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fushitoru · 3 months ago

Text

worth the wait a nerdjo fic

pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.

warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork

a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!

general masterlist

You blink at your paper.

98.

You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away.

2+2=5.

You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake.

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt.

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo.

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board.

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that.

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool.

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps.

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves.

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense.

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching.

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all.

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want, he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly.

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots!

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sbcdh · 4 months ago

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I believe the English phrase is “odd duck.” Yes. Jan Kargad was an Odd Duck. He was born in 1922, right after Georgia joined the Soviet Union, in a commune outside of Batumi. But this was not a normal commune no. His parents were strange people. A small group of Dutch fuckers, very protestant people, started a winery in the countryside where they could read their bibles. You would think they did not get along with the Marxists, but you would be wrong. They loved work. The bible loved work. There was no problem.

Well, that is not entirely true. Jan was a bit of a problem. He was born with a “weak constitution.” We do not know what that meant exactly, but farmwork would give him seizures and very high fevers. He was not a good child for farm work. So, they taught him arithmetic. Young Jan was in charge of counting grapes and bottles of wine and so on. Maybe the Apparatchik did not mind a child doing all the counting, maybe he was bribed, maybe he did not give a shit. I do not know. But Jan was in charge of all the counting and, what is the fucking word- logistics. Yes. Logistics. And he was very good at logistics.

There are theories as to his upbringing yes. Studying the bible alongside Marx and Lenin and so on. But I do not believe this. In Chechnya in those days many studied the bible and Marx like Jan Kargad, but we did not become like Jan Kargad. I think perhaps it was the fevers. One sees things with a fever when it is bad enough, yes.

Kargad also studied the capitalists. He was very good at this. He read Adam Smith, but also Issac Newton, the South Seas bubble, and most famously the Tulip Panic. They say his journals were filled with pressed tulips. He was a bit of a, what is the fucking English word- pervert. A pervert for organizing things and numbers and so on. Jan Kargad loves logistics like a man loves his wife, and tulips are a symbol of this for him. They became a microcosm for him. You see how the bud unfolds into many petals, its is very similar to how capitalism unfurls into its many aspects in the world. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

One day, after all of his schooling, Kargad has a terrible fever, more terrible than any fever he has ever had. This is in the early 1940s some time. After this fever he becomes strange. Well, stranger than he already was. He speaks of men with golden dog masks, their necks chained to the sun, tulips growing from their eyes, all of that shit. He never goes outside again. He becomes fearful of the sun. He does not let it touch his skin.

He writes intensely for the next three years. I have seen his original notebooks and they are stained with sweat. This man is not well, but he writes. He does not get help, because he is very good at analyzing agricultural output. I believe it grounded him some how, to spend days without sleep, reading spreadsheets about grapes and wheat and so on.

He is no longer christian. He throws out all of the crosses in his home, and replaces them with grape-cutters. They are similar to a sickle, but with a long handle, for reaching up and cutting off high bunches of grapes. He becomes obsessed with this idea of the grape cutter, and he begins to paint. And this is where many first learn of him. He influences a group of artists who become famous in the southern soviet union, though they are occasionally derided as being “mystical.” I personally? I love the drawings. Many figures reaching up to pluck grapes from the sun. It becomes the central theme of his work.

Here people discover his strange writings. But first he is considered a strange mystic. His early writings are still very christian yes, and this influences how he is read in the west. Many think he is speaking of hyper-economics or whatever fetishistic bull shit the americans are calling it. But I do not think so. His work is very soviet. There are stories yes, of good soviet men drinking coffee and loving spreadsheets like a man loves his wife, and in this they become a little bit like Jan Kargad. They are –you do not have an English term for this– cutting grapes from the sun. But this is not a serious phrase you understand. These men are perverts.

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wri0thesley · 1 year ago

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let me see - arlecchino x fem!reader (3.8k)

you work as a tutor at the house of the hearth; but the father of the children you teach seems to haunt your thoughts.

cw: not sfw, fem reader. employer-employed dynamics, reader calls arlecchino 'sir', chubby reader, reader is inexperienced. arlecchino calls reader 'good girl' and 'darling'. guided masturbation.

You see your employer only rarely, but that does not mean that you do not think about her often.

It’s in the way that the children - your students, the ones you have been engaged to teach basic arithmetic and reading and as much history as you can squeeze in - speak of their ‘Father’. The look of wonder and devotion and just a touch of intimidation that comes over them, even as they chatter to you about the next time she is coming home and what they plan to do to welcome her. It’s in your salaries; perfectly paid, on time, with extra money left in an envelope and a note in beautiful, sharp handwriting mentioning your students by name and how well they’re progressing.

And, of course, it is in the times you see her - for you do not think anybody could see Arlecchino and not think about her regularly for the rest of their life.

She makes you nervous. There is something about her commanding presence; her lovely marble face, the strangely striking appearance of her eyes, the self-assured way that she stands. You think her beautiful, of course - but you have always had trouble around beautiful people, and so you find yourself stumbling over your words, your cheeks burning hot, coming far too close to making a fool out of yourself whilst she keeps a small, polite smile on her face as she watches you falter.

You worry, sometimes, she knows that you find her at once intimidating and irresistible - that something about the way you hold yourself will give away that you have wondered what her nails would feel like, digging into the soft skin of your throat as she tipped your chin upwards - or that you have wondered what it would feel like to have her corner you like a trapped rabbit and have her way with you--

But they are just daydreams. The truth is that you are as green as they come; you had gone to Sumeru’s Akademiya, a child who could not stop devouring books, who was obsessed with learning - and you had returned back to your native Fontaine to teach, and had no time in between that to pursue romantic relationships. The sum total of your romantic experience is a hurried kiss with another student, another beautiful older woman, who had pulled back and laughed at you, touching your cheek gently.

“Aren’t you adorable?” She’d asked you, in a low, sleepy voice with her eyes half-lidded. “Maybe a bit too adorable for just right now. Come find me again if you’re ever in Mondstadt.”

So . . . your fantasies about Arlecchino are just that. Simple fantasies. You have other things to attend to, after all! You care about the children whose education has been entrusted to you - even those who have now grown too old to need your guidance, who you watch flower and blossom and strike out from the House of the Hearth. Even if they stray beyond the nation you live in, though . . . they always seem to come back, to pay their respects to Father.

But it doesn’t stop the fact that sometimes she looks at you, when your paths crossed, with her head tilted just slightly to one side, and you feel like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. She always makes you feel strangely exposed; you keep up with fashion, because you enjoy it, but something about the fripperies of your gowns and skirts and blouses and the ribbons and the carefully chosen accessories in front of Arlecchino make you feel as though she is stripping you down in her mind, so perfectly poised and tailored. So you drop books in front of her. Your sentences get tangled together. You go hot all over and look at the floor--

But still she employs you, and still you hurry home at night and try to ignore the pounding in your chest and the way your breath goes short at the sight of her. Your paths cross only occasionally, you tell yourself. Next time you will be prepared.

But you are not prepared, the day that Arlecchino meets you in the hallway (your arms full of books and the work of the children that you intend to look over that night), running late with your hair ribbons askew and your dress crooked and she looks at you and says, in a voice that brokers no argument;

“Won’t you stay a little longer and have afternoon tea with me?”

“Do I make you nervous?” The red crosses in her eyes bore into you as she pours you a steaming cup of tea into a delicate teacup. You sit primly, your hands folded in your lap, your feet together, feeling entirely too exposed alone in this room with her. “You shake like a leaf whenever I speak to you.”

You wet your lips awkwardly, your throat dry, as you reach out for the teacup. You notice your hands are shaking and try to stop them, but she leans forward herself and places one of her hands over yours, steadying you. You stare up at her, eyes wide, whilst she looks down at you with something calculating and predatory in her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice very soft. You can feel your cheeks going hot against your will, and you wonder what you must look like to her - because you feel like a rabbit who is about to be pounced on by a wolf. Arlecchino slowly and purposely guides your hand back down, to put the teacup back on the saucer, and you begin to get the strangest impression that her invitation for ‘afternoon tea’ was actually an invitation for something entirely different. Her hand comes back up, and one of your idle questions is given an answer as you feel her sharp nails dig into the soft skin under your chin, tipping it up as she leans in closer. Close enough that she could kiss you, if she wanted - close enough you can smell the scent of Rainbow Roses and smoke that lingers on her clothes.

“Oh,” says Arlecchino, and she smiles at you and something about the smile makes you go hot and cold all over all at once. “Don’t be. It’s terribly cute.”

You don’t know how you end up sprawled out over her lap, your thighs hooked over the arms of her chair, as she takes control of you - but before you know it, that is the position you have found yourself in. Her hands roam slowly all over you, savouring the feel of your skin - soft and warm, generously curved - beneath her long, elegant fingers.

“These ribbons drove me to distraction today,” she murmurs against your ear, as you melt helplessly against her and she tugs at a brightly coloured red ribbon that trims your blouse. “I kept thinking about tying it around your pretty wrists instead.”

“M-Miss Arlecchino--”

She clicks her tongue at you in admonishment, running her thumb over the seam of your lips.

“Call me ‘Sir’, darling.” You practically fall over yourself to rectify your mistake, your tongue messy and heavy in your mouth, and you win a little chuckle from the woman who has you at her mercy. “You’re just so eager to please, aren’t you? What a good, obedient little thing.”

“Please--” You whisper breathlessly, as she tugs at the ribbon completely and the throat of your blouse falls open. Her nails scratch a slow line over your neck, almost like a threat, and you shiver again helplessly under the touch.

“Please what?” She murmurs against the shell of your ear. “You know, I did employ you as a tutor . . . for an academic, you’re rather inarticulate.” One button of your blouse, torturously slowly. The next, and she smiles against your bare skin to see the way your chest is rabbiting. “One would think you’d never been touched like this before.”

She knows.

There’s an edge to the way she says that, a note that’s teasing and suggestive, and it tears from your throat a little whimper of embarrassment that, in turn, makes her let out a sigh of satisfaction.

“My, my,” Arlecchino says to you - two more buttons, and your blouse is barely fastened. You’re inordinately glad you wore pretty underwear today, though you suppose it must look rather fussy to Arlecchino. “Have you not, sweetheart?”

“Sir,” you whine out, feeling tears spring to your eyes at the humiliation of the whole thing. Despite the humiliation, though, heat spirals out from between your thighs - your matching fancy underwear, you know, is soaked through. “Please-- it’s embarrassing--”

The final button, and Arlecchino’s fingers are running over bare skin now. The pudge of your stomach, the curve of your chest through the ruched cups of your brassiere.

“Say it,” she says to you, her voice sharp in the command. She circles a finger over your nipple through the lace and chiffon and you squirm in her lap at the sensation of the bud puckering and hardening. “If you want me to touch you, you understand, you have to at least have the confidence to tell me the truth. Or I’ll just send you home without your blouse and with your poor little aching cunt untouched, hmm?”

“Sir--!”

She grabs your cheeks between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the roundness of them roughly. The Father of the House of the Hearth, after all, is not one to be intimidated by whining or begging. She has plenty of experience dealing with brats. Her fingers still as she waits for you to do as she asks, and you squeeze your eyes shut and hiccup out a sob of longing.

“I--I’ve never . . . had anyone else touch me . . . l-like this--”

She lets out a pleased purr in the back of her throat.

“There,” she soothes. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Good girl.” She drops a kiss on the side of your forehead like a reward, her hands sliding over your body to find the catch of your brassiere. There’s a brief tussle of movement as she ensures you are shed of both your blouse and your underwear, and then you’re once more on her lap, your entire top half bared, only your skirts and stockings and underwear still on. “And if I’m honest . . .” She moves back to your ear, pressing a kiss on your jawline beneath the earlobe. “I rather like getting my claws in someone before they can learn any bad habits. I, too, am an excellent teacher.”

She takes a firm hold of you, pulling you even closer to her so that her hands can each take a palmful of your breasts. You feel exposed before her; the rolls of your stomach, the way that your chest sags into her grip, but Arlecchino does not seem to care about these things - instead she just sighs like you’re a fine wine she’s sampling, palming and squeezing the heavy weight of them.

“You’re such a pretty thing beneath the flounces,” she says to you, plucking idly at your nipples between thumb and forefinger - the movement sends hot lightning flashes of pleasure right down to the space between your legs. “If I were in charge, I think I’d leave you naked in my bed. Much more practical like that, don’t you agree?”

