#tried to keep this neutral

[getaapologist]

This just popped into my head: Geta has trouble falling asleep (because why wouldn't he), and so he wanders around the gardens and hears quiet singing and comes across a young woman (slave or whatever) and she gets him to fall asleep; she's not allowed to leave his side after that.

I hope I answered this in some kind of way that makes sense. Hope you like it!

(also I know these are big ass pictures (thank you @inseparabiles) but this stupid smile is too perfect to not put here.)

Fitful Sleep

Emperor Geta x reader

Warnings: none, perhaps implied nudity?

Sweat collected at his hairline, along the back of his neck, and anywhere that his skin touched. The haze of sweltering heat that had settled over the city throughout the day didn’t dissipate once the sun disappeared. It somehow got even worse at night. There was very little breeze gently pushing at the thin linen curtains separating Geta’s bedroom from the terrace.

Sleep only came to him in short bursts, something that grew more irritating each time he awoke drenched in sweat, the humidity trapping it against his skin. He would wake only for long enough to move over to the other side of the bed, now slightly cool, mostly dry, and collapse, gradually falling asleep again.

Ten times. Ten times he woke, before he had enough. He felt mad, launching himself out of bed to stand out on the terrace, the barest hint of a breeze doing wonders to his sweat-slick skin. He couldn’t be bothered with a robe, it was far too hot. There was no one to see him anyway. As he leaned against the railing, he started dozing off. 

After the third such time, he moved into his room, looking around for a solution. He spotted the ornate chaise, and immediately made up his mind. Too impatient to summon someone to move it for him, he dragged the heavy piece of furniture out to the terrace, pushing it up against the railing. He laid down on it, the fabric a bit too warm for his liking, but it would have to do. 

As he began to relax for once, on the fringe of true sleep, he heard a sound. Something soft, drifting on the breeze. He lifted his head, looking down to the gardens below through the posts of the railing. Eyes tracing over the courtyard, they slowed to a crawl as they first noticed a soft blue robe, hanging off the shoulder of the siren.

There was a lot of bare skin, more than was appropriate for someone outside a bedchamber. He knew he shouldn’t look, he should lie back down, but he was curious. Surely this person was suffering from the same ailment. His suspicions were confirmed when they dipped down to cup some of the water from the fountain they sat on the edge of, and let it fall from their hands over their bare calves. 

Geta wondered intensely if the water was cool. If the sigh that reached his ear was any indication, it was. And as they gathered more of it up, wetting their hands to press them to their neck, shoulders, the genuine consideration he gave to going down there himself was alarming. He understood the reason they might have thrown caution to the wind and gone out there in such a state. He felt warm, heated through in a different way, from the inside out.

The most he could see of them was their bare shoulders, the robe kept up enough to hide their back from him. But it was enough to fill his mind with delirious, feverish thoughts. Burning heat like the sun bearing down, like sitting too close to a fire. Smooth, damp skin, already hot beneath his hands, his lips.

The humming roused him from his thoughts, and he caught a glimpse of their profile for a moment before they turned back around. It was branded in his mind. He thought he might know that face, but he wasn’t sure. He forced himself to quiet his mind again, knowing that above all else, he needed to sleep. If he was to be of use to anyone the following day, he needed to close his eyes.

The tune changed to one he recognised, though he wasn’t sure where he knew it from. After enough time, he stopped trying to place it and let himself relax.

********************************************************************

The heat had abated at some point in the night. Now, as Geta passed through the gardens, his eyes lingered on the fountain, on where the mystery person had sat. He could picture them sitting there still, skin shining with drops of clear water under the bright moonlight.

“Yes, well it’s a miracle that the worst of it seems to be over,” someone commented, laughter echoing. 

Geta looked up, examining the throng of people lingering in the gardens. Was he looking for his siren? Checking on Caracalla? He couldn’t say. But as he scanned, he spotted a shoulder slope that he thought he recognized.

*******************************************************************

You hadn’t been given a moment of peace since the gathering started. It wasn’t enough that you had barely slept the night before, just like everyone else, but it seemed the discomfort from the night before bled over into tonight. 

All of the staff were so frantic, so frazzled after the heatwave that what should have been easy work became all the more complicated as tempers rose and communication faltered. There had been three dropped amphorae, and one beautiful green glass pitcher shattered. As a household, they were never this clumsy. 

