cunt before he slowly sinks two fingers into your folds and curls them against the back of your walls, “i take this quite seriously.”
you gasp at the feeling, his digits rubbing against your walls and angling to hit a sensitive, achingly sweet spot at the back of your cunt. it’s precise, the way he pumps his fingers into you, slowly sinking in a third digit while you mewl and throw your head back. the heel of his palm catches against your clit, the sweet friction building your orgasm up slowly, slowly, until suddenly, you’re near the edge all at once.
“c’mon, don’t hold back now,” he drawls, voice low and sweet and so attractive, you feel like the sound of him alone is enough to send you tumbling over the edge, “why don’t you be a sweet little thing and let go for me, hm?”
you do—instantly, you do, crying out his name is choked garbles as he works you through your orgasm with his fingers, still thrusting into you with a precise pace. finally, when you’re done clenching around him, he pulls his digits out, the slickness of your pussy coating them as he hums in satisfaction.
“think you’re ready?” he asks softly, cradling the back of your head with his good hand as he pulls you closer, “or do you need one more from me?”
“i’m ready,” you huff impatiently, “i need you, need to feel you already.”
“okay, okay,” he laughs, amused but not anymore patient himself as his cock pulses between his legs, “i’m not trying to wait any longer, either. do you have a…uh…y-you know…”
you snort at the way he trails off awkwardly, flushing at the thought of asking for a condom as if he’s not completely nude under you. “no,” you giggle, pinching his cheek as he huffs, “but we don’t need one. it’s fine.”
“okay,” he nods slowly. his hands grab at your hips, firm yet so gentle with the way they lift you up and guide you to angle over his swollen cock, slowly helping you sink down on him as he chokes on a grunt when his head pushes past your folds.
you gasp as soon as he intrudes into your tight hole, splitting you open on his thick girth as you take him inch by inch until you’re sat on his lap completely, buried completely with his length as his jaw clenches at the tight squeeze of you around him.
“wri—wriothesley,” you sob brokenly, unable to say anything else besides cracked repeats of his name. he’s so big, buried so deep, and leaving you so full, you’re not sure if you have it in you to fuck onto him from this position.
he takes things into his own hands, though—roughly grabbing your hips and pulling you back before helping you sink back down on him again, rolling his own hips upward to bury deeper into you. your head spins, and all you can think to do is weakly plant your hands onto his shoulders before you roll your hips, grinding down on his length and sloppily fucking yourself onto him.
he bullies past your folds, curves deliciously into the most intimate parts of you, fat tip slamming against the soft, sensitive spot that makes you see white. pleasure burns up your spine, building a coil in your belly that grows tighter, tighter, tighter—so close yet so far from snapping and letting you plummet into your second release.
“that’s it,” he grunts, “fuck—you’re so tight, so good. i’ve…i’ve never felt anything so good. it’s like you were made for me, weren’t you? take me so well, fit around me so well.”
his hand moves to your clit, thumb pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves and rubbing merciless circles against it as you mewl, head burying into his neck as your nails claw at his shoulder. everything is so good—so hot and filthy and leaves you impatiently desperate for some form of release. the friction of his cock dragging along every ridge leaves your mind hazed, and the harsh press of his tip against your sweet spot leaves your vision blurry.
you’re not sure how you even have the strength to rock yourself onto his stiff length, but somehow you manage, and he seems keen on helping you, too, with rough, bruising hands that grip your waist with a punishingly tight grasp.
“c-can’t hold on much longer,” you cry, voice a strangled sob that’s muffled into his skin, “i’m s-so close. please.”
“me too,” he pants, voice just as strained as yours as he moans through a cracked voice when you clench down on his particularly tightly, “me too, sweetheart. i’m right there with you, alright? let go—c-c’mon.”
once more, you cum around him—this time on his cock instead of his fingers, and if the first time felt good, the second time is devastating. your vision practically goes white as your walls spasm around him, slick and dripping with your release and mixing with his own as he follows you not long after. his cock jolts, pumping hot, sticky ropes of his seed deep into you, and both of your bodies are slumped against one another as you barely roll your hips, sloppy pace with no rhythm as you focus on getting yourselves through the ecstasies of your orgasms.
his thumb is still pressing against your clit, and your hands have left his shoulders to bury into his sweaty hair, tugging fiercely at the dark strands and making him groan at the mix of pain and pleasure.
finally, you both ride out the final few waves, him slumping against your bed as you fall against his sturdy chest, face still buried into his neck. sweat clings to your skin, but you don’t mind the feeling of his damp skin against yours, not when the warmth of your body makes the afterglow feel so sweet. your fingers thread through his hair, soothing over his scalp with the rake of your nails where you’d just tugged so harshly, and his palms glide up and down your hips, rubbing gentleness back into the parts where he dug bruises along the skin.
“wait, is that watering can supposed to be a dog?” he asks out of the blue, making you lift your head and look over your shoulder.
“yes,” you quirk a brow, watching as he lets out a small snort as he looks at the watering can by your plants in wonder.
“it’s pretty ugly.”
“rude!” you gasp, pulling away slightly as he shakes under you in laughter, “i think it’s adorable!”
“do you now?” he bites his lips, attempting to suppress the smile that threatens to take over, “you have…interesting taste.”
“oh, you’re dead to me,” you spit dramatically, collapsing back against his chest as you bury your head into his neck again. “dead to me, i say.”
“my apologies,” he snickers. his hand rubs slowly into your hip, quietly humming for a moment before he asks, “what made you so passionate about plants?”
“i can’t just really like them?” you challenge.
“sure,” he shrugs, eyeing the watering can again as he smiles, “but you don’t give the impression that you just happen to just really like leaves, and that’s it.”
“there’s more to plants than leaves,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. and then, much gentler this time, “my father was a scholar from sumeru. an herbologist.” your voice is a quiet murmur, a low hum as you speak into his neck while his hands are still rubbing into your hips, “i used to be fascinated by his journals and all the plants he’d seen. he died when i was young, so sometimes…sometimes i try to grow them here in fontaine myself. just to feel close to him.”
“do you?” he asks quietly, staring at the various plants that decorate your small home. it’s cozy, he thinks, so lively and warm that it almost doesn’t feel like you’re the only inhabitant. “do you feel close to him when you do?”
“if it works,” you admit, “it’s not always easy to recreate the same conditions they’re meant to grow in.”
“i think you do an impressive job,” he praises, earning a slow smile from you that he can feel curve into his skin, “i’ve yet to come across a flower shop in fontaine with as much variety as yours.”
“you flatter me, your grace,” you chuckle, pulling away as you stare at him, the tousled hair from where his hand ran through, the swollen bottom lip where his teeth sank in, the flushed skin where heat settled. you take all of it in slowly, admiring him as he looks up at you through lidded eyes.
“do i? i meant it seriously, not in flattery,” he raises a brow and smirks, “if i wanted to try flattery on you, i think i’d have some other choice words.”
“don’t be so insatiable,” you gently swat at his chest, earning a chuckle from him. “will you be able to stop by tomorrow?”
“i’m afraid not,” he sighs, “i have a meeting with some people from the palais tomorrow at the fortress. it’ll run a bit late.”
“oh,” you try to hide the disappointment in your voice, but he seems to sense it instantly. “that’s okay. i just had a blend i thought you might like to try—for tea, that is. it’s um…i dried the petals myself, and it’s new. i thought i’d let you be the first to try it to let me know what you think.”
you try not to giggle at the way he perks up at the mention of tea.
“ah, i’m afraid i won’t have time tomorrow. but…” he coughs, trailing off as he looks away, contemplating his words.
“but…?” you press.
“but…well, i have a few guards returning tomorrow from the surface from a few tasks i gave them. i could have them stop by the shop to escort you down to the fortress if that works for you…it’s okay if you can’t, though! i can always come by sometime this week when my duties aren’t as—”
“that sounds nice,” you cut him off, grinning widely, something close to excitement blooming across your features, brighter than any set of petals in your shop, he thinks. “you can give me an official tour of the fortress, perhaps. i’ve only ever heard about it through stories.”
“as you wish, my lady,” he winks.
he leaves not too long after—you try not to focus on his lingering scent in your sheets once you settle back in after bidding him goodbye. it’s oddly peaceful, being surrounded by him even when he’s not there, and sleep lulls over you quicker than usual.
the scent is faded by the time you wake up, so you take one last deep breath to inhale it before you set off to get ready for the day, counting down the hours before you get to see him again.
——————————
as promised, a group of fortress guards stop by your shop, politely waiting for you to close up before you join them on their return.
the fortress is darker than you expected—but not at all as small as your mind anticipated. in fact, it’s huge. you follow the guards, making idle chatter as they take you up an elevator, up, and up, and up—until finally, you finally arrive on the floor of his office.
you’re so busy taking in all you can of the fortress that by the time they escort you to his office door, you remember why you’re here in the first place. to bring wriothesley dried petals of sweet flowers that you grew yourself—flowers often make for a wonderful tea blend, and learning his passionate liking for the drink makes you feel compelled to share with him every one of the various floral teas you’ve learned about in your time as a florist.
you knock on the door of his office—except, oddly enough, there’s more than one voice you can make out from the room. you didn’t think his meeting would still be in session by the time you arrived, making you anxiously regret the knock as soon as your knuckles leave the surface of the door.
but he answers before you can think too much of it. “come in,” his voice calls.
“your grace,” you hum, stepping in, “if this is a bad time, then i can…”
you trail off. both fontaine’s chief justice and champion duelist stand in his office, gathered around his desk as he sits and sifts through files. of course, wriothesley is a duke, which is no small title by any means, but you’re caught more than a little off guard as you step in and share the room with two of fontaine’s more important figures in the justice system.
“no,” he says casually, “come in, you’re right on time. i was just telling miss clorinde about the delicious tea blend you would bring for her to try. she couldn’t wait a moment longer.”
“if you want to try it so badly, just say so,” she rolls her eyes.
“fine,” he huffs, lips curling into a slight pout, “i’d like to try the tea you promised me. clorinde will pass, though.”
“i think i’ll try it, as well,” she chimes in, suppressing a smile as wriothesley crosses his arms.
“but you just said—”
you giggle, walking over as you hand him the bag with dried petals, grinning at the amusing dynamic, and murmur, “i believe it would be the polite thing to do if you made an extra cup for the madam while making yours.”
“picking her side, are we? such an act of betrayal won’t be forgotten,” he huffs. still, almost as excited as a child opening a present, he opens the bag to add the petals to the tea maker he keeps at his desk. you watch with fondness at the action. “you still owe me a present, by the way. and tea won’t do—i’ve just received a batch.”
“then i suppose i can gift you a new tie,” clorinde hums, eyeing the loosened tie around his neck and making him furrow his brows as he subconsciously straightens it, “something that fits your neck better so you look a bit more put together.”
it’s almost like she sees through the both of you, eyeing between you and him with a hint of a knowing glint in her eyes. wriothesley scowls, giving her a petulant glare.
“there’s nothing wrong with my tie. i look just fine.”
“i do believe it’s a stylistic choice,” neuvillette pipes up from the side, “it doesn’t seem to be an issue with the tie itself.”
you snort at the way the joke flies over his head. “you’re right, monsieur,” you join in the banter, “i do believe his grace has a rather…unique choice of style.”
“i wonder if he ever plans to properly wear the coat he always seems to keep hanging over his shoulders,” clorinde adds, the earlier grin she attempted to fight back now fully curled into her lips. you laugh, much to wriothesley’s dismay.
“perhaps he just values being prepared,” you hum, “one can never tell when the fortress will suddenly be too cold. someone as busy as the duke surely can’t afford the wasted time to go and fetch a coat.”
“ah,” she nods, “i suppose you’re right. he is too busy learning legal codes as of late.”
“i take it that my gift has been useful, then?” neuvillette brightens, turning to a miserable wriothesley as he rubs his temples wearily.
“most helpful,” he sighs, not bothering to explain to the iudex that he’s once more missed the point of the joke.
“oh, we’re only joking,” you laugh, taking the tea cup sitting at his desk and pouring him a glass of the now freshly brewed tea, “it’s all in good fun, your grace.”
“wriothesley is just fine,” he mumbles, “as you can see, this isn’t a very…formal meeting.”
he watches as you carefully make his cup, one sugar cube as opposed to his usual two—before he can point it out, however, you beat him to it. “i know you’re particular about your tea. i can see it on your face you’re about to insist i give you two, but this is a very sweet blend as it is. one will suffice.”
“careful when it comes to his tea,” clorinde warns, “he’ll be in a foul mood all day if it doesn’t live up to his standards.”
“not true,” he grumbles. as if to prove a point, he takes a sip, slowly blinking before he looks at you with an awed grin, “it’s lovely. you’re right, it is just perfectly sweet with one cube.”
“perhaps you’re the only person he won’t make a fuss with then,” clorinde teases, “he’s got quite the list of grievances if i make him a cup of tea.”
“that’s because you don’t know how to make proper tea,” wriothesley rolls his eyes, “there’s a set of steps you’re meant to follow, you know.”
“water is a most simple beverage,” the iudex cuts in, “one that has many complexities in flavor, as well. perhaps you should consider it as a fitting option if tea gives you too much trouble.”
“i would hate to think of the wrath the poor inmates would have to face if he were to miss a single tea time,” you grin, fighting back a chuckle as wriothesley takes a tired sip from his cup, resigning himself to his fate as the target of your banter, “water simply won’t do.”
“well, i believe we should be off,” clorinde looks at neuvillette, “perhaps we should leave them to themselves.”
“ah, yes,” the chief justice nods politely, “there are many more files for me to read through at the office.”
“do you ever take the day off?” wriothesley raises a brow, “wouldn’t hurt.”
“even his dreams are of legal cases, i’m sure. he wouldn’t last a day on vacation,” clorinde hums.
“i don’t typically dream when i sleep,” neuvillette frowns, still so serious that you choke on a snort as you try to hold back you giggles. wriothesley looks at you with an amused grin, biting his lip to hide a chuckle himself.
“i’ll be seeing you,” he waves as the two leave, “and hopefully with my present ready next time,” he calls to clorinde with a pointed look. she rolls her eyes, fondly waving as she heads out the door.
“i didn’t know you were friends with such important people,” you murmur as they leave, making him raise a brow as he takes another sip.
“friends isn’t the best title for it—consider us work acquaintances.”
“with banter like that, i hardly believe it,” you chuckle, earning you a half-hearted glare from him over the rim of his tea cup.
“did you have your fun at my expense?” he asks dryly—but there’s no real bite to the words, “it seems you got along quite well with clorinde.”
“monsieur neuvillette is lovely too,” you giggle, “even if he’s not exactly…the earliest to catch onto jokes.”
he laughs at that, setting down his empty cup as he stands, eyeing the door to his office quickly before stepping closer to you, eyes staring down at your lips as you chew on the bottom and wait for him to make his move.
“thank you for the tea,” he murmurs lowly, lips just barely a millimeter away from yours, “it was quite sweet. i enjoyed it.”
“there are plenty of other floral blends i have for you to try,” you hum.
he grins, hands finding your waist before he whispers, “surely i couldn’t take all that from you without offering something in return, could i? i wouldn’t want it to seem like i'm taking bribes.”
“oh?” you breathe, grabbing a hold of his tie and tugging him closer until your lips meet his in a slow, heated kiss. it awakens a sick, insatiable heat in your core almost instantly. “what did you have in mind, your grace?”
he groans at the way your voice teasingly lilts at the title, hungrily chasing after your lips again. it’s more tongue than it is anything, messy and almost too scandalous to take place in his office where anyone could knock and come in at a moment’s notice. he seems to know it, too, because slowly, he guides you backward, slow steps that don’t interrupt the lock of your lips until your back meets a door.
“why don’t i show you,” he breathes—and then the doorknob is twisted open, and you’re gently pushed in with an arm curled around your waist to guide you. there’s a bedroom connected to his office, you realize.
not entirely a shock—you’re sure the duke of the fortress has his own quarters to sleep in away from the other inmates, but it doesn’t surprise you less enough that you don’t pull away to take a glance around.
it’s empty, mainly. not too many things besides a few scattered files and another tea maker with a few cups surrounding it at a desk in the corner. the sheets are dark grey, plain, and neatly made, with two pillows and nothing else. it has no more than what he needs, no more than what’s necessary. no hints of anything that’s his, anything that makes the room belong to him outside of being a mere sleeping quarters.
“not one for decor?” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck as your fingers fiddle with the collar of his shirt.
“i only come here at night to sleep,” he shrugs, “never felt the need.”
“everyone needs a space that’s theirs, don’t you think? even a few flowers would brighten the place up.”
“offering me more business?” he chuckles, making you roll your eyes, “and they’d die. there isn’t much sun down here.”
“i can think of a few options that would thrive,” you murmur.
“so it is business,” he quips. sigh exasperatedly, and he grins cheekily at you before you’re gently pushed to fall onto his bed, his body moving to hover over you as your legs wrap around his waist. his cock is semi-hard through his pants, and you wiggle your hips to press against it, the friction making him groan as you feel him stiffen even more from your actions.
“i think i’d like my payment now,” you hum, making him raise a brow.
“eager?” he asks, making your hand travel to squeeze at his bulge.
“and you aren’t?” you challenge.
“fuck,” he grunts, shuddering at the feeling, “looks like you got me.”
it happens faster than you can process—the shedding of clothes, the way his fingers slowly sink into you, pumping in and out expertly as your head spins from the way he brushes against your sensitive spots. he’s quick, the way he stretches you apart with his digits, adding a second and third finger with little to no time to waste. you hardly have time to accommodate the third when you feel a familiar ache building up steadily.
“c-close,” you say shakily, voice brokenly whispering against his mouth as he drinks up your moans, “i’m going to—”
“i know,” he hums, “shh. just let go—you’re doing so well.”
the praise shatters you—you break at the way he sounds so in awe of you, of the way you suck his fingers into your slick cunt, so tight and wet with every clench. your back arches, and your hips roll into his hand, whimpering as his palm rolls over your sensitive clit.
“god,” you gasp, “wriothesley, please.”
“please what?” he drawls, “you already got what you needed.”
“please let me feel you.”
“such a demanding price for some tea,” he sighs, “alright. i guess i can afford it.”
the nudge of his cock against your folds is enough to make you mewl, a sweet, whiny little cry that he groans at—every sound you make leaves an ache shooting up his stiff cock in the form of a twitch, like your every cry calls out to him. he responds with a rough thrust of his hips, burying himself into the depths of you, so deep and so close you can practically feel his pulse alongside yours.
“so full,” you gasp, panting as you try to adjust to the sheer girth of him. he waits a moment, jaw clenched and teeth grit as he waits for you to nod your head and signal him to move.
“and you’re so tight,” he grunts, moaning softly against your ear as he nibbles on your earlobe, “i wouldn’t mind it if you charged interest either, just so you know. i’ll pay it over as many times as you want.”
“oh be quiet, would you?” you roll your eyes at his words at first, but then they roll back at the feeling of his thick, swollen tip pressing against the deep, sweet spot in the back of your walls. he lets out a breathy laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth so he doesn’t muffle the precious little moan you let out.
“sure thing,” he hums, “i like listening to you more, anyway.”
“oh,” you gasp, “oh—wriothesley!” his finger teases over your clit, making your walls quiver around him as you feel your second orgasm creep up on you. “w-wait—i’m close.”
“why would i wait?” he asks in amusement, “that’s the idea.”
“t-together,” you whimper, pouting up at him through swollen lips and watery eyes, “please. please.”
he curses, closing his eyes and inhaling shakily at the way you look so fucked out, so drunkenly hazed on pleasure from the drag of his cock along your every ridge. you ask so sweetly—and who is he to deny such an innocent request?
“fuck—okay, sweetheart. fine by me,” he pants, rolling his hips harshly as he works himself to his own orgasm. his thumb teases your clit cruelly, fast and merciless one second, and a slow, bare feather’s touch the next. it keeps you right on the edge, a drooling mess of broken pleas as he finally approaches his own high. “close?”
“so close,” you gasp, twitching as he buries himself deep into you again.
“me too,” his voice cracks, “c-cum with me—please.”
hearing him plead sends you over the edge again—your first orgasm pales in comparison to your second. you didn’t even think that was possible, but the thick of his cock bullying into you is infinitely better than his nimble digits. the blunt head hits all the right spots, curves in all the right angles, and fucks you through your high expertly without even trying.
you both cry out each other's names like prayers, muffled strings of curses, and breathy gasps that you swallow up between slow, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. finally, when the last few twitches of his cock finish painting his release into you, he slumps on the bed beside your body, body shaking in slight tremors as he catches his breath.
“you okay?” he asks through a labored voice, “didn’t hurt you?”
“i’m okay,” you breathe, smiling softly. he closes his eyes, relaxing into the mattress, pulling the covers to tuck the both of you in before he stares up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head while he seems to be deep in thought. “what’re you thinking about?” you murmur.
“just how good you got along with clorinde,” he hums quietly, almost in wonder. “she’s not exactly the easiest to banter with so quickly.”
“well, i guess it’s not too hard if it’s at your expense,” you tease.
“ah, yes,” he sighs, pretending to woefully shake his head, “i’ve been reduced to the butt of the joke one too many times today, it seems.”
he grins to himself at the sound of your quiet laughter, so soft and sweet, so perfectly filling up the quietness in the room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears like a symphony. you stare up at the ceiling yourself, eyeing the pipes, the dark amber metal that makes up his home. it’s quiet like that for a bit—not awkward or uneasy, almost like you’ve known him for ages. almost like this is natural.
“can i ask you something?” you murmur after some time, shifting under the covers to face him.
he raises a brow, looking at you curiously. “you’re scaring me with that look. going to confess some wicked crime you want me to help you hide?”