“I--”

“What about kisses?” She asks you, not letting you say anything. Your head is spinning pleasantly, and you cannot say that you are annoyed she’s stopping you from making a fool of yourself. “Are you as unversed in those, too?”

“I--I’ve kissed . . . someone--”

“Just one?” She laughs, a not unkind noise. “Oh, just the one kiss, I see. Poor thing, your cheeks are like Pyro slimes. Come here. Let me show you how to kiss someone properly, hmm?”

Arlecchino pulls you into a kiss that is so unlike the one you once had that to call them both by the same name seems a great disservice. There is no other way to describe it; she claims you, her mouth like a conquering king, your own the battlefield. Her teeth tug at your lower lip and you are helpless to do anything but open your mouth, let her tongue sweep over yours. She tastes like fire and tea, some of the little cakes she had offered to you - and you whine helplessly, clutching at her slacks because there’s nothing else you can reach in the position she has you in.

She lets go of your face with a satisfied sigh, and your head lolls back against her shoulder as she delicately wipes a smudge of her lipstick from the corner of your mouth.

“Let’s get this off you,” she says, tugging at the frills of your skirt. “Let me see you, darling.”

You’re only too eager to assist, embarrassed but needy, wanting but nervous. The fastenings at your waistband are unhooked, and then she is carelessly sliding it off of you until you are back before her in nothing but your underwear and your stockings, digging into the fullness of your thighs. For a moment, you are embarrassed again of your softness - but Arlecchino grabs your hips, pulling you back bodily onto her, and you realise from the possessiveness of her movements that she does not see it for a moment as something to be ashamed of.

Arlecchino’s hands are hungry as she squeezes at the softness of your thighs, as her palms sear hot across your stomach, as her fingers drift towards the gusset of your underwear. Her touch is feather-light, there, but you keen even so - terribly aware of every movement, even the smallest brush of her fingers. Arlecchino clicks her tongue against your ear again.

“So sensitive,” she whispers. “I’m afraid I might hurt you, and I’m afraid I’d very much like it. Why don’t you show me how you touch yourself?”

Your breath gets caught in your chest. Her suggestions so far have been, perhaps, embarrassing - have put you at a disadvantage due to your lack of experience. But nothing so far has been quite so brazen. You burn with the unease of it, but Arlecchino is already grabbing your hand, placing it over your soaked underwear.

“Don’t worry about making a mess,” she murmurs into your ear. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. My pants are soaking.”

She seems to enjoy watching you squirm as you whimper again, face hot. But her hand does not move, keeping your own anchored against your underwear until you do as she asks and shyly, nervously, rub at yourself through the sodden fabric just a little.

“Oh, darling,” she breathes, condescension dripping off every syllable. “You’ll never get anywhere like that.” You are inarticulate with your touches, still trembling and shaking at the strangeness of all of this - and you have done this, of course, but never with an audience! Never spread out over someone’s lap as they critique your technique!

“Sir, please--”

“You’re supposed to be a teacher,” she admonishes you. “You’re supposed to know everything, are you not? Have I really got to help you with something so simple as touching yourself?” She’s enjoying it; the sight of you, normally so prim and shy, utterly undone by her every word and action. Her hand moves over yours, holding it, guiding you to press two of your fingers together and circle over your swollen clit through the underwear.

It’s different, with her guiding you. You turn your head to try and bury it against her collar as she continues to mercilessly guide you into circles, sniffling pathetically - but she just coos, just nudges you back so you watch the visual of her hand over yours between your thighs.

“Shall we get your underwear off too?” She phrases it as a question, but it’s not one - she is already peeling off the frilly cotton, inching it down your generous thighs. She laughs a little meanly when she sees just how large the damp, darker patch is, and you think you will cry. Every feeling you have ever had is magnified a thousand fold here, in this incredibly vulnerable position spread over the lap of your employer.

(There are whispers that Arlecchino is even more than that; that there is a secret purpose behind the orphanage you have been employed by. But you do not put much stock in rumours, even when the children look at each other strangely and whisper when they think you cannot hear them. The thought of who you might really be letting touch you . . . You wish it did not stoke a fire in you even hotter and brighter than before).

“There we are,” she murmurs. “Good girl. Look at you. Look how pretty you are.” She deals your sex a short, soft slap - her palm comes away sticky, the noise indecent in the little room she had brought you to for afternoon tea. “I wonder how much prettier you’ll look with three of your fingers stuffed inside of you?”

Another strangled noise from your throat at the easy way she says the filthy things, and Arlecchino merely makes a soft huff of laughter.

“Carry on touching yourself for me,” she says to you. “Let me see.”

It’s an order, and you know that orders from Arlecchino are to be obeyed. Shyly and hesitantly again, you bring your fingers back to your sex. She rests her head against your shoulder, and moves her own hand; uses two of her fingers to make a ‘v’ shape and places them on your sex, using them to spread the plump outer lips aside so that you have better access to your clit and your entrance, still soaking and leaking slick out onto Arlecchino’s lap.

You’re hot and awkward as you touch your clit; as you try and mimic the circles that she had drawn on you earlier - but you are not brave enough to keep at it, and before long you have returned to your own faithful back-and-forth motion on your clit, your hips moving in little thrusts to try and prolong the sensation. You can hear yourself in the charged air; the hot little pants, the whimpers of frustration that none of it feels as good as it did when she was in charge. Arlecchino, though, merely watches you struggle.

You cannot see her face, but you can imagine the look upon it; the barest quirk of the lip, the single raised eyebrow. You carry on as best you can, trying to think of all the things you would usually think of - but it all spirals back to where you are, what is happening, and the fact no fantasy can truly compare.

Her voice is a little thick when she speaks next, and you realise with a strange jolt of pleasure that your inarticulate touching is still having an effect on her. It’s almost unnoticeable - but Arlecchino’s normal tone is so very poised, even the smallest change feels like a blaring siren to you.

“Put two of your fingers inside of you,” she says. And then, as you inexpertly slide two of your fingers inside your channel, she lets out a shuddering breath. You’re wet and tight around yourself, aware that you must look a mess - but Arlecchino’s fingers are sliding between your sex, moving to touch the space on your clit you just vacated, and your entire mind goes blank. “Don’t stop. Let me see you move them.”

You do your best, but Arlecchino’s own movements are just too much. The sensation of her dragging the pads of her fingers over your swollen clit; the way she circles and flourishes and swirls . . . you try, desperately, to keep your fingers in some kind of rhythm as they slide in and out of you, but before you know it you’re using your other hand to clutch at her arm and whimpering as you hump upwards into her touch.

“I ought to stop you,” she tells you, but she doesn’t for a moment stop her ceaseless assault on your clit; the wet, sticky clicking noise of your slick between her fingers. “You’re being a brat.”

“Please, Sir,” you whisper, babbling, “I’m . . . it feels so good--”

“Flatterer,” she murmurs, in that low, hungry voice. “You’re lucky that you look so very pretty like this, and that I am perhaps more soft-hearted than I appear . . .” Tears are running down your cheeks, sniffling, whimpering, helplessly moving your hips in time with her touches. Nothing seems to exist but the feel of Arlecchino’s fingers on your clit and the firm, certain way she touches you. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

The order tips you over the edge. The knot of heat in your belly comes undone and you whine helplessly as you buck into her touch, and you feel a gush of your own slick wet the fingers that are still stuffed inside of you. Your thighs try to clamp shut around the sensation, but the position that Arlecchino has you in with your thighs over the arms of her chair stop you from doing it - and so does she, still working her fingers over your clit through every trembling moment of your orgasm.

You come back down, panting, aware of the wetness between your legs and your nakedness, the stiff points of your nipples and Arlecchino’s fingers on you and the fact that Arlecchino is still dressed exactly as she was when she caught you in the hallway.

She moves her hand, and to your surprise she presses her fingers against your lips, forcing your mouth open.

“Taste yourself,” she tells you, and you are still so in awe of her that you can do nothing but obey - the slightly tangy taste of you lingering on your lips. You’re even more surprised when she uses her other hand to pluck your hand from between your thighs and guides the two fingers that had been inside of you to her own mouth, her tongue hungrily drinking in the wet webs of your slick. “Well. Aren’t you sweet?”

The unprofessionalism of what you’ve just done begins to creep up on you, shame drenching your back. All of those talks about ethics that you’d had at the Akademiya - but Arlecchino takes your head and turns it and gives you another firm kiss, another bite to your lower lip, another conquering that makes you feel weak at the knees. Your own taste lingers in your mouth, but, too, it lingers on her lips, and she seems supremely satisfied as she pulls back.

“I’ll be away on business for the next week,” she tells you. “In Snezhnaya. I’ll bring you something back.”

“Sir--”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she continues. “That little apartment you live in - well, it seems a shame, when we have so many empty rooms, and a live-in tutor would be far more beneficial - don’t you think? The children do adore you, and it seems so very practical.”

It’s a bizarre time to be having a business meeting, with your slick staining her clothes, with your own clothes a crumpled pile, with your position so terribly open and exposed - but all you can do is blink at her, and she smiles at you like a cat who has gotten the cream. She pats your cheek.

“Besides,” she says. “It will give us far more time together. And I do have so much more I’d like to teach you.”

#writing #arlecchino x reader #fem reader #genshin impact posting #im GAY okay!!!!! leave me alone!!!! this is self-indulgent and i dont care!!!!!#not sfw text

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ancientnapdragon · 1 month ago

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First Post | Second Post

My last set of ramblings I left off on a loose cliffhanger... which will stay that way! I kinda wanted to pull apart the Food Peak itself and how it functions/how they actually Cultivate there! It seems like a fun exercise on developing the world this AU takes place in c: Maybe a few ship crumbs in there, but since I DO love to yap, expand that read more at your own risk! Hehe!

Food Cultivation is, on the surface, exactly what it sounds like. You eat stuff and it helps fortify your body, soul, and strengthens your Core! Not just ANYTHING works, though, and it's more than just finding a Chicken Faced Serpent's liver and choking it down.

Food Cultivation is seen as a super easy way to Cultivate, maybe even scorned a little bit, and can be indulged in by people who don't even usually Cultivate that way. But, it's almost impossible to get to a Golden Core stage without a LOT of money or a LOT of knowledge/work. One of those low basis to learn, high skill ceiling sorta things. Usually, the only people outside of Sects who get to that stage are very very wealthy Nobles; and even then, they're not really strong.

Food Cultivators don't need a lot of Qi or natural talent to start cultivating. The techniques that are taught specifically on CQ are all about strict control. You use what Qi you have in a very precise way to make little shields, blades, to enhance certain parts of your body, or occasionally heat or cool things. It's short, controlled bursts. Most of the really good 'talent' goes to the 'higher' Peaks so they've really gotta master what they've been given on the Food Peak.

With Food Cultivation, you can't just eat your way to success even if that's what it might sound like so far. You need to keep your body strong and master various skills before you can even hope to learn to channel Qi into them to improve them. You still need to meditate and put in the elbow grease to get you anywhere worth being.

Food Cultivation expects you to eat a lot of different things. Not everything you eat will help you grow your spirit. Plus, you can only eat the same thing so many times before it doesn't really do anything for you. Spiritual Foods, when eaten on the regular, have diminishing returns. You get a super strong Flower and eat it; the first time is a nice boost, the second time is just ok, the third isn't much, any time after that would be wasted on you, ect ect. The best that eating that flower would do for you after you've got all the 'boosts' is just helping replenish your Qi if you're low. Since you can only eat stuff a few times before it stops boosting you, it becomes sort of like a puzzle. Say you got a Strawberry and it boosted you by '20 Points' (which is probably what the System would tell SY). Then you got a piece of cheese and it boosted you by 20 points. If you cooked them together, you would get-! 15 points total! That's less than just eating them! BUT, if you dipped that Strawberry in Chocolate (20 Points, too), you might get 50 points! More than both! So, you can either eat things as they are or try and experiment and get even more of a benefit! But, you'd also have to think about stuff like cooking techniques, how long until the thing you want to eat goes bad, plus all this other stuff which can make the Boost you get higher or lower. If you just chew through everything that crosses your path, your Cultivation will suffer! You have to plan ahead on top of getting really lucky with the more rare stuff!