Thankfully, the twin Emperors seemed to be distracted enough that they wouldn’t hear of this until tomorrow. You knelt and gathered the bigger shards as carefully as you could. Some of the glass disposed of, and the rest of it being swept up by another, you turned to return to the party, to see what else might need doing.

You collided with a chest, hands reaching out to steady yourself, an apology ready to begin tumbling from your lips. It died on your tongue as you locked eyes with him. Geta.

“Are you alright?”

He seemed genuinely concerned, and though you were new here, you assumed rightfully that it was a rarity.

“I’m fine, thank you, Emperor.” As instructed, you averted your eyes from his warm brown ones, ignoring the way his hand lingered on your upper arm.

“Look at me,” he instructed, his voice slightly firm.

After a moment of warring with yourself, you did. He was smiling, a sight far too beautiful to comprehend. 

“Are you new here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. His eyes traveled over your shoulder, your neck. 

You found yourself nodding, having a hard time stringing words together. He was intimidating, as he should be, one of the co-Emperors of Rome. But it wasn’t his title that intimidated you. It was the way he was appraising you.

“You helped with dinner yesterday, yes? I was trying to figure out where I’d seen you before.”

You nodded, letting out a cautious smile. He wanted to remember where he had seen you before? Why?

“The fountain… It sure seemed refreshing.” He was teasing you. “I considered walking down to join you myself.” His words were tinged with amusement, a glint in his eye confirming it.

An overwhelming wave of embarrassment and slight fear washed over you. You were only here what, a few days? Already in trouble. It was stupid, you knew it was stupid when you did it, but you would have actually lost your mind if you were made to suffer another moment in the sweltering windowless room.

Geta’s laugh ripped you from your thoughts. 

“You saw me?”

“Emperor,” he spoke sternly, raising an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his full lips.

“What?”

“‘You saw me, Emperor,” he corrected.

“E-Emperor,” you repeated, concerned that you were about to be dismissed.

“Yes, I did.” He let his smile spread. “What was that tune you were humming?”

“Just something my mother used to sing to me,” you answered. An eyebrow raise reminded you. “Emperor.”

He looked away for a moment before returning his attention to you. “I do think that you would be better suited elsewhere.”

Oh no. You were being dismissed.

“I think I will have need of you in my personal quarters. A good tune may come in handy during sleepless nights.”

Boiling hot mortification poured over you, your mind making many leaps and assumptions. He was unaffected, still smiling, still more handsome than he should have been. 

“Don’t look so scared,” he chuckled. “Do you know how to make a bed? Draw a bath?” His tone was slightly mocking, but full of amusement.

You nodded, watching him carefully, the mortification giving way to something quite different. Something you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, name.

“Good. I’ll expect to see you later.” He looked satisfied with himself, his gaze still approving, if a bit intrigued. And after one last look, he turned, walking off further into the gardens, back to where the party was concentrated. As he passed the fountain, he looked back over his shoulder at you, a grin on his face.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

News spreads fast.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[kizzer55555]

Core Gems

So when a ghost becomes injured, they have a last ditch defense where they retreat into their core. And I mean, injured badly where their body is rip apart to the point they can’t hold a solid form anymore. And they basically go into a hibernation state until they are strong enough to form again.

Ellie, Danny, and Dan are all injured in a final battle against the GIW. The organization was destroyed and the ghosts were safe but the halfas ended up being so injured that they reverted to core form and then went to sleep for a bit. When they woke up, they were still weak but at least recovered enough to gain consciousness. And realize…they are in some kind of auction…in the middle of a heist. It appeared that two furries (one in a bat costume and one in a cat costume) were ducking it out. And they…they were a necklace. All three of them had been turned into a necklace with their cores as gems accompanied by sapphires, pearls, and opals. And frankly gorgeous craftsmanship as the metal was crafted around their cores as if to cradle them and the other gems.

Unfortunately, they were too weak to take a form properly, they could still feel the strain on their bodies. But at least they could still communicate through their auras. Then the cat lady punched a hole in the glass container surrounding them and grabbed their necklace.

However, the bat grabbed the other end and it resulted in a sort of tug-a-war. Meanwhile, Danny, Ellie, and Dan were having a back and form commentary on the situation and what they should do. Completely unheard by the other party.