“it’s not like that,” you huff, rolling your eyes. carefully, as if treading unknown territories (you are, in all fairness), your fingers find his bicep, running along the skin soothingly. it’s an affectionate touch—you and wriothesley only touch each other for physical pleasure, nothing more. this is new, something you’re freshly navigating with a weak compass that points back and forth between your heart and your head, unsure whether to follow logic or emotion.
“well, go ahead and ask,” he insists, “you’ve got me curious, anyway.”
“what…what did you serve for? when you were an inmate,” you say quietly. he tenses under your touch, muscles becoming rigid as you instantly regret the question. your fingers pull away at the same time as you start speaking, “it’s okay if you don’t want to answer! i just got curious and—”
his hand catches your retreating wrist, gently pulling it closer, closer, until your hand rests on his chest. this is definitely uncharted territory—but his hand firmly lays over yours as he presses your palm over his bare chest.
“it’s fine,” he mumbles, “it’s not exactly something people in my inner circle don’t know.”
“oh,” you whisper, “i’ve been promoted to inner circle, huh?”
“you’ve seen me naked,” he snorts, eyeing you with a hint of amused disbelief, “you’ve sucked me off, in fact. i think there’s a special other circle inside the circle just for you.”
“okay, no need to get all…”
“all what?” he teases, waiting for you to finish.
“all uncouth about our activities!” you huff, face feeling hot as he grins.
he laughs, wrapping an arm around you, pulling you against his side so your cheek presses against a muscled pec as his warm hand traces circles into your hip. you gasp slightly at the sudden gesture but relax all too quickly, your own hand moving to rub into his chest slowly, feeling the rough scars and tracing them with your fingertips.
“i was adopted when i was young from an orphanage. when i was a bit older,” he swallows, voice quiet, serious—so oddly vulnerable, you think you’re talking to a new version of him altogether, “i found a diary in my mother’s drawer. i didn’t…i didn’t mean to snoop. i was just looking for some paper for my sister to color with.”
“you had a sister?” you ask softly, looking up to see his jaw tighten slightly.
“i had quite a few siblings,” he admits, voice strained. “older and younger. my parents would adopt a few children at a time and raise them until they were old enough to be adopted into families of greater means. and then they’d adopt more younger children. i thought they were perfect parents,” his eyes stare off distantly, unfocused as they look up at the ceiling, hand mindlessly wandering along your hip as you listen.
“until…?”
“until i read that diary,” his voice hardens, still strained as he clenches his jaw and swallows thickly again, “they were records. of my older siblings, the ones i thought were adopted off. all of their names were followed by prices, and the ones who didn’t have prices had been crossed off. i didn’t understand until i saw my own name and my brother antoine’s. we had blank spaces next to ours.”
“how come?” you furrow your brows, looking at him in jarred curiosity.
“because we weren’t sold yet,” he smiles ruefully, “i realized we were being sold off like livestock. and i started to piece together why i had never heard from any of my siblings even when they’d promised to write. i…i never knew what became of them.”
“oh, wriothesley,” you say gently, so delicate, he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. you press a soft kiss to his chest under you, hand moving up to cup his cheek, “what awful people.”
“i…i should have kept it to myself,” he whispers shakily, “i didn’t…i couldn’t figure out what to do, so i told antoine—i thought…i figured maybe…” he trails off, eyes closed once more as he breathes heavily, trying to collect the composure he fights so fiercely to keep.
“it’s okay,” you kiss his jaw, “we can forget about it. i’m sorry for—”
“no,” he shakes his head. “i want you to know.”
it should make you feel special—maybe even a little happy that he trusts you enough to want to share. but nothing about this makes you feel anything but pain—you can feel his pain, every inch of it. from the way his hand clasps around your waist in a shaky grip to ground himself to the way his jaw is tight under your lips as they press a soothing kiss to the angle of it. every part of him is in pain, and you can feel it. deep in your own bones, like a lingering ache. one that runs years deep, living in the deepest, most intimate parts of your body.
you don’t mind it, though. you don’t mind sharing his pain, not if it’s him.
“okay,” you nod slowly, “okay.”
he inhales sharply, taking a deep breath before he continues. “i told him because i knew we were next. i thought maybe we could have figured out a plan together. but he asked my mother about the diary, what the prices meant, and why we’d never heard from the others once they’d left. he was gone the next morning—my mother told us he was adopted, but i knew. i knew he was merely disposed of. and it was my fault.”
“it was not your fault,” you turn your head swiftly, looking up at him in disbelief as he scoffs and shakes his head.
“if i hadn’t told him, if i handled it on my own—”
“then what? he would have been fine? you don’t know that, what if he was sold off for something awful? or found out on his own without you? you were a child, and you didn’t know that he’d choose to do that.”
“but i still could have kept quiet,” he chuckles dryly, voice cracking as he adds, “i could have gotten us both out of there. on my own.”
“you shouldn’t have to have done it on your own,” you cup his cheek, bringing him to face you as your forehead presses against his, “you didn’t want to be on your own, did you?”
“no,” he admits, lips trembling, “i didn’t.”
“and that’s okay,” you murmur, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone, “you didn’t deserve to be alone.”
“maybe it was for the better, though,” he sniffles.
“a lot of things are. we can’t hope to predict everything for what would turn out better.”
“he died,” wriothesley chokes, “my brother. he died that night—i…i knew he did. so i ran the next day, when my parents were busy, i snuck off and ran. i didn’t come back until a few years later and i…” his breath catches in his throat, glancing at you for a moment. there’s something fleeting in his eyes. doubt, maybe—perhaps even fear.
you’re not entirely sure, but you press a kiss to his lips, soft and tender, so unlike your usual heated ones. something that’s shared not for the sake of pleasure but for the sake of knowing you’re there—that he has you. you’re both here, together, just the two of you. he can feel your warmth, and you can feel his.
it eases the tension somewhat, making his rigid muscles relax as he pulls you closer.
you pull away first, murmuring a soft, “i don’t care what you did. whatever it is.”
“you say that now,” he chuckles weakly, “but you don’t even know what i did.”
“i don’t care,” you say seriously, “i don’t. whatever you did, it was because you didn’t have a choice.”
“i killed them,” he says against your mouth, such harsh, dark words that don’t belong against your soft, pure lips—he thinks he might have just tainted them. almost like you know his thoughts, you prove you don’t care when you peck his mouth lightly. “i killed them and set the other children free.”
“you were just a kid,” you breathe, “a baby.”
“a teenager,” he huffs a laugh hoarsely, “maybe not that young.”
“a baby to me,” you say firmly, “no one that young should be pushed to such extreme methods.”
“you’re oddly calm about sharing a bed with a murderer. was the sex that good?”
you roll over, laying on top of him, pulling a soft oof from his lips—you know it’s exaggerated. he’s strong and broad under you, capable of taking your weight and then some as his hands find your waist to keep you in place, eyes boring into yours. so bare and so easy for you to look into, to read, to see so plainly for all he is.
he doesn’t even blink—as if he’s offering himself to you, trusting you to see as much as you want, see as much of him as he can show you.
“is that all you see yourself as? a murderer?” you ask seriously.
“of course not,” he denies, breathing softly into your hands as they cradle his face, “but it’s the part of me that matters most. that defines me the most. whether i want it to or not.”
“not to me,” you shake your head, “and not to you either, i can tell.”
“i know why i did it,” he tells you, staring at you so intensely, you feel like maybe he’s seeing you more than you’re seeing him, “i did it for my siblings. because i knew it was the only way to get them out. no one else would do a thing. but when you strip my title as duke from me, whether you put me in the underworld or put me in the overworld, i am a murderer. that won’t change.”
“and?” you raise a brow, “do you regret it? what you did?”
“never,” he says instantly. he means it. “but i’m aware of what i am to others. what they see me as. i’m not naive enough to believe my past will go away.”
“and it shouldn’t,” you shake your head, “i don’t think it should. i don’t think murder is what matters most about you—i think a child raised like livestock, betrayed, and taken advantage of, matters most. a boy who willingly gave up his freedom so his siblings would have theirs is what matters most. a man who served his time and chose to stay so he could make things better for everyone who followed is what matters. death was a kind fate for your parents, wriothesley—i for one, believe there were more fitting fates for them. far crueler ones than a peaceful demise.”
he chuckles at that last part, staring at you in wonder, in slight amusement, in so much awe that you almost feel shy.
“now i’m really questioning if the sex was that good—you’re really rationalizing my crimes, aren’t you?”
“oh, you’re such an asshole, do you know that?” you huff, “i think that’s what defines you best. a complete, utter, shameless assho—oh.”
he kisses you—abruptly so. his lips are pressed hard and firm against you, kissing with so much conviction, so much need, you’d think that you were disintegrating in his arms, that this was his last opportunity to kiss you and commit how you feel to memory.
“you sure it’s not my stamina?” he wiggles his brows, “how about my—”
“i’ll see to it that this is the last time we ever engage in such activities if that’s all you can focus on—”
“okay, okay,” he laughs, pouting as he pulls you down to lay on him, your head tucking under his chin as he kisses the crown of your head, “enough sex jokes. i promise.”
“so crass,” you scold, “have some decorum, will you?”
“my apologies, milady,” he sighs regretfully, voice exaggerated and theatrical as he adds, “i won’t allow myself to forget my manners again. from here on out, i’ll make sure to discuss more…gentlemanly topics for your liking.”
“you’re a real handful,” you sigh, “poor sigewinne. such a sweet little angel to put up with the likes of you.”
“you met her?” he smiles fondly at the mention of her.
“briefly, yes,” you nod, “the poor thing must be tired of your antics.”
“i’m on my best behavior around her!” he insists, “you can ask her.”
“i don’t think she’ll vouch for you, you know.”
“yeah, you’re probably right,” he withers in defeat.
you giggle, kissing his collarbone softly before nuzzling against him as he relaxes. it’s comfortably silent, just your body against his, warmth seeping between the space that hardly separates your bodies, spreading across your skin. you share your heat, and he shares his. it lulls you, slowly but surely, and you can feel it lull him, too as his breath slowly evens out under you.
sleep is just a breath away from clutching you when you mumble, “wriothesley?”
“hmm?” comes his sleepy hum.
“thank you,” you whisper, yawning, “for trusting me. enough to tell me.”
“go to sleep,” he grunts tiredly, “you can be sappy and sentimental in the morning.”
“okay,” you grin tiredly, pressing closer into him, “i’ll hold you to it.”
sleep comes quickly after that—so easy, so natural in his arms, you wonder how you’ve rested all these years without him.
——————————
your routine to meet with wriothesley ebbs and flows between the surface and the fortress. sometimes, he stops by just like before, and sometimes, he sends for guards to fetch you when he’s too busy to make an appearance himself. your meetings more or less end the same—catching your breath together, bare bodies huddled together in a tired mess as you share quiet, whispered words into each other’s skin. it’s a routine that both of you are too used to by now, that even a short gap of not seeing each other makes the both of you impatient for the next time you’ll get to see each other.
on days you can’t afford to see each other, your days at the shop drag by slower when all you can do is think about him. sometimes, the guards will be relieved to come to escort you, woefully expressing the awful mood the duke has been in, shuddering as they recall how unpleasant he is to be around when he’s unhappy. they seem to insist your visits are what help end his supposed awful temperament—your instinct is always to flush and insist they must be mistaken.
but it’s an intimate sort of development—the way the two of you slowly learn to depend on each other for comfort. you on long days at the shop, him after tiresome affairs with the fortress. every delicate touch and every saccharine word you exchange slowly peels away the harsh layers of the week, leaving you raw and bare to each other.
it’s nice. something you’ve grown a bit dependent on, in fact. a part of you would like to be scared, but wriothesley doesn’t let you fear anything—it’s just the kind of guy he is. everything about him feels too safe for you to consider being scared.
you miss him terribly, too. you haven’t gotten a chance to see him in over a week—it’s the first week of spring, the blooming season for a number of flowers. you have shipments from across the continent—cecilias from mondstadt, silk jades from liyue, sakura blossoms from inazuma, and padisarahs from sumeru. there are plenty more—too many for you to list off the top of your head, but those are the ones you’re sure will sell out the quickest.
there’s a certain man who stops by every day, a mop of ginger on his head and an interesting aura about him as he asks you if you’ve received kalpalata lotuses yet—they’re for my sister, he tells you, i bring them home for her every time i visit sumeru. but i won’t have a chance for quite a while.
you learn he’s a harbinger, the eleventh in rank, and hardly one to step foot in his homeland for too long at a time. but he’s due back, he tells you, for a project that won’t allow him to leave for quite some time. mingling with a fatui operative is hardly on your list of possibilities for the week, but you realize even a harbinger can appreciate the beauty of flowers. so you promise him your batch's biggest blooms as soon as they are delivered.
and he’s patient, coming every day in hopes that they’ve been delivered, helping you organize the deliveries you do get, going as far as to join you to loch urania amidst a terrible storm to assist in picking lakelight lilies when you’re low. you appreciate the small companionship you’ve formed with him—childe, as he’s called, he tells you. a code name for his place as a harbinger that you relish in being given the knowledge of.
the day finally comes when the lotuses are delivered, and for all his help and kindness, you try to repay him with a free bouquet.
he declines persistently. “no, no miss,” he chuckles, waving his hands in dismissal as you offer the beautifully bundled flowers, “i couldn’t possibly accept them free of charge.”
“oh, don’t be silly,” you huff, “you’ve done plenty for me. an extra set of hands in the shop is as rare as glaze lilies blooming in midwinter!”
“i was happy to help,” he chirps, “i had a good time occupying myself as i waited to depart fontaine.”
“and archons know when the next time you’ll return is,” you sigh, “which is why you should accept these as a parting gift.”
“a parting gift, huh?” your eyes widen at the familiar voice—wriothesley. it’s been almost two weeks since you’ve heard it, and you beam as you look over at his approaching figure.
“wriothesley!” you hum, “what are you doing here?”
“thought i’d come to pay a visit,” he says gruffly, eyeing childe, who grins tightly at the warden. “i wasn’t banking on seeing an ex-inmate, though. what a shocking surprise.”
“the fortress’s duke in broad daylight,” childe coos, “what a fascinating sight.”
it’s tense—you can feel the atmosphere shift all too quickly as the two men stare each other down.
“i didn’t know childe was a prisoner at the fortress,” you murmur, making the warden scoff as he glares at the harbinger.
“well,” childe shrugs, eyes sharp as they gaze at wriothesley, “i like to consider myself wrongly sentenced. justice isn’t always fair in the courts of fontaine, it seems.”
“ah, is that why you escaped from your sentence early?”
“i believe my escape proved to be quite helpful in saving the people of this nation in the end, didn’t it?” he asks, voice low, almost predatory, as wriothesley grits his jaw, glancing back at you before crossing his arms.
“is the fatui boy giving you trouble?” he asks, making you shake your head frantically as the harbinger lets out a dry chuckle from the side.
“oh, no!” you insist, “no, childe has been quite helpful, i promise. he’s given quite a hand, in fact!”
“is that so?” wriothesley perches a brow, tongue poking his cheek as he glares to the side at the smug ginger.
“oh, absolutely,” childe nods, “you see, i’ve been offering the lovely lady my assistance as i waited on my delivery. we even visited loch urania together to pick lakelight lilies for a bouquet she needed to deliver.”
“he treated me to lunch,” you beam innocently. you might have missed the way wriothesley’s jaw tightens, but childe certainly doesn’t, making his grin spread even wider. “he’s nice, wriothesley, i promise. i hope you both can sort out whatever differences you had during his previous sentence.”
“perhaps next time, you could join us for lunch,” childe drawls, “it’ll be on me.”
“a kind offer,” the duke chuckles dryly, a rueful grin on his tight lips as he adds, “but i’ll have to decline.”
“please, i really insist you take these lotuses,” you hold the bouquet out to the harbinger, and much to wriothesley’s dismay, there’s an evident amount of extra care put into the floral packaging. your careful handwriting in soft, looped letters spelling out his name across the paper, with a heart beside it as though you took time to thoughtfully scribble each letter just for him. “give your sister my best regards.”
“you know his sister?” wriothesley grits.
“oh no,” you chuckle, “but he tells me of her. the flowers are for her!”
“like i said,” childe hums, taking out a heavy pouch of mora and placing it on your counter—both yours and wriothesley’s eyes widen at the sheer amount of mora you’re sure is inside. it’s undoubtedly far more than a small, simple bouquet would cost, but he waves it off like it’s nothing as he says, “i insist on giving you the payment you deserve. you’ve certainly made my last few days here at fontaine interesting. it’s made up for the less than…welcoming treatment from the beginning of my trip.”
wriothesley’s eye all but twitches.
“that’s far too much to accept for a small bunch of kalpalata lotuses, you can’t—”
“consider it a payment in advance for the next time i return to fontaine,” he winks, “i’ll be sure to visit for more of your lovely flowers. i’m sure my mother will appreciate a bouquet too.”
with that, he waves at you, walking off with a grin as you sigh and shake your head fondly, waving him off as you call, “you’re quite the handful, you know. do visit again next time you’re here!”
“oh, i wouldn’t miss the opportunity for anything.”
wriothesley scoffs at the final exchange of words, watching the retreating figure of the harbinger with hardened, distant eyes while you exhale softly and grab the pouch of mora.
“are all harbingers this loaded with mora, do you think?”
“who knows,” he mutters, looking away as he swallows before adding, “i came to visit on my way back to the fortress. i had business with neuvillette.”
“oh,” you hum, smiling as you ask, “is he doing well?”
“fine,” is all wriothesley says.
“that’s good,” you nod, “we haven’t been able to see each other in quite a bit, huh? i’d have visited, but the deliveries all week have kept me busy.”
“good thing you had the harbinger to lend a hand, huh?” he remarks, raising a brow.
“well, yeah, i suppose so,” you frown slightly, watching as he takes a slow, deep breath before fixing his tie. “is everything okay?”
“yeah,” he says instantly. “may i walk you home?”
“of course,” you smile—it doesn’t reach your eyes, and he wishes he could find it in himself to do something to reassure the lingering worry in your irises, but he doesn’t. instead, he quietly waits for you to close the shop, so uncharacteristically silent that you can practically feel the tension in the air tangibly.
the walk to your home is just as silent. wriothesley doesn’t say anything, and you don’t have the confidence to break the silence yourself. you’ve never seen him like this, so bothered and visibly so. you’re not entirely sure what brought it on, either—but you are sure it has something to do with childe.
you finally reach your home after a long walk, quietly standing in front of the door as you turn to him and inspect his face. hard-lined lips, distant eyes, and crossed arms. he doesn’t look like the usual wriothesley you know—the one who grins and gives you a slight bow as he says, we’ve arrived at your lovely home, milady.
“thank you for walking me,” you murmur, looking at him carefully as he nods.
“sure,” he responds flatly, “my pleasure.”
“you didn’t have to trouble yourself if you were tired from your meeting,” you add.
“not tired,” he shakes his head. “it was no trouble to me.”
“are you sure?” you raise a brow, sighing as you cross your own arms, “you don’t seem too happy to be here.”
“what do you mean?” he shrugs lamely, avoiding your question, your gaze. you know that one look into your eyes is all it takes to make him spill, and normally, you don’t take advantage of that, but you think tonight you will.
because you’re tired of dancing around half-truths and coded words you have to decipher. you want one straight, laid-bare conversation with him. so you reach over and tilt his jaw, making him inhale sharply at your touch as you force him to face you and look at you.
“what is up with you? and don’t even think about saying nothing.”
“nothing is up with me,” he mumbles stubbornly.
“wriothesley,” you warn, looking at him unimpressed, “i was not born yesterday.”
“my apologies,” he says sarcastically, a rueful smile curling on those chapped lips of his, “i suppose i’m just a bit shocked i’m not the only customer you offer your affections to. i suppose that was silly of me—it must be good for business.”
“excuse me?” you recoil, staring at him in disbelief. a little hurt, too—he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, flinching slightly at the implications. “how dare you insinuate i’m a common whore?”
“that’s not what i was trying to say at all,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “it came out wrong.”
“then what were you trying to say?” you demand, looking at him expectantly, hands on your hips and a raise of your brows that almost mockingly tells him, i’d love to see you work your way out of this one.
“you never told me you and the fatui boy were so close.”
if there’s one thing wriothesley is good at, it’s shifting things to focus on other people. so he can observe. watch closely. take note of all the little things so he can figure out what he wants to know without asking at all. all without having anything told to him right out. it’s how he works—and you won’t entertain it.
“the fatui boy has a name,” you point out.
“his name is not actually childe,” he snorts—there’s no real amusement in the action, just as sarcastic and sardonic as everything prior. “is that what you believe?”
“if you’re not going to say the problem with your words like an adult, i’m going to go inside,” you spit, “we’re both wasting time here if we’re just going to talk in circles.”
“yes, because i’m the one who’s not admitting things,” he chuckles dryly.
you glare at him—because enough is enough, and you’re sick of taking one step forward just to stumble ten steps back. with one swift move, your hand grips his wrist firmly and yanks, pulling him to stumble into your home as the door slams behind him. you’re tired of having bystanders walk past you and listen to your pointless discussion, and you’re tired of getting nowhere the longer you stand outside. it feels like the more you talk, the less you know. every word he says confuses you more and more.
and that’s the thing about him—he never tells you things, not since that night he first opened up. you thought you broke some newfound trust, a new ground to walk on with him that leads somewhere further than just two people who seek each other out for pleasure. you feel something for him—and you thought he did too, but it’s always something vague or another with him and you’re tired of it. tired of wondering where you stand, what he wants, how he feels. you want to know, and tonight, even if it kills you, you’ll find out.