On the Peak itself, younger and newer disciples are given basic reading, writing, arithmetic, and basic cooking classes. The cooking classes teach basic skills like how to hold your knives properly and how to care for them, some easy recipes, ect ect! All disciples have, also, their basic Peak upkeep chores like laundry, cleaning, and lots and lots and LOTS of scrubbing.

After you've proven yourself capable enough to not slice your fingers off or set (too many) fires, disciples are expected to head down the mountain into the nearby city and set up what is basically a food kitchen. It's used to help cement basic fundamental skills! After all, you get really good at chopping something up if it's all you do for like 4 hours and slightly under duress. Usually the newer disciples handle the basic prepwork while a few of the more advanced ones will actually cook. This is overseen by a few seniors who make sure everything goes smoothly and who actually hand out the food! (I imagine that the Qian Cao ALSO do something similar nearby, except for healing. They get free food in exchange for helping out any unfortunate accidents!)

As for the more senior disciples, I think they have a few more intensive duties! Other than the Head, there are at least eleven more 'upper' Seniors. Each of these Seniors is the head chef for each of the other Peaks. When you're at a high enough skill to not fuck it up, you get rotated to act as a Chef under these Seniors at each Peak; Each Peak has their own food needs, after all! (Side note: around this time is also when you would be expected to get your Spiritual Sword) For Seniors who aren't the 'Head Peak's Chef', though, there is a secondary duty- but I gotta explain that giant pot of soup I briefly mentioned in the first post.

That Giant Cauldron of Soup is, like, more important to the Food Peak than anything else. It's some special kind of spiritual metal that the OG Founder worked to craft and stands over this massive fire pit that is constantly burning. It's HUGE, with a whole facility like half built over and around it; gotta keep the rain and snow out of the SOUP. I love stuff like Hunter's Stews and stuff like that, so this is basically what this is- this pot of soup has been stirred and tended since the OG Peak Lord first lit it. Part of a senior disciples duties is to keep the soup topped up, tasting good, and filled with stuff to help fortify your Qi.

The Soup is a huge cultural thing on the Peak. You're expected to have a giant bowl of it, with sides, every morning- even the Peak Lord. The stuff in it helps to strengthen the new/weaker disciples as well as fortify anyone older. It's a Qi superfood, even with dimishing returns. It's usually only allowed to be eaten by people on the Food Peak, though; only in emergencies will people off-Peak get any. Even the Sect Leader doesn't have the right to demand any. (SY is going to of course try and sneak some to his fussy boyfriend) Okay, so we got all that, but what about SY's obsession with the recipes that the System keeps teasing him with? Well, part of your study on the Food Peak isn't just learning to cook or even the spiritual food dance- you're training to be become a skilled chef. There is a lot of study to master the recipes from the Food Peak itself, but the disciples are also tasked with learning as much as they can and try to develop their own recipes. The skills overlap; you never know when learning to make the perfect Scrambled Egg will allow you to maximize some weird spiritual ingredient you found.

Other than non-spiritual food and The Soup, disciples are encouraged to do a lot of their Food Cultivation on their own. They are encouraged to go on Night Hunts with other Peaks for the chances to gain stuff for their own Cultivation. The Bai Zhan kids only care if they slayed the beast, so go ahead and grab it's heart for yourself, ect ect. You can, of course, trade stuff around or sell it at your leisure. Whatever will get you more gains! It's seen as either really stupid or flat out courtship to offer someone else your spiritual food you make, especially if you can still make use of it yourself. This is something that will 10000% go RIGHT over SY's head when he starts to offer stuff to SJ. They'll be about 18/19 at that point, so everyone from SY's peak will squint when they realize what he's doing. (Even though I have some Evil Plans for after they all become Peak Lords, I think that SJ would still be really welcome on the Food Peak despite how everyone else looks down on him. Everyone there 'knew' that SY was 'sweet on him' kinda thing. They don't believe that SJ is the reason SY.... hehe :) )

taps chin. okay, i thiiiiink that is enough yapping about that for now? I wanna write up a brief lil thing about how SY would be around the other Future Peak Disciples, as well as how his relationship with SJ will eventually complicate things. I know that SQH would figure out SOMETHING was up with SY when he was suddenly served, like, a blueberry waffle. But that's for another post!!! AS ALWAYS ty for reading my ramblings. I'm very slowly working on getting a more strict outline up and ready for the fic I would really like this to be. I'm a menace to myself and others, so it will be a slow burn and I'm dragging you all down with me. >:)

#scumcum #jiuyuan #svsss #shen jiu #shen yuan #food peak au

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bacchuschucklefuck · 9 months ago

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Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

#dimension 20 #fantasy high #riz gukgak #baron from the baronies #this is set a Long time into the future. riz is like 32 in this one #''I will go to sleep'' so turns out that was a fucking lie #lmao I just needed to finally externalize this idea into Some kind of more final form #initially I aimed for a comic with this but ooughgoughhh I am. indisposed. unable to do that rn #and also I feel like there would just be too fucking much Riz Saying Words in that format for it to work. and I always go if theres so much #words in ur comic might as well make it a fic. and well. heeding my own advice perhaps #just been sitting on this sentiment of like. perceiving romantic relationships as uniquely permanent or conclusive #when the vast majority of people I know would hugely benefit from a divorce lmao #since watching fhjy at least. I think in a sense this is kind of my personal answer for that sticky note style comic I did way back thens #how much of that fear of being deprioritized comes from not being taken care of by the community you're in #I think that's the prettiest answer I can give for riz's deal. not one singular Special Person no matter the kind of flavour #but spaces that he's integrated in. that he has a hand in building even #okay NOW I sleep. everyone be quiet ok small voice for good sleep. it wont be a lie this time I prommy

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dronebiscuitbat · 1 month ago

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Oil is Thicker Then Blood:Polarity

Chapter 2: Freinds

This is a bit shorter. And the art is not as polished as last time... but I have been busy as fuck this week and this is all I managed. Part of me wants to apologize but I'm not gonna because that would imply I could have tried harder (and that's not true.)

So. Enjoy. It'll be up on AO3 later.

Tera pushed open the doors to the school building, the wooden doors groaning on their hinges before snapping shut and echoing through the hall, though the milling of students didn’t quite notice, too busy chatting in their chosen groups to pay the tall solver drone any mind.

The hall was lined with small tan lockers, stolen of course from the ruins of the previous inhabitants of the planet, and there were exactly five classrooms each holding about 25 students, for a grand total of 125 seats for 95, total, students. The school was split into two sections, three classrooms of the left side of the hall, for students above 13 years old. Advanced Learning and Training for those that had already learned basic arithmetic and reading, medical training, construction, refinery work, welding, electrical- all the jobs that Sanctuary needed. The two classrooms on the right were for those younger then 13, which functioned as a place to teach the fundamentals, math, writing, reading, pattern recognition, and critical thinking.

Tera sighed as she opened her dented and beaten locker, grabbing her math textbook and blue, sticker-bombed binder and shoving her backpack in it roughly. The dufflebag making a loud bang that once again echoed through the hall.

“Tera!” Came a soft and sweet voice from further down the hall, just hearing it made her tail wag subtly, a half smile forcing it’s way on her face as she turns to face the sound.

Now standing next to her was a short worker girl with long, blonde hair, some of it held up in a large black bow that framed the back of her head, her white eyelights were mostly closed due to the beaming smile she had etched on her face. She wore a teal sundress with another black bow around the middle, and long black socks, with grey flats.

“Hey, Kia.” Tera’s smile grew bigger at the sight of Kiara Von Roth, her best friend. Her tail wagged a little faster.

“Heya you big grump!” She playfully teased. “I texted you last night but you never shot back, you weren’t out all night partying were you?” The worker cocked her head, still smiling but her eyelights held a note of seriousness.

“D-did you?” Tera replied, “I haven’t even looked at my messages yet…”

She rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. “Nah, I wasn’t. Just… tired is all, midterms coming up…”

“So you’re actually studying for them?” Says another, more masculine voice, a thump being heard behind Kiara, which made her startle breifly. “Raaad!” She whines

Rad had light brown hair hidden under a backwards green and white baseball cap. His bright green eyelights quirked up slightly in a smirk. Her wore a red letterman jacket with the number twenty-eight emblazoned in green both on the front pocket, and, much larger, on the back. Along with it loose, black sport shorts and red sneakers. He was leaned up against the locker behind Kiara with his arms crossed.

He chuckled. “Not my fault your so easy to scare K. I wasn’t even trying!”

Kiara pouted in response. “Everyone would jump at a noise behind them! You shouldn’t sneak up on people!’ She crossed her arms in a huff. Tera just chuckled and shook her head.

“For your information. Yes. I am studying for the midterm… I kinda have to pass to be eligible to graduate next year…” She added almost quiet enough for them not to hear. “You act like I’ve never studied before.”

“Well… you really haven’t studied much since you’ve started getting serious with your training with V.” Kiara pointed out, leaning slightly further into the solver drones personal space. “So it’s good to hear your going to start again instead of asking me for my notes…”

“You take good notes!” Tera protested, raising her voice only slightly.

“Thank you!” Kiara smiled.

“But I’m not giving them to you.” She then deadpanned.

Tera growled softly and her tail flicked in response, Rad laughed. “Damn, guess that applies to me too.”

“You’re even worse! You copied our biology homework from me almost word for word! The only reason you got away with it is because Mrs. Finley trusts me not to let you cheat!” Kiara spins around to face the worker boy, pointing her finger… but perhaps the effect was lessoned by the fact Rad was still looking down at her, with her being one of the smallest workers of their class at a resounding 4’2. Because he snickered instead of looking the slightest bit intimidated. “You didn’t ‘let me’ do anything. You only noticed me taking a picture after I did it.”

“Because you left the flash on your visor and blinded half the class.” Tera chimed in. “You suck at being subtle dude.” She closed her locker the same moment the old, rattly bell rang to usher the students in the hall to their classes. “See you in an hour!” Kiara sounded off before filtering off into a separate room.

“Let’s go face the music…” Rad sighed, looking up at Tera as she slouched even more. Dreading heading to a class she struggled with out of all others.

“Yup.” And with that, they both headed towards the worn metal door that was Mr. Rikers classroom.

There are five teachers in Sanctuary, most of them teach multiple subjects though specialize in one over the others. Mr. Riker taught Math, Science fundamentals , and then specialized in construction and engineering. Mrs. Finley taught Biology, Chemistry, and Specialized in Medical Care. Then there was Mr. Krainer, who taught English, History, and Specialized in toolsmithing; Mrs. Potts, Who taught creative writing, art, and specialized in tailoring and armorsmithing.

The last teacher was also the principle. His name?

Serial Designation N, or for everyone else; Mr. Doorman.

He was the only teacher focused on a particular age group, 4-8, and taught the young dronelings the foundations of what they needed to splinter off to the rest of the school building, it went without saying, but he was also the most beloved.

Tera found her seat, the back corner next to the long window that ran up the side of the room, underneath of which was a row of cupboards that housed all the supplies needed to run the classroom. Rad settled in beside her and instantly whipped out his utterly battered phone, scrolling through messages and images from near everyone in their age group.

Tera took the chance to look through hers too while waiting for the classroom to fill in with students, though she didn’t use her phone, though the thick homemade thing was in her flannel pocket, she simply opened a tab on her visor and scrolled through them there.

[Princess] 11:25PM 7/13/89

You awake?

11:30PM 7/13/89

Clearly no. Or you’re doing something you don’t want me to know about and are actively ignoring me.

Wondered if we could go out again sometime this week? I know, like, midnight is the worst timing ever to ask, just wondering.

11:45 7/13/89

To the ruins I mean, we go out with Rad all the time, thats what I meant. But you knew that… I think I’m just too tired.

12:01 7/14/89

Goodnight, Ter-Bear.

Tera winced as she scrolled through the messages, feeling guilty that she had missed them, even if she had genuinely been asleep at the time. She’d make up for it latter, she wouldn’t mind taking her little friend group to the outskirts of ruins, especially at a specific request.

She was distracted by Mr. Riker, a drone with greying blonde hair and a pair of squared rimmed glasses. he wore a brown sweater-vest over a white dress shirt.

“Good Morning Everyone.”

The class calls back. “Good Morning Mr. Riker.”