In the corner of their eye, the three halfas finally noticed a third contender. Some kind of clown who was…hold on…holding a gun?! And it was pointed straight at the two fighting furies who had yet to notice him. The ghosts’ protective instincts went into overdrive and they frantically tried to shout, yell, move. Just do something to warn the two but their cries fell on deaf ears. All they succeeded in doing was faintly glow which immediatly caught the attention of the fighting duo. The two turned to look at the strange necklace but right at that moment, the clown fired and a gunshot rang throughout the auction room. Having no other options, Danny and the others poured every ounce of ectoplasm they had to try and phaseshift, making the two furries intangible as the bullets passed right through them, but in their shock, the two jumped away in opposite directions and accidentally ripped the necklace apart. Gems and pearls went flying and the three cores bounced along the ground.

Luckily, the two finally noticed the clown and went to deal with him and his minions who had appeared. Seemingly putting their fight on hold and forming a temporary truce. The three halfas could only watch as the battle finally wound down, ending with the cops barging into the place and arresting the clown and his grunts, the cat managing to escape with half the scattered gems and pearls from the broken necklace along with a few other jewelry pieces (none of their cores though) and the bat leaving through a skylight.

The auction continued and in the end, despite being broken, their necklace seemed to have caught someone’s interest. A man named Bruce Wayne bought up every piece of the shattered jewelry wear. The auctioneers appeared relived that the item managed to sell in the end and gratefully gave it to him.

Bruce had no idea what happened at the auction, but he could have sworn that some of the gems faintly glowed right before he and Selina were shot. If the necklace was some sort of magical item, then he needed to understand exactly what has been brought to Gotham. It was unfortunate that Selena had taken some parts of the necklace but he utilized his vast wealth to make sure all the other parts ended in his possession. Now he would take them back to the mansion for examination.

[sengardet]

Don't Answer the Door

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Her words blur into clinical jargon. Your eyelids slide lower, sedation tugging you back to semiconsciousness. For a dreadful moment, you see every ripple in the wet muscle, the branching veins like a labyrinth of dark lines feeding the organ.

[fatuifucker]

sunday seems to me like someone who would be an unintentionally controlling partner. he doesn't mean to. but the family has a duty to uphold. and as the lover of the oak family head, so do you. prim and proper is what you are expected to be. a noble just like him.

but in truth, he sees your strained smile and your tired eyes, your head heavy from the burdens of that metaphorical crown thrusted upon you when you chose to be his. such a sight does not befit you. no, he much prefers those rare instances where you rest your head on his shoulder; a genuine smile on your lips as you intertwine your fingers with him, wholly at ease.

if sunday could be forever... then you too would forever be at ease.

[moron-rights]

end cards please, an epilogue, please, I’m begging

[moeblob]

Shockingly I named some OCs recently and fleshed out the deity lore a bit for my "guess i'll marry the demon lord?" plot.

Solei has existed since near the start but Mehra and Valdas are new to the concept and all three? Petty. They're technically the Trio of Peace cause that's kinda their goal and duty to their world but really, Trio of Pettiness is suitable as well.

[girlcowboy]

is this a safe space for age gap bob floyd/reader. he's an older man in the military and you're his younger partner, everyone thinks you're a younger relative, maybe someone on base's adult kid, but then bob has to admit, all flustered, that you're his partner, actually.

bob whose a little guilty about it but likes it too much to be turned off by it. in fact he's very into it.

"haha you were in high school before i was even born" HARD. INSTANTLY. give the poor man a break will you? calling him an old man, gramps, etc before he narrows his eyes at you and shows you who exactly you're calling an old man

(and yes. daddy kink comes included)

[mothercetrion]

Johnny & Kenshi's "Relationship" in MK1

Well before MK1 was released, Ed Boon had this to say about Kenshi (and Johnny) and their roles in the story:

I was incredibly interested in this "relationship" from that moment and really hoped that it would pay off like he said. I think it has done so tenfold, and I wanted to compile their moments throughout the story together and go through their relationship arc, moment by moment, chapter by chapter, for everyone to enjoy.

This post contains spoilers for both Kenshi and Johnny's roles in MK1, as well as major plot points of the story itself. You have been warned!

To start, if you want to watch a compilation of their moments, you can watch this YouTube video by MKIceAndFire, which includes everything discussed in this post up to Chapter 7. 

