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gghostwriter · 5 months ago

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Time Gave No Compass, Were There Clues?

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: The three times fate brings you to cross paths with a certain handsome stranger and the one time he purposely crosses with yours Trope:It’s fluff in a meet cute type of way w.c: 5.6k+ a/n: this is connected to ‘One Single Thread of Gold’! This took forever to make simply because I had this fear that the second part wouldn’t come out as great as the first and I’ve been in a writing funk lately—not quite sure if my writing worsened or got better during this period but at this point, maybe I shouldn’t care that much anymore? That’s a lie so please comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The first encounter—a knight in a vintage blue vehicle

The drumming noise of the rain against the vinyl awning of the Japanese restaurant became the perfect soundtrack for watching countless strangers scurry to the nearest shelter.

It was the night that you have dubbed your unluckiest as a woman in Washington—up until he came along.

According to the morning weather forecast, there was little to no chance of rain. A radiant reprieve from the downpour of light rainfall the city had been experiencing three days in a row. A believer of facts you were, excitedly slipped on your new pair of heels and joined the outside world, sun shining up above the sky without a single speck of dark cloud lingering in its wake.

The work day was nothing special—jumping on video calls with your boss, answering international emails from the magazine’s sister branches abroad, and reviewing articles set to be published for next month’s print.

Nothing unusual. No sign that the day would roller coaster down and up again, before ending right before a drop, leaving you white knuckled with anticipation.

As you were exiting the diner with your freshly cooked to-go in one hand, the weather decided to beat the statistics presented by the news forecast. Rain poured down hard, effectively stranding you on the covered sidewalk.

“Oh,” you mumbled under your breath, forced to settle down on the empty outdoor seating. The gust of cold wind that caressed your cheeks to turn pink reminded you of comforting childhood memories—warm cocoa, blanket forts, and cuddles with your precious teddy bear.

It brought a smile on your face, recalling the time when life was still simple.

Working as a writer for an established fashion magazine had its own ups and downs. You felt lucky enough to be given the opportunity to work with living and breathing artists, all the while having the flexibility to live anywhere in the country.

Your boss initially found it odd when you mentioned temporarily moving back to Washington. It wasn’t a state well-established in the industry after all. It was a city filled with starched pressed suits, neutral ties, and newly shined loafers—the epicenter for politics and everything serious.

The ridiculous misconception about fashion and its frivolousness caused your nose to scrunch. It was the same idea that pushed newly graduate you to move to New York and burn the midnight oil to be where you were now, highly respected in the circle.

She understood your truth—the need for a change of scenery before jumping back in to the game with fresh new eyes. Jokingly, she wagered you’d only last two months away from the Big Apple before coming back. It had been six months since then and you were starting to believe the urge for the city that never sleeps will never cross your mind again.

As you mused about the trajectory of your career, the clouds started to let up, enough that you took the chance to open your compact umbrella and possibly ruin your heels to get to the nearest subway entrance just 10 minutes away.

A mistake that you realized halfway as a sudden blast of strong wind flipped your umbrella inside out, rending you vulnerable to the hasty returning rain.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath as water started to stain your light purple satin heels, turning them near black.

Definitely ruined.

The flickering light of the entrance and the still warm spot underneath the restaurant pulled you in two different directions. Should you just brave the weather already starting to look like a drowned animal or should you go back with your tail tucked between your legs?

As you debated your next move, being poorly protected by your broken umbrella and soaked by the tormenting weather no less, a blue vintage car came to a stop beside you and honked it’s horn.

“Um—do you need help? A ride, maybe?” a voice shouted out of the rolled down passenger window, barely heard against the torrential downpour.

A good Samaritan was rare this day and age. So uncommon that it made you immediately wary. You looked around, making sure it was you the stranger was addressing before uttering a reply.

“Depends on who’s asking,” your free hand clutching the ends of your spoiled umbrella. “Are you a serial killer by any chance?”