#murder drones #oil is thicker then blood #serial designation n #tera doorman #nuzi fankid #oc / oc

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notbecauseofvictories · 8 months ago

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Can you please drop the name of the KJ Parker book involving contracts? A (brief) browse of his works didn’t make it obvious but my silly paralegal heart is intrigued…

So the KJ Parker novellas I'm talking about are primarily Prosper's Demon, Inside Man, and Pulling the Wings off Angels. However, while I did enjoy the others, Pulling the Wings off Angels is my favorite---it should shock no one that I love infernal/heavenly deals, moral arithmetic, and trying to out-lawyer god.

(The other series I'm looking into is published by Parker's alter ego, but still sounds up my alley.)

However, maybe you're asking for the other series that ties legalese to magic---in which case, I would look into the Craft Sequence from Max Gladstone. Admittedly, I haven't read all of it, but Three Parts Dead/Four Roads Cross is one of my favorite duologies, and I could have read about Tara Abernathy, her first job out of law school, and all the headaches (and power, and conniving, and history, truth, fellow feeling) she encounters there, for much more than two books.

#put that lawyer in a fantasy situation!!!#(this is because everyone in the legal profession deserves not to be in the legal profession.#it's an arms of an angel sort of sitch.#but honestly the world can't rehome that many poor souls who like to pontificate in front of their subordinates #so instead #stick them next to a dragon insisting on enforcing verbal contracts.#have them talk about establishing a new changeling(tm) franchise in multiple states simultaneously.#ask ''have we thought about permits; specifically who will ask the local water spirit and what offerings they will present?''#I'm just saying.)#from the bookshelf

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phantomamour · 8 months ago

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𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞

sejanus plinth x fem!reader

cw// i've never written for sejanus before so maybe ooc sejanus but i tried my best, unrequited love, sejanus fucks up bad (like real bad), angst, no happy ending (yet)

You had always been beautiful. That much was painfully clear from the moment Sejanus met you on his first day of class. He had been the one to realize it when you wore your uniform shirt on backwards by accident after waking up too late, noticing only when he pointed to the tag hanging down your chest before he offered you his sweater to cover it until you could change. He had liked you from the moment you made your two-person book club and spent more time with each other the following semester. He adored you when you “accidentally” destroyed the lacrosse trophy Festus flaunted. And he knew he was in for it when you told him you liked Coriolanus last spring.

His love for you had only increased over the years, and now, as he walked into his dorm room to start up his senior year, he realized that no matter how hard he tried over the summer, he couldn’t stop loving you. Not anytime soon or even as far as he could see in the future. Of course, you didn’t know of his feelings, nor did any of your friends. If Sejanus had his way, it would stay just like that, a secret to take to his grave because he would rather suffer with you as his friend than wish for death if he lost you entirely.

He had loved you since before he could do most arithmetic successfully. Therefore, Sejanus spent his afternoons that followed a long day of classes only with you as your best friend and your best friend only. He listened to you talk about how madly in love you were with Coriolanus Snow - which you had been since the beginning of freshman year, though Sejanus only learned of this secret at the end of last semester. When he played with your hair, kissed your cheek, or slow danced with you at the numerous parties you two were dragged to, it was because you two were friends and only friends.

The feelings left Sejanus in such a frustrated state. The boy always seemed to tease Festus for drooling after several girls across all grades, but afterward, he never seemed to not feel like a complete and utter hypocrite. After all, he was in the same godforsaken boat, only with you, who never seemed to notice. Of course, Sejanus had been in other relationships to try and regrettably forget what he felt for you. He’d kissed a few girls and gone much farther with one girl last year. But it always ended the same. They’d never be you.

When you laughed, Sejanus was the one telling the joke. When you cried, he was the one holding you. When you were angry at the world, he took the blows. Sejanus didn’t mind, but he wished you would love anyone other than Coriolanus.

“You look different,” Lucy Gray stated when you sat with Sejanus in the dining hall that night. Sejanus had noticed it from the second you stopped by his dorm to say hello after a long summer apart. Your usual large-fitting wool sweater had been replaced by a slim dress, accentuating curves Sejanus only ever saw in his dreams. Your pale pink lips were painted the type of red that made boys younger than him have to change their pants. The tiny freckles dotted across your face had been skillfully covered up with what he assumed was makeup. You didn’t look like you.

“I like the new look,” Lucy Gray added after another moment of contemplation. She exchanged a knowing glance with Sejanus before he broke it off and looked down at the tray of food he had grabbed, looking less appetizing the second Lucy Gray continued speaking.

“This isn’t for Coryo, is it?” Sejanus nearly choked on his spit. When he saw you earlier, the thought had crossed his mind, but he had foolishly pushed it aside.

“Honestly, at first it was, but now I like the look. It’s grown on me,” you responded while Sejanus simply stared at his plate. He’d rather look at the food that he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat than at the scene unfolding before him as none other than the Coriolanus Snow sat next to you.

“Coryo,” you said smoothly from behind your glass. Coriolanus didn’t respond, instead solely smirking at you as if that was enough of a reply. If Sejanus had been on the receiving end of your soft voice, he wouldn’t have been able to stop the words from slipping out of his mouth. You would have gotten far more than a smirk or a simple “hey” back from him. He would’ve complimented you to the stars and back. He would have asked how your move back into your dorm had gone and if you needed any help unpacking. He would have moved heaven and earth for you to say his name with the rich undertones you had said Coriolanus’.

Sejanus had it bad. It gnawed at his soul until the only thing he could think of was his own wish for the end of his suffering. You didn’t love him, not like he loved you. On top of that, he wasn’t sure if Coriolanus would ever love you, and even if he did, he was sure you would only add to his ever-growing list of affairs. One more notch in Snow’s bedpost and one more wound on Sejanus’ heart.

One minute, Sejanus was nonchalantly stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork, and the next, he had stormed out of the dining hall. Suddenly, he found himself in the boy’s restroom nearest the hall, and before any sense of sound logic could cross his mind, he punched the wall in rage. He didn’t really know what he had been trying to accomplish with the action as his knuckles cracked with pain. He wasn’t a violent person, never had been, but perhaps he thought that it would satisfy the anger that seemed to crawl deep in his chest, burying itself between his ribs. It didn’t.

“Sejanus, you’re bleeding.” He turned to see Lucy Gray standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with concern as she took in the sight of him so disheveled.

“I’ve been worse,” he grumbled before she waved him toward the door. They walked down the twisted corridors and back to the dormitories silently. Sejanus simply followed the smaller girl and didn’t realize where they were headed until he saw the familiar stairs leading him toward his room. Lucy Gray knew better than to ask about his bleeding knuckles; if Sejanus had truly wanted her to have an explanation, he would have said so. Instead of prying, she decided to take a different approach.

“Do you need anything?” She expected him to say ‘a bandage’ or even ‘a wet cloth’. But instead, the single word that slipped from his mouth was “Vodka.” She looked at him in surprise. Sejanus was normally the most responsible out of all your friends, and seeing him choose alcohol over pretty much anything else worried Lucy Gray.

“What about something non-alcoholic? We could sneak down to the kitchens if you’d like. You didn’t eat much dinner, and I could get you something.” Sejanus only shook his head in response as he took a small cloth from one of his bags and started to wrap his injured hand. His knuckles stung as the small bit of blood soaked into the fabric, and he knew he’d likely regret not cleaning it until morning, but he didn’t have the energy to care while Lucy Gray’s eyebrows furrowed.

“We have class tomorrow. Whiskey at least would be a bit weaker,” she tried to argue, but Sejanus only repeated “Vodka” before saying a quieter “please,” which got Lucy Gray to give in. She didn’t know what was going through his head, but she worried greatly about her friend who was acting so unlike himself. Sejanus would tell her he wasn’t the only friend doing that if he could bring himself to mention you.

“You still haven’t told me why your knuckles are all wrapped up,” you stated from where you lay on a bench with Sejanus in the gardens. Your head rested on your bag, which had to be uncomfortable with the numerous textbooks he knew were shoved inside while your legs were crossed over his lap.

“And you still haven’t told me why you’re dressed like some club girl,” he retorted blandly from behind his Psychology book. You snatched the book out of his hand in response and looked over what he was reading as you responded, “It was time for a change, and why are you reading this already? The semester just started today.” Sejanus reached across your lap to grab his textbook back and slipped it into his own bag lying on the grass underneath the bench.

“If I recall correctly, you read your Chemistry book last year before we even arrived at school,” he pointed out with a questioning look while you only shrugged in response. He wasn’t sure he could recognize you like this with tight jeans hugging your legs and a dark camisole cut far too low on your chest. He could tell exactly which old girlfriend of Coriolanus’ you were trying to mimic, and it nearly made him sick, though he already felt sick from his substantial hangover.

“This,” he said suddenly, gesturing to your appearance, “is to impress Coryo. Isn’t it?”

“It isn’t that obvious, is it?” you asked before your tongue darted out to wet your cherry-red lips. You tried to get used to the feeling of lipstick on your lips over the summer, but you didn’t know if you could lie and say that you didn’t miss your old lip gloss.

“A bit,” Sejanus grimaced, and when you looked up at him, you were surprised to see him avert his gaze over to the trees surrounding the school’s grounds. You usually could read him like a book with one look at his eyes, as he could do with you, but he refused to make eye contact with you. Once, during freshman year, Coriolanus was annoying Lucy Gray so severely that all you had to do was send Sejanus one look, and he changed the subject as quickly as possible. The severance of that connection with him made your stomach churn.

“What do you think?” you questioned as you sat up, your legs falling from his lap to bump his shoulder.

“About you trying to woo Coryo? It’s not my favorite thing you’ve done-”

“No, I meant about the new me,” you interrupted to correct him. You watched as he hesitated before mumbling, “It’s not you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just think you shouldn’t change yourself for a guy. That’s all,” his words found a more assured tone as he tried not to cringe at the idea of accidentally letting his feelings slip out.

“I shouldn’t change myself for a guy? Look who’s talking,” you were getting defensive, and you knew it, but your words only got more heated as you continued, “I don’t think I could remember a time where you went to as many parties as you did last spring just to get in that girl’s pants. You’re not exactly the best example of not changing for someone.” The silence that followed was tense. Sejanus couldn’t remember the last time the two of you fought. There had been spats, sure. Yelling at him for minor inconveniences or getting upset when you took his words incorrectly. But this was different, and he knew that.

“Why are you so opposed anyway? Coryo is our friend. It’s not like he’s just some random guy,” you asked, the anger in your chest bubbling up your throat.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so opposed if it was something you actually wanted versus deciding to whore yourself out to get with Coryo.” The world stopped moving when those words poured out of Sejanus’ mouth before he could stop them. He didn’t even mean them. Not really. Not in the ways that matters. Not in the ways that so clearly hurt you as you scoffed.

“I didn’t realize you thought of me that way, Sej,” his nickname crossing over your lips felt like a knife to the chest for him, but he couldn’t stop you from grabbing your bag and standing. Words seemed to escape him when it really mattered, as he opened and closed his mouth several times before watching you walk away. He could hear his words echoing through his head as he sat there dumbfounded.

He had called you a whore. He couldn’t breathe. He had called the one girl he’s ever truly loved a whore to her face. He wished he had sewn his mouth shut instead. Tears soaked into his shirt before he even realized they were falling. His hands trembled in his lap as he swore the sky was falling on top of him, suffocating him entirely.

You didn’t talk to him for days after. Every attempt to catch you in the halls was squandered by Lucy Gray, who coincidentally started to walk the two of you away faster. He knew you must have told her, but he wished she would understand that he didn’t mean to say it, that he had barely slept a wink in days as the pained look on your face replayed in his head over and over. You had trusted him so wholly, and now he had betrayed you.

You and Lucy Gray sat a bit away from him in the dining hall but still within earshot for him to hear the gunshot to his chest as Coriolanus slid into the seat next to you.

“Coffee?” he asked casually. You looked over at Coriolanus, confused.

“I beg your pardon?” a breathy laugh coming out with the smile on your face as his appearance, a confident smirk washing over his features.

“I’m asking you if you want to get coffee with me this weekend. Take a trip into town?”

Your stomach lurched, but not in the sickened way that Sejanus’ did. You two always got coffee when you went into the nearest town. He knew every cafe and exactly what order you got from each by heart.

Your heart raced, but not like the saddened way that Sejanus’ did. It felt like some cruel joke to turn and see the way your eyes lit up at Coriolanus sitting next to you.