Chapter 2: Their First Meeting 

The climax of Chapter 2 is the back-to-back events of Johnny’s wife, Cristina, leaving him, and Kenshi entering soon after. Kenshi is here on a mission: retrieve Sento from Johnny, no matter the cost. They fight, and Johnny wins. It’s here that they introduce themselves properly (or Kenshi introducing himself to Johnny), and Johnny learns more about his motives and why he needs Sento so badly. He does so to save his family, the Taira clan, from the Yakuza, which they joined for protection after the Siege of Aomori, according to Johnny. 

Soon after, Liu Kang, Bi-Han, and Kuai Liang arrive, where Johnny thinks that the trio is a part of Kenshi’s retrieval mission. After Johnny and Bi-Han fight, Liu Kang tells both Johnny and Kenshi about their new role as Earthrealm’s champions. Johnny openly questions Kenshi’s inclusion, still hardly believing his story about being part of the Taira clan. The chapter ends here. 

We know from here that Kenshi and Johnny openly do not trust one another and likely hate one another. For Kenshi, Johnny is the one thing in the way of his goal of saving the Taira clan from the Yakuza. When arguing with his wife, Johnny reveals that he paid 3 million dollars for Sento; considering that their impending divorce is over money, it makes sense that he is not willing to just give it to some stranger. 

Chapter 3: Bickering 

Johnny and Kenshi do not have many scenes in Chapter 3, with most of its focus being on Raiden, but the few scenes they have show us a lot about the state of their relationship. The four Earthrealm champions—Johnny, Kenshi, Kung Lao, and Raiden—discuss their circumstances and their training with the monks. Johnny expresses his desire to see Outworld to do research for the movie franchise that he hopes to make; according to him, they’ve been “cooped up” training for months. Kenshi sarcastically calls him selfless, and Johnny states that he’s only there to get Sento back, indirectly stating that they’re both only training for selfish reasons. Johnny also harshly calls him “Tattoo” as a nickname, not even using his last name as Kenshi does for him. 

When Johnny is defeated by Raiden in the mini-tournament set up by Liu Kang, the two glare at one another while Johnny exits the fight and Kenshi enters. The scene is adorned with dramatic music (relating to the tournament at hand) and a slow-motion shot of their expressions. The choices here are likely to emphasize the disdain they have for one another and the insane amount of tension they have between them. 

That night, before Raiden and Kung Lao fight, Johnny attempts to bet on Lao’s potential victory. Kenshi is open to a bet, but only if Johnny puts Sento up for grabs. Johnny laughs and says, “Not on your life,” revealing that he has not budged on his desire to keep Sento after all this time. 

They have a brief scene when the group leaves for Outworld where Johnny starts filming Kenshi. Kenshi turns with an annoying expression and knocks his phone out of his hand, much to Johnny’s shock. This scene is the last they have in this chapter that has any real significance, minus standing by one another. 

The few scenes they have in this chapter show that their relationship has not improved since they met a few months prior, even after spending every day together; if anything, it has gotten worse and more openly hostile. They judge one another’s reasons for being champions for Earthrealm and still do not respect one another. 

Chapter 4: More Fighting & Kenshi’s Blinding 

We play as Kenshi for the duration of this chapter. The two of them, alongside Kung Lao, are tasked with finding Shang Tsung for Liu Kang to question. Kenshi openly questions Johnny's inclusion on the mission and openly states that he would prefer Raiden to go along with them instead of “this one,” making it known that he does not value Johnny as a fighter or a teammate. Johnny protests and insists that he’s up to the job of finding Shang Tsung. Before they depart, they glare at one another once more. 

When out in the Outworld desert, Kenshi and Johnny begin to bicker once more. Johnny brings up the 3 million dollars needed to buy Sento and tells Kenshi that he would likely have Sento back in his possession if he were still with the Yakuza. Kenshi turns around quickly to yell at Johnny about the corruption that the Yakuza spreads and his desire to get his clan out, all while shining his flashlight on Johnny’s face.

After meeting Baraka and ending up in Shang Tsung’s laboratory, the three of them ambush Rain, Tanya, and Shang Tsung in an effort to save Mileena from what they believe is a Tarkat infection. Johnny makes the “get away from her, you bitch” reference that it feels like everyone has seen, much to Kenshi and Lao’s visible confusion. 