“what is it you want me to admit wriothesley? huh?” you scowl, “tell me so i can tell you what you need to know so you’ll finally answer my question. i’m tired of the back-and-forth game with you.”
“you don’t need to admit anything to me,” he shrugs, “it’s not my business.”
“you don’t even believe that yourself,” you scoff, “even i can tell that much. is this about childe? you don’t like me mingling with the fatui? he’s just friendly, that’s all. and good business.”
“right,” he nods slowly, disbelievingly. you almost see red—how dare he hint that you’re a liar.
“what do you think i’m doing then?” you challenge, “let’s hear it. fraternizing with the fatui? is that the accusation you’ll pull out?”
“well, if he’s helping you pick flowers and buying you lunch, then you certainly can’t be strangers,” he smiles tightly, “perhaps next time he can join us in our canoodling too if you’d like.”
“so that’s what it is?” you shake your head exasperatedly, “you’re moody because you’re jealous?”
“i’m not jealous,” he narrows his eyes, “i have no reason to be.”
“i’d believe you sooner if you’d said the underwater beast really was the cause of your scars,” you scoff, pursing your lips. “why is it so hard for you to just speak your mind?”
“then let’s start with you,” he retorts, hands throwing up in the air as he takes a step closer and glares daggers at you, “why are you dancing around what your relationship with the harbinger is?”
“there is nothing between me and the harbinger! nothing at all, and i don’t appreciate you assuming things about me. i’ve only been intimate with you!”
“you don’t need to hide it,” he smiles bitterly. finally, as if the conversation has chipped away at his resolve enough that bits and pieces of his inner turmoil can show, you can see the lingering hurt in his gaze. the betrayal. the doubt and fear—all of it pools in his eyes, swimming in the many, many flecks of his eyes as you stare into them. “it’s not as though we’ve committed to anything here.”
“i’m not hiding anything,” you say firmly, “you don’t have to be jealous.”
“i’m not jealous,” he shakes his head. it feels like he’s convincing himself more than you. because more than you, admitting to himself he cares is hard. all of this is hard—you know that. the last time he dared to trust someone, to love someone, he’d lost more than he could fathom. more than he was ever ready to lose.
so you sigh, dropping your shoulders as you let the anger dissipate.
“i wouldn’t blame you if you were jealous,” you say softly, extending the olive branch with a slow, hesitant hand to his cheek. he stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away, “it would kill me, too, to think you were close to another woman. but the harbinger is a customer i’ve become friendly with and nothing more. don’t you believe me?”
he closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath as he hesitantly leans into your palm, letting your thumb brush soothing strokes along the scar under his eye.
“i was jealous,” he admits, quiet. hoarse. strained. it takes every ounce of him to admit as much to you—the progress makes you smile softly. “i…i was so jealous i couldn’t think straight. and i took it out on you. i’m sorry.”
“maybe it’s time we had a discussion,” you say softly, “about…well, us. what it is we’re doing. it’s long overdue.”
“i’ve been avoiding it,” he confesses.
“i know,” you murmur, smiling tightly, “i know you have. that’s why i didn’t bring it up. but we can’t dance around it forever.”
“i’m no good at this,” he opens his eyes, defeated and so lost, you can’t help but lean in and press a soft kiss to his jaw.
“you’re not so bad,” you hum, “give yourself a little more credit.”
“no,” he shakes his head, “you don’t understand. i’ve never been good at this…at trusting people and getting close to them. i don’t even have real friends—i see clorinde and neuvillette every few months, and briefly at that. one of them was the judge at my trial, and the other knows as much about me as the files say. i don’t like talking about my feelings, and i hate sharing things about myself. i’m not jealous of childe because he threatens me—even i know you’d never give a fatui member a chance. but i’m no good for a stroll in the park, or picking flowers, or lunch at a cafe. i live underwater in a large prison that i run, and i rarely come up—at least, not often enough to be a healthy, functioning member of society, that is.”
“so what?” you frown, “i don’t care. nothing is easy at first—isn’t that why we try? who says you have to share all your feelings immediately? we can work up to that slowly. this was sharing, wasn’t it? what you just did? that’s a step in the right direction.”
“and look how much we had to battle for that little bit,” he lets out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh that makes your heart ache, “you’ll grow tired of me.”
“you don’t get to decide that,” you shake your head stubbornly, “i would never grow tired of you. never you.”
“i might be a duke now, but i was a murderer in the past,” he adds, a low and cheap attempt to convince you he’s not worth it. you roll your eyes at the statement.
“i’m aware,” you say blandly, “i don’t care, wriothesley. i don’t. those are all excuses—if you want this, if you really want this like i do, because you care about me just like i care about you and you feel the same way, then you’d realize these are all petty excuses your head is coming up with. i’ll wait for you to be better at communicating if you promise you’ll try. and your past is just a small stain on the cloth that we can ignore.”
“it’s murder,” he says in disbelief.
“i said what i said,” you huff. he blinks once, then twice before letting out a breathy chuckle.
“you’re insane.”
“thank you,” you nod, grinning, “and you being at the fortress is just a small obstacle. we’ll make it work, you and me.”
“how?” he asks, voice small and unsure.
“you act like it’s impossible, you silly thing. i’ll come see you, and you’ll come see me, and we can spend nights together wherever is most convenient for the time. why are you overthinking it?” you ask like it’s obvious. maybe it is—maybe his brain just doesn’t let him see how simple of a solution it really is.
“the fortress is no place for someone who’s used to the surface—”
“enough excuses,” you scold firmly, “i won’t have any of it.”
“you don’t know what you’re getting into,” he shakes his head—you cup his cheeks, pulling his face close as you press soft, delicate kisses along his skin. like he’s fragile. like he needs to be handled with care.
no one has ever handled wriothesley with care. even as a child when he was defenseless. when his parents saw a commodity to raise and sell like livestock instead of a child to love and cherish. when the streets saw a rat with dirty clothes and nimble fingers only good for theft. when he woke up in a hospital bed with cuffs to his hands, wrists shackled, and a caseworker sat a comfortable distance away, even without his gauntlets. when they saw him as nothing more than a murderer on trial as opposed to a child with no other way out. when the world showed him no mercy and left him to fend for himself in a dark, ruthless corner of the nation under the sea with no sun, no grass, no fresh air, and no hope.
no one has thought to treat wriothesley with gentleness, with kindness, with grace—as if he mattered. not until he made himself matter, taking what he wanted through a pen, paper, and meaningless title.
no one until you.
“i know exactly what i’m getting into,” you whisper, “you know what i see? when i look at you?”
“what? big muscles?” he teases, voice weak. a last, feeble attempt at keeping himself guarded. it’s useless, and he knows it as well as you do. he’s already far more vulnerable than he’s comfortable with.
“a good man,” you say firmly, “a good man who is worth the effort. one who has a good heart and no one to share it with. someone who knows when change needs to happen and makes it happen. someone who knows a thing or two about second chances. who shows people mercy if they’re willing to be better—because that’s all he wants. for things to be better.”
“you’re giving me a lot more credit than i deserve, sweetheart,” he says shakily, trying to give you his usual smirk. his lips wobble, much to his dismay—you kiss them to help him hide the tremor like the angel you are.
he’s not sure why the archons, celestia, or whoever is in charge of fate would send him such a perfect, pure angel in his arms. but they did. he’s certainly not one to miscount his blessings—they’ve been few and far between as is.
“no,” you murmur, whispering between kisses, “i’m not. i’m giving you as much credit as you deserve. because no one has ever told you these things about you, and it’s time someone did.”
“doing the dirty work, huh?”
“i wish you’d stop with that,” you smile at him sadly, “i wish you would treat yourself with the same kindness you treat everyone else with. that you treat me with.”
“you’re an angel,” he murmurs, pecking your cheek, “that’s the difference.”
“you can’t be that bad if that’s the case,” you grin cheekily, “what kind of angel picks such an awful guy?”
“one who thinks the fatui harbingers make good friends,” he snorts, “one who’s a little on the naive side.”
“i like to think of it as seeing good in people,” you wink.
he laughs, arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he kisses you. and kisses you. and kisses you—and kisses you some more until you’re forced to pull away and breathe. even then, he’s not satisfied, lips finding the sensitive skin along your collarbones, traveling up along your neck and finding your jaw, peppering soft presses of his lips until they hover over your mouth again.
“you good?” he asks smugly, “need a minute to catch your breath?”
“you’re such a pain,” you huff, pressing against his mouth and closing the gap as he hums against you.
“what were you just saying about me just a few moments ago? something about a good man?”
“come here,” you sigh exasperatedly—and then you’re tugging him into your bedroom, stumbling and giggling as you both impatiently find the bed. you fall back, the mattress catching you along with him as he hovers over you and doesn’t waste a moment to nip at your neck.
“next time you need help with flowers in a dangerous, stormy place, you ask me,” he says lowly, breath fanning over your skin and making you shiver, “you don’t need the fatui boy.”
“okay,” you laugh, breathless as your eyes flutter shut when he nibbles on the sensitive spot over your pulse point, “you might have to temporarily drop your duties as a duke for that, though.”
“consider it done.” his hands tug your blouse over your head, doing quick work to toss it somewhere on the floor as he grins at the lacey red bra you have on underneath. “this is new,” he comments, “i like this.”
“of course you do,” you grin in amusement, “so predictable.”
“hey,” he pouts, “i’m an easy guy to please. just need you, maybe a few accessories…i don’t ask for much.”
“well,” you look at him in anticipation, “are you going to stare all day? or are you going to take it off?”
his eyes darken—hazed with lust and desperation as he quickly works the bra off of you and tosses it off to the side, too, but not before he stares at the label quickly. “chioriya boutique,” he reads, nodding, “remind me to give her my thanks. and business, too, in the future.”
“shameless,” you scoff, shaking your head.
“grateful,” he corrects, grinning cheekily at you. you don’t even get a chance to retort before his lips are around your nipple, teeth lightly grazing the pebbled nub as he sucks, making you gasp as your hands find his head, cupping the back of it as your own head throws back against the pillows.
“wri—”
“you know what i see when i see you?” he hums, pulling away from one nipple and latching onto the other, tongue rolling over it slowly as his thumb finds the other, not to leave it neglected, “i see the woman i would defy the gods themselves to possess. who i would commit far worse crimes for, and serve time all over again for. one who commands my every thought. do you know how many times i’ve neglected my duties just thinking about you alone? when i see you, i see the one thing that’s finally mine—mine alone.”
you whimper as his lips reattach themselves to your breast, sucking and grazing his tongue around one nipple and pinching and toying with the other with his hand. your hands tug at his hair, pulling a soft groan from his throat as he pulls away and stares at you. you’re a panting, heaving mess already—he grins in satisfaction.
“pretty,” he hums, nuzzling his nose against your throat, right where your pulse is erratic, “so, so pretty.”
“all this flattery, and you’ve yet to do something,” you rasp, just to rile him up as he lets out a deep, gruff sound of disapproval, eyeing you with a raised brow.
“oh, you want me to do something, is that it? i thought we’d take our time,” he grazes his finger along your waist, tracing the edge of your skirt before looping his finger under it, tugging slowly, “but if you insist, i guess we can pick up the pace.”
he pulls the skirt down your legs, eyes widening as he takes in the matching red laced panties from the bra earlier—you grin cheekily as he does. “like this one too?”
“oh,” he chuckles, breathless, “sweetheart, you have no idea.” wriothesley is a giver—you’re reminded of this fact as soon as his head buries between your thighs enthusiastically, kissing your clit through the lace as your breath hitches. “did you pick this little set up just for me?”
“don’t be silly,” you tease, “i obviously got this for myself. consider yourself a lucky witness.”
“and a lucky witness i am indeed,” he nods, humming as he slowly, carefully inches the lace down your legs, admiring the way it contrasts against your sweet, supple skin. “i owe chioriya boutique my life. i’ll even give my thanks to madame chiori myself.”
“please do not,” you say in horror, making him chuckle, “that would be utterly undignified.”
he’s not even listening, you realize. his lips attach to your clit as soon as the fabric is discarded somewhere to the side like the rest, a soft groan rumbling from his chest as soon as he tastes you, spreading your legs for better access as he glides his tongue to your folds, pressing between your folds and looking up to watch as your head throws back with a soft gasp.
“wriothesley,” you gasp, pulling his hair in a tight grip to ground yourself.
you’re the most gentle with him when you handle him—but you’re also the roughest. the way you grasp him so harshly, mercilessly in your grip, makes his eyes flutter shut in a sick, twisted sort of masochism. he loves the pain, the dull throb in his skull from your pleasure.
“yeah, i’m right here, sweetheart,” he chuckles lowly, “feels good?”
“yes,” you whine, “s’good—so good.”
“i know,” he hums, pressing soft kisses to your clit, along your inner thigh, until he’s back to your folds, hovering over them as he whispers, “i can tell just from the way you’re dripping. isn’t that cute?”
you whine in embarrassment, closing your legs around him as he grins against your cunt, grinding down on his mouth until he’s back to devouring you, tongue slipping deep into you as far as he can, exploring your tight, wet hole with fervor.
“close,” you whisper, voice bordering on broken, “i’m s-so close—oh, wriothesley!”
you come undone on his tongue with one more roll of his tongue over your clit, shaking as he sloppily eats you out through your high until your whole body is a shaking, quivering mess along with your walls.
“got anything else from that boutique you want to show me?” he murmurs, moving back up to hover over you, burying his face into your neck as your arms snake around his shoulders, rubbing into his back.
“maybe,” you say vaguely, grinning, “it’s a secret. maybe if you behave, you’ll find out.”
“yeah?” he chuckles, “consider me on my best behavior, milady.”
“then take this off,” you tug at his shirt, pouting as you add, “not fair that i’m the only one undressed.”
“as you wish,” he agrees. you watch as he strips—it’s not embarrassing like the first time or two when you looked away with a hot face and ears. now it’s intimate, watching him bear his soul to you, with every scar and imperfection, every flaw and tainted part.
his cock is hard, standing between his legs as it throbs, a bead of pre cum coating the tip. your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close again as you feel his hardened length poke at your thigh, making you press against it and pull a groan out of him.
“i want you,” you whisper, “i’ve never wanted anyone else. not like this. not like you. i don’t think i ever will.”
“you can’t have met too many people then,” he teases.
“oh, i meet plenty of people. romantic ones at that—flowers are a love language, you know.”
“and you still want me? they must all be taken.”
“they’re not you,” you correct, pulling him into a sweet, slow kiss, taking your time to mold your lips against him and feel him against you, “nothing close to you. no one comes close.”
the bees should come to your lips for nectar, he thinks. flowers bloom from your mouth, delicate and sweet petals that light up his world and color him every shade of love.
“in that case,” he whispers, pulling away from your mouth to press a soft kiss to your nose, “i’m the luckiest man in fontaine. maybe teyvat.”
“i would agree,” you wink cheekily, “aren’t i such a lucky catch?”
“oh absolutely,” he laughs, amused, fond, so deeply enamored. then his lips are back on yours, and his hips are angled so that his cock teases your folds, grazing the entrance of your cunt as he coats his tip with your dripping slick.
you both shudder at the feeling, gasping against each other’s mouths as you exchange hot, labored breaths.
“i want you,” you repeat, “please.”
“you have me,” he whispers, letting out a soft moan as he pushes the tip past your entrance, “as long as you want.”
“that’ll be forever,” you say breathlessly, “think you can handle that long?”
“i’m sure i’ll manage.”
finally, he pushes all the way through, buried to the hilt and stretching you apart until he splits you open on his cock. he presses so deep into you, you can feel him nudge against that sweet, spongy spot without even trying. it’s like he was made for you—like the laws of this land declared him yours from birth and made him fit you in every way possible. the slot of his fingers with yours, the mold of his lips against you, the press of his cock into your cunt. all of it fits you so well, you wonder if you’ve lived your life just to find wriothesley.
you both moan into each other’s mouths, strangled sounds that you swallow from each other’s mouths as your lips sloppily press into each other.
“wr-wrio—fuck,” you stammer, nails raking along his back as he rolls his hips, slamming into your deepest, most rawest parts.
“yeah, baby,” he pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, “m’right here, sweetheart.”
you sob when a rough, callused thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves perfectly in tune with the harsh thrusts that fill you so deep. deep—he’s so far into you, you wonder if you can feel him in your throat, in your lungs, and in your heart, knocking the air out of you as you breathlessly try to call his name.
“faster,” you plead, clinging to him, “more—please, need more.”
“think you can take it?” he chuckles, cutting himself off with a strangled grunt when you squeeze around him particularly tightly, “i think you’re falling apart as is.”
“more,” you whine, back arching as your hips desperately buck up to meet his in tandem, trying to feel him closer, deeper, harder.
“if that’s what you want,” he hums—you want to scoff at him, but you’re too delirious. you’d tease him for acting like he doesn’t want the same, like the ache of his cock doesn’t crave more friction, doesn’t want to slam into you with little to no self-control outside of chasing his pleasure. you feel so good around him—so good, his head falls to your shoulder as he pants harshly into your ear, murmuring stammered praises. “s-so good, sweetheart. you always take me so good, like the pretty thing you are. how in teyvat did i score the affections of fontaine’s most radiant lady? o-only the gods could know.”
“why don’t you ask them,” you breathe, head pressing against the pillow as your back arches and your toes curl when he slams his swollen tip against your sweet spot once more, hips rolling in perfect precision, “ask them how you got so blessed.”
“maybe i’ll ask the divinity right before me,” he hums smoothly, chuckling when you mewl as his thumb rubs faster into your clit, “how did i get so lucky?”
“because i need you,” you whine, “n-need you—only you.”
“what a sweet answer,” he groans, pumping his cock into you faster, feeling the familiar twitch indicating he’s close—and you are too. he can tell from the erratic squeeze of your walls. “always spoiling me, right sweetheart?”
“wriothesley,” you cry, “i-i’m close. m’so close, please. please.”
“no need to say please, baby,” he grunts, “you can have whatever you want. when you want it, yeah?”
and just like that, you break—his thumb is still rubbing those harsh circles into you swollen clit as you cum, clenching down on him through your high as your mouth parts and your head presses deeper into the pillow. he’s fucking into you, still slamming his hips into you as mercilessly as before, riding you through your orgasm as you chant his name.
“wri—wriothesley,” you sob.
“yeah, sweetheart? what is it?” he teases—it doesn’t last long, though. his bravado falls apart as soon as the first twitch of his cock indicates his own orgasm. you feel the hot, sticky, endless ropes of cum fill you up, coating your walls as he stiffens over you and shudders, groaning lowly as he empties himself into your sweet cunt. “f-fuck, you feel so good—you’re the only one. the. only. one.”
his hips thrust into you to punctuate the words, cock pushing his release deeper into you, messy and leaking down your thighs and forming a ring at the base of his length. it’s so filthy you almost think it’s a sin. but how could it be when it feels so right, so good?
finally, he slumps over your body, spent and panting as he finishes. you catch your breath under him, labored breath one after the other as your sweaty skin clings against his own.
“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs after some time, kissing the damp skin of your neck.
“i know,” you whisper cheekily, making him chuckle as he rolls over, pulling you into his chest.
“so humble,” he snorts.
“of course,” you beam, “but feel free to leave more compliments.”
“oh don’t worry, i won’t run out any time soon.”
it’s quiet for a bit, apart from your giggles and his low chuckles. soft, peaceful, and so painfully comforting, you wonder if heaven itself wishes for a place beside wriothesley.
“when you first came up to the surface after your sentence,” you mumble after a few moments of quietness, tracing small loops into his chest as he silently hums for you to continue, “what was the first thing you did?”
“i got a croissant,” he answers thoughtfully, thumb rubbing circles into your hip where his hand is comfortably rested.
you blink, tilting your head to look up at him. his lips curve into a knowing grin.
“pardon?”
he laughs—it’s a beautiful thing. like a boy, eyes crinkled and lips freely curved so wide, you’d think his cheeks were endless with the way they expand to accommodate for such a large stretch. it’s the one time he doesn’t seem like the rugged man you usually know. something younger, more innocent, more raw comes out when wriothesley laughs.
“they go well with tea,” he shrugs, looking down at you, quickly stealing a peck of your nose, “and…” his voice is softer as he trails off, smile faltering.
“and?” you press delicately. so delicately, you’d think you were speaking to a house of cards, one word that’s breathed too harshly away from toppling over.
“and i wanted to visit a bakery i went to as a kid,” he murmurs quietly, voice dropping to a whisper as if he’s admitting something he’s never told anyone. something tells you he just might be. “there was an old lady who used to feed me sometimes when i was a kid on the streets. after i ran away. she’d give me a chocolate croissant and warm tea. i thought…i thought maybe there was a chance she’d still …”
he swallows, cutting his words off just before his voice has the chance to break. it’s a measured gesture. you know it is because you know him. just like you know the feelings of petals and thorns with your eyes closed, you know wriothesley. just like you can tell flowers apart from scent alone, you have him memorized. just like you know what every petal and its origin means, you understand him like it’s your job, too.
except you get paid to do this with something better than mora. with open-mouthed kisses and lingering touches. with coffee in a mug to complement the tea next to it. with strong arms to shield you when rain pours hard over your unsuspecting heads. with a gentle voice that learns to whisper back the language you speak better than anything else.
it says you’re the one i need the most, like rainbow roses. i miss you so much, i ache for you, like mourning flowers. i’d shed blood for you to live, like dendrobiums. you’re what i desire more than anything else, like romaritimes. each word is carefully formed, fragile as it hangs from a singular point. like petals on a stem, his words blossom from the tip of his tongue, falling one by one to your awaiting hands as your thumb traces his lips.
they all tell you one thing—whether he says the words out loud or not, he tells you he loves you through the things he does say. every little promise, every compliment, every form of praise. they say one thing—i love you.
you have always felt loved around wriothesley. you know he loves you, even if you question it sometimes, even if you ache to hear it, you’re always reminded he does when those eyes soften as they look at you, training on you like they never want to look away.
he loves you. he loves you not. he loves you. he loves you not. he loves you.
he loves you.
he loves you.
he loves you.
it always ends with he loves you.