Your cheeks flushed bright red, but not in the enraged way Sejanus’ did. What did Coriolanus want with you? Was he truly so single-minded that he wouldn’t notice you unless you changed yourself for him? You were Sejanus’ girl. You always had been. He always wanted you to be at least.

Lucy Gray’s eyebrows raised so high that her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, but that’s when she caught sight of Sejanus. It all clicked into place as she watched how he stared at you in disbelief. He loved you. He loved you, and he was jealous of Coriolanus. She almost felt incredibly dumb for not realizing it sooner.

Sejanus’ eyes nearly seared marks into the side of your head as if he was hoping to achieve some sort of last-minute mind connection. Say no. He repeated it over and over in his head, praying you’d somehow hear him. He felt that same uneasy feeling enter his chest again as the air escaped his lungs.

“I-” you were completely taken aback by the sudden question. After all, you’d been secretly waiting for it since freshman year.

Say no. Say no. Say no, dammit. Say no. Say-

“Yes. Y-yeah, I’d love that,” you squeaked, your attempt to sound nonchalant failing miserably, but you didn’t care at the moment.

“It’s a date then. I’ll pick you up from your dorm on Saturday,” he stated before getting back up and heading out of the dining hall. You turned your attention back to Lucy Gray with a dazed smile as Sejanus’ words that had been haunting your every thought for the last few days disappeared entirely.

You were finally getting your date with Coriolanus. All the while, Sejanus was getting his heart broken right in two.

#sejanus plinth #sejanus x reader #sejanus plinth x reader #sejanus plinth x you #sejanus plinth imagine #sejanus x you #sejanus plinth fanfiction #sejanus plinth angst #thg fanfiction #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games #the hunger games series #the hunger games imagine #the hunger games fanfiction #thyme!reader

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letsgobarbs · 2 months ago

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Chapter 3: A Lifetime Of Missed Opportunities (Part I)

A/N: The Chapter is split over two parts. Enjoy the little moodboard I made for this chapter! The first picture is Acacius side-eyeing Marcus thinking 'that can't be me, i would never fumble this bad'.

Warnings: miscommunication, love potions, PTSD, cheating (but not really),

INDEX (His Young Wife) Previous Chapter: A Lotus Only Grows In The Murkiest Of Waters

Chapter 3 (Part II)

The wine spilled from the side of a cup. You had stomped it down on the table with a loud thump, your hands trembling with fury. The rage settled in your throat like lead, making it difficult to breathe. You blinked the tears out of your eyes, you hated this anger— the kind you couldn’t express nor swallow.

“That is not a good idea.” You could barely manage the words through the ache that was forming at the base of your throat.

Marcus sighed, he had looked up at you as soon as he had heard the cup being slammed onto the table. You looked into the far-off distance, avoiding his eyes so he wouldn’t see the single tear you had been unable to contain slipping from your eye and hiding by the side crease of your nose.

But he must have noticed your pursed lips, clenched jaw and the tense way you held your shoulders. His voice further softened, “Would it be such a bad idea? Lucilla could help you—”

“With what? Arithmetic, Marcus?” Your voice was hard, there was acid churning in your chest.

You took a deep breath to prevent its sting from seeping into your words, “You have never interfered with how I run the household— You have never even expressed an opinion.”

Marcus returned to his laborious task of peeling pomegranates, carefully removing each juicy seed so it wouldn’t burst— more gentle with the fruit than he had been with your heart. You interlocked your fingers under the table, bending and contorting them, hoping that the physical pain could somehow ease the one you felt inside.

“The maids had never dared to steal from your dowry before. You know everything there is to know about running a household, Anaticula. But if your mother or Tullia were here… they could help you discipline wayward servants.”

Longing bloomed, heavy and stifling in your chest. You missed your mother, another letter from her felt like it could contain the answers to all your difficulties. And Tullia had decided you no longer needed a nursemaid. She had left you with a roguish wink and a book of erotic paintings— a list, she had called it, of things to try with Marcus. To your surprise, she had left your home for Senator Gracchus’ domus, where she lived as his mistress— not as his wife, no matter how hard the old man tried to convince her to marry. Tullia told you she enjoyed the chase, that it was necessary for love. But no matter how vigorously you chased—

No, that wasn’t true. The love was there. It was in the soft way he spoke to you, his eyes full of concern. It was the way his scarred hands, so adept at warfare and bloodshed, meticulously peeled pomegranates in the dead of the night because you off-handedly mentioned they would taste good. There was love in the way he sat with his legs crossed on the floor so the juice would not inadvertently spray onto your clothes and stain them.

And there was so much love in the way a spectre of an older Marcus leaned against the column behind your husband, watching him with a frown— a familiar stranger who knew how you ached better than him despite all that love. But it was not his fault. If you were content with the way he loved you, then it wouldn’t hurt.

“Lucilla has dealt with such servants before, she could help you.” You hated it. You hated her name on his lips. You hated that he knew about her meagre issues with her servants. You hated that he had kissed her.

And the memory of that kiss unleashed all the bitterness you had buried within yourself. The way her hands had held his face as their lips had moulded together. You remembered the flutter of his lashes as his eyes had fallen close. You remembered the very breath they had sighed into each other. The sight lurked before you every time you closed your eyes— which was every time you blinked. The rage ferociously travelled through your veins, and it gnawed on your organs. It settled harshly on your tongue, and it laced every word that left your mouth with venom.

“And with what authority would you allow her to touch the affairs of my home, Marcus? What capacity will she have in our household? My adoptive mother?”—You scoffed—“Or your mistress?”

You weren’t wrong, you tried to remind yourself. Home was under the wife’s jurisdiction, the four walls of it contained the only place she held any semblance of power and control. His suggestion was the highest form of disrespect. The interference of another woman in household affairs would, at best, cause divided loyalty among the servants and at worst, it would lead to a loss of autonomy and a life of compulsion and helplessness no woman ever recovered from— worse than a stranger in her own home.

But you had hurt him.

And the regret burned.

The air turned acrid, and you felt nauseous. You sounded like her. Julia Domna was the voice of every insecurity in your mind. And you sounded just like her, you delivered the words with the same mocking cadence and scathing tone. You had subjected Marcus to the very thing that had flayed you alive for years.

“I’m sorry.” You pleaded. It was true, and it was cowardly. Your words had made him suspect that you might have seen him kiss Lucilla. You could see the shock and the guilt that had coloured his eyes after the hurt had ebbed. You had never worked up the courage to ask him about it, and he had never mentioned it to you.

It had consumed you for months, and Marcus could tell something was wrong from how distant you had been. The only way to release both of you from this tiring and churning predicament would be to simply talk about it. You could apologise later, allow him to address it. But you were too afraid of what he might say. You had imagined hundreds of things he could say as an excuse, and you had concocted a thousand different responses to each excuse. Now, you didn’t want to hear anything, and you wanted to speak even less.

“I didn’t mean what I said.” You were exhausted. And there was no hiding that you were crying now, the base of your palms dug painfully against your eyes.

It shouldn’t have hurt as it did when it was the older man, the ghost, who reached you before your own husband did. His hand was warm and large on your head, the weight of it was so comforting it only made you cry more— like a bereft child who held back their tears until someone finally held them.

Marcus hastily wiped his stained hands on a towel before hauling you out of your seat and into his arms. He cradled the back of your head, pushing your tears into his tunic as he made soft cooing noises into your temple, his lips pressing kisses in between soothing words.

“It is alright… I know you didn’t mean your words.” He sounded so sympathetic. But your hands twitched at your sides instead of reaching around him— uncertain if you could accept his care, his forgiveness.

Lucilla had shared stories from her life in the palace, leading Marcus to believe the palace was a bloodthirsty behemoth that inflicted unspeakable horrors upon the women within its walls. And he was not incorrect to believe so. But you despised that the cool and detached Princess of Rome was sharing her woes with your husband. You hated that he believed you had suffered similarly in the palace.

And you hated even more that when he looked at you with his imploring eyes and brows creased with concern, asking about what had happened in the palace, you never properly dissuaded his beliefs. Your words were always feeble and half-hearted, and they always left him unconvinced, no matter how you insisted that your life in the palace hadn’t been all that horrible.

It hadn’t been easy for you either. But you had no physical wounds to prove your pain— no accounts of poisonings and attacks as Lucilla had faced. Not even the violent Emperor had ever raised his hand on you. An Emperor you had killed. Another thing you had never told Marcus. It would change how he looked at you. And you were afraid he would no longer see you as that wronged girl he needs to protect. You could lose him. Perhaps you would even lose him to Lucilla, the woman who needed far more protection than you.

You needed him. You needed the worry in his eyes, the kindness in his actions and the care in his words to spread as an ointment over the gaping wounds of your soul he couldn’t see. The same wounds that still gushed blood and tears. You had left that palace as nothing more than a shell of the girl you used to be and loneliness— a solitude that sunk so deep that your bones ached as they bound to it, an emptiness so heavy that it made breathing a chore.

It was odd that loneliness. You had assuaged it with the memory of Marcus in the palace, and now that you are wrapped in his arms, it made you feel worlds apart from him. For some time, you had filled the emptiness with the innocence and sweetness of the girl he remembered, and the maturity and grace of Lucilla he seemed to admire. You had even thought about Anaticula, hoping to embody the qualities of a woman who could inspire such love and loyalty from the older Marcus. But the ruse had grown exhausting, suffocating.

“I did it on purpose,” You confessed, your words came as a croak as the mask you had firmly worn finally cracked, “I let the maids steal from my dowry on purpose.”

Your trust in Marcus warred against the insecurities and fears that clouded your mind. His honour won. So did his care. And his love. The hand that stroked the back of your head never faltered. Marcus pulled you deeper into his embrace. His lips lingered over your temple, silently and patiently, waiting for you to speak— to cross the distance you had created.

“We cannot escape Rome.” Marcus was the most convenient pawn. An excellent strategist and warrior with no political ambitions. He was someone who could lead armies without threatening the rulers. And if he ever entertained rebellious ideas, then he had a weakness in you. And Lucilla.

“She used to say that a tree that does not bend, breaks in the storm.” He did not ask who you were referring to.

“From the fables.” You explained needlessly.

“We need to appear unassuming— unthreatening— to survive.”

It was the strategy Julia Domna had used, she hid her treasonous plot behind vapid smiles and indecisive, mercurial words. Her sons would be utilising the same scheme. Naturally, it was the best course of action for Marcus and you as well. There was a power struggle amidst the aristocracy none of you could survive— you would be purged if you seemed even remotely ambitious.

Both those maids had been spies, who would no doubt take the stories of your meekness and simple-mindedness to their true employers. You had also given them enough time to snoop through your sizeable dowry so they could inform their patrons about the extent of your wealth.

They would not suspect a biddable, ignorant woman of luxurious means to further amass enough wealth and influence that could threaten the throne. And you would need to build those resources if you wanted to protect Marcus in the future. Allowing the servants to steal from you had also been a test of allegiance. From here on now, you could only keep those who were steadfast in their loyalty.

You waited for Marcus to contradict your words— perhaps even censure you for being too paranoid. The undercurrents of politics had been fortunately bloodless for now, but it would not remain as such for long. Caracalla and Geta were merely figureheads, it was yet undecided who would control Rome.

You felt his warm breath disturb the small tendrils of hair on your forehead, “We will do as you say, Anaticula.”

Acacius heaved a sigh as he watched a fragile balance settle between Marcus and his wife. He would have never dared kiss a woman other than his wife. And if he had, then Acacius would have willingly submitted his neck under her blade. So, he believed this tentative peace was entirely undeserved.

He knew that Marcus had not dallied with any woman, not even the whores that followed the army, choosing to maintain the sanctity of his marriage for years even when his wife was nothing more than a child. It was unbelievable that he had risked his union with Anaticula over a kiss with Lucilla. He could not fathom what that man was thinking.

He heard an uproar behind one of the doors to the cubicula, what should have been the room for the household shrine opened into a tent. Acacius instinctively categorised the sounds past the thin leather walls. It was common to hear the clang of metal ringing around an army camp, but the sound of soldiers grunting and yelling through their attacks signalled an abating ambush. There wasn’t any disarray or surprise in their movements, hence the situation was under control.

And even if the ambush hadn’t been contained, Acacius was uninterested in Marcus and his fate. His wife might have forgiven him, but he could not bring himself to respect or care about the man. He rounded the tent, tinkering with the familiar furnishings before rifling through the papers strewn across the desk. A document summarising their recent foray behind enemy lines, details from a scout, inventory of the food bags, recent medical expenses, a letter from Lucilla— he threw that one in the fire without bothering to read it.