Kenshi defeats both Tanya and Rain in battle, and he briefly speaks to Mileena before her illness makes itself known. It is here that Kenshi does something he’s not done all of the story: he calls Johnny by his first name instead of just “Cage.” He asks for a hand in fighting Mileena, and Johnny hurries over to help. Johnny asks about a plan, and Kenshi states that the only real plan is to not hurt her. Johnny is visibly shocked and says that he’s more worried about “us” getting hurt than Mileena. 

They fight Mileena, and Kenshi and Johnny win. Kenshi asks Johnny and Lao (again calling Johnny by his first name) to hold Mileena down so Shang Tsung can administer the serum needed to subdue her Tarkat symptoms. They do so briefly, and she eventually knocks Lao away and goes to bite Johnny’s face. Instead, Kenshi comes from behind, grabs Mileena by the straps of her outfit on her shoulders, and pulls her away, saving the life of someone that until just minutes before, he has been shown to hate. 

Then Mileena shoves Kenshi away just long enough to grab a pair of sai from a nearby table and gouge Kenshi’s eyes out. His blood sprays, and Johnny is hit in the face with the splatter. In the horror of the aftermath, he yells Kenshi’s first name for the first time, nothing short of terrified and worried. The chapter ends soon after this. 

This chapter is the official shift in their relationship. This chapter is when both characters finally refer to one another by their first names, though it is all we see of any sort of genuine appreciation of one another. Kenshi calls Johnny by his name in the midst of immediate danger; he needs Johnny’s help, and he’s visibly frightened in the scene itself. Johnny calls Kenshi by his name in the aftermath of the danger, when he just saw someone that he’s known for months lose his eyes in the most vicious way possible (and gets hit with his blood in the process). The shift is not seen until later chapters, but Kenshi going blind while saving Johnny’s life is the catalyst for the change. 

Chapters 5 & 6: New Bonds

In Shang Tsung’s laboratory, the first thing Johnny does when he wakes up is check on Kenshi. He says his first name again, asks him about his pain, and states that he will not forget that Kenshi saved his life for the price of his eyes. 

Johnny himself is the one to give Kenshi his blindfold, torn from his own armor and placed over Kenshi’s eyes with his own hands. He is the one to give him the medicine and relieve him of some of the discomfort from his blinding in his own way. Johnny is the one who adds to Kenshi’s iconic character design; it’s forever associated with him and his kindness. 

When they’re finally able to escape the laboratory, Kenshi asks Johnny and Lao to leave him behind. Johnny refuses and wants to save Kenshi’s life. Kenshi tells Johnny that he is “useless” and that their lives do not need to be risked to save him. (He once again calls Johnny by his last name here, instead of calling him “Johnny” like he did hours before.) Johnny insists that the Taira needs him, and they’re going to get him back home and get him help. 

They walk through the Living Forest together near the back of the group; Johnny is the one who guides Kenshi around. Johnny continues to look back at Kenshi as they’re walking around to make sure he does not trip or stumble. He makes a remark about a movie he did that Kenshi reveals that he has seen before. Johnny comments on how difficult the scene was to shoot, but he is proud of the outcome. Kenshi says that he can “picture it exactly” and smiles for the first time since his blinding, a strong contrast to his earlier depressed state. 

They continue until they meet Ashrah and debate whether or not to hunt Quan Chi. When Kenshi steps forward to go, Johnny firmly tells him no, citing that they need to get him home. He’s visibly annoyed and perhaps even frustrated when Kenshi insists that they need to find Quan Chi to find Shang Tsung. In the end, Johnny is the only one opposed to continuing their mission. 

The penultimate moment of their development is the scene at the end of the chapter in which Sento is returned to Kenshi. Kenshi tries to fight Quan Chi, and Johnny is quick to tell him no, stating that Kenshi will trip up the others. He then asks Kenshi for his sword, and Kenshi hesitantly agrees. Johnny does what was previously established as impossible and gives Sento back to Kenshi. Kenshi is stunned, and then he tries to reject Sento. The one thing he has wanted for all this time, the singular reason that he hates Johnny in the first place, he tries to reject it. Johnny insists that it’s Kenshi’s now because he saved Johnny’s life. “It’s yours,” he says, and he means it. 

Chapter 6 largely focuses on the fight between the group and Quan Chi, but it’s the chapter in which Kenshi’s sight is “restored” with the help of his ancestors. After a fight with Ermac, Sento is imbued with the souls of Kenshi’s ancestors, who promise to help him. He is then able to sense his surroundings in a new form of sight, allowing him to fight as he did before. He also discovers his telekinesis soon after. 