“was she?” you whisper, finger tracing up his chest, along his neck and jaw until it cups his cheek tenderly. he shivers at the touch. “was she still there?”
gentleness isn’t something wriothesley is very familiar with. it raids his skin, takes over the territory that’s only known harshness, and conquers the scarred patches that are barren and empty from all the pain and desolation.
“no,” his voice is barely audible. “her son owns it now. the croissants still taste the same, though.”
“some things never change, i suppose,” you smile softly, leaning closer as your nose presses against his, “even when everything else does. it’s not so bad if you hold onto what you can.”
“and what if you have nothing?” he challenges, closing his eyes when you kiss his jaw sweetly and slowly inhaling a soft breath.
“i’m sure that’s never true,” you murmur, “there’s always something.”
“yeah? how optimistic of you,” he chuckles.
“i’m serious,” you pout, “there’s always a way to make do. look at cacti. they go ages without water, don’t they? and did you know naku weeds can survive being struck by lightning?”
“do you just compare everything to plants?” he asks in amusement, eyeing you with a charmed glint.
“of course,” you huff, “don’t you compare things to what you love most?”
he looks at you for a moment. really looks at you. grazes his eyes over your supple skin he’s traced so many times, over the small crinkles by your eyes permanently etched from smiling so often, over the curve of your nose and lips he’s pressed his own against, over the two eyes that stare back at him and see him more than they do look.
and then he nods.
“yeah,” he admits, “i do.”
your lips are as sweet as the warm chocolate that coated his lips and chin as a child. your touch is as soft as the hands of his mother when he thought he could trust her. your eyes are as bright as the sun when he first saw it after years of dark, rusted walls. everything about you reminds him of his past, the better parts and the worst. all of it.
some of it is healing, and some of it hurts so raw he thinks he’ll bleed out. but your hands are dipped in gold, he thinks. they’d make the most infertile soil rich and filled with life, letting him blossom new again right where his blood spilled.
he’s reminded of you in everything he sees. tea reminds him of your coffee with too much milk. paperwork reminds him of how distressed you are by wasted pages and killed trees. his gauntlets remind him of your hands so small in comparison. he’s doomed, he thinks. cursed, even.
cursed to always remember you in everything.
so, of course, he compares everything to what he loves most. because why else would you reside in his mind so endlessly, taking up the space from one end all the way to the other? why else would you remind him of you in even the mundane of things if he didn’t love you so deeply, so purely, so easily, that you’re everywhere all at once, even when you’re nowhere in sight?
he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply before letting out a slow, shaky breath.
“i lied,” he admits, making you frown.
“about?”
“about the first thing i did when i got to the surface,” he says quietly. “i went to my parents' graves.”
“to visit them?” you raise a confused eyebrow.
“no. to make sure they were really dead.”
“oh,” is all you say, staring into his eyes as he waits for you to say something more. “well, were they dead?”
“yes,” he snorts, closing his eyes and huffing out a small laugh. “very much so.”
“well, that’s a relief,” you giggle, “otherwise, you’d have served a sentence for murder for nothing.”
“good thing i didn’t, huh?”
“good thing you didn’t,” you nod, grinning as he stares at you softly.
“i’ll take you one of these days,” he hums quietly after a moment. you look surprised, eyes widening as you process the words.
“to your parents' grave?”
“to the bakery,” he rolls his eyes, letting out a breathy laugh. “i don’t think my dead mother would appreciate me bringing back a woman after i killed her.”
“oh, very funny,” you scowl, glaring at him.
“you think so?” he winks, laughing when you gently shove his face away, making his hand grab at your wrist and bite gently into the skin.
you squeal, giggling as he nibbles into your skin. “stop that, you brute!” you demand in between laughs.
it’s quiet for a moment as the laughter settles down, just you and him. him and you. silence echoing off the walls and warmth radiating between your bodies, the sheets clinging to your bare skin. you can feel his bare hip brush against yours. it’s intimate—far more intimate than either of you are used to, but not unwelcome.
he turns, pulling you into his arms and pressing your foreheads together. you think that’s his favorite position to be in—when your faces are so close, they touch. when his eyes can bore into yours. when he can feel the warmth of you tickling his skin as you breathe, as you talk, as you exist before him.
“you’ll like the croissants,” he adds quietly, thoughtfully, “the blackberry ones are particularly nice with the lemon and mint tea—”
you cut him off. before you can think. the words fly past your lips, swept with the breeze like dandelion seeds, and carried through the room as they find shelter in every little crevice. they’ll be here, in every corner, in every little place, a memento of your first real confession.
“i love you.”
he pauses as you cut him off, blinking as he stares at you. something flashes in his eyes—fear, excitement, a small bit of shock and doubt that makes your heartache. you can read him like a book.
it’s not doubt because he thinks you lie. it’s doubt because he thinks it shouldn’t be him. you know that, and you’re prepared to patiently prove him he’s wrong. little by little. day by day. one kiss at a time.
“that’s really enthusiastic,” he shoots you a teasing grin, too easy and too practiced for your liking, “if i knew you liked croissants that much—”
“no, wriothesley,” you say gently, like your words could rock the boat and topple you both into a dangerous, unforgiving current any moment. “i love you. i love when you tell me things you don’t like sharing, and i love when you show me things that are hard to revisit. i love you. because you try, and you’re good at trying. and that’s enough.”
“getting sentimental on me?” he asks hoarsely, smiling tightly.
your hand cups his cheek again, pulling him in so you can kiss the corner of his mouth as you whisper, “yes.” your lips find the other side of his mouth, still at the corner as you whisper again. “because you deserve to hear nice things. even the cheesy ones.”
his eyes close. one moment turns to two, and you let him take his time. let him swallow as he takes a shallow breath before he opens them again and looks at you.
he’s laid bare before you. in more ways than one. being nude is easier than being seen—he trusts you enough to let himself be both.
“you deserve to hear nice things, too,” he admits. it’s not the same as admitting he loves you too, but it’s as close as he can get—still difficult enough that his voice breaks. like it’s hard for him to confess something like this.
it is.
it’s hard for him to tell someone he loves them. the last time he did, he felt the sucker punch of betrayal in his guts, so young that he hardly understood what it meant to be betrayed at all. he watched the same eyes he used to think were his saviors die out as blood spilled in the living room, where his tiny feet padded across as he ran around and played. he misses them sometimes, even now.
his mother’s beautiful green eyes that greeted him in the mornings as she kissed him awake, warm and gentle on his forehead. his father’s deep blue ones that would look at him proudly as he grew and grew, clasping his shoulder with that firmly affectionate grip.
sometimes, he misses them, misses what he thought he had. other times, he’s glad he did it. sometimes, in the dead of night, when it’s just him, he mourns the old him. the one that didn’t have blood on his hands, the him that didn’t have to take two lives to set so many free. the version of him that was allowed to be a boy who existed freely, no taxes to pay for the love he so desperately wanted.
love is wicked like that—it creeps up on you, takes pieces of you, and changes you until you can hardly recognize yourself. until you can hardly recognize everyone around you. how long has it been since he’s seen his siblings? can he even still call them that? do they remember him? would he even recognize them?
he still loves them in his own way. his precious little sisters camille and lucie, and his sweet baby his brothers alexandre and nicolas—he came back and set them free just before it was their time. he didn’t want to leave them, but he had no choice. there were ones who left before him, a time that he can hardly remember anymore. a time before him and antoine. but he recalls them being so delicate with him just as older siblings should be. did they make it out of whatever fate they were sealed to? were they disposed of with no witnesses to bring their demises to justice? he doesn’t know. it’s easier not to know.
it’s easier not to love at all than to open up the risk of hurting. every person he’s ever loved has caused him pain. even the innocent siblings who did nothing wrong—all he’s ever known is pain. the pain of not having them around anymore. the pain of their quiet demise. the pain of setting them free and letting them go. the pain of never having them to himself like a proper family.
loving is so hard for him, so hard on him. so unforgiving to him. so cruel and harsh to him that he hides away behind guarded fists and loaded punches. and you know it, too—he knows you do because you reward his confession with the softest kiss you’ve ever given him as soon as he spills the words.
“i love you,” you murmur the sweet words into his mouth between warm kisses, “i love you. i love you.”
“say it again,” he pleads. it’s easier to let you love him than it is to love you—you don’t mind letting him be a little selfish. he deserves it, in fact.
“i love you. more than anything i’ve ever loved.”
“promise me,” he begs.
“i promise,” you say firmly. “and you don’t have to say it back, not yet. but i want you to know it because you should know you’re loved.”
all at once, the vines wrapped around his chest release, one petal blooming across his heart and arteries at a time until the nectar is running through his veins.
it’s warm. it’s sunny. it’s soft. it’s so, so safe. it doesn’t hurt. it never does with you. you never let it.
“i love you too,” he croaks. he shivers as he says it before he’s grinning slowly, chuckling in wonder as he lets the words sink in before he repeats again, “i love you.”
“yeah?” you beam, eyes crinkling as joy tucks itself into the crevices.
he nods. “yes. and your weird nature lectures.”
you pout, making him laugh. “hey—”
“and your annoyingly aromatic house with petals everywhere—”
“they’re not everywhere—”
“and that ugly dog watering can of yours—”
“it kind of reminds me of you, so—”
“i love them all, and i want them for the rest of my life. i hope you take it easy on the snapdragons, though. i think i’m allergic.”
“such a romantic at heart,” you grumble, rolling your eyes. but they’re glassy, swelling with unshed, precious little tears.
he kisses your eyelids as you close your eyes, murmuring, “i’m doing my best here. cut me some slack, i’ve never dated someone before.”
“oh, wriothesley,” you sniffle, tears coating your sun-soaked skin. and despite the evidence of tears, he’s never seen joy on your face like this before—so clear and radiant. “who taught you about romance? you’re hopeless.”
“hopelessly in love with you,” he shoots back smugly, wiggling his brows.
“i’m doomed,” you snort, letting out a watery chuckle.
“yeah,” he says cheekily, “you are. i hope you’re prepared.”
you kiss him in reply. he kisses you, too. you kiss each other. flowers bloom everywhere your lips touch—wriothesley swallows every petal gratefully.
you love him. you love him not. you love him. you love him not. you love him. you love him not.
you love him.
you love him.
you love him.
it always ends with you love him.
and he loves you, too. you both love each other. the words bounce from both of your tongues like you take turns tasting them, feeling them, familiarizing yourselves with them.
it doesn’t matter who whispers the words first or who murmurs them last. no matter who breaks the silence, it always ends with i love you.
ITS FINISHED. WOW. i never thought a flower shop drabble was going to turn into this—i actually had a completely different flower shop au idea that was going to be a long fic but i just wanted to write a tiny practice round drabble to get the itch out my system before i had time to sit down for the full fic. well as you can see…the practice run kind of took a mind of its own so now we have this. LOL. i think perhaps i will also write the other idea but we will see!!! this one kind of replaced the other one in my heart as flower shop wrio lore lol 🥸
ANYWAY!!! i hope you all enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it. idk if wrio was ooc or not or if i did his past and trauma justice but i certainly tried!! all the things about his past with the siblings and his mother's diary and the croissant at the bakery are all headcanons i carefully crafted and hold so so so dear. they are my truth!!! and they make me fall in love with him so much more deeply :( anyway! if you liked it then as always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. now if you’ll excuse me, i will be doodling his name in pink glitter pen with hearts in my diary and giggling.
#writing tag#wriothesley x reader#wriothesley x you#wriothesley smut#genshin x reader#genshin x you#genshin smut#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact x you#genshin impact smut
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I come with wolfstar comfort thoughts <3
When you're sick remus is wonderful, he hates seeing you ill so he does everything he can to help: makes you tea, maybe some soup, gets you some meds and puts you on the sofa with a blanket and a pillow (sirius's chest)
Sirius on the other hand is less sure of what to do but he still wants to help so he let's remus tell him what to do, he's in charge of physical stuff like carrying you to the sofa (even if you're perfectly capable of walking) and being your human pillow while remus is busy in the kitchen, he's also tasked with moral support which mainly consists of stupid jokes and funny stories (he has many of james being a total drama queen when he got ill in the dorms)
I hope you feel better soon <3
-💫anon
poor Siri - I had a vision for this and now that it's written, I'm not sure I quite hit the mark, but let me know what you think! and thanks for your request <3
poly!wolfstar x sick!reader who they plan to nurse back to health
CW: fem!reader, cold/flu symptoms, brief passing mention of Sirius' childhood (no details), fluff
Sirius closed the door behind him and tossed his keys haphazardly into the dish that Remus insisted they go in, causing a loud clanging which echoed through the hallway.
He realised only then how quiet the flat was in comparison which was rather unusual for this time of day as you and Remus always managed to beat Sirius home.
Sirius felt some tension ease from his face (and body and soul) when he saw a familiar head of tawny curls over the back of the couch.
His plans for a surprise upside-down Spiderman style kiss - to what he had assumed was a sleeping Moony having fallen asleep reading a book - was foiled when Sirius came around the top of the couch to see you - looking particularly pathetic - curled up and resting your head in Remus’ lap fast asleep.
“Wha-?” Sirius asked dumbly, looking between Remus’ sad smile and your sleeping form - you seemed flushed and were breathing with your mouth open, likely because you couldn’t breathe from your nose.
“Hey Pads.” Remus offered quietly.
“What happened?”
Remus grimaced as he looked down at you and brushed some of your hair away from your face; you didn’t even stir. “I don’t think she ever made it to work today; I got home and found her on the couch.”
And Sirius could see that this was likely true, based on the vast amount of evidence that you’d been living on the sofa.
You’d tried to contain your used tissues to a paper bag but there were a few stragglers from where you no doubt lacked the strength to put much effort into aiming anymore. A half empty waterbottle and a bowl of soup with a layer of film on the top sat dejectedly on the coffee table along with a packet of Benilyn with a few missing tablets.
“Poor babydoll.” Sirius cooed as he rubbed Remus’ shoulder.
Remus turned to press a kiss to Sirius’ hand before gently lifting your head in order to stand.
“We’ll nurse her back to health in no time.”
Sirius felt his eyebrows furrowed as he watched Remus gently lower your head onto a throw pillow; still never managing to rouse you from your sleep.
“How do we do that?” Sirius asked.
Remus hummed as he made for the kitchen and Sirius followed him much like a lost puppy. “Well she needs lots of rest, and we should try to get her to eat before we give her anything to bring down her fever; she hardly ate any of the soup she made earlier. Maybe some Chamomile too. But I want to start by bringing her fever down.” He said with finality as he started puttering in the kitchen.
“What should I do?” Sirius asked like a child helping their parents in the kitchen; he felt worse than useless, he felt like he was in the way.
This is what happens when you don’t have a loving family; you don’t always know how to love - the verb to love, the action of loving someone.
Sirius feels love, he knows that much. He just doesn’t always know what to do with all of that love.
Luckily for him, he had two of the loveliest partners in the world to help him on that end.
Remus turned to smile softly at Sirius before leaning down to peck a kiss to his head. “Go change into some comfies and I’ll put you to work.”
And well, Sirius didn’t need to be told twice.
Officially donned in his favourite pair of sweats and a long sleeve band tee, Sirius returned to find Remus knelt in front of you on the couch as he whispered.
“I know, Dovey.” Sirius could hear Remus coo quietly as he approached. “Think you can try for me, though?”
You made a sound halfway between a groan and a sob as you pulled yourself into a seated position and accepted a cup of tea from Remus.
“Too much honey.” You protested meekly without even taking a sip; Sirius was sure he could smell the honey from where he was standing.
“It’ll help your throat, love.”
You groaned again but took a dutiful sip which earned you a beaming smile from Remus.
“I feel horrid.” You croaked, and Remus - god love him - managed to not grimace at the sound; Sirius was thankful he was stationed behind the sofa where you couldn’t see him, because he was not as gracious as your other boyfriend.
“I bet. When did you last take these?” Remus asked as he motioned towards the medication.
“It was early, I think around eleven.”
Remus hummed in acknowledgement as he stood from his crouched position. “You should be okay to have more once you’ve got something in your stomach, then. I’ll make soup, okay? Here Pads.” He pointed towards Remus’ now vacated spot on the couch.
Sirius offered you a sad smile as you turned to look at him. “When did you get home?” You queried.
Remus scoffed in response. “I’m surprised he didn’t wake you, sweet girl, the way he comes in and throws his shit everywhere.”
Sirius scoffed in faux offence. “I am very graceful, thank you very much.”
Whoever said laughter was the best medicine was a sodding liar, because though Sirius got what he had sort of wanted (which was to see you smile), your chuckle quickly turned into a coughing fit.
“Alright, that’s it.” Remus chided jokingly. “Sirius, lay here please.”
Sirius dutifully followed Remus’ direction and laid back on the sofa with his head resting on the arm and his legs spread, welcoming you into his arms as Remus encouraged you to lay back down with your head resting on Sirius’ stomach.
“Neither of you are to move until Y/N is better.” Remus ordered with severity no one truly believed.
“I hope she never gets better then.” Sirius harrumphed as he burrowed further into the sofa beneath him and rubbed loving strokes up and down your back as you wormed your hands around Sirius’ middle.
“That’s mean.” You pouted.
“I was just saying that to our tyrant, dolly; you get better but pretend you’re not so we can trick him into letting us stay like this forever, deal?”
“Deal.” You agreed with a sniffling sigh, causing Sirius to tsk in sympathy.
“My poor sweet girl, so poorly. S’breaking my heart.”
Sirius could feel the heat radiating from your forehead as you hid your face in his stomach.
“I feel a bit better now.” You barely got out without coughing.
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, babygirl.” Sirius said with a sad chuckle.
“It’s true.” You insisted sleepily, turning your head again so that your cheek was pressed against Sirius as you looked up somewhat dopily at him. “It’s always better when you guys are here.”
And you were likely a little loopy from your fever, feeling more than vulnerable in your current state, and sufficiently doted upon by both Remus and Sirius; but Sirius couldn’t help but admit you were certainly onto something.
Sirius always felt better when the two of you were around too.
#marauders era#marauders au#marauders fanfiction#reader insert#self insert#sirius black#remus lupin#sick fic#wolfstar#wolfstar x reader#wolfstar x you#poly!wolfstar#poly!wolfstar x reader#poly!wolfstar x you#sirius black x reader#sirius black x you#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin x you#sirius black x remus lupin#fem!reader#wolfstar hurt/comfort#poly!wolfstar fluff#poly!wolfstar imagine#poly!wolfstar blurb#ellecdc fics
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For Better or For Worse
Tags : Dark content, Baby trapping, Fluff, Angst, Delving into Gojo's childhood, Yan!tendency, Gojo x Reader, Captivity, Lovesick Gojo
A/N : Couldn't hold back my laughter while writing this (P.S. it was the evil kind)
WC : 3k
____________________________________________________
Satoru is nothing like his father.
Why? Well to start it off with, Satoru's love story isn't quite as renowned as his parents love story. The head of the Gojo clan falling in love with a woman from it's smaller branch, a forbidden love story made possible. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? It's not. Behind the rose-tinted background and the dreamy sighs of onlookers, lies the dark obsession of it all.
Satoru knows that his mother was in love with someone else, Satoru knows that his father didn't care, didn't bother himself with the fact that she was already engaged to another man, already promised to the love of her life. What he did bother with was the dissolution of her engagement, forcing himself on her to bind her freedom, her branch and herself to him. No one cared, her family didn't to say the least, everyone was so delighted to have formed a bond with the main branch of the Gojo clan, to the head of the branch that all regards for her flew out the window.
With the birth of Gojo Satoru soon after, her fate was sealed. What marriage couldn't do, a child did. Her dreams of escaping all but gone, afterall no mother could ever leave her child in the very place that plagued her nightmares and selfishly run off. Besides, running off with Satoru would make her a target of all the 3 great clans- some only interested in snuffing out the heir and holder of the Gojo clan's innate technique whereas running off without him would eat her inside out.
Forget the fact that she was a mother and bearer of Gojo Satoru himself, her husband would've never let her run off. The ring on her finger was but a leash to tie her down and Satoru was but another means for it, lucky him. Lady luck only seemed to favor the most twisted of minds. It started out small, really. So small that it was barely noticeable and by the time anyone realized, it was already too late.
Forcefully cutting off all contacts with her family was as easy as snapping a branch in half, as easy as easy comes by. Then came the isolation, isolating her from the general public, isolating her from the people of the main house until she was fully restricted to the northernmost corner of the house with only two servants besides her, a mockery of the freedom she craved. She was offered everything, given everything she'd ever want but what use is it if it's not what she needs?
Her only connection to the outside world? A husband she loathed and her sweet, sweet son. Her little boy that looked nothing like his father- a small mercy in disguise. Her beautiful boy who she was banned from seeing if she misbehaved ever so slightly, her adorable baby boy being the only thing that kept her sanity in check, the only thing that stopped her from throwing a middle finger up to her husband's face and removing herself from the land of the living. Her baby boy whom she loves so much that she grits her teeth and steels her nerves to please her despised captor of a husband, to murmur sweet nothings in his ear and coddle him like he wants, in hopes for seeing her baby the next day and the next day she does, her beautiful son excitedly running towards her on the gravel path delighted her, made her day just by looking at him, bending to pick him up and press kisses all over his pale tiny face.