Acacius paused when he noticed the smooth lines made on paper, the subject of the drawings concealed under a wax tablet. He moved the stylus and block aside to reveal the slope of a very familiar nose and the curve of a smile he dreamed of. They were all sketches of his Anaticula— of Marcus’ Anaticula. Some of the drawings were deliberately smudged, reflecting the artist’s frustration when he hadn’t caught her likeness perfectly— which was often since Marcus was no great artist.

But a few of them were treasured, dipped in a solution of gum to preserve the charcoal on the page. His wife peacefully slumbered in one of those images, her arm curved beneath her head, lips pouting and drooping to the side. She would kill him if she ever saw he had drawn her like this.

Much of the other illustrations were a study of her form. He had drawn her smile, the profile of her nape, the bow of her collar bones, the bend of her shoulders, the supple arch of her waist. There was even a page with a dark spot in the centre surrounded by the lines of her body— the mark he knew so intimately, having kissed it every chance he got.

Acacius knew that he wasn’t artistically inclined, he was accustomed to wielding large weapons, his fingers had never even felt comfortable wrapped around a smaller stylus or brush— he always bought the thicker pens. Marcus must’ve worked hard to learn how to manoeuvre a small piece of charcoal under his designs. How had a man, who spent so long admiring his wife’s features and painstakingly etching them on paper, kissed another woman and broken her heart?

A smoking, acrid scent spread through the air— the tent was burning. He gathered only the sketches of his wife, grateful that he was able to save them. He left the tent just as Marcus rushed towards it— a wild panic filling his face. Acacius turned to look at the tent, it must have been deliberately set on fire for it to have spread so quickly, he could smell the scent of burning oil. However, it was the sight of those flames that surprised him. They had surrounded the tent, and had climbed high into the sky as they raged and swirled with the wind. But he had not felt its heat, he had walked through the blaze and remained unaffected.

Marcus was frantic. He used his gladius to part the entrances of the tent. Several voices shouted for him, a Centurion ran to prevent him from jumping into the fire. But it was a burning tent pole falling at his feet that dissuaded him from slipping into the surge of fire. It was heartrending, the sound that escaped him— somewhere between a strangled sob and a broken groan.

His jaw trembled with every breath, and just as Acacius believed he would succumb to tears and defeat, a resolute look flashed past his face— his lips pursed with grim determination. Marcus picked himself up from the ground before moving behind the tent. His soldiers failed to grasp onto his arms and shoulders, their pleas were nothing more than a distant cacophony. He studied the tent, as if recalling the details of its interior, before his blade smoothly carved the burning leather.

He did not hesitate as he reached a hand through the gaping tent. Acacius could see the flames lick angry red welts onto his arms as he retrieved a smoking wooden chest. Marcus swiped the water offered by a soldier and doused the wooden chest even though it had not been on fire and the contents of the chest seemed undamaged. He opened it with shaking hands, almost as if reassuring himself that he hadn’t lost whatever treasure he had stored in it.

They were letters. The chest was full of letters, neatly folded and tightly bound by strips in small bundles. And they were all from Anaticula. They were carefully arranged by the year and dated back to the days when he had just been a foot soldier. Marcus cried as he confirmed they were intact, checking the ones on the very bottom to ensure they hadn’t been burned. Acacius could hear his quiet prayer of thanks.

The sketches in his hand grew heavier by the moment, the significance of his actions spoke louder than Marcus had intended. He tucked the drawings in the side of the chest when the younger man had turned around to bark orders for the soldiers to clean up the camp.

Acacius knew he would find it suspicious. The pictures were on his desk and frequently admired. However, despite the disbelief and suspicion that clouded his face for a moment, his fingers gently traced over his wife’s face. Another murmur of gratitude slipped past his lips. It was then that Acacius realised two very important truths.

Marcus Acacius Amatus was quite possibly the stupidest man alive.

And he must have been dead when his wife was being burned.

You carefully arranged the items on the table according to the instructions. The amulet, the talisman, the crystal, a small lamp, wine and a wooden soldier doll— his tunic fashioned from a strip of fabric you had torn from Marcus’ clothes. There was also a crushed beetle, but you hadn’t yet decided what to do with it.

“You can’t judge.” There was a hint of uncertainty that weakened your reprimand.

“Love spells don’t work,” Acacius stated. Of course, you knew they didn’t work— if they did, then all women would have loving husbands and families. But you couldn’t trample on that sliver of hope that yearned to bind Marcus to you as lovers. You awkwardly cleared your throat, it was embarrassing to chant the spell in front of the man whose counterpart you were trying to ensnare.

In the lowest of murmurs, you began invoking the deities and reciting, “Marcus Acacius Amatus, who Fulvia bore, burn him on this very day, from this very hour on, set on fire and inflame his soul, heart, liver, spirit, with love for his wife, Acacia…”

The lamp was placed in the household shrine. The talisman under his pillow, the amulet tied around your waist under your tunic, the crystal worn on your finger, the doll wrapped in paper with the chant written on it and buried in a clay pot. Marcus would have to drink the wine.

“What is in the wine?” Acacius asks you as Marcus pours his fourth cup. You had not needed to convince him to drink it— you only mentioned that you had made it for him when he had left for war so it would be ready for him when he returned. You knew he would drink the entire jar. You just weren’t sure if he should, not having remembered those particular instructions.

“These wines typically use aphrodisiacs.” He reminded you as if you hadn’t added them yourself.

“It’s not good for him if he drinks so much.” You were starting to worry about that too. Marcus was in a very odd state of mind— quieter than he should be, his eyes a bit unfocused, you couldn’t make out his softly mumbled words before he tittered at his own joke. Usually, four cups of wine didn’t make a difference. But you knew your concoction was potent, there was also the cannabis in it.

“Did you add mandrake root? They are always thrown into love potions. Too much of it could kill him.” Acacius noted. And you finally spurred forward, taking the jar off the table and out of his reach. He blinked at you as if waking up from slumber and serenely smiled.

“It’s good wine, give it back.” Marcus lazily lunged for it, causing you to hop out of your seat, cradling the jar as you backpedalled from him.

“No more wine, Marcus. You’re drunk.” Your voice was soft, concerned.

“I’m not drunk, sweetheart.” Your heart fluttered at his use of the endearment— the gentle, affectionate way he uttered it. It was just the wine, you tried to remind yourself. Yes, the love potion, your mind whispered back. No, those things don’t work, you were just entertaining fantasies.

Marcus moved towards you, languid and sensual, all his earlier lethargy and drowsiness had drained from him. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, sweet and boyish, that showed the dimples in his cheeks. You didn’t realise an answering smile adorned your face, but you felt the warmth that bloomed in your chest and rose to your face. This was a game you hadn’t played since you had been sent to the palace.

You matched his steps in an old, familiar dance— receding with every step he took towards you, blindly shoving the wine jar on the thin table lined against the wall to gather the folds of your tunic— lifting it in preparation to make your run as soon as he sprang to chase. Once, you had baked bread in the shape of a lizard and slipped it into his bowl of stew. He had taken one look at its little face swimming amongst the chickpeas and almost heaved up his dinner before chasing you through several streets of your neighbourhood.

You bit your lip at the memory, but it did not stop the squeal that was freed from your throat as you skirted around the column in the atrium and bolted along its length with Marcus fast on your heels. You knew he was deliberately slow in his pursuit, you had visited the military barracks before to watch him train— Marcus was surprisingly agile and swift despite his large build. But it was your nimbleness as you abruptly changed your path by springing over the flower pots to run across the courtyard that helped you escape his clutches.

You were breathless, more from the laughter than your run, your cheeks ached with how wide your lips had stretched. There was a loud thud followed by the crunching sound of something breaking— your elbow had accidentally sent a bust flying across the hallway. You both gawked at the marble head face down on the floor, mirth still swimming in your eyes.

“You’ve offended the ancestors.” He dramatically gasped. And you snorted before bursting into loud laughter that made your sides ache. The bust hadn’t been of an ancestor, it was just something you had picked up in a whim from the sculptor’s workshop. Somebody had commissioned it but had never shown up to collect or pay for it.

You and Marcus had taken to sharing fanciful tales about this imagined ancestor— he had five wives and two concubines who assuaged their desire with each other when the man had decided to take a spiritual trip through the jungles of India, his saga and adventures were endless. You chortled at the memory of Marcus’ shell-shocked face when you had finally encountered the Senator who the bust was modelled after. He had barely been able to contain his cackling when you had told the Senator he looked so much like one of your ancestors and launched into the stories of him.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t realised you were cornered until he had a gleeful, predatory glint in his eyes. You raised your hands to shield yourself from his next devious plan, he was too close to evade— if you tried to run, he only needed to stretch his arm to catch you. Your heart lurched as your giggling subsided. There was a shift in the air, or perhaps in your own demeanour, one that was reflected in his eyes as well.

You always planned to thwart him. And you could not do so now because… You could no longer predict what he would do. Marcus had never shied away from holding your neck in a headlock, or tickling you until you cried. He had even thrown you into the public water fountain once— something even Tullia had scolded him for. He’d had to wash all the laundry for dirtying your clothes that day.

Uncertainty nibbled away at all of the previous humour. You did not move towards each other, but there was a pull— like a straining, taut thread— that prevented you from moving apart. Marcus had a faraway look in his eye. And you wondered if he was searching for that young girl who got lost in the palace.

But he looked at you. You swallowed at the sharp glint in his eyes and the slight purse of his lips. He was doing that maddening thing with his lips again. He was suppressing a smile so his lips had pursed until its corners were downturned pushing that plump bottom lip out even more. Your shoulder sagged with relief.

He inched closer still, somehow you were back where the chase had begun— he herded you beside the table with the pitcher of wine. You would have been convinced that he would pounce for the jar but his gaze had never even flickered to it. Marcus just stared at you with a gaze so dark you could barely see the warm brown of his eyes.

It prickled under your skin, that gaze. Your lips parted as your mouth felt so suddenly dry. But you were sure that drinking entire oceans wouldn’t quench your thirst the way touching your lips to his would. The thought of kissing him made a swoop in your belly before bouncing up to flutter through your heart.

You stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder. Then you pressed your lips to his. It was thoughtless— an impulse that ran unbidden and unobstructed. It was an entirely foreign experience, the curve of his lower lip settled between yours and a warmth unfurled from where you were joined. You kissed him sweetly, reverently.

But Marcus was unmoved. He stood like he was nothing but a statue of clay and wax. And for a horrible moment, you doubted. Not him. Never him. Only yourself. And that moment stretched, and it stretched, then it stretched some more. The warmth had long curdled into something noxious in your stomach that was bubbling up into your throat as sobs. You tried not to think about how the skin of his lips clung to yours as you slowly retreated from his lips. Your eyes were averted in shame and hurt only to find that the wall prevented you from withdrawing any further.

No. Not the wall. He had clamped a large hand over the back of your head that prevented you from receding. He held you in place as his lips descended on yours, hungry and demanding— the force of his kiss made you stumble. But he only followed with unrestrained and undisguised need as he took and took until you were breathless against him.

He explored the hard arch of your palate, and the soft lining of your cheek; his lips pressed insistently to yours until your teeth ached. But you revelled in his taste with the sweetness of the fruit wine on his tongue, his warmth that seemed to radiate from him like a blazing hearth, and his strength that surrounded you along with his arms.

His hand strayed from the back of your head to where none had touched before. He traced your spine, stopping just at the base of it before he claimed a palmful of your ass— his fingers splayed wide over before he squeezed almost painfully as he pulled you closer into his heat and his strength. You gasped in shock while Marcus kissed you with a wild abandon. There was something hard and hot pressing into the softness of your belly.

The sinews of his neck bunched and rippled under your palm, his pulse was racing under your fingertips. And instead of clinging to him just to keep upright with your jaw pried wide so his tongue explored deeper with each pass, you finally kissed him back— albeit artlessly and without finesse, a deep groan rose from his chest as you seared the memory of his lips on yours.

His hand slid up to trace the vulnerable curve beneath your breasts before he cupped and tested its weight in his hand. He thumbed at the hardened tip of your nipple, and a thrilling shiver made you arch into him, pressing yourself further into his palm with mindless want. He pulled you closer still as he ground his hips against you— that large, hard part of him asserting its path over the contour of your waist and hips.