Johnny and Kenshi have a brief exchange about Sento after this. Johnny jokes that he severely underpaid for Sento when he bought it and asks if Kenshi knew what it could do, which he did not. Johnny tells Kenshi not to forget who gave him the sword; Kenshi promises that he will not. They go back to calling one another by their last names, but instead of earlier in the story, when they were distant from one another and not friends, the use of last names here almost feels…kinder. Maybe even affectionate? Like calling a friend by their last name instead of someone that you dislike. 

These chapters are what solidify their bond. It starts with Johnny’s worry and concern over Kenshi’s well-being and safety, something that continues through the rest of the chapter. He checks on him in the dungeon, he is the one to give Kenshi medicine when he knows he’s in pain, and he motivates Kenshi to continue living when they leave the dungeon (and makes it known that he will help him however he can once they get him home). He makes it known that he’s willing to give up on Liu Kang’s mission, something that could potentially save Earthrealm, for Kenshi to be safe after losing his eyes. It’s one of the first things that Johnny clearly takes seriously. Until this point, he makes jokes about almost everything, but when it comes to Kenshi going home, he’s all serious and makes his opinion on the matter known. 

Their conflict regarding Sento is also resolved here. Just hours before this chapter, Johnny brings up the 3 million dollars he paid for it and his unwillingness to part with Sento unless Kenshi gives him the money. However, after Kenshi saves his life, Johnny gives it to him to potentially repay a debt. Kenshi essentially traded his eyes for Johnny’s life, and Johnny recognizes the importance of such a sacrifice. To him, giving him Sento is likely only the beginning of what he does to repay him for what he did. 

Their value in Sento differs greatly. Kenshi wants Sento because of the value it has to his family and their well-being. While Johnny seems to appreciate Sento’s history, the sword is still something with monetary value and something that helps Johnny “project” a celebrity image to fans. He is his possessions; he is what he spends money on. But Kenshi’s blinding makes him realize, in the worst way possible, that some things are more important than money. 

These chapters (4, 5, and 6) also show Johnny and Kenshi saving one another’s lives. Kenshi physically saves Johnny from Mileena in the laboratory by pulling her off of him before she can bite his face off. Johnny emotionally saves Kenshi when he’s at a low point following his blinding; he is the one to motivate Kenshi when he calls himself useless and asks the others to leave him behind, even if it means certain death. Johnny also helps save the Taira clan by willingly giving up Sento, something that he knows means a great deal to Kenshi and the rest of his family. 

Chapter 15: A New Arc in Their Lives 

The pair make a lengthy absence until the later chapters of the game, and they are not seen together again until the final scene of the final chapter when they are eating at Madam Bo’s restaurant. They’re sitting together on the same side of the table while Johnny talks about the location of his movie. He turns to Kenshi with a smirk when he laughs, and Kenshi assumes that Johnny will be the star of his franchise, as he always seems to be. 

Johnny then asks Kenshi to be in a movie, stating that no actor can do things quite like Kenshi. Kenshi openly admits that he would love to, but his work with the Taira keeps him busy. (However, we see in Johnny’s ending that he still involves himself in the movie-making process.) 

Liu Kang moves to leave for Outworld, and Johnny stops him to thank him for bringing them on as Earthrealm’s champions. He quickly glances at Kenshi before stating that joining him has truly changed the arcs of their lives, just like Liu Kang said it would. 

This final scene with them is just the beginning of those new arcs. Compared to their first meeting, Johnny and Kenshi have found a new respect for one another and a bond forged in a shared adventure and what looks like conflicting goals. By this chapter, they have undergone an entire arc of their own, and their lives are changed by one another as a result. 

Their new arc is only beginning.

[ivanscarf]

are reqs still open? how about nyo korea and nyo jp?

i got a bit carried away i hope u like!!!!! they’re so cute i. need to draw more nyo

[caitlynmeow]

Bela and Cassandra Dimitrescu enjoying some time alone before the Christmas party starts.