Satoru might've been young but he wasn't naive, far from it, he notices the way his mother holds him tighter in the presence of his father. He notices the way her lips form into a tight smile when his father presses a kiss on her cheeks before excusing himself, he notices the way she relaxes when his father is out of sight, pulling Satoru closer as she coos sweet words at him. Softly brushing his hair back and giggling at his words with a softness he can't quite put his finger on, he wishes he could play her laughter on repeat, Satoru's favorite past time might be walking hand-in-hand with his mother in the empty northern courtyard, talking about everything and anything that comes to his mind as she listens, she listens to him talk like the words pouring out of his mouth was the very secrets of the universe instead of his boring everyday life. Satoru likes it, he likes being listened to, he likes being normal, he likes being treated as a child and above all, he likes his mother for doing so.
The world may have shifted from Satoru's birth alone but for her, all Satoru ever was and ever will be was her child. Her baby boy, her little treasure and her reason to live.
One could only guess how devastated Satoru must've been when he finds out his mother collapsed during one of the so-called ban imposed on her because of her misbehavior or so the servants says with hushed voices. He glares at them disapprovingly, heads bowed down and lips pursed into a thin line, murmurs of apology pours out swiftly before they excuse themselves and exit just as quickly.
He clenches his tiny fists, silently praying to every God he knows as he makes his way quietly towards his mother's room. Taking in a deep breathe and walking in, only to see her sitting up on her futon with his father besides her, holding onto her hand as if for dear life as she looks out to the garden with furrowed brows- ignoring father, Satoru notes. Neither of them aware of his presence yet.
"Mam- Mother?" Her head snaps towards Satoru, face softening immediately as she holds her arms out before pausing, throwing a quick glance at the hand held by her husband. A sign to let go. He doesn't relent, squeezing it just a little tighter. She frowns again, rolling her eyes slightly. Placing her attention towards Satoru again, she holds her free arm out for him "Satoru, come here" her voice is sweet, soft, loving, weak. Satoru is already moving, already making his way to her arm and burying his face in the crook of her neck like he always does, breathing in her comforting scent- now mixed with the horrible scent of herbs, of sickness and of death, he scrunches his nose, pulling away to look up at his mother.
She's looking down at him, wrapping her yukata-draped arm around him with a small smile, pressing a light kiss on his forehead "My baby" she whispers, breathing in weakly. "Mama" he sniffles ever so softly, hands curling over her clothes as he buries his head against her chest. She chuckles lightly, weakly, the sound was so comforting. A complete juxtaposition to her condition.
"I need you to be strong, the strongest in fact. You can do that for me, can't you?" She whispers, pulling him closer to her. He nods. She smiles, patting his back. "Mama loves you, you know that right?" She hums softly, leaning her cheek ontop of his head. He nods again "I love you too, mama"
"I love you more, Satoru. So do me a favor, okay? You can do mama a favor right?"
Satoru tilts his head up, expecting to see a smile like always. He's disappointed, there's a serious look on her face. She always smiled at him, always as in ever since he could remember, saving the frowns and looks of distaste for his father- Satoru nods, looking at her just as seriously as she was. She bends down and presses a quick kiss on his forehead, a chill quickly running down his spine- instinctively knowing that this'll be the last time she'll kiss him. Dead or Alive.
"Never turn into a monster like your father."
Silence. Silence broken down by his father's voice, yelling for the servants to drag away Satoru. His mother yells too, Satoru's not quite sure what as the servants make quick work with him, hurriedly dragging him away from the them. Turning his head back to catch a quick glimpse of his mother's figure looming over his father's seated one. It's funny how mother only seemed be her strongest during her weakest state- she huffs angrily, turning her head away in anger before catching sight of Satoru, hurriedly flashing a sad smile that quickly vanishes as the door slams shut and he's forced to take a turn. Her room completely and utterly out of view, along with his mother.
Satoru sees her again the next week but in an entirely different setting than he hoped it to be. Quietly making his way up to his mother's pale, lifeless figure, he looks at his father besides her. All life in his sunken eyes seemingly gone as he mindlessly stares at her, "Mother would've loved to see him this way" he thinks apathetically to himself, kneeling down and brushing her hair back like she always did his as he presses a gentle kiss on her forehead, like she always did his.
"I promise"
He sees his father glance at him momentarily, Satoru steels himself, waiting for him to say something berating maybe then he could berate back, yell and scream back at him but his father says nothing. He doesn't care, more like he can't care to say anything. "Pathetic" Satoru sneers internally, standing up and walking out, his mother listened to him like the very secrets of the universe poured out of his mouth so he'll do the same, what goes around comes around. Right?
Gojo Satoru was only 5 and nothing like his father.
°
Then he met Suguru. Strong and relentless with sass and bangs so profound he couldn't help but let hi- You, you're perfect. Watching you sit besides the new first-years, everything else fades away the minute his eyes makes contact with yours. Your words, your soft gentle voice echoing in the room as you introduce yourself hits him like a sledgehammer, it hits him like a semi-truck crashing full speed into him. Satoru's sure he'd survive the crash but surviving you? He doubts there'd be anything left of him by the end of it all.
His knees goes weak as he watches you hold your hand out to him with a pretty little smile, throwing on his usual smirk, he grabs it and oh- your touch, it burns. Your fingertips brands itself against his palm so deliciously warm that he can't help but squeeze just a little bit tighter, trying to hold on to you for a little while longer before you're pulling it away with a grin and you're speaking but he hardly hears you, so distracted with the lack of warmth, the lack of your hands in his.
"What?" He croaks out, ignoring the side-eye he's receiving from Suguru and Shoko besides him at his unusual demeanor. "It's nice to meet you" you repeat simply, eyes closed as you chuckle softly and oh God, Satoru feels his heart thumping against his chest so wildly that all he can do is hope that you can't hear it, Suguru or Shoko least of all lest he wants to make it the running joke for his entire life. Satoru says something but he doesn't know what, his mind and his mouth two separate entities as he watches you laugh again, he wishes he could record it and play it over and over again. By the time he's aware of what's happening, it's already night and the water is burning his skin, hurriedly switching off the shower overhead he stumbles back, palms pressing against the cool tiled wall, his skin tingling with the heat. It's an uncomfortable heat, one that he doesn't like at all, he'd much prefer the burn of your skin against his, molded perfectly against his-
°
"You're staring again" Shoko drawls out amusedly, nudging Satoru in the ribs as the pair watches you converse with your blond classmate, Nanami, he notes. Your laughter fills the empty distance and before you know it, there's a familiar arm weighing down your shoulder "Hi Gojo" you say without missing a beat, not bothering to look up at the albino draping himself all over you as you drone on about your latest mission to an indifferent Nanami.
"Sorry 'bout him, girlie" Shoko interrupts, grabbing Satoru by the collar and prying him off of you, he let's go with a pathetic whine. You brush it off with a smile, it's okay and I don't mind falling out your lips but it falls on deaf ears as she starts dragging him away. "Give the poor girl some space, Gojo. It hasn't even been 2 months and you're already clinging into her" Shoko berates, shaking her head and praying for Suguru to come back quickly; she doubts she has much patience left for the pouting man-child she's dragging.
Gojo was nothing like his father, what he was was a clingy fool, an annoying one too.
°
"Oh my- what happened?" You rush towards Shoko, eyeing her two classmates sitting quietly in the infirmary. She shakes her head and you know better to ask so you settle down, observing the two, Satoru looks fine...well fine except for the eerie glow in his eyes while Suguru looked like the complete opposite, his eyes was dark and dank, similar to light slowly being sucked out into a blackhole. You can't help but feel a cold dread settling low in your stomach, wrong. Everything is gonna go wrong. And wrong it went, muffled sobs wrecks your body as you crumple to the floor, hands helplessy clutching onto Nanami's blazer as he silently holds onto you and buries your face in his chest. Forcing you to look away from the scene in front of you but you don't relent, turning your head back just a little .
Catching sight of Haibara's lifeless corpse. All cold, pale and unmoving. He's gone, gone and never coming back, just like Suguru because only weeks after, you get the news that he's defected. Defected and on the run, hunted down by the very people he once knew and loved. Gojo, how was Gojo taking the news? The thought brushes past your mind, fading away just as quick as you struggle to pry the umpteenth cigarette from Shoko's fingers, her smoking habit was becoming worse and you took it upon yourself to see that she doesn't kill herself at this rate. Busying yourself to make sure that you don't kill yourself with the lack of closure.
°
"Satoru, how are you holdin' up?" You call out softly as you enter his room, watching the usually bright eyes of his all bloodshot and red does nothing but heighten your worry as you watch him lying down in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Settling down at the edge of the bed, you quietly grab his cold hand, offering him what little comfort you can give. "They need me to kill him" Oh. You say nothing, there's nothing to say. No words of comfort would ever work, not anymore. Squeezing his cold hand just a bit tighter, the room becomes a little more darker with the sun setting behind the windows before he starts speaking again. He's speaking and you're listening, listening to him vent about things you never knew, listening to him ramble on and on about things that didn't matter to others but it did, it did matter to him so he talked about it and you listened, humming and nodding late into the night. Completely missing the fact that his hand never warmed up.
Satoru's talkative by nature, it's an undeniable fact but even he outdid himself when he wakes up with a jolt, looking at the harsh sunlight forcing its way through the windows. With a groan he moves to raise his arms over his head but pauses, blinking back his surprise when he catches sight of your head resting besides his hand, your hands grabbing onto his as if for dear life. Shifting his position he finally sees your legs awkwardly sprawled on the floor, realizing only then that he talked throughout the night only to conk out halfway through, realizing only then that you never let go of his hand, not even once.
Finally, he finally lets his infinity down. The warmth of your hand immediately enveloping his, the tiny squeeze you give while still asleep and the soft sounds of your breathing, oh it makes his heart thump just a little bit faster and stomach flutter just a little bit harder. Gently brushing your hair back, he freezes when your eyes flutters open "Gojo?" You yawn, pulling your hand to rub at your eyes but when you fail to feel both your hands on your face, you realize that he's holding on, squeezing just enough to not hurt but to feel.
"Satoru"
"What?" You look at him confusedly. "Call me Satoru" he grins the same old smile. The smile that reaches upto his eyes and crinkles the area around it...but this time it's softer, softer and warmer. You can't help but smile back at the expectant look in his eyes, the squeeze of his warm hand urging you on, warm. His hand was warm.
"Satoru"
°
Spoiling you rotten was now the only goal in Satoru's life; the extravagant gifts, the 'just because' flowers, the more than unnecessary other things that he does which only earns him a low whistle from Shoko and a polite thank you from your side. You rejected it at first, of course you did. Hell, you rejected it until you lost count but one thing about Satoru is the fact that he's stubborn, so stubborn in fact that the more you rejected the gifts, the more he gave. One gift became two, two became three and so on. Finally giving in when he presents you with the key to a house you said you liked while flipping through a brochure, you refuse it firmly though.
Finally giving in and accepting every other gifts except for that, he just shrugs and pockets the key "feel free and ask if you ever need it, it's yours from now anyways" being the only thing he says before going back to his usual routine.
Satoru was nothing like his father, he was just a lovesick fool, a rich one at that.
°
You liked Satoru, adored him even but not in that way. He was your senior, your partner in crime and your bestfriend if you were being generous with the titles, that's all there was to it. You don't like anyone that wa- Your heart lingers on a certain blond man from the past but he's gone, gone and living his life away from the sorcery world. It's better off this way, you think, brushing off the thought quickly as you file your paperwork in silence. But fate is a funny thing because after everything was said and done, it all starts over again.
Starting with the emergence of Sukuna's vessel and ending with his return, igniting the embers you so difficultly tried to put out. You openly gawk at him when you see him for the first time in a long time, heart fluttering at the smile tugging his lips and your name rolling off his tongue so naturally that it feels like he never left at all.
"Nanami, you're back afterall"
°
Satoru's not sure of his own feelings these days, unsure on if he likes seeing you getting along with Nanami or not. On one hand he's happy watching his only remaining juniors get along but on the other, he just can't get rid of that ugly, twisted feeling that stabs him everywhere when he watches Nanami touch you for a little too long or watch the way your eyes light up when you make the stoic man smile. It just makes him want to snap something...or someone whichever is more convenient.
So he goes to Shoko and on a drunken stupor spills everything out, stupidly crying his heavy heart as he nurses his glass of beer. "Just confess already" is all Shoko says but he perks up, acting like he just heard the answer to all the unanswered secrets in the universe.
"I love you, will you marry me?" Satoru blurts out as he watches you reach the tori gates of the school compound, on your way to your next mission. You look at him with shock, mouth forming a silent what? Too stunned to speak or make a sound. "We could date first if you want" He smiles at you, all bravado and confidence acting as if like he didn't just profess his feelings to you. "No" is all you manage out, missing the way his smile twitches at the word.
"No?"
"No, I'm sorry Sator- Gojo. I don't....I don't see you that way" you sputter out, hands flailing wildly in front of you. Soul-crushing is an understatement, heart-wrenching, bone-breaking...nothing can describe what he, what Gojo, feels at the moment, it's all too much. "It's because of Nanami, isn't it?"
You freeze, heat creeping up your face when he calls you out. You look down in embarrassment and hurriedly cup your cheeks to hide your flushed face, wrong move. Maybe if you kept your eyes on him you'd have seen the way his jaw ticked, maybe you'd have seen him curling his hand into a fist but you didn't do that so you don't see it. Instead you bow, muttering an apology and excuses of being late for your mission before running off, missing the abnormal silence and the eerie chill in the air despite the harsh summer sun shining right overhead.
°
Every single person was wary of Gojo, sorcerers and elders alike, because ever since the day you'd gone missing, his mood has been no better than thunderous. With the emergence of Sukuna's vessel, the curses that needed to be exorcised had increased in number and strength. With the staggering disadvantage of numbers, you had been assigned back-to-back missions and one fine day, had gone missing along with the Grade-2 curse you'd been sent to exorcise. The efforts to at least find your body was futile at best, nothing was left behind, not even a minisicule trace. Finally deeming you dead after a month of searching with no hope of finding your body ever again, it only adds to someone's despair all over again, he should've never come back afterall.
Gojo sighs, shutting the door behind him and silently making his way to the bedroom, he wasn't mad at the fact that you'd gone missing, not at all. On the contrary, he had you right where he wanted you to be. Chained up on his bed for him only. Then why was he mad? He was only mad because even after all this time of convincing and explaining, you still did not understand why he's doing all this. He loves you and he needs you by his side, what was so hard to understand? "I missed you too" Gojo hums to himself when he hears the muffled rattling of chains behind the door, realizing that you heard him come back.
You weren't weak by any means, not at all. You could snap normal chains like twigs if you wanted to but the cursed chain graciously attached to your feet by Gojo was resilient, all efforts left futile. It also burns, it burns like a red-hot spoke, branding you his if you ever so much as try to walk out the bedroom door. The chain magically extended itself to all corners of the bedroom and the bathroom but anywhere else and you're lying on the floor with tears in your eyes as you drag yourself back to bed because of the searing burn around your ankle.
°
You rub your eyes dazedly, where the hell were you? The comforter beneath you, the curtained drapes and even the smell was unfamiliar. Your last memory was being flung to the wall by the semi-special grade curse that you thought was a Grade-2 curse, a deadly mistake by the administration team. You needed to alert Ijichi for back up otherwise you're dead, a blur of white hair flashes past you. Gojo? Why was Gojo her- "Finally awake?" You blink, turning around to see Gojo leaning back on a chair besides the bed with a grin. "Gojo, where am I?" You tentatively ask, eyeing your bandaged arms.
"Our house. You said you liked it last time didn't you? " he answers simply, holding his arm out matter-of-factly. You narrow your eyes at the platinum band on his left ring finger, only realizing then that you had a similar one of your own in your hand. You move to get up but something cool tugs at you ankle, the sound of chain rattling only increasing your heart beat as you throw the blanket off of you. Cold sweat running through you at the thought of it "Gojo, what is this?"
"Oh don't mind it, it's just a precaution" he stands up, pushing the chair aside as he gently tugs at the chain with a satisfied look. "This isn't funny" you tug the chain loose from his finger, biting back the bile rising up your throat when he quietly grabs hold of your ankle. "It's not meant to be funny" he grins, pulling you towards him by your ankle."Why?" You breathe out every so softly, fear and betrayal etched on your face. Oh betrayal, sweet sweet betrayal, he really does love that look on your face.
Everything he says is a buzz, you can't hear him, you're panicking. Nanami, what about Nanami? Oh God, what's gonna happen to him without you there? "Oh don't look like that, I'm not gonna hurt you" he coos, cupping your cheeks, completely misunderstanding your panic. You grab hold of his cold hands, silent tears streaming down your face "Let me go, please Gojo. I swear I won't tell anyone, Please" you plead, lips quivering and shuddering as sobs wrecks your body. "I'm afraid I can't do that" he tuts with mock pity, one hand gently caressing your body as it slides down to your ankle.
"This chain..." he tugs it. Hard.
"Keeps you safe. Keeps you with me. KEEPS YOU MINE" Maybe if he didn't say all that with a smile on his face, you wouldn't have hated him as much as you did right now. But he did and the burning pit of hate burns in your heart, you should've never met him.
"Also call me Satoru, we're gonna be here for a very long time"
°
It all starts over again.
Satoru is nothing like his father.
Where his father's love story extended for so long, his was cut short. Cut short by fate and your death- or thats what people think at least. They don't know that you're well alive and breathing, chained to the bed by the supposedly pitiful star crossed lover of a man.
It's ironic really, when his mother was chained down to his father by just a ring on her finger, he had hated it but here he was, years later. Literally and figuratively chaining you down to him with a physical chain, maybe the reason why Lady Luck seemed to favor the most twisted of mind was because she had a twisted sense of humor too. It's the only explanation.
But what about his mother's words? He became the strongest, that's one wish fulfilled. Never turn into a monster like his father?.... That's two wishes fulfilled, For Better or For worse, he's gonna keep true to his promise till the end.
Satoru is nothing like his father, he was so much worse.
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Writing block hit me hard. Currently working on pt.3 of Prod!Gojo Satoru again cuz I deleted it by mistake 🥲
Masterlist
#nuhuhwinniepooh#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#gojo x reader#jjk x you#gojo satoru x reader#yandere gojo x you#yandere gojo x reader#jjk gojo x reader#yandere jjk x reader#yandere gojo#gojo x you#lovesick au
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I have so many thoughts swimming around my head after that ep not sure I'll make much sense but here goes.
My feeling about Eddie cheating is that even if it might not seem like it on the surface it is very much connected to his sexuality (and eventual coming out). It’s also a big warning sign that he’s not in a good place mentally.
Eddie has always tried to do the right thing. He tried to do what Shannon wanted. What his parents wanted. To do right by Chris. He’s been in these very strict positions of the military and firefighter most of his life. Never taking much time to examine who he is and what he really wants. Just doing what he thinks he has to do and should do.
Looking back on how this season has been playing out I’ve noticed that we’ve been slowly watching Eddie let go of all these rules he has for himself. Just look at how he was at the bachelor party. I don’t know if he’s ever really allowed himself to be so uninhibited liked that before. He just let loose and was enjoying being with Buck and at no point was Marisol brought up at all. There was also a lot of queer subtext in those scenes drag queens, Eddie in pink, Eddie as Crockett, Eddie’s shirt getting ripped off by men (including Buck), Buck and Eddie sitting pressed up together.
Before that Eddie was spending a considerable amount of time with T*mmy to the point that he kept ditching Chris to run off and leave his girlfriend to be his babysitter.
Then there was moving Marisol in and back out again while Chris wasn’t even there and without telling him. When the show has made it a point to always show how much Eddie takes Chris’ feelings into consideration especially with his relationships. But that’s the thing Eddie’s mindset this season has become do first think later and damn the consequences.
Now we have Eddie using this woman Kim he just met as a Shannon replacement but more so as a distraction from his girlfriend and just reality in general. Which this whole situation involves Eddie lying and sneaking around and a disregard for everyone’s feelings involved including Buck’s.
I know some might say how out of character this all feels for Eddie but that’s the point he’s changing and this is how it’s manifesting at the moment. Going back to Eddie’s sexuality I feel like before we can get to a place where Eddie can admit he has feelings for Buck (or any guy for that matter) we’re gonna see him spiral a bit to deny it even to himself. To reach for what feels the most safe instead and that’s his relationship with Shannon.
I think Eddie loved Shannon and will always have love for her but they got married more out of Eddie feeling obligated than anything else. Eddie also hides behind his feelings for Shannon. She’s come to be like this security blanket for him which is understandable in a way given how much history they share. She’s connected to his youth and she’s Chris’ mom, there is so much familiarity there but those memories are also keeping him stuck and unable to move forward.
At the end of season 6 Buck almost dies and I think that is really when Eddie started thinking about Shannon again. I also think Buck almost dying made Eddie realize (on some level) how important Buck is to him and that terrified him because he can’t handle losing Buck the way he lost Shannon. There’s also the Chris of it all which was further highlighted in 7x01 when Chris talked about how everyone leaves like his mom did. Some part of Eddie still wants to give Chris this perfect idylic family he thinks he needs when no one will ever replace Shannon and Chris already has two parental figures.
I know we’ve been mostly focused on Buck and his coming out story this season (and rightfully so) but I also think we moved on too quick from how much time Eddie was spending with T*mmy, how they said Eddie and T*mmy were originally going to be paired together, and Eddie’s reaction when Buck came out to him. How he was shocked that Tommy was gay and also seemed to be holding back some feelings. Eddie also immediately went home and told Marisol to move out after that convo.