He paused, caught off guard with your question, and chuckled. “What? No, no. Not at all, just a concerned citizen.”

You bit your lip, wavering between accepting his offer at the risk of your life, before reaching to open the passenger door. “Fair enough.”

The stranger promptly layered a black windbreaker on the tan leather seats. “Sorry, it’s just—did you know that wet leather can lead to discoloration?”

Your eyebrows raised, shuffling to get comfortable on the seat—mindful of your back not touching, before giving him a nod. “Yes, actually I did but it’s great to see someone else know about it too.”

He pressed his lips together into a tight smile and reached forward on the console, tinkering with the unlabeled knobs, turning up the heat.

Your eyes tracked his every movement, curious as to any indication to who this mysterious gentleman was.

His nails were light pink in color, clean, and cut short—possibly for a desk office job. His fingers were long and bony, model length you’d surmise—a little calloused on one side of his middle finger possibly from holding a pen too tight. The back of his hand veined and wide in size, big enough to dwarf your dainty slim hands in comparison.

Your cheeks heated up, feeling guilty for gawking at a man’s hands before spilling your address without so much of a thought for your safety.

The stranger blanched, clearly caught off guard with your trusting nature. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to go with strangers willingly? Or provide vital information about yourself for that matter?”

You appraised his profile as his eyes trained on the road.

Hazel colored hair that curled around his face. Sunken eyes framed by long, dark lashes that any woman could envy. A tall and straight nose bridge. Maroon pillowy lips and a sharp jawline perfectly matched with a five-o’clock shadow.

He was handsome.

Pretty even.

The type you’d see a casting agent and photographer fawn over.

Shoulders seemingly angular and wide, stretching his black knitted cardigan well. It’s arms pushed up to showcase his forearms lithe in form with muscles flexing underneath as he twists the wheel to take a right. His seat pushed the farthest it could go, highlighting how tall he could be.

Your handsome gentleman could rival male models that graced your magazine’s editorial pages.

“Well, you don’t look like a serial killer and I think I’d take my chances with you than out there—” a flash of lightning trailed on the darkened sky followed by a loud clap of thunder. “—yeah, I stand with my choice.”

His laughter mid-pitched, filled the confined space. “And how does a serial killer look like?”

“Sinister and not trustworthy. You look neither, by the way,” you shrugged.

“Actually, there’s a minor percentage of killers that don’t fit in your description. Ted Bundy is an example, he used his good looks to lure in unsuspecting women.”

You hummed in agreement. “You’re right and you could definitely use your looks too but I still doubt you’re one. Let’s call it intuition and if I had to guess, you work at a desk job. Finance or Human Resources, maybe?”

“Are you saying I look—” he cleared his throat, a wrinkle appearing between his well shaped brows. “—handsome?”

“Well, at the risk of sounding like I’m flirting with you—which I’m not, well, maybe. But yes, I think you’re good looking. Handsome.”

The pink flush that slowly darkened to a cherry red started its descent to his exposed neck, making him look more endearing. His reaction made it quite obvious he was never one to receive such flattery about his appearance which made you question the eyes of the women around him.

He was utterly distinguished and dressed in this comforting nerdy fashion that added to the appeal.

“I take it you’re not used to compliments.”

The long lashes that framed his molten chocolate eyes fluttered, as if highlighting is naivety in dealing with the opposite sex.

It sent butterflies free in your stomach.

“Yeah, but thank you. And I’m really not a serial killer—I wouldn’t be using a memorable vehicle in picking up a victim in a crowded street with city cameras around. Not that, that information helps me state my case. In fact, it’s making it worse—” he rambled out, easing the car into a stop beside your apartment complex. “What I meant was, I-I think you’re good looking too, beautiful.”

You laughed at the absurdity of where your night has ended up.

The air trapped between two bodies crackled with an energy you couldn’t name. It was humming below the surface, making you feel hyper aware of the man who drove you home.

It was igniting.

Possibly the start of something.

In contrast, the outside was quiet and still. The rain had finally come and gone, leaving behind its comforting atmosphere.