[sonknuxadow]

transmasc sonic and trans metal sonic who Isnt transmasc coexisting is really funny to me. especially if you believe that sonic came out as trans Before metal sonic was created. which would imply that eggman was intentionally trying to avoid misgendering sonic while making an evil robot copy of him but metal sonic inherently has extremely high levels of transgender swag due to being based on sonic and all that had to go SOMEWHERE so it manifests in the form of them being trans in a completely different direction . such a beautiful world we live in

[dallasgallant]

I never realized it before until recently but it’s so crazy how much and how often ponyboy babies johnny in the book….. always talking about him being the pet of the group (which is true but he really does talk about him like he was a dog or a cat like chill out girl 😭), how much hero worship he has for everyone around him, his stature and soft spoken-ness, pony really seems to preserve him by making him seem like 10 years old even though he describes many situations in which johnny is taking care of him especially in windrixville like staying awake for him on the train letting him sleep on him, his own jacket as a blanket when he goes to buy them food, etc lol I hope you get what I mean I don’t have the book with me rn so I can’t really give off exact examples off the top of my head but—

also maybe that’s why people are often soooo turned off by the concept of J and D being a ship because of how PB describes him, I’ve seen people think that J was the same age or younger than him and so they think of a big brother/little brother dynamic for jally when they actually seem more on equal ground than pony and dally (who in a kind of mentor/mentee relationship) and even pony and johnny (who I’d say are in more of a brother relationship… controversial opinion I know but I’m sticking with it!) in fact I’d say they’re the Most on equal ground in the whole story even more than soda and darry…. but I’ll let you guys figure that out on your own… even though JD only have a 1.5 age difference

okayyyyy so I definitely didn’t mean to make this about the ship dynamics of the book but I guess I can’t not be gay for five fucking minutes 😭😭😭 but it’s relevant to the point !!! idk I just felt like rambling to someone about it because pony really does talk about him like he’s so little and I think that really muddles the perception of johnny even though he’s trying to honor his memory because of the delicate ways he’s trying to protect him after he died :(

johnny cade they will never make me hate you </3

Oh yeah, I definitely think a lot of it is Pony’s recognition of himself as the youngest, as a “baby” and sort of projecting it off onto someone else. However, we know the gang doesn’t just see pony as “the kid brother” so it’s sort of his own issue to work out- as well as I think a bit of a lack of understanding? Or lack of a way to properly explain the way the gang treats Johnny, they take it a little easy on him as he’d been shaken pretty bad (they wouldn’t known/use ‘traumatized’ but they would know he changed a little) but they never really talk down to him.

No but yes I agree! Pony sort of washes over a lot of senecios where Johnny is clearly the older/more mature of the two of them. He’s the second youngest but he’s still 16. He’s still protecting and helping Pony like the rest of the guys and the whole “my fault for dragging a 13 year old kid along” detail…

No you’re right honestly. It’s weird to me as Johnny’s described as soft and close to Ponyboy but he never came across as 14 or that young to me in the book or movie— like there was always that knowledge to him that revealed his age. And I agree… he and Dally are on equal footing and trust. They have something going on whatever way you interpret it…. Personally I find “little brother” INSANE. As where people baby Johnny they over age Dallas… he’s 17 it’s a years age difference. If a friend barely older than me tried to pull that I’d throat punch them 😭 it’s ? They’re trying to make it cute but it feels a little demeaning? Putting the “little” in there. Dal doesn’t talk down to Johnny… honestly he talks up to him, gets mad expecting him to know better etc — trusts him with the gun, money etc everything and taking responsibility.

But no that’s also so sweet that in a way, even if Pony is being a bit off in how Johnny was treated that he’s trying to sort of protect him within his story. Honor him in a strange way. Ough. He was his best friend, you’d want to sweeten that image. Absolve.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

because I love a slightly annoying supernatural entity - AU where Simon is being actually haunted. Reader gets caught up in a mission gone wrong and dies horribly after Simon fails to save them.

At first, he just thinks he's drank too much when a semi transparent, bloodied reader appears before him. They're angry of course, blame him for getting them involved, getting them killed. All their wounds are visible, perpetually stuck as they were the moment of death. A gash across the belly, one arm holding on by a few ligaments, soaked head to toe in red blood. They can't leave more than a few meters away, Simon can't figure out how to send them off to the next plane.

They're stuck. Reader adjusts, following Simon around (and leaving bloodied footprints only he can see), asking questions about his job and life. They start to care about each other in their own weird haunter/hauntee way.

"You can't talk to me in front of others. They'll think I'm crazy."

"How do you know you're not already crazy? You're the only one who can see me."