Now we have Eddie dating Kim (I assume), in a relationship with Marisol, and lying to his best friend and son. Which btw if Eddie and Buck are just friends why does he need to lie to him at all? Is it maybe because Eddie knows that Buck gets him better than anyone and would not hesitate to call him out if he knew what he was doing?
I just think a lot of how Eddie is acting right now is wrapped up in so many feelings he hasn’t dealt with yet. I know from personal experience the more you try and avoid dealing with things the worse it’s gonna get. Eddie also has a lot of past traumas and pains. From his childhood, the army, from his relationship with Shannon and how she died, from guilt over not being there for Chris, from things he’s seen on the job, almost losing Buck, his repressed sexuality. You can’t keep all that bottled forever sooner or later you’ll snap.
Maybe that comes out in the form of trashing the hell out of your room maybe in cheating with your dead wife’s double. Either way Eddie is careening towards having to fully deal with himself and all the things he’s compartmentalized for so long. He’s put himself in a situation which guarantees he can’t run away this time. Because I do think it’s all going to blow up spectacularly in his face. He’s going to have to deal with why he’s still clinging to Shannon. Why he didn’t want to really invest in a relationship with Marisol. Why he can’t commit to all these women yet he’s been committed in one way shape or form to Buck for years now.
Hoping I made some kind of sense here. If you read all of this thanks. ❤️
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So anyway my hot take about the bit where Sunday is taking you on a guided tour through a dramatic play about the history of Penacony is that the confusion of him narrating over the story so you can’t parse what’s goin on is that it’s actually an EXCELLENT creative choice in interactive storytelling actually, because that whole scene isn’t really about Penacony’s past, present, or future, it’s about cult programming. Sunday’s goal is not for you to witness a dramatization of Penacony’s history and form your own thoughts and opinions about it, his goal is a last ditch effort to get you to share HIS specific perspective.
He talks over the story to tell you what’s happening, giving his conclusions from the get-go and sometimes even saying things that seem to directly contradict what he’s speaking over, but by the time you can even parse it, it’s gone and you’re left with little to do but move on. It’s overwhelming and makes it very difficult to form a coherent thought about it, much less a proper refutation to his arguments. It is a tactic intended to melt your brain and repeatedly hit it with a hammer of his view - the only reasonable view. So reasonable that it doesn’t even seem to occur to him that someone might have an opposing interpretation that’s logical, (more on this later,) he’s not open to new ideas, he is so completely and utterly set in his philosophy that he takes a chance in trying to hold your hand through it and explain it to you because he believes that if he just talks you through it, you’ll see the light. He is trying to convert others into to accepting the Order. Inducing mental exhaustion combined with repeating a specific philosophy, backed with an narrative to make it feel credible over and over again until your brain is too fried to do anything but accept if is a pretty common brainwashing tactic. For the devs to actually manage to induce that direct feeling in the players within the safety of fiction is actually a really impressive feat.
And he probably isn’t even really taking the specific approach he does consciously, rather, he is likely repeating some of the tactics that Gopher Wood put him through. Gopher, probably the closest thing Sunday had to a parental figure after his mother’s death, is an entity with no physical form that’s practically nigh omniscient and omnipresent within the dreamscape, is able to take over the bodies of anyone within the Oak family (possibly without their knowledge or without them remembering it?) and has been looking after Sunday from a young age. Firstly, we see them employing very similar (conversational? Argumentative?) styles. From the scene about the rehabilitated bird, we see Gopher giving a very scientific but ultimately leading explanation of natural selection (and the inherent cruelty of nature that Sunday heavily internalizes and repeats further down the line,) then poses a question that seems very open: what do you want to do about it? What do you want to do with this fucked up little fledgling that can’t fly? In his inner world, Sunday presents you with this, and several other personal experiences intended to lead you to a particular answer, then calmly asks you what decision you would’ve made in his place, in a way very reminiscent of how Gopher himself spoke to Sunday and Robin.
Sunday’s answer, to build a cage for the bird so it could live”no matter what,” happens to have aligned pretty well with the philosophies of the Order, and the quick unfortunate end the bird met when it was later released solidified his desire to protect via control, and proved to be a very formative experience for him. I think it’s highly plausible that this an early illustration of Sunday’s cult grooming already taking root, or at the very least, of Gopher fishing for a kid who’s open and susceptible to it. Gopher, seemingly being Sunday’s sole direct conspirator, is almost certainly the one who guided him on the path of worshipping the Order, while also making Sunday feel like it was his idea.
We don’t see too much in the way of interactions between Gopher and Sunday beyond that, so we’ll have to fill in the gaps - but Gopher is shown to be constantly watching over the schemes Sunday is involved in via possession of birds long before we actually learn who he is. He is always there, always watching, he can instantly overtake the will of others (so long as they’re in the Oak family - but that’s abt 1/5th of Penacony’s population and the group Sunday is a part of and thus most surrounded by,) and despite seeming very calm and reasonable, he’s clearly not above shutting people down through direct metal suppression if their questions start to pose any kind of a threat. When Welt’s questions became too direct and poignant, leading to him and Robin realizing that Gopher and Sunday were followers of Ena rather than Xipe, Gopher quickly commands Sunday to use his own mental suppression powers on them (since they’re both outside of Gopher’s control,) and Sunday does not hesitate. I have to wonder - how many times has Gopher potentially used this on Sunday, or any of the people around Sunday who got a little too close to presenting him with ideas that challenged the Order’s philosophy? It would not only be extremely easy for him to isolate Sunday intellectually while retaining his status as the sole voice of reason, but also likely, given that protection through control and domination is kind of the whole theme of the Order. (Or at least - Gopher and Sunday’s interpretation of it.) We can thus extrapolate that Gopher may’ve likely used other tactics of manipulation and control on Sunday that we haven’t seen, but which Sunday may imitate, such as in the segment with him narrating over the play about Penacony’s history.
And Sunday, clearly, is extremely isolated, long before he tres to pull his little stunt that ends in him as the lone awake person in an eternal dreamworld. Aside from Gopher, who can’t really be called on and only shows up when he feels like it, the only person he has to confide in is his sister Robin, but Sunday has long since internalized his whole “the strong protect the weak, and they protect the weak through control” bit to the extent that he tries very hard to shelter her from the things he sees as dangerous and painful. He doesn’t tell her about what happened to the bird (though she figured it out on her own anyway,) he doesn’t tell her a damn thing about his lil Ena cult, and he most certainly does not tell her about his doubts, his troubles, or the emotional weight of hearing about the worst of humanity (like that guy who sold his kids for a ticket) through the confessional booth day in and day out with a script that just says “Xipe forgives you.”
And Robin is, frankly, way stronger and smarter than her brother seems to give her any damn credit for. She’s left Penacony to tour the universe, and she headed into a warzone to help in the process, got shot in the throat, and kept singing after recovery. She’s experienced so much more of the universe than Sunday has, she’s had actual conversations with people about their problems that were not one-sided and driven by some sort of ulterior motive. She’s been the first to pick apart his faulty logic or catch on to him hiding something every time, (whether she mentions it in the moment or not,) she was the first to realize something was wrong and wake up in the end, and she ultimately rallied everyone to save her brother from himself. Had Sunday confided in her, talked about deeper life philosophies with her, shared his thoughts and feelings with her, not been isolated or isolated himself from her, treated her like she was just as strong as he was, things may have turned out very different.
Who’s really more sheltered? Robin, or her brother who tried to protect her from it all?
#honkai star rail#sunday#robin#hsr sunday#hsr robin#ch.txt#Oops! I accidentally did a whole Sunday analysis#Anyway uhhhh Sunday is actually an extremely well written character#And that part of the story was good actually
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AETERNA | Prologue
SYNOPSIS: WHAT’S THE USE IN MAKING PLANS? IT’S ALL INEVITABLE ANYWAY.
WORD COUNT: 2550
MASTERLIST
MOODBOARD
PLAYLIST
quick lil a/n: this isn’t an OC fic, audrey will just be a recurring character who is mentioned through the fic and this spooky lil prologue is her origin story I guess 🫶 we meet reader in chapter 1
…
Audrey Weiss began her last morning the way that most people do: unknowingly. Unknowing in the sense that it was the last time she would bark at her sister to get out of the bathroom, or sigh too loudly when her mother asked her to take the trash out.
Mere weeks from graduation, her focus should have been college in the fall and summer trips and prom. Instead, she was thinking much shorter term — simply of her plans for that evening.
She had ducked out of her parents’ three-bed ranch style in the middle of Saturday morning breakfast, headed for the indubitably more important venture of tackling La Mesa Shopping Mall with her best friend, Suzie Clarke. Once Girl Scouts together, Audrey and Susanne were attached at the hip even now that they were all grown.
Suzie Clarke was the first person the police would speak to the next day, after Audrey was reported missing.
Exactly three weeks and four days from her high school graduation, big things were on the horizon for Audrey. She had been accepted into some pretty good schools for that fall, but her pick was Mount Holyoke — she was going to be a lawyer.
At the mall, she had found the most gorgeous jumpsuit. A peach color that made her brown hair look like pure silk with a crochet floral middle and bell bottoms that made her legs look a mile long. Something awful grown-up for a girl like Audie, but that was the point.
Then, back home, she had considered leaving her large, round wire-framed glasses on their vanity. They made her eyes look ten times bigger and unnatural, and her mouth look small — but she probably wouldn’t look too stellar if she couldn’t see either. These opinions were her own, formed by middle school boys from years passed.
To her baby sister, her glasses made Audie look awfully smart. There’s an old People magazine in their mother’s dresser that shows Barbara Streisand in a dark-framed pair of eyeglasses; Audie could look just like that if she combed her hair a bit.
To make matters worse after deciding that her glasses would make the cut, before she could make it to the safety of Stacy’s car, Audie’s mother had forced a denim jacket over her shoulders and told her to mind the weather. Like it was ever that cold around there.
Still, Audrey’s confidence was unwavered. She looked dynamite in her new jumpsuit, and four weeks into the long stretch that eighteen years old was supposed to be, she looked grown-up for the very first time, even with the glasses.
For the sixth time since March Third, 1977, Audrey Weiss bought a ticket and visited the circus on the outskirts of her hometown.
Santa Paloma, Arizona, was a safe place and only a stone’s throw from Phoenix. It had a movie theater and a couple of arcades, plenty of playgrounds, and a roller rink. Still, Audrey wasn’t interested in hanging out at any of those places.
No, she had her sights set bigger. Older. She wanted more than the other girls her age. Maybe if the boys her age had been kinder, this wouldn’t have been the case.
That’s why she was here, and why this sixth visit was going to be special; she had met a guy. In her killer new jumpsuit, with her hair done like Farah Fawcett, and her Mom’s lipstick coating her lips — her mind was all made up, tonight was the night that she was going to make her move.
Restless in every sense of the word, Audrey had lept out from the backseat of Stacy’s bubblegum blue MGB roadster first, her heart aflutter and her friends in tow. The late April sky was ablaze, orange and pink. It was quite the send off.
Children laughing and screaming, Audrey knew her way around the circus attractions well by now. She bid her friends goodbye with knowingly exchanged giggles, and started to walk. They had discussed Audrey’s plan in great detail by the point of its execution.
Brown leather sandals, barely leaving footprints across red dirt; she was gentle like that. Neon lights surrounding her, she passes by the carousel where she had first seen the man of her dreams for the last time. Its chimes sing her a goodbye as she disappears deeper into the Friday night bustle.
Eager, grinning faces surround her in a blur as Audrey strolls down the midway. A nervous, fast-feeling energy buzzes through her trembling limbs. The ring toss to her right, the shooting game to her left, her sights set straight ahead.
She had been too nervous to pick at the meatloaf her mother had made, and the air had smelled of warm popcorn and sugar. Her stomach growled, leaving no room for butterflies.
Amidst the epic orange and pink, the sky threatened to grow dark behind the looming, spinning ferris wheel.
Audrey left behind the painted faces and the smiles, the smell of sugar and the sound of shrieking laughter. Echoes of the excitement rang out behind her as she left it all behind. Her destination was beyond the fair, behind one of the big, red and white glossed storage trucks. Even in her killer new jumpsuit, Audrey had gone unnoticed.
One confident foot in front of the other, she squared her shoulders like the older girls do and kicked through that soft red dirt. Weaving between caravans, campers and trailers, restlessly brushing her hair back off of her shoulders and bringing it back in place.
A familiar whistled tune guided her where she intended to go.
Jake can usually be found whistling an Elvis tune.
His shirt slung over his shoulder, he passed between the lodgings coolly, headed to his camper to prepare for the show. Maybe he heard her coming, maybe he saw her feet under the caravans. By the time Audrey had rounded the corner, he had stopped and was staring at her.
He animated again, after a moment of static.
Jake was the star of the show, and to Audrey Weiss on that night in particular, he was just about the center of the universe. Tall, and gorgeous, with a strong jaw and a long, straight nose. Blond hair and golden skin, and green eyes. Muscles like something out of a comic book.
And despite being all of those things, Jake was nice, too.
“Hey, Aud-Ball.” Like odd-ball. But his way of teasing her wasn’t cruel like everyone else’s. He shot her a cool grin, his broad shoulders making his white tank stretch taught as he passed by her with no intention of stopping for a chat; again, in the kindest way. “You lost?”
This was far from their first conversation, but it was the first time she had gotten brave like this. There are signs all over the place saying staff quarters are off limits. She shouldn’t have been back there. She should have waited until after the show — Jake always came out to hang out front after the show was done, she could have found him then.
“No,” She wavered. A pit in her stomach and a lump in her throat, she looked down at the dirt and her glasses slipped a bit on the bridge of her nose. “I… wanted to see you.”
Jake can be real friendly. Too friendly, if you were to ask some of the folks around camp. Too friendly with ladies sometimes, too. That’s not what this was. When Audrey showed up for the second weekend, after Jake had complimented her glasses and told her she was funny — he had known she needed a friend. That’s all.
He played dumb.
“What for?” He stopped by the door of his trailer and took a moment to look at her. A slight heel to her sandals, a brand-new outfit, and magazine-worthy hair. He knew exactly what for.
She kicked and toed at the dirt, her eyes on the ground in a sheepish manner that tarnished all that work she had put into looking grown-up. “… I dunno.”
He looked behind her, and then around the two of them. The bustle of the fair sounded so far away. His grin settled into something friendly, but detached. The kind of look you get from a waiter when it comes time to decide on how much to tip.
“You lose your friends?” She never came alone. She had come with her parents that first weekend. She had looked so sad.
“No.” In her kicking and toeing at the ground, Audrey had wandered a bit closer to him. Close enough that he could smell her mother’s perfume on her neck, because she thought it was more mature than her own.
He took his shirt from his shoulder and wrung it in his hands, bootprints in the mud as he put some distance between the two of them. “Look, you know you’re not supposed to be back here. House rules.”
She looked up at him through those big glasses.
“Well, I mean—“
“Really. You should go.” He said more firmly. He was looking at her differently. The kindness in his eyes was gone and all that’s there was pity. In an instant, Audrey Weiss is crushed.
This wasn’t the first time she had been hurt by a boy. She had a tendency to read too much into things, to want things too much. There was a boy in ninth grade, he hadn’t ever liked her — she had convinced herself that he did. She had been so humiliated.
Jake watched her face crumple completely before him, and he was reminded of exactly what he saw in her that first weekend. A scared little girl with a heart full of sadness. He looked to the ground, feeling like he had knocked her to the dirt himself. She did look sweet in her new get-up.
“I’ll find you after the show.” Jake had offered.
Dejected, Audrey fiddled with the leg seam of her jumpsuit. She looked at the ground, and despite having no children, Jake got a glimpse at what it might look like if he had one to scold. She nodded her head weakly.
His lips twitched, his smile almost apologetic as he tapped at the side of his trailer and swung one foot in. “Alright.”
She presses her lips taut, staring at the indent she had toed into the dirt.
Jake hesitated by the door. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting her go, looking so sad. “Thanks for stoppin’ by— your hair looks killer, Audie.”
And so, Audrey had sulked back through the site and found her friends. With her being back so soon, and looking so cheesed — they hadn’t asked questions. They had bought her a coke, and taken their seats inside of the Big Top.
He said he would find her after, but to a girl like Audrey, that could mean a lot of things. Most of them were not good. As the lights dimmed and the familiar introductory drumbeat rattled out, Audrey just wanted to go home.
As he had five times before, the ringmaster burst out into the center of the area and threw his arms into the air, starting the evening with his usual speech. Audrey sipped sadly at her Coca-Cola from the stands. Jake comes on second for the first part of his act, right behind the ringmaster.
Audrey knew his routine like the back of her hand. Once again, she was not picked to be his assistant. As always, he was incredible.
At 9pm, the show had finished and the crowds were filing out. The fairground was even more abuzz than it had been earlier, the sky was a deep indigo, and Audrey really wasn’t in the mood to listen to Jake tell her that she just wasn’t his type. She wanted to be, so badly.
”I’ll pull the car around.” Stacy had told her saddened friend, already thinking that they could stop for milkshakes on the way home to cheer her up. Audrey had nodded absently, wondering where Jake had planned to find her.
“Come on, watch me hook a duck. I’ll win you something.” Suzie was Audrey’s best friend for a reason, after all. She looped her arm through Audrey’s and led her over to the attraction. She had just let go for a second, to take the pole from the attendant.
Audrey had just looked away for a moment. Well, maybe a few moments. It hadn’t felt like very long.
She stared across the sea of people, finding him in the spaces between. His eyes were settled right on hers, green and as kind as they always had been.
Standing over by the house of mirrors, Jake was wearing the same clothes he had been earlier, his shirt discarded over his right shoulder and his white tank stretched across his chest. He had gotten changed out of his show clothes quickly. Maybe he was excited to see her.
She bit at the inside of her cheek, nervous tingles making her fidget on her feet.
He straightened up, and cocked his head sharply to the side. The right side of his mouth tugged toward his ear like something was funny. He untucked his hand from his pocket, and pushed away from the support beam.
There was no goodbye, no ‘I’ll be back in a second’ — the plan was clear — Audrey hadn’t felt the need to waste time bringing her friends up to speed, that could be done in the morning. Light-footed, her brown sandals barely marked the soft dirt beneath her feet.
He had turned and reached for the door, watching her over his shoulder. Her eyes scanned across the neon red signage above him as he disappeared into the Hall of Mirrors. The door fell shut behind him.
Audrey’s heartbeat hammered like a snare drum. Her entire nervous system could keep easy pace with a Lynyrd Skynyrd record. Her dad loved those guys.
The sky darkened behind her, the metal handle cold under her palm as she opened up the door. She leaned inside, and peered around, half-way inside. “Jake?”
The halls between all the mirrors had to be lit somehow, and someone chose blood-red bulbs. Darkness in the corners of the reflections, red illuminations right through the center. Audrey took one sure-footed step inside, her mouth twitching toward a nervous smile.
She let go of her breath and smiled. Sticking her fingers out, she touched her own reflection right in front of her. Filtered red, she looked so different. Her hair really did look killer. Her glasses hadn’t ever looked that awful. She trailed her hand softly along the glass as a marker, following the whistle tune.
Butterflies tickled her tummy. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and let the door fall shut behind her, her second step less-certain. “Jake, are you in here?”
Of course he was, she had just seen him walk right in. To banish her doubts further, a whistle rings out from deeper within the maze. Unmistakably the first eight notes of Elvis’ I’ll Never Fall in Love Again — the song Audrey listened to in her bedroom when she thought of him. How incredible, that he had picked that song.
She bit at her bottom lip to keep from smiling, and called out one last time. “Jake?”
NEXT CHAPTER
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tags: @sunflowercharlie13 @spinning-away @eloquentdreamer @a-reader-and-a-writer @breezyweazybeezy @mel119g @blaircharlotte @hersuitisbanana @aragorn-02 @one-sweet-gubler @chrysalismuh @xzyzycxdd @atarmychick007 @ximehs @ah9242 @gleefulleve @nnatel @topherwrites @princesskreator @seitmai @d0main-expansion @yepyeahuhhuh @cherrycola27 @ohtobeleah @roosterbruiser
#bradley bradshaw#bradley rooster bradshaw#jake seresin#miles teller#bradley bradshaw smut#rooster bradshaw imagine#rooster x you#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw x you#bradley bradshaw x female reader#jake hangman seresin#Jake hangman seresin x reader#Jake seresin x reader#Jake seresin au#top gun: maverick au#bradley bradshaw au#aeterna#aeterna: updates
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My Joel Miller fic recs Volume 2
I wanted to post this before my birthday, but that was more than a month ago - life happened (SO MANY things happened).
As I said on the first part, 2023 was a very rough year and these stories I’ve read were a great solace for me. Sadly, 2024 it’s still being as rough – so I’m holding on my resolution and being more active on here. My original plan was to make a rec list of the year, but not only it’d be huge but it would be a lot of work, so I’ll be separating in volumes. Last year’s will be considered volume 1, this is volume 2.
I want to thank every author in this list @tieronecrush @atticrissfinch @swiftispunk @the-scandalorian @softlyspector and @toomanystoriessolittletime : thank you so much for taking your time and created amazing stories for me and for all the readers in here, you all are very talented and creative, your hard work in crafting the best reading pieces it's very much appreciated, I wish there's more I could do to express how much I value your writing.
Hot & Heavy (complete)
Summary: 3 years, 3 summers - what happens when you can’t get over your sexy older neighbor? The sexiest and sweetest love affair that could happen – but with a lot more between them.