The lamp posts reflecting off the puddles of water, tinting the streets a warm, honey gold color. Leaves dancing, like string puppets controlled by the forces of nature. The wind whispering and giggling—to what, you didn’t know but you felt it wasn’t important to dissect. No more important than the stranger who’s scent, aged books and cedar wood, intermingled with yours, vanilla and a hint of amber.

“Thank you for the ride,” quickly exiting the vehicle. Suddenly you felt shy as the last few minutes replayed in your head—how trusting you were to take his offer and how naive it was of you to let your guard down.

The sound of a subsequent car door opening echoed on the empty street. “You’re welcome and you’re wrong, by the way.”

“Wrong about what?” You twisted to look back.

The street lights hitting his face, casting a mysterious shadow on his handsome features.

“About me working in finance or human resources.”

Huh.

Your steps faltered to a stop.

That was a first—people around you always did say you read people best.

He was an exception it seemed.

An anomaly.

A mystery you wouldn’t mind taking a second try in solving.

“Better luck next time then. I hope to see you around,” you waved as you opened the heavy metal gate behind you.

His hand mimicked your goodbye before promptly reaching down to open his car door, effectively disappearing from your gaze as you pushed the main door open to the lobby.

As you watched the remaining water droplets slide down your coat, waiting for the rickety elevator to descend, an all important question popped in your mind that you never uttered into the world.

His name.

You forgot to ask for his name.

Hurriedly running back to the entrance, your stained heels clacking on the stoned pathway, you opened the gate just to spy the gentleman’s memorable light blue vehicle rev forward to blend into the chilly city night.

Damn.

The second—a shared cup of Joe between two no longer strangers

The sun peeking underneath the cotton candy white clouds did little to fight off the inevitable Autumn air. Weeks of sunny days from the past storm is nearing its end causing the city occupants to flood the streets and parks for their last soak of Summer.

Weeks have gone since your enthralling encounter with the handsome stranger and his vintage blue car. You’ve spent days replaying the memory in hopes of finding any more clues on who he was or even how to run into him again. Nights lamenting over the missed opportunity and the bitter what-if that came with it. The thought, now hazy from time passed, seemed to be colored in this golden hue you couldn’t quite describe.

A sigh escaped from between your pale pink lips.

The moment was captivating.

He was beguiling.

But until you run into him again, his very being in your mind lived rent free.

Hand adjusting the pale pink scarf wrapped around your neck, you stepped into the warm quaint bakery down by the office. The aroma of freshly baked bread and roasting coffee beans enveloped the otherwise packed store. It was still early on the day and otherwise sleep deprived workers were queuing up for their daily fix.

This had been your spot since renting a small office space to commute to. Given your need to separate home from work, you’ve opted to find a studio you could call your temporary ‘work room’. It added extra expense, you’d agree but the comfort of being in a sea of strangers going to and from added a sense of productivity you’d never quite get if you created a makeshift office in your one bedroom apartment downtown.

You squeezed your way towards the front to view the pastry selection when you spotted him.

The gentleman in question at the counter, clearly holding up the line.

He flashed Sarah, your usual fixer as you joked, a tight smile filled with apologies and embarrassment.

Destiny seemed to have heard your calls and to that you were grateful.

Not wanting to let this second chance encounter go to waste, you excused yourself to the register and deftly slid your card on the white granite counter.

“Hey Sarah, do you mind adding my order with his? And a one of your buttery croissants would be much appreciated.”

Her eyebrows raised, clearly wondering the reason behind your surprising actions. Eyes flickered to the stranger beside you muttering his light disagreeing reaction before nodding towards you, as if agreeing with what she saw. “One long black and a flat white coming right up.”

“Hey stranger, fancy seeing you here,” you cocked your head to the side, loose tendrils escaping the confines of your loose bun.

The same blush that haunted you graced his face. “Hey—hi, it’s you! It��s nice to see you again,” his fingers proceeded to fiddle with his leather worn wallet. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. Pay for my coffee, I mean.”