"Piss off and shut up."

Reader follows him on missions, the eyes in the back of his head. The first time they ever manipulate something in the physical world is when they shove the barrel of a gun away from Simon.

"I don't know what'll happen to me if you die. I don't want to die again."

[zolo-san]

How can a boy (or a girl) win Zoros heart? 💋👀

So I think for Zoro, things that are important/attractive to him are all based on the persons personality

I think the person has to have a certain level of confidence and a drive to better themselves/have something that truly drives them This is something that he looks for and tries to encourage in his friends and allies as well I truly think that he joins Luffy mostly because he sees him as someone with a lot of confidence and a drive towards his goal We also see him take pretty quickly to Sanji, someone who on the surface (I have opinions on this that I'm not gonna get into here) seems very confident, and has a clear goal that he's working towards (I could write a whole other post on how I feel that Zoro originally trusted Sanji just based on the fact that Luffy trusted him and he trusts Luffy's judgment, but after fighting along side Sanji at Arlong Park, he actually got to know the type of man Sanji is and that's when he officially decided he liked him) We also see Zoro's tendency to encourage confidence and improvement in allies with his behavior towards Tashigi When Tashigi fist challenges Zoro, he doesn't back down, but fights her despite the fact that he definitely knows that he is leagues above her in skill - but who is he to squash that type of confidence and determination? Later in Punk Hazard we see him try to push her towards success again when he refuses to help her fight Monet even though he (and Tashigi for that matter) knows that he could end that fight 10x quicker than Tashigi can But he doesn't help because he wants Tashigi to do it herself He wants her to have the confidence that she can do it and to grow in skill to match that confidence (I think that this scene with Tashigi in Punk Hazard says a lot about Zoro's character tbh)

Another thing that I think is incredibly important to Zoro and would be something that he would look for in a partner is compassion and loyalty We continuously see Zoro take the time to be kind and compassionate towards other people despite being perceived as someone who is cold and violent by those who don't know him He himself is also an extremely loyal friend and one would assume he's be a loyal partner (who are we kidding this man would literally kill for his partner or die trying), so I think that type of loyalty would also be something that he would look for in a relationship

Something that I'd like to mention, however, is that I think that Zoro is also the type of person who would hate/never want to be saved idk, I just think that he's the one who prefers to help and save others (he's truly a protector at heart), but the idea of not being able to save himself or the potential of someone else getting hurt (or killed) trying to save him is something he can't stand I think this aspect of his character is best highlighted in Thriller Bark and Sabaody We quite literally see Zoro try to sacrifice himself and refuse to let Sanji "save him" during Thriller Bark (this is another topic I could on about forever: Zoro being afraid of loosing people, especially if he feels he wasn't able to do anything to help them, and Sanji being afraid of people leaving him and being more willing to die than let that happen) And then again, we see Zoro get frustrated and struggle to try to hold his own during their fight on Sabaody, not wanting to be "saved" by any of his friends to the point that he could have easily died Anyways...that's a bit of a side tangent but I think it is relevant to Zoro and relationships in general (also what is me answering these asks if not an excuse to force you all to read me stream of consciousness about these characters lol)

The last thing I want to add about Zoro and romantic relationships is that I think he would very much be the type of person who prefers subtly and private moments over big gestures and pda It's a canon fact that Zoro is a bit shy (owo 👉👈) and so he's probably not prone to large, loud displays of affection (we do see evidence in the small, quiet ways he shows he care for his crew mates) In a way, I think Zoro is a bit like a stereotypical Japanese man in that he's not likely to be overly forward about his emotions and would almost never speak them out loud in any direct way I think he shows affection mostly through actions (tho I have a hc that Zoro also just says the most poetic shit out of nowhere without even really realizing or thinking about it lol)

idk if that's what you were looking for anon, but it's what you got lol~

I'd also like to note that I do hc Zoro as both Gay and Demisexual So obviously that influences a lot of my views on him and romantic relationships especially the fact that I don't think that Zoro is ever looking for a relationship In fact, I think he has no interest in a relationship and doesn't give it much thought, but once he catches feelings it's like getting slapped in the face and he's just like "WTF is that allowed??????"

[a-major-love]

Pet Names Maestro Would Call You -

darling / lovely / dear / beautiful / beloved / my angel / sweetheart / my love / precious / dearest / my heart / lover / pet / handsome / dove / my lady