This one is very dear to me, @tieronecrush is the sweetest person on earth (and I love her even more knowing she's Aries too). Sam’s creativity it’s amazing and at the same time she can balm our hearts with her words, she can squeeze it with our lungs.
I think this was the first story I’ve read of hers and her Javier Peña’s “Only Angel” will appear again when I make a list of rec's of our beloved Peña.
From her Joel Miller stories, I also highly recommend Trick or Treat, Secret Santa and Orange Crush.
Meet Me In The Back (on going)
Summary: after a rough shitty day, you just want your drink, but state’s law is against you, what to do? Sleazy gas station clerk Joel shows you he can bend the rules for different ways to pay 👀
This has become my obsession, consuming my thoughts at the most random times and very oftenly. Joel’s kinda weird in this story, but he gets under your skin, etches in your brain in a way that you accept and love. And because I’m a ~romantic gal~, there’s more than crazy ass good smut in this too and so far, I’m loving the development of this story.
I also HIGHLY recommend In the Next Room, ‘cause @atticrissfinch turned an annoying situation (my aunt struggles with neighbors like this and it’s exhausting my family) into one of the sexiest things ever.
Your Summer Dream (nearly complete)
Summary: after a traumatic breakup, you’re travelling to Costa Rica with your parents and your dad’s best buddy, Joel Miller. You know what they say, the best way to heal a broken heart it’s with a good dick someone new, right? Right.
This is one my favorite dbf!Joel ever! The situation between them it’s the most appealing – hot DILF, friend’s of dad, fresh breakup and SUMMER and BEACH – it’s the perfect recipe for a delicious and thrilling story, but @swiftispunk adds more with her talent, bringing up also the complicate parts of falling in love with your dbf.
I also highly recommend Good to Me, it’s about Joel being a gynecologist – and just that made me BURN, but also he’s a very good and caring gynecologist, which makes everything all better. Say it With Your Hands is set in Jackson Era - Joel Miller in Jackson visits a masseuse and it’s too much body contact for our poor old man. And Snowflakes, a Fireplace, and You it’s a beautiful Christmas tale and it’s also very much sexy and sad, and I foolish hope that next Christmas there’ll be a second part.
Two & Mine
These are one-shots that aren't related.
I love @the-scandalorian and the day I make a rec list for Din Djarin, 90% of it will be all of her pieces. But since Joel’s stills the man of the hour, I recommend both of these one-shots of her. Mine was the first anal fic with Joel that I’ve read in here, and that’s all you need to know to go read it and LOVE it as I do.
Two includes it’s smut with angst, which I LOVE, as well. And it’s perfect smut, in every detail and word choice, because Simone is wonderful and everything she writes it’s perfectly endearing and it touches you in different ways.
If you're also into Din Djarin content, go check her work.
Honeyed (complete)
Summary: the dilemma of someone who can’t stand being touched but finds a connection with the tattooist Joel Miller and his arts.
I’ve used “can’t stand being touched” but you need to know that’s because there’s trauma in the background and @softlyspector explains that in the Warnings. This story it’s very dear to me, I was really involved while reading and Becca builds the perfect relationship of trust between them, while adding some mind-gushing pining.
You know when you read something so good you feel something tingling inside you? That’s how I’ve felt reading Honeyed, that’s how good this story is.
I’ve reread this story before finishing this list and it was a thrill as it was when I've read it for the first time. Becca nailed perfectly with her writing in here and I love it love it love it love it, please go read this and fall in love with this story too.
⚠
🚨WARNING🚨 ⚠ATTENTION⚠ The next story contains beastiality/sexual content with a monster creature. If it’s not your thing or you don’t think you’ll be able to read it, JUST DON’T READ IT. If even you’ve ignored my and author’s warnings and read it still and didn’t like it, keep your opinion to yourself, unless you’ve got some real constructive criticism to share respectfully. Many authors in this place have been migrating or becoming less active in the fandom because of people who think they can say whatever they want without any regards of respect and fuck the receivers of their hate. Don’t make here a worse environment, life outside it’s already awful and unfair as it is. Respect the authors and their work, even if you don't like them.
Claimed
Summary: after being chased by raiders, your savior comes in a form of a strange creature (werewolf). What happens after it’s more than a different way of saying “thank you”.
I’ve felt I needed to add this story here not only because it swept me off my feet and I loved it, but also because this list needs more spice, so thanks @toomanystoriessolittletime for brightening this even more.
Now, if someone asks me if I’m into monster fucking, I’ll say no – but I’d be guilty by this story and other ones (Din Djarin, your time will come). Now that being said, this story it’s HOT, it made me feel hot and I’ve felt good with this story.
I’ve loved the smut, but also how Steph created a perfect atmosphere, I could picture the scene perfectly in my mind. And also Tommy being a werewolf made me hot as well.
That’s it, folks. Next volume probably will come after June. I don’t believe in my promises and neither should you (unless when recommending a fic, then you can trust it’s good).
#Joel Miller fic rec#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x f!reader#Joel Miller AU#dbf!joel miller x reader#Tattooist!Joel Miller#werewolf!joel miller#pedro pascal Joel Miller#tlou fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction
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Let's talk about the court of Owl and why I think the storyline has some problems in the long run.
So before I start, I do think that the characterisations of the story are pretty good, Dick is great especially with Bruce going good to bad (you know that time he hit Dick...because why ? Why did the writers decide to write that as a reintroduction to the characters and their relationship ? I have questions).
Another thing I really like is that despite being the first New 52 Batman story, it fit very well into the last Batman stories right before it with especially Gate of Gotham which deals with Gotham as an entity and the Wayne legacy/history in Gotham and what it means for Dick specifically (so him being a talon is within that Gotham legacy too).
If you read the DickBats right before that without knowing that it was supposed to be a reboot the characters are consistent (Black mirror is written by the same writer) and the only thing you'll have to catch up on is that Dick left the Batman costume and is back as Nightwing and Bruce is back in Gotham.
Also the labyrinth? Very twisty, creepy, horrifying and fun to read as a sequence. Love it.
That said, the idea that a secret society of rich people ran Gotham from the beginning just doesn't sit right with me. Suddenly they create a vacuum in all others stories where you ask: "shouldn't the Court of Owl be involved there ? Why aren't they ?" And the bigger they are the bigger the vacuum is. The problem with that is everytime I read a story where the court of Owl should have a say in Gotham and they don't appear, it will feel like a plothole
The second problem is Cobb and the talons and theirs link to Dick. I said it before, I do think it follows the theme set up in Gates of Gotham (and it makes even more sense when you realize this was supposed to be a DickBats story) and I did read the occasional Talon!Dick fics but I don't think it was necessary to make Dick tied to Gotham as a legacy.
I think the contrast between Bruce being a Gotham legacy and then tragedy struck leading him to try to save the city and Dick as someone who is from outside but got stuck by Gotham by his parents's death with no previous unknown link to it is so much more interesting, they have a completely different basis for how they view Gotham. Making Dick a son of Gotham kinda cheapen that. Especially if Haley circus was in on it. Because now it was always Gotham for Dick and it will always be Gotham.
Also why would Mr Haley, the guy who refuse to pay up and have the protection of criminals even under threat run a circus created to train assassins ?
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˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ fresh page, on the desk ݁˖ ⊹ ‧₊˚
JASON GRACE .ᐟ
ingredients; mason grace and cupcakes
fyi; gn reader who is roman but has no specified godly parent, timeline is messy but wtv, cursing, i reference media i like bc i’m self indulgent, silly little 4th wall breaking
notes; first fic hii, lmk ur thoughts! probably a series 👀 big thank u to all my fave pjo writers/moots for inspiring this 🫶🏽 @hopelesslyromanticshark @jgracie @cinemaconrad
wc; 1.7k
food mood; classic vanilla cupcakes. perhaps with a light chocolate frosting.
Cyclops Books was your safe haven.
After a long day of excessive criticism during training, it was the perfect place to allow yourself to relax your posture, if only a little bit. You loved your friends, yes, but sometimes you just needed a little break from it all. The entirety of New Rome was your third place. The somehow always-green grass and thriving flowers, the curved cobblestone streets leading to homes filled with laughter and warmth, the lingering scents of the bakery’s famous freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies – you could go on. Even Terminus couldn’t stop you from coming here as much as you were able to.
So why was it so off today?
As you took your usual evening stroll before dinner, you noticed that almost all the homes and shops had their bright white porch lights on and the usual soft, yellowed string ones were put away. Not to mention the lack of New Rome Elementary kids playing outside after school, or the fact that the usual cozy atmosphere felt tight and formal: the exact thing you tried to get away from by coming here. It even felt like the sunset sky was trying its best to remain a single organized color rather than its usual gorgeous, messy, watercolor-like self.
You tried not to think about it much as you entered your favorite bookstore. Your bookstore. It had been ever since your first visit years ago. It had taken a while to grow accustomed to camp. During the New Rome field trip for fresh campers, something about it drew you in. The warm hanging lights and the stacked bookshelves reminded you of a shop in one of the many cities you’d lived in. That one had always been your favorite. Tyson and Ella had welcomed you strongly that day, cheering, “New campers! New campers!” and shoving slightly burnt croissants in your face. After seeing all your favorite mortal books for sale, you decided it would be the first of many times you entered the place. It wasn’t long before you striked up a friendship with the two owners – they were some of your favorite people to see, plus, they let you pick out their store music!
(As of late, you’d mostly been playing the new Taylor Swift album.)
You opened the door, greeted with the familiar out-of-tune entry bells. Ella was curled up in her cardboard box, sleeping, but she peeked out when she saw you.
“Hello!” Her eyes lit up.
You smiled. “It’s nice to see you too, Ella.” According to what Percy had said about his first quest with Hazel and Frank, Ella was a lot more content now that she was with Tyson. You were truly happy for the couple, they had been nothing but sweet to you and they deserved all the good things coming to them.
She yawned and murmured, “Big event today. Tyse preparing in back. Back, back, back… Back to December. Taylor Swift. Speak Now. Now, now, now…” and promptly dozed off again. You let her sleep, heading to the romance section to hopefully find the new Emily Henry book. Still, you couldn’t shake the thought out of your mind.
You entered the next aisle, thankfully getting your hands on the last copy of Funny Story. You took another quick walk through the areas you normally shopped from, since the store almost always had copies of books before they were officially released. It was unclear how Tyson and Ella managed to do this, but you suspected it had something to do with all the excess time a certain son of Vulcan–sorry, Hephaestus–had been spending on his computer, finding passcodes for mysterious files.
Not that you were complaining.
You walked a little faster to the R section when you spotted Love of the Gods!, a packed adventure about three mortals, Peter, Annie, and Grant, stumbling upon an entrance to the Underworld at a Halloween party and pet sitting the three-headed dog, Cerebrus. Silently, you thanked Leo for saving you from the four months of wait time for the official release.
Heading to checkout, you picked up a few new annotation tabs and cute pens for when you started reading your new books. You peeked over the counter to see if Tyson had come back – you really were curious about what was happening today. You were about to head into the staff-only back room (perks of being friends with the owners) until you saw a rose-adorned china bowl filled with cupcake batter just by the door.
Ella’s birthday was approaching fast, so you remembered that Tyson was preparing. He’d told you that he was going to make some sweet treats in advance, as well as plan to surprise her with Eras Tour tickets and ask Taylor to play The Alchemy and You Are In Love as the acoustic set.
You were so not jealous that Leo and the couple had gotten to attend a listening party for The Tortured Poets Department as a thank you for that one time they went on a quest to retrieve an enchanted scarf from the monster James Gyllenborg. Who said that?
You were focused on the food in front of you, but if you’d looked up to see who walked in when you heard the door bells chime, you might have avoided the fiasco about to happen.
Your books were tucked under your arm so you could help Tyson out a little and start pouring the batter into cute heart-shaped molds. You filled two cups and were getting ready to start a third when someone shoved your back, hard. The two novels you were about to purchase fell into the batter bowl, now completely soaked. Your jaw dropped.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” mumbled a voice from behind you.
“Watch where you’re going,” you hissed. If it was another one of those annoying New Rome boys, you swore you were going to–
You turned around and saw a blonde boy wearing a black vintage varsity jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. You would have brushed the matter aside and treated him like anyone else if you hadn’t seen the Imperial gold glasses, the scar on his lip, and that pair of electric blue eyes.
The same ones half the camp fawned over.
Holy Tartarus.
“Praetor Grace,” you said.
Jason tensed at the name. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”
There was a bit of awkward silence, then he continued. “Every few months, either Reyna or I come here with the intention of doing shop inspections. Council work. Normally, we go in and introduce ourselves, but usually when I come here… is his name Tyson?”
“Tyson,” you agreed, still reeling from the shock.
“Yes. Him. He gets stressed out when I say I’m praetor, so I dressed a bit differently this time, to say the least. I only hope he doesn’t know my face well enough to recognize me.”
So that was why he was out of his professional attire. Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t have guessed he co-led the camp. Oh gods, this must have been why New Rome was on edge today.
Jason peered over your shoulder to look at the bowl. His eyes widened when he saw the books. “Shit. Did I do that? I’m so sorry, I’ll pay–”
“No, it was an accident, it’s not your fault,” you interjected. You did not want to have to deal with the awkwardness of the praetor paying for you. Besides, Tyson didn’t mind these kinds of things too much, since you two were close.
Just then, said Cyclops walked out.
Both you and Jason rushed in front of the bowl mess. You weren’t anxious about the books – it was the batter. If Tyson found out it was ruined, he’d be devastated.
You felt queasy seeing the grin on his face. How were you going to get yourself out of this?
“Friend!” he exclaimed. “Brought another friend… a boyfriend?”
Laughing nervously, you said, “No, not my–”
Jason took your hand in his calloused yet warm one and beamed at Tyson. “That’s right. The name’s Mason. I’ve heard all about this wonderful shop!”
What the fuck?
He looked at you, a hint of pleading in his eyes. Oh. You understood.
“Yes, he has, obviously.” You nodded hastily. “I just had to tell my loving, sweet, gorgeous boyfriend all about Cyclops Books!”
(Was it you, or did the praetor turn a little pink?)
He recovered fast, replying with, “Pfft. Says the most amazing, beautiful, and talented baker I know.” Jason moved aside to reveal what you’d been doing before he entered the store. At first, you panicked, but when you looked at the bowl and books, they were clean and separated, as if nothing had happened at all.
Tyson gasped. “Cupcakes!” He ran to clear items off the counter so he could move the setup to a better area.
“How did you do that?” You whispered out the corner of your mouth.
“Gravity acts on air. Child of Jupiter stuff and all that. I lifted the books out and transported the excess batter back into the bowl. Any remaining dust or bacteria I sent back into the atmosphere. I tried to direct it to the sewers. The cupcakes are fine.”
“Wow.” You were impressed. He’d gone that far for someone he barely even knew?
Tyson returned to pick up the baking materials and put them on the counter. He looked up with a bright expression. “Wait. Double date! Ella! Me! Mason! You! Pretty please?”
Um.
You were about to say no and tell him about getting punishment from Reyna – having to clean out Scipio’s stable as punishment for the whole week. It wasn’t a lie; you had been caught skipping out on training a few days ago. You were surprised Terminus even let you into New Rome, considering he was usually informed on who broke camp rules. But before you could respond, your new boyfriend did.
“That sounds perfect! This Friday at six? We could visit the cinema, maybe?”
Gleefully, the Cyclops clapped. “Yay! Good idea!”
“Great! It’s a date!” Jason smiled. He glanced at you, but you couldn’t read his expression. “I’ll pick you up thirty minutes early. I’ve got to go help out Cohort 5 now really quick, there’s a soldier that needs tending to. I’ll see you later?”
You stared at him for a few seconds before processing what he was asking you. “Of course. Totally. Yeah.”
He nodded and winked as he left the shop.
What just happened?
hope you enjoyed the meal!
thank you for your order and your waitress siara hopes you come again soon 💌
#signed by siara ♡#pjo#hoo#heroes of olympus#percy jackson#jason grace#jason grace x reader#heroes of olympus x reader#percy jackson x reader
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Hello! Sorry if you have already done something like this but I would love the professors' (whichever ones you feel comfortable writing) reactions to mc struggling in class due to being so stressed/tired/overwhelmed from the chaos that is their fifth year. I would love some parental vibes
Thank you! :)
A/N: Hogwarts professors deserve all the love 💕
HL PROFESSORS REACT TO MC STRUGGLING IN CLASS
ELEAZAR FIG: He gets a pit in his stomach from guilt. MC's circumstances aren't entirely in his control, but he feels responsible for them. The first thing he does is get them to take a break. Full stop on everything. Take a few days to decompress and refocus. Afterwards, he'll be right next to them to help them catch up on their studies. They'll pass their O.W.Ls with flying colors if he has anything to say about it.
MATILDA WEASLEY: This doesn't entirely surprise her given the rumored extracurricular activities MC has been up to. She has a heart-to-heart with them in her office. She wants the full story. No more deflection or bullshit. Tell her the truth. She takes the whole ancient magic thing pretty well, even if she doesn't fully understand. With their powers being so heavily tied to the goblin threat, suppose certain school assignments will have to be postponed. She can make arrangements.
CHIYO KOGAWA: She sees the heavy bags under MC's eyes when they come to tell her they completed another one of her assignments. They could barely focus on the wand movements necessary for the new spell. She has them sit and she pours a cup of tea. "Imported from my hometown in Japan. Just got it today. Have some. Might help you feel better; along with some decent sleep."
AESOP SHARP: He pulls them aside after class. "If you keep falling asleep standing up, you're going to wake up face first in your brew." His tone wasn't accusatory, but it made MC cry anyway. He's taken aback for a moment but he's seen this behavior before. They're exhausted. Likely pushing themselves too hard and not getting enough sleep. He holds out a handkerchief to them and then a small sleeping draught. "I have a new assignment for you. Go to your dorm, get comfortable and take this. Don't come back until you've caught up on sleep."
ABRAHAM RONEN: He sees MC fall asleep in his class again. No matter how much Natty prods them, they can't seem to stay awake. He doesn't allow Natty to bother them further, even when class ends. He lets them sleep until they wake up on their own and he has a tall cold glass of pumpkin juice poured for them. He sits next to them, pouring a glass for himself. "Don't panic. You didn't miss anything important. But, I am worried for you. Why are you falling asleep in class?"
MIRABEL GARLICK: She asks MC to stay behind after a lesson and asks what's been going on, they don't seem themselves. "Your engagement in class has fallen really low. Why is that, my dear?" As MC starts pouring their heart out and tearing up, she pulls them into a warm hug. This makes MC cry more but she just gently shushes them and rubs their back. "Let it all out, dearie."
MUDIWA ONAI: She's a master at reading body language. She can tell just by looking at them that MC has been running themselves ragged. She puts a hand on their shoulder and looks them in the eye. "Even the sun must rest, MC. You are powerful, full of potential, but without rest, you are as well suited for life as a dehydrated toad." MC laughs a little and nods understandably. She pulls MC close and gives them a forehead kiss. "Take better care of yourself."
BAI HOWIN: If there was one class MC could slack off in, it was beasts. She found them asleep in the hay multiple times and she doesn't bother them. She does get curious after a while if her class is just nap time for them or if there's something else going on. If they come clean that they've been overworking themselves, She doesn't give them more assignments from her class other than the necessities.
DINAH HECAT: "Enemies are going to catch you on your back foot at this rate." She comments as MC sluggishly packs up after class. "Perhaps You should limit your extracurricular activities for a while. Studying for your O.W.Ls seems to have you busy enough." But then MC sits down hard on the bench and MC lets it all out. They tell her everything. She sits and listens calmly. "I see...let me talk to Professor Weasely on your behalf. Perhaps we can work something out."
CUTHBERT BINNS: His class is where most catch up on sleep anyway. He's not overly concerned, but if MC asks for more review material he is happy to provide.
SATYAVATI SHAH: "Wake. Up." Her sharp voice can snap anyone out of sleep. "That's the third time this week. You're falling behind. Do I need to start deducting house points to make you care about your studies?" MC doesn't even look at her, they just shake their head. She feels a pang of guilt for going hard on them, they seem to genuinely be struggling, but life's a struggle. They'll figure it out or fail.
PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: This doesn't seem like his problem.
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Friends, lovers… and an orange | Chapter 8
Previous chapter | Next chapter (coming out on Tuesday)
Masterlist
"Ok, so. What does the birthday boy want to do next?"
"Take a nap?" Mason chuckled.
"A nap? Seriously? What about getting some ice-cream?"
"Addie, it's January!"
"And?" she shrugged.
"It is too cold for ice-cream. Besides, I'm full after that Sunday roast."
"They say ice-cream is digestive."
"I think I'll pass."
"Ok" Adele sighed. "Then what do you want to do?"
It technically wasn't Mason's birthday yet, it was in a couple of days. But since he had to work the next day and on his actual birthday he was throwing a party, that was the only day both of them were free to do something alone.
"Going home and taking a nap."
"Boring."
"But that's what I am in the mood for."
"Yeah, your mood" Adele said while they kept walking. "What is going on with you lately?"
"With me? Nothing."
"Mase, you've been acting super weird since the new year. Is it because of the kiss?"
"The kiss?"
"Yeah. About the photos and the article. Did it bother you?"
"Oh, that" Mason said, looking down.
"You know you can tell me anything, right? That's what friends are for."
"Yes, friends."
"Mase, what is it?" Adele insisted, grabbing him by the arm and making him stop. "C'mon, you can trust me. What happened?"
"It's just... It's..."
"C'mon" she said with an encouraging smile.
"It's something I have to do for work that I know you won't like."
"Something like what?" Adele asked.
"A brand I work with, one of the big ones. They want me to... They... It's for Valentine's Day."