“It’s no problem at all, just think of it as my payment for the ride the other day and also a thank you for, you know, not turning out to be a killer, like you kept bringing up.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling close. “Well, I just wanted to instill some extra caution in you. It’s good to think well of people in general but it doesn’t hurt to be wary of them either. Especially the statistics of you—a young woman being targeted is quite high no matter how safe Washington seems to be.”

“I did get an earful from my friend about the reckless act I did. So, safe to say I’ve learned my lesson—” you paused, flashing Sarah a smile as your hands wrapped around the steaming cup of coffee and the bag containing the pastry. “But between you and me, I think she was more miffed about something I didn’t do.”

He mimicked your movements and proceeded to guide you to the nearest available standing table, his free hand hovering near the small of your back.

“And what was it?”

“Not getting your name.”

His free hand wrapped around the strap of his satchel, pulling it towards the front of his body as if it was a shield that could hide away the blush that slowly crept down his neck.

“I, yeah—Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

You introduced yourself with the same enthusiasm, finally at ease for knowing who he was.

“Well then, Spencer Reid, was I really wrong or was that just a lie to throw my deductive skills off course?” your hands pushing the packets of sugar towards his steaming open cup.

He thank you silently, counting at least 8 packets of sugar before returning the remaining ones in the jar. “What do you mean?”

“You not working in finance.”

“Well statistically speaking, more than 43% of the offices located here don’t belong in the finance section,” he grinned.

With his eyes twinkling, he further continued. “21% of those are actually the government sector while the remaining are a mixture of publishing, business, and IT.”

“You sprouting off statistics doesn’t really sway me from my guess, you do know that?” You hummed, watching him dump and stir all the sugar into his dark cup of Joe. The idea of how sweet it would be sent a slight shiver down your spine. “If not finance then hmm—what about teaching?”

Appraising his get up for the day—a purple button down layered with a seemingly fraying cardigan and a black overcoat. He reminded of you of those quirky university professors that students would have no problem having a crush on.

“You look like a young college professor with a couple degrees under your belt. Maybe literature? Or math?”

An airy laughter emitted between his lips. “Why is it always returning back to math?”

“I truly don’t know—” you shrugged. “You look smart and academic so that’s my best guess.”

“There’s actually a statistic on how many academically gifted people end up in the field of science rather than in math but I don’t know if you’d like to hear it.”

You leaned forward. “I actually do but that would cement my idea of you in maths.”

A ring from his pocket interrupted his reply. Spencer clambered to answer the call even before its’ third ring.

“Yeah. Okay, got it. 5 minutes.”

Any humor or lightheartedness the conversation brought had been erased from his face. It must have been work and the gravity of his responsibility must be heavy—definitely not finance and maybe not a professor then.

“I have to go—” Spencer tightly smiled, hands pulling the satchel and drink closer to his body. “It was really nice seeing you again.”

You nodded, wordlessly walking out of the shop with him. As he started to step away from your presence, he turned back one last time to further throw you off course.

“You were right about one thing.”

Brows furrowing together, you shout back. “Which one?”

Spencer just smiled and shrugged his shoulders before turning forward, picking up his pace and leaving you further baffled about his mystery.

The third—a run- in during an otherwise idle day

The white noise the train against its tracks threatened to lull you into a daze. Its compartment surprisingly sparse with occupants during this otherwise tranquil Saturday. Everyone seemed to be at nearby parks, watching the leaves slowly turn this red-orange hue.

Your companion in hand—a book with its spine cracked and front cover folded backwards, sat idly on your denim lap. It was a tattered and worn copy of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. When you were in your teens, it had been the gateway to your love of classic literature and it had been your favorite ever since.

The bench you were seated on shifted and with it, medium brown brogues registered in your periphery.

Inwardly, you scoffed at the stranger invading your space when there were a multitude of empty seats available in your section. Briefly you wondered if this was going to be another day of being picked up by