You barely registered the exploding snap of the clay jar shattering on the ground until the wine splashed all over your feet. He flung his head away from yours, his eyes a little wild as they studied your features. Your eyes were half-lidded with desire, your lips felt raw and kiss-bitten. Your fingers twitched over the fabric of his tunic as the embarrassment crept in over being seen this way.

Despite the sultry evening, you felt chilled when Marcus snatched his hands off your body— the cold was biting into your bones and your joints ached with effort to hold yourself up. You swayed on your feet, something odd squeezed your ribs and your lungs, something that felt oddly like panic. You curled your toes into the ground, hoping to anchor your body to it. But it was slippery, wet. And somehow scorching, even though you had cooled it before serving him.

“What did you put in the wine?” He asked quietly, but there was a rumble of ominous fury lacing his tone that crackled in your ears like lightning. The wall behind you was closing in, the columns framing Marcus were tilting inwards. You followed his gaze down to the floor and found the damning evidence, a mandrake root— almost humanoid in its shape— and a small wine-soaked pouch full of herbs. You hurriedly blinked away the sight of a body lying in the pool of its own blood.

His jaw jutted to the side before it clenched, grinding his teeth together as his nostrils flared. He was angry. But Marcus had never been angry at you, he had always remained indulgent to a fault. You did not know how to brace for his rage, his disappointment. He studied you for an excruciating, tense moment before the colour drained from his face. He looked stricken.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “I didn’t— It was the wine, but I should not have—”

You did not hear his words. There was blood, you could smell it. The metallic scent was cloying as it clogged your nose and the base of your throat. You could taste the blood in your mouth.

Of course, of course, of course. It was the wine, he would not have kissed you otherwise. You looked down at your clammy hands, expecting to see the blood coating them. But they were clean, only a little sweaty. He didn’t know what you had done yet. He would hate you if he ever found out. Not because he cared for the previous Emperor or because murder was inherently wrong. He would hate you because along with Septimius Severus, you had killed the girl he had loved.

“I’m sorry,” You confessed. For the wine. For not being the woman he wanted. For ruining everything.

This is the last place you want to be. It had been mere weeks since the incident as you had come to refer it— not to be confused with the incident years ago that you had dubbed the Lucilla fiasco. You attempted your best social smile— the very one you had learned from Julia Domna, a little sweet, a little empty, entirely polite.

And Lucilla knew. A woman’s intuition was a powerful thing. Even if your husband hadn’t figured out that you had seen him kiss this woman, she knew. She might not have guessed the reason for your distance from her before, but now with Marcus returning to the fold, it could not be more obvious that you had been burned. The guilt, the shame, the embarrassment were rolling off her in waves of awkwardly forced conversations that she only addressed towards you.

It was such a jarring change from every previous visit where you had been superfluous— a thorn amongst the flowers, a sharp bone in a delicious meatball. Your teeth itched with irritation as Lucilla pointedly ignored Marcus, who hadn’t looked at the older woman since he had offered his greetings. You hated that they were both acting so ridiculously obvious, it was almost as if they wanted you to know about their indiscretion.

But you knew better, Lucilla and Marcus weren’t scheming enough to act that way— they most probably didn’t know how to act. Her contrived chatter settled over your skin like a persistent itch. However, there was such a sad, forlorn note to her words that it made your heart ache for her. Despite everything, you had not been able to truly despise Lucilla.

She had nobody except the both of you. Nobody had visited her, written to her or spoken to her in this large estate. So, you knew she regretted jeopardising your relations. All your complaints, your hurt and betrayal, you reserved for Marcus. It was nothing new— everything of yours had always been reserved for him.

“I wished there was some way we could help that woman.” Lucilla mused. You had included her on a few evening adventures out in the city. It was a plan you had concocted in Marcus’ absence, plying her guards with drink and coin before sneaking her away through the secret passage of her home to enjoy a small breath of freedom.

Both of you enjoyed joining the other matrons in an idyllic corner of your old neighbourhood to nibble on some snacks during the late evenings and share the recent gossip. The woman who lived on a floor below yours in the insula had been abandoned by her husband. The man had fled upon discovering that she was carrying his child. He had not only left her destitute but also without a home, having stolen the money for their rent.

“I’ve given her work at my fruit shop. It should help for some time— until she cannot work on her feet in the later months of her pregnancy. And I told her she could sleep in the shop as well.” She would not be sleeping in the shop, since you had bought the entire building. Hence, nobody was going to be pressing her for rent. Especially not when you had trusted Ravi to oversee the maintenance of the building. You suspected they had grown quite close to each other.

“That’s very kind of you. The shop is doing well then?” Her question was pointed. It reminded you of Marcus’ insistence on seeking her help when some of the maids had been embezzling a portion of your profits. The sharp inhale next to you was devastating. It confirmed all your suspicions. A stone settled in your stomach.

Your eyes slid past Lucilla’s shoulder to the door of her dining room. You wouldn’t cry, not now— not in front of them. But you had sunk so low that even the fresco of her walls was tauntingly glistening and mocking you under the lamplight. Philemon and Baucis.

The age-old tale of hospitality, a kind couple who had hosted weary and poor travellers who were gods in disguise. As a boon, they had requested that neither would have to live without the other. When it was time for one to die, the other would die as well. And Lucilla had immortalised them in her home as the oak and lime tree they had turned into after their death— a symbol of everlasting love with their boughs and roots intertwined.

Acacius stood by the door, a crease of worry between his brow told you that you were more transparent than you were comfortable with. You considered dropping your pretences to massage the ache forming in your chest that prevented the air from reaching your lungs. But you couldn’t stand further humiliation.

Your teeth ground painfully against each other. Marcus had left for war soon after your confrontation with the maids. He had been so busy in the meetings with the Generals, the military advisors, the Senate, the Tribunes, and the Emperors once he had returned that even the incident was brushed away by his busy schedule.

It was seemingly forgotten as if the kiss was trivial enough to not even deserve a mention. His wife had brewed a love potion that was never discussed. All had returned to how it used to be. Marcus remained unaffected by the turn of events in his personal life while you churned them in your gut, mind and soul until they settled like bruises over your heart and festered with each passing day.

Despite Lucilla’s transgression with your husband, you had kept her company out of compassion. You had included her in many of your charitable endeavours— even allowing her to be the face of the institution you had set up that educated children without a fee. You had strengthened her political standing and reestablished her within public memory, only for her to exchange letters with your husband behind your back.

She smiled and laughed with you before coming home to write to him. There was a scornful, taunting cackle in your head. It made you want to cry out your heartbreak, laugh at your stupidity and above all, screech at them and demand to read the letters. But it didn’t matter what they had written to each other, or they had only ever spoken of you. No matter how benign their intentions, they had disrespected you by doing so without your knowledge.

You wanted to laugh at the shared frantic glance but the sound would have come out too hollow and venomous. She can’t have him. Marcus was your dawn and he was your dusk. He brought the rains, he made the flowers bloom and the stars twinkle. So what if the rising sun burned and the setting sun was too cold? So what if the rains drowned you and the flowers were bitter and the stars fading? It was all you had. He was all you had. No matter how lonely she was, he was yours.

“Our Anaticula has a great business acumen, she has expanded her trade—”

“To food stalls”—You interrupted Marcus—“He’s being generous. I simply bought another taverna. It sells sandwiches. The business aspect of things will be handled by a man who worked for my mother. I only need to enjoy the earnings.”

Acacius hinted at the maid who was listening to the conversation around the corner as you downplayed your wealth. Marcus could no longer be trusted to know about your trade— not if he was divulging the details to Lucilla. Even the walls had ears in Rome, a secret was no longer a secret once it had left one’s mouth.

You took a deep breath, allowing a tight smile to grace your features at her enthusiastic praise— refusing to even look at your husband, whose confused stare you could feel on the side of your face. You bit your tongue and stewed in your irritation. Lucilla herself owned several shops and insulae as part of her dowry bequeathed by her father. But your own wealth far rivalled hers now that you had inherited your mother’s trade. It was grating to listen to her business advice as if you were a small child still coming into her own.

Acacius stared in disbelief at the state of their marriage. He was nearing sixty. He was old, his back ached and his vision was blurred. There was nothing he wanted more than just a few more moments with his wife, his daughters— his family. He wanted everything Marcus had and the man was throwing it away, all these precious years with his wife utterly wasted. And he couldn’t figure out why.

“I never said that!” She lowered her voice before she continued, “I simply do not want you to tell her everything.”

“Alright.” He conceded, “I only meant for her to help you.”

Acacius sighed with exasperation. Marcus had launched into a long-winded explanation as to why he was exchanging letters with Lucilla without his wife having asked. It did not help his prospects. If he had the good sense to admit his wrongdoing now, then he knew it was wrong to do so in the first place. But his excuse amounted to concern. He hadn’t wanted his wife to be alone and without help when he was gone.

She may have softened at his excuse but it only further ruffled his feathers. Marcus should know his wife well enough by now; she wouldn’t need Lucilla’s help— if anything, it would be Lucilla who needed her help. Their Anaticula was not as mysterious as she believed herself to be, every emotion can be read on her face. And if she had forced herself into a hard mask, her eyes were still expressive. Moreover, if his wife needed support, there was her family, Tullia, and her trusted employees.

“I do not want her to know of my trade— or anything about my charitable efforts for the matter.” She reiterated with a stubborn note to her voice.

“Of course, it is your business. We shall do as you say.” Marcus agreed.

Her brows creased with frustration again, “I do not want you to agree with me because it is my money. I want you to agree with me because I am right.”

Marcus sighed with exhaustion.

“She is surrounded by spies. It is dangerous to share too much—”

“I do not believe they care much about her or us, Anaticula. We are not so relevant to them. And the princess is not so influential anymore.”

“That is not true, I have been—”

Acacius crossed the nearest threshold praying for a moment of peace. He entered the door of their kitchen to walk into their courtyard again. The seasons had changed, and so had the years. He could see the first of greys littering Marcus’ hair and beard. They were sharing a settee as they each read a book. Her feet were resting on Marcus’ lap, he kneaded the sole of her foot with a hand and balanced his book with another.

She raised her kohl-lined eyes over the top edge of her book, the flutter of her lashes tickled the bottom of his heart. She exhales a soft sigh before looking down at the pages before her. Marcus glanced up at the faint sound, he traced the scar just below her toes, causing her to curl them inwards.

“You never told me how you got this scar.” He mused.

“Accidentally stepped on a shard of glass.” She deflected, “Perhaps Lady Lucilla should take a lover.”

Marcus looked up, sharply studying her seemingly nonchalant features. And let out a weary sigh when her lips very briefly pressed against each other before relaxing again. Acacius was tired of the spectre of Lucilla haunting their marriage.

“Anaticula, no mischief with her—” Marcus started.

“Mischief? Do you think I am a child? Senator Publius happens to like her quite a bit—”

“The Pontifex Maximus? Of course, he would—”

“Of course, he would?”

Acacius stood from his place, his knees aching despite this being a dream— one that was fast growing vexing. He wanted to rattle Marcus’ head like a box full of marbles to see if it would start thinking straight again.

Marcus hated these parties that were supposedly held in his honour. They were nothing more than an excuse for these people to splurge the Empire’s funds on their vices. The room was unbearably pungent, lurking underneath the heavy, cloying amalgamation of perfumes was the acrid scent of opium. Moreover, he hated losing his wife in the crowd. His eyes followed her as she fluttered from person to person, helping herself to bits of food and drink between polite, amiable conversation.

He wished the man before him would just stop talking about— well, he had lost the flow of the conversation. But currently, the man was spouting about the gladiator games through a dry mouth, he could see the whiteness that gathered at the corners of his lips. Marcus struggled to remember who the man was despite having been introduced. He seemed to have recently arrived in the city— a regional consul?

The small sound of her laughter was strong enough to cut through the chatter and music filling the room to reach his ears. It soothed the irritation slinking under his skin. Marcus flicked his gaze to the side. Her face was tipped back, her hand clamped over her mouth to muffle herself with tears of mirth clinging to the corner of her lashes. The sight was a punch to his gut. He could not remember the last time she had laughed so freely and joyously.