"Oh… I see."
"They have this campaign about that day being not only about a partner, that it can be about everyone you love. Your family, your friends, your pets... And they want me to post some photos with the people I love."
"And they want you to post one with me."
"Yeah" Mason sighed.
"No."
"What?"
"I said no. We are not playing the press game" Adele said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"But..."
"I said no, Mason. Post photos with your parents, your brother, your friends... But not with me. I'm not allowing it."
"But Addie, you are my friend, you just said it. And I have to do it, it's part of the contract."
"Then tell them I've said no! I'm on my right to do it, I'm the one in the photos!"
"It isn't that easy."
"It actually is. My photos, my choice" she shrugged.
"The deal with this brand is one of the big ones, I can't lose it. And besides..." Mason said while nervously playing with his hands.
"Besides what?"
"I have to do it, Addie. I have to."
"Why, Mase? What is going on?" she said, taking a step closer. He looked so... Worried.
"Do you trust me?" he asked her.
"You know I do."
"Then please say yes to this. Please" he begged.
"I'm sorry, Mason. But no."
"Adele..."
"I've said no. End of the story" she said, starting to walk again.
"C'mon, think about it. It's just a photo. We'll pick one from Christmas for example. One you like."
"I've said no, Mason!" she said as she turned around, raising her voice maybe way too much. "I'm not gonna let them use me to earn more money, and I'm not gonna give the press an excuse to start harassing me again now that things seem to have calmed down. No means no."
"But..."
"I said no" Adele repeated, giving her back to Mason and walking away.
━━━━━━❃━━━━━━
"So I am the bad guy now?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Great" Adele sighed.
What had happened the day after her argument with Mason? That they were on the Daily Mail because someone had sold them photos of her and Mason at the restaurant where they had eaten, and of everything that had happened after. Of their argument. And in those photos, Mason looked like a sad puppy while she just yelled at him, which had made his fans turn against her for hurting him, bitch being the nicest thing they were calling her.
"Have you spoken with him?" Jourdan asked.
"Nope."
"What about tomorrow's party? Are we still going?"
"You can go if you want to. I don't want to see him."
"But Addie... You need to talk about this. About the photos and the campaign."
"There is nothing else to say. We must have a stalker, and I don't want him to use me."
"Then talk about whatever is going on with him. Look at his face in these photos! And you keep saying he is acting weird. Adele, he needs you. He needs his friend."
"Jourdan..."
"Come to the party, please" she pouted. "Besides, you know who is gonna be there. If I go alone, I'll end up on his bed again."
"Quoting Dua Lipa now?" Adele chuckled.
"She was right, wasn't she?"
"She was, yes. But I don't know... What if he doesn't want to see me?"
"I'm sure he's dying to apologize, Addie. Especially after the way his fans are treating you."
"I'll think about it."
"Thank you" Jourdan said while hugging her.
━━━━━━❃━━━━━━
"Adele, you came!"
"Hello, Jacob."
"And you too, Jourdan" he smirked.
"Hello."
"Did the paps outside catch you?"
"Of course they did. They were waiting for me" Adele said.
"I thought you would not show up after your argument with Mason, you know? He's been looking like shit and even thought about canceling the party."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yup. I don't know what happened between you two, he hasn't said a word. But my boy has fallen for you, and hard."
"Jacob, we aren't together or anything like that, it's all the press."
"That's not what I said" he smirked again. "Anyway, gotta keep greeting people, I'm on door duty."
"Enjoy" Jourdan said.
"What... What did he mean?" Adele asked her when Jacob left them alone.
"Nothing, don't worry. He's probably already drunk. Should we get ourselves something to drink?"
"Yeah... Let's stick to our plan of being together and keeping you as away from him as we can."
But their plan didn't last long. After a couple of drinks, Jourdan was dancing with one of Mason's friends and getting very cosy, leaving Adele alone while keeping an eye on her.
"Hello."
"Fuck!"
"Sorry" Mason said next to her. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"It's ok, don't worry. Happy birthday, by the way."
"Thank you" he smiled. Though again, it was that sad smile. The one he had had since the year started. "I thought you wouldn't come after... You know."
"Yeah... But Jourdan asked me to help her stay away from Jacob, and I couldn't say no. And I also wanted to check on you. How are you?"
"I don't know, to be honest" he said, running a hand through his hair.
"Why don't we go somewhere quiet where we can talk?" Adele smiled, giving his arm an encouraging squeeze.
"What about Jourdan?"
"It looks like she is ending the night with that friend of yours, she'll be fine."
"He actually is one of the good ones."
"Nothing to worry about, then. C'mon" she said, taking Mason's hand and leading them outside.
━━━━━━❃━━━━━━
"Here."
"Thank you, Mase" Adele said, putting on the coat he had given her. After looking for a place where they could talk and having to see some things they would have preferred not to see, they decided to go outside to one of the balconies. "I didn't expect it to be this cold."
"It's January, Addie" he chuckled.
"I know. But earlier it wasn't this cold."
"Do you want to go inside?"
"Nah, it's fine. Besides, I've always loved the view from here. Even at night it looks beautiful."
"It is one of the reasons why I chose this house."
"I'm sorry" Adele said.
"About the house?"
"No, no. About our argument the other day."
"I should be the one saying sorry. You were pretty clear about not wanting your photo to be used, and I kept insisting."
"But I could have been nicer, you know? Or make less of a scene."
"I've seen you do worse. You are a bit of a drama queen."
"Who, me?"
"Sorry" Mason smiled. And this time, it was an honest smile. The dimple was giving it away.
"I've missed seeing you smile like that."
"How?"
"Like that" Adele said, taking a step closer. "Like you really mean it. What is going on, Mase?"
"Nothing."
"It clearly is something" she said, taking his hand on hers.
"It's just... It's my agency" he sighed.
"What about them?"
"They keep pushing me to do things I don't want to or agree with."
"Then say no, leave them. It's that easy."
"It isn't, Addie."
"Why not? I remember my mum talking about a friend of hers breaking a contract with an agency that wasn't treating her well."
"Yes, but in my case it isn't that easy. There are... Clauses."
"Clauses?"
"Yes. And if I do something that goes against them, I'll be in big trouble."
"Will they sue you?"
"They could end my career."
"Holy shit, Mase" Adele said, caressing his cheek with her free hand, the other still holding his.
"That's why I kept insisting on the photo. If I don't do it..."
"But you are their best client! They wouldn't be that stupid, would they?"
"When there is money involved, people don't care about certain things."
"I'm so sorry, Mase."
"It's ok, don't worry."
"No, it's not" she said, wiping away a tear from his cheek. "There must be something we can do."
"Do as they say" he chuckled.
"What if I talk with them? What if I tell them I don't want my photo being shared?"
"Please don't" Mason said, closing most of the space between them.
"I already told you, I'm on my right to..."
"Don't. Trust me and do as I say. Please."
"But..."
"Please, Addie. Promise me you won't talk with them" he said, caressing her cheek the way she had done with his. He looked so worried, so desperate.
"Ok. I promise."
"Thank you" he sighed, resting his forehead on hers.
"But only if you promise me that you won't do anything stupid."
"I won't" Mason whispered.
"Good. Now come here" Adele said, hugging him as tight as she could. "Everything will be alright, Mase."
"Everything will be alright" he repeated against her neck, his lips touching her skin as he spoke and making the goosebumps she had felt when they had kissed, come back.
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Ahh, my favorite pastime. Analyzing characters and figuring out how people work.
(Obligatory this is all characters, I just didn't wanna put a q in front of all the names :3)
I really do try to see everyone's side, and I do not think anyone here is necessarily in the wrong. Nothing is black and white of course, but I wanted to specifically focus on bads pov here. I think alot of people kinda forget all the lore leading up to this point. Especially anyone who wasn't here.
Bad is a very tragic character and his lore has kinda been put on hold since everything that has happened.
But if we are to assume we are picking up about where we last left off, bad doesn't remember lullah. (In fact he doesn't really remember anyone on the island). Only the interactions hes had with them after he got back. He found out that hes a special person in lullah's life a little bit after he got back but he cant reciprocate those feelings. He just doesn't know her. But all the while He is being forced into this position where lullah needs old bad but old bad literally physicaly died.
Heres this guy who just woke up from being dead stressed and alone. Finding out hes trapped on an island and missing his best friend. Being thrusted into the roll of tio. He said to foolish that he doesn't think he could be a parent and that being a tio was stressful enough so its not like this is an easy roll for him to fit into.
So he has this expectation that he is being held too which is pretty unrealistic. Let alone that fact that he simply now doesn't know how to deal with children, it's not a skill he has anymore.
Then, with pomme and dapper being gone the only egg he has even gotten close to after he died is richas. Then combine that with his very clingy personality. No wonder he plays favorites.
Not to mention alot of his issues with communication and such are very autistic/adhd coded. I feel like so many people aren't really agnologing that. <_<
But now from lullah and richas's perspective it's also awful.
They are still literal children who has gone through so much.
Im not a philza watcher so I dont know lullah alot but we can kinda tell Lullah has issues with abandonment, and she has already lost bad once before. She wants the tio bad back she knew the one who she has spent so much time with and has known her whole eggie life. But he isn't going to be back anytime soon. She probably wants some sort of consistency. Let alone the fact emotions are a difficult thing to begin with.
its a difficult situation for everyone involved. And its understandable to feel upset because that's what stories do! A good story should make you feel emotions but if you are angry, or sad at the actual people you need to take a step back for your own well being. <3
#I've been thinking about this alot#I really do enjoy trying to figure out what makes people do what they do#It's fun and interesting :3#Badboyhalo#Qsmp
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This is a bit of an old post of yours but I saw @/thisismisogynoir reblog it and i just wanted to say: your post about ppl being way too comfortable associating underaged characters with sexual stuff put what i've been thinking for the longest time into words. That stuff genuinely makes me SO uncomfortable yet almost no one around me understands. Its so disgusting how often underage characters are sexualized in fandom spaces and the worst part is, it starts with grown ass pedo adults doing it then it SPREADS to most of the KIDS in the fandom who then see that behavior as normal!!
It's particularly sickening for me since i come from a culture where "childhood" lasts alot longer, like 21 year olds are still considered kids and still at the age to be pampered and cared for by their parents so you can imagine my horror when I got into fandom spaces and saw people justifying making NSFW content of 16 YEAR OLDS. I once literally got called SENSITIVE in an Instagram comments section by other PJO fans for saying that it's creepy to make sex jokes about Percy and Annabeth, and they said I was overreacting bc "they're almost adults anyway, real teens have sex at this age"...... Like just because irl teens do doesnt mean you should be encouraging that and normalizing it!!
Hi Nina!!!Thanks for the ask,i agree so much and you've given me the perfect opportunity to tqlk about a similar phenomenon re the sexualization of characters who're minors
So in current canon Pjo,Percy and Annabeth are not 'almost adults',they just ARE adults as their latest apperance in the timeline has them at 18 with confirmation from Rick.Yet fans choose to make these jokes about them as minors even though that book has been out for 4 years.Much like this,Spiderman fans do sm*t of Mcu Peter and Spiderverse Gwen even though in the comics which have way more material they are adults.This also applies to Naruto,Bleach,Toh,Httyd,Atla and other media that have the protagonists start out as kids but grow up either as the story goes along or in an epilogue
If you have the option between sexualizing an adult version of character and an underaged version of the character that're both presented as equally canon and you choose the latter,you are a pedophile.Full point blank.That's the definition of pedophillia.You saw a grown up and a kid and found the kid more attractive.There's no excuse for that.There's no reason for an adult to want to see a child in sexual situations over another adult in sexual situations.You've made a disgusting choice so people have a right to call the pedo a pedo
(Also:You are NOT sensitive.You just have a backbone and care about minors being safe and the fact that they pulled that over a CHILDREN'S BOOK SERIES is insane.A Pjo fan once told me 'legit thought you were 12' in an argument because i said Percy is an anarchist and instigator and activist punk and not a skater boy at all and actually transfem,as if Percy dosen't start out at 12 because that's starting age the series is for.Pjo fans gain self-awareness and also employement challenge)
#ninagoesanon#antiproship#pedophillia tw#cp cw#grooming cw#percy jackson#annabeth chase#peter b parker#gwen stacy#naruhina#sasusaku#ichihime#ichigo kurosaki#hinata hyuga#orihime inoue#lumity#huntlow#hiccstrid#hiccup haddock#astrid hofferson#antidagcup#anti zutara#zuko#katara#aang#sokka#zukka#askies
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【 𝐅𝐀𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄 】
Summary ! in which centuries had finally passed , war was over in a blink of an eye. the fae rejoiced and the ones who lost loved ones during that time , finally mourned . some took their time to heal , and mend their broken hearts to move on from all of it , and former war admiral ( name ) ( surname ) was one of them .
mourning and regretting the death of your lover and child . you slowly shut yourself from the world waiting for the rest of your days to come after centuries of living , you had served your time . and it was time for a rest .
however though , things aren't always going to plan , because on one stormy night in the fourteenth of may ... an old friend comes knocking at your door , but wait . is that a baby he's holding ?
Pairings ! Lilia Vanrouge x Female Reader
Contains ! Book 7 Spoilers, Mentions of War and Murder, Depression but only mentioned in the first few chapters, Cursing, Fluff, Angst, Mentions of Pregnancy, Child death, Enemies to lovers, Friends to Lovers, Found family troupe, Slightly suggestive/nsfw, cross-posted on Wattpad
Type of story : Series
Just how long has it been ?
For as long as I can remember .
It's been centuries now .
And that hole in my heart ,
it still remains .
A Mother's Loss .
I could remember that night so clearly .
Motherhood was a wonderful experience . To experience nurturing your young ─ it was a thing you would never regret if you chose to go down that path . Some say it was a hassle but I , as a woman who had loved . It was not .
I loved and cherished every moment of warmth and joy in the midst of chaos and the dark times of life .
In my arms, you lay so still ,
Your tiny body , so lifeless and chill.
The world we loved , we must now leave behind ,
For without you, it has lost its shine.
As a parent it was our duty to protect our young , teach them the ways of the world and slowly let them go as they flourish themselves and find out their talents and attributes , to let them discover and experience the wonders ─ the good or bad . Let that be the lesson .
The tears they flow , like rain on a windowpane ,
As I remember all the moments I held your little hand .
The first time, you smiled , and filled my heart with joy ,
Now the pain of losing you feels like a void , deep within my soul .
The memories we shared , the memories we made ,
The love we shared, that can never fade .
I'll treasure each and every day ,
As I remember you , my darling baby .
The first time those warm gentle eyes mirroring my own looked at me , I knew at that moment I fell in love .
" Hello , " it was merely just a word but ... It was everything , it was the first thing I had said the moment her eyes had opened .
I'll hold you close, in my heart forever,
And know that our love , will always be together .
Until we meet again , in the blue skies in the
afterlife ,
I'll carry your memory , with me for the rest of my life .
Why ? Why did it end like this ?
My precious gift .
Your life had ended too soon .
It was said that parents pass first before their children yet why ... ?
In other different cases , just like mine .
As I cradled the lifeless body , ignoring the awful stench — I didn't care if it looked inhumane , absolutely horrid and grotesque I cried . And cried hard until my eyes bled black letting my scream reach octaves of those of a sirens screech .
It should have been me who went first .
You who had so much to live for .
You who should have grown beautifully .
Happily , in elegance and grace .
My dear daughter .
" I wish for mother to live a long life ! "
You got your wish , but my life isn't as colorful without you .
" Fate had been a little too cruel for us ... " A whisper came out of my throat , hoarse and sore from all that crying as I sat on my knees , eyes that only remains on the gravestone infront of me , wet from the rain as if it was mourning with me .
My nails tugged against the worn out cloth in my grasps , gently I held it with love and care . An important item from long ago as the memories resurface from my mind — before grief hits me again as I held the cloth close to my chest and wept silently in the late afternoon , over and over .
It was just too painful . How can the God's be so cruel ? Was I not being obedient enough ?
Tell me , were my sins so unforgivable that you have to punish me by taking my light to my darkness ?
Why ! Why punish me like this ? Why take her life away like this ?
It should've been me !
" Me ... "
Sinking to my knees as my lips quivered . I could only stare at the gravestone before my hands dug at the grass and soil . Letting dirt sink through my nails as I hunched over and cried , just like all these years .
Years , and years . How long has it been since the day I lost you ? The war had ended , but somehow those scars and the pain that went along with it ...
Never went away .
Done with the mourning as I wiped my tears away , sighing a little to myself before I fixed my appearance again and got ready to head home and retire for the night , maybe drink something to indulge my sorrows .
Alas , I shall be spending my time alone in a fantasy , a dream far out of my reach .
Standing up , my dull eyes looked back down at the gravestone back again , " Mummy has to go baby . " I whisper lovingly patting it gently , feeling a little guilty that I have to leave so soon .
I'll come back later , I promised myself before I carefully placed the hood above my head before I picked up my basket and left .
" I'll be back for your birthday , " I whisper as I mustered a weak smile before I just ... Lost it again .
And so I left , with a heavy heart . Once more
Without the knowledge that my life would take a turn .
As a sudden surprise visit would change my life .
A/N ! making a master list soon , still this is going to be in slow updates as my personal life is busy but i will be publishing the other chapters that's already in Wattpad here , it's just chapter nine I'm stuck in
#twisted wonderland#disney twst#twst#lilia vanrouge#twst lilia#twisted wonderland lilia#twst x reader#twst x you#twst silver
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What does Molten think of the Classic Undertale? Its story and alll the characters, I wonder if he sees himself as Sans and his brother as Papyrus or the opposite.
How Molt and Rem understand the Multiverse and all its branching iterations can explained by using a tree. "Classic Undertale" is the root system. The trunk is the branching-timeline-like AUs. (eg. "What if this happened in the classic timeline?" scenarios.) The branches are the worlds that fall adjacently, but do not necessarily share enough traits to fall into the "Trunk" category. The further and higher you get on the tree, the farther removed the AU is from the Root system. Molt views his own world as being a distant lonely leaf on that cosmic tree.
Molt and Rem view the multiverse very organically. There was no one around to teach them so they came to their own conclusions. Long story short, Molt views most Sans coded characters not in those terms but as individuals occupying a strange and kinda abstract cosmic role.
A quick note: its hard for Molt to distinguish others based on their AU because the distinction is often superficial and emotions are felt the same way. One monster's joy feels the same as another's. The difference is not the feeling itself, but how individuals react to situations. So unless Molt knows someone really well, and gets to know their voice, it's hard for him to tell them apart.
As for Classic characters specifically:
Sans and Papyrus: surprisingly, Molt doesn't see himself and Rem in Sans and Papyrus as much as you would think he would. But out of the two, Molt would find himself relating to Papyrus more. Papyrus, who feels with his whole heart. Papyrus's relentless optimism and unshakable faith is infectious and inspiring, and like Molt, Papyrus knows how to keep secrets. (also, Papyrus is a significantly larger source of positivity than, pretty much, everyone else in UT. Of course, Molt would be drawn to him, but this is more a secondary reason.)
Toriel, the mother he never had: Molt likes Toriel the most. She is kind. She is loving. And though her love may blind her, she's an incredibly strong person. Privately, Molt wishes Nim could've been like her, both in the "physically there" sense and also "emotionally there" sense. It's possible that if Molt had met Toriel when he was younger, he would have accepted her as a mother figure. Now that he's older and wiser, he refuses to accept any parental/mentor figure, at all, in his life.
Asgore: the depths of his sadness and grief is intimidating. Asgore's one saving grace is that he regrets the things he's done. As a rule, Molt doesn't judge others on their past actions, but on their current actions/methodology. So how he feels on Asgore, depends on WHEN he meets Asgore. On another parental subject note: Molt has never had a father figure in his life: its an entirely new concept to him. So Asgore MIGHT get away with fatherly advice and support, as long as Molt isn't aware that's what Asgore is doing.
Fun fact! while i was writing "What I never told you" i considered the possibility of Molt meeting Asgore, Chara, and Asriel while the three were on a camping trip, instead of meeting Noelle and her mother. But this was a possibility i considered late in the game, so i ended up not using it. i think i still have a draft of it, somewhere.
Alphys: Alphys and his brother are a lot like. They both lie. They are both burdened by guilt, and that guilt governs what they do. Molt knows he should be more sympathetic, but the lies and the guilt leave a sour taste in his mouth. In saying that, if the two met, Molt would never be intentionally rude or mean to Alphys. He would keep his misgivings to himself, and keep his distance.
Undyne: a surprisingly positive influence. Undyne is a source of positivity that you would not expect if you weren't paying attention. Undyne inspires others, she gives hope to so many monsters of the underground! That being said, she is too boisterous, loud and aggressive for Molt to feel comfortable interacting with. Her loud personality is overwhelming! He prefers to appreciate her warmth from a distance.
Mettaton: Molt unironically enjoys listening to Mettaton's Movies and TV appearances, but more over, he enjoys the reaction Mettaton's corny over the top performances get from his brother and the team. Groans of dismay. Half concealed snickering. The "this movie is so bad its good" to the equally amazing "Actually I genuinely loved it but i can't admit it or everyone will laugh at me." its all so good.
When Mettaton inspires so much positivity, how could Molt not like him?
Flowey: the link to the post on flowey here!
W.D Gaster: Who is that? Never heard of him.
PS: originally I wanted to include Frisk in this post, but than i realized that i really needed to think about it more. Get back to me on Frisk later. (general statement, directed to anyone)
#orbital chatter#moltendreams!au#apologies for the wait i had to think about this one#TLDR: if u want to give Molt motherly/fatherly support u must be sneaky about it.#long post
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