The man— boy— standing next to her gently touched his fingers to her elbow to guide her attention towards him again. He couldn’t possibly have been hilarious enough to have inspired tears in her eyes. It was Senator Faustus’ son. Marcus sneered, he needed just a few moments with that pup ogling at his wife like she were a honeyed cake. His jaw twitched and his teeth were set on edge. He’d made Anaticula laugh as such many times. But not lately… not in a long, long time.

He unclenched his jaw to tersely excuse himself, “I must find my wife.”

But his measured steps belied his urgency. He studied his wife and knew she felt no more than a familial affection for the boy— he was younger than even her. But it did not halt the claws of insecurity to steadily pierce through his ribs and into his lungs. Marcus knew Faustus’ boy was an artist, he had heard his father complain about it often.

Perhaps that is the sort of man she should have been married to— one who was gentle and kind. She deserved the sort of man who wasn’t away fighting wars for years at a time, the kind of man who wouldn’t impulsively force himself on her and maul her. He had never been able to forget the way her eyes had dulled and the way she had caved in on herself. He had lost her to something dark, her hands had been shaking as they fisted her tunic. She had reminded him of the wide-eyed, terrified, young soldiers who suffered from the memories of war.

Marcus had felt like a monster for doing that to her. He had wanted her to hit him and rage against him for taking advantage of her instead of the suffocating silence she had descended into as if he had strangled her. He could not forget the sound of those stuttered, ragged breaths she struggled to take.

She was so young when they had wed and separated from her family that he had been her father, brother, friend and husband. He was disgusted with himself for forcing her into a place where she felt like she could not refuse his advances— that she did not know how.

Marcus was not blind to the love that shone in her eyes for him. But it was not love— not truly— she had just never known another man. He was her everything, naturally, she was attached to him. He had loved her once— a love as sweet and endearing as her. Then he had dragged that love through the muck, grime and death of war.

So many times he had been reduced to his basest form— some feral creature who knew nothing but hunger, sweat and the fetid stench of blood and fear. It had only been her memory that preserved the smallest bit of humanity he had left. Then he had sullied it. He had tainted her innocent affection with violence and raw physical need.

He had embraced her, kissed her, not to offer her tender affection and care, but out of an aggressively twisted desire to claim and possess her for his own. His love had long spurt tendrils of obsession he buried deep in the cold, empty place inside him along with the dark pleasure of having bound her to him forever through marriage. The years without her had been unbearable, and he would never allow her to be ripped away from him again.

“Lady Acacia, it has been years since we have seen you. I see you still haven’t given our dear Commander a few children to hold him back in Rome?” A Senator asked, the man had stopped to greet Faustus just as Marcus took his place by his wife. He could feel his brow curling in distaste on his forehead. The man dared to deliver barbed words at his wife through a genial smile. His hand found hers and habitually she locked their fingers together. The satisfaction was swift and deep.

“You speak as if my husband is some warmonger, Senator. It is not as if he has a choice if the Emperors and the Senate send him off to conquer foreign lands.” The sharp, scathing tone bled out of her voice as if she had never intended to criticise.

Her face rearranged into the most adorable puppyish whine as she looked at him with a teasing accusation in her eyes. Marcus fought back a laugh that tickled at his throat— she was quite the actress, his Anaticula. Her lips pressed into the most irresistible little moue that made him want to bite down on her lips.

“Not even children could stop him from doing his duty to Rome when he is called upon. It almost makes me wish he was a little less honourable—”

The Senator’s laugh cut off her words. A forbidding sense of unease settled in his gut as the man continued talking, “Well, aren’t you a lucky woman to have gained such a husband.” The derision was unmistakable in his voice, “It is rare for a man without an heir to not even have a paelex.”

Blood rushed and crackled in his ear like a whip, Marcus’ fingers twitched as if tightening over the hilt of his sword. And it was a good thing he did not have his hand on a blade because he was angry enough to have spilled this man’s blood all over the floor for his insult towards him and his wife. A paelex? He huffed in disbelief at the audacity to suggest that he should install some slave or mistress as a direct threat to his wife into his home to bear his children.

The air had already congealed, he attempted to abate the fast brewing fury in his chest. But the man obliviously continued, “We also wish for such an honourable husband for my daughter— she is a skilled housekeeper, and we trust she will bear her husband many heirs.”

“It is my choice not to have children, Senator.” His voice was louder than he had intended it to be.

“I will not have you disparage my wife for my choices. Unlike you who so passionately advocated for war just a few days ago in the Senate, I have seen enough men, women and children die in those wars— I’ve killed many of them with my own hands— to wish for any child of mine to come into this world and face the same fate.”

Marcus paid no heed to the Senator’s pacifying platitudes— his wife had gone strangely still beside him, her hand limp and cool in his. Whatever he was expecting to find on her face it was not this. It was as if she were looking into him, seeing every dark nook and cranny of his being that he had wanted to shield from her eyes. And then there was disappointment. She had found him wanting, lacking in some way he did not know how to rectify.

The discovery seemed to be devastating for her. She was distant and polite, her smile never reached her eyes. And even when she sat facing him in the carriage on the way home she was deep in her thoughts, leaving him with a persevering silence that made him feel so alone. Marcus fought against his instinct to reach for her, to touch her and reassure himself that she was still here. But she was not altogether present and he did not wish to startle or scare her.

He hated himself for not having noticed it before— she seemed so tired. There was a dullness under her eyes and a defeated set to her shoulders. There was a small crinkle of pain between her brows. And yet she never said a word. The girl whose every cut and callus he had kissed, whose cold feet he had warmed against his own stomach and who would whine at him if the sun was too hot had somehow grown into a woman who was so reticent and reserved that he could not read her.

“Anaticula.” He called out, uncaring that it sounded like a plea for mercy, as she turned away from him to walk to her chambers after wordlessly descending from the carriage. Marcus winced at her attempt of a smile, it was all sharp teeth and soulless eyes.

She grimaced. He knew by the flutter of her lashes and the flicker of her gaze that she was considering her words, “My head hurts… I would like to retire for the night.”

His chest ached for some reason— she was further withdrawing from him, drawing invisible lines he did not know how to cross. It hadn’t been this way before. Even after he had upset her with his kiss, she would still disagree and argue with him— mostly about Lucilla. He briefly wondered if the princess had been right that his wife had seen him kiss her. But his Anaticula would have confronted him about it, she would have raged against him and pulled her sword on him until it tasted blood. There was a trickle of doubt niggling in the back of his mind, would she truly have asked him to explain himself?

She had been distant after it had happened, and Marcus had assumed it was because of the theft of her dowry. Things had never been the same between them since. He knew it was his fault, he had expressly disobeyed her wishes to not involve Lucilla in her personal matters. It wasn’t that he did not trust her to take care of herself, but it was the guilt he carried for not being there for her that pushed him to confide in Lucilla. He had hoped that the princess would safeguard and chaperone his Anaticula through the murky, bloodthirsty waters of the palace.

That was where things had truly changed between them— the palace. She had not trusted to tell him of what had occurred there when she was a hostage. There had always been a plethora of rumours. They had been whispered into his ears— many, fanciful stories about young love between a certain Prince and the young, innocent wife of an aged, cruel soldier. But he had chosen to disregard them because Marcus knew their intentions were not benign. It was terribly shortsighted of the gossips to attempt to poison him against his wife— the sole reason he was fighting Rome’s wars.

“Have I said something to upset you tonight?” He coaxed.

Her sigh turned into a small shudder, her downcast eyes slowly lifted over his form as if taking in his clothing and appearance. She graced him with a faint smile when their eyes met. But it was too early to feel relieved because her next words made him want to howl with misery.

“I never thanked you before— for marrying me… and for everything else too. I—”

“Stop it.” He cut her off, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe through the stone lodged in his chest that weighed down his heart. He had never wanted her to be beholden to him.

His voice was hard, he had never spoken to her this way before. Marcus softened himself, “You do not owe me any gratitude, we married because…”

Because… he had been selfish. Nobody had expected him to marry her— he had even heard her parents fight over allowing their daughter to marry him. She would have been safe and well taken care of with her father’s acquaintance, more so than with him. He should have left her with her family every time he went to war. He should have divorced her, sent her back to her parents instead of allowing her to be a hostage. But Marcus had been greedy. He had wanted her in his life. As his family. As his wife. As his.

“Whatever debt you think you owe my parents has long been repaid tenfold— more— after everything you have done for me.”

Marcus grasped her by the arms, his fingers painfully digging into the soft, pliant flesh. He pulled her closer, physically needing to cross the distance she was creating with her words.

“I did not marry you because I owe your parents a debt of gratitude. Do you truly believe our bond to be so… so fragile”—He urgently shook her, drawing her closer to him until she was pressed against his chest—“Do you believe the years we have spent together meant nothing to me?”

“You are a good man Marcus, an honourable one as well. I know you… care for me.” He did not like how she struggled to find the word for how he felt for her. He hated that she settled for an insipid ‘care’ when there wasn’t even a word to explain the sheer enormity of what he felt for her.

“But I am nobody, the daughter of a family with long lost prestige that has faded into obscurity. You are Rome’s rising star— the next General of Rome. My family was fortunate to have snagged you for their daughter at such a young age—”

“Why do you think this way? I have never thought of you as such. Who has been feeding these ideas to you?” Marcus insisted, his tone low and urgent.

“It is clear for all to see, of course. Why else would that man offer his daughter to you—”

“I did not notice—”

“It was all crass and contrived, of course. He tried to demean me so he could uplift his daughter. Then mentioning he wanted a husband just like you while the poor girl simpered before you as if you were the husband her father had chosen for her—”

“I do not—”

“Everyone knows your wife is inconvenient. You could have an influential and lasting political career in the Senate—”

“I am not Patrician,” he growled, his breath fanning across her cheek.

“It hardly matters if you have support from your wife’s well-connected family. It would make sense to no one that you should give that all up for a woman you could easily divorce—”

“THERE WILL BE NO DIVORCE.” The words were turbulent and yelled.

He could feel the darkness surge forth from where he had confined it, sprawling until the possessive obsession curled around his every nerve. His grip on her arms must be bruising but she looked unafraid despite the initial flinch. She only seemed surprised that he had raised his voice. How dare she imagine leaving him?

He briefly considered locking her away— far from the disgusting eyes of the aristocracy and the rest of the world which has been sowing ideas of a divorce in her mind. He would tether her only to him. His is the only face she would see. She would smile only at him. She would hear only him. She would eat and drink from his hands. He would bathe and dress her— care for her as she deserves. He would shield her from everything that could harm her or steal her away from him. His Anaticula. His in every sense of the word.

“I will have no other woman in this life except you.” The words should have sounded like a consolation. But he could hear the dark promise in them. She would have no other except him. Fruitlessly, he had attempted to subvert the power she had over him. He had been a fool to think he could feel anything for another woman when he has been so consumed by her.

He had terrified her with the ardour of his physical need so he will not touch her as such. Not until she trusted him again. Not until she realised she was safe with him. Not until he was nestled so deeply in her heart that she could never cast him out. Anaticula wrested her arm from him before taking his large, empty hand between both of hers.

“I know,” she murmured against his knuckles before pressing a long kiss to his battered and scarred knuckles. Her lips were blissfully warm on his skin. It was the very affection he hungered for. She kissed him again as if she was reluctant to remove her lips from his skin.

Marcus rubbed the corner of her eye, unable to stand the heartbreak in them, finding it wet with tears. They seared him— set on fire the secret, dark space inside of him where the beast was fighting against its constraints. He tightened the leash on his obsession.

He could not stifle her or else he would be no better than those who held her hostage and suffocated her. She was a woman destined to soar the heights of the sky, not be buried under his mangled and wound-ridden body. His purpose was to keep her safe, to lift her so she could fly.

“You are a man of principle and the most excellent husband. A better one than I could have asked for,” the sincerity shone in her voice. But she looked so exhausted as if the fight had left her limbs. She swayed on her feet as she withdrew from his arms.

Marcus felt the need to gather her close to him again, ask her if she was eating and taking care of herself. He wanted to beg her to trust him with whatever troubled her— he would carve it out of existence and clear the path for her. But he was helpless as he watched her walk away, wondering since when he had allowed her to pull so far away from him that she retired to her study instead of the chamber next to his. He would give anything to mend the distance between them.

“I do not feel like an excellent husband,” He breathed into the air stiff with her absence.

INDEX (His Young Wife) Previous Chapter: A Lotus Only Grows In The Murkiest Of Waters

Chapter 3 (Part II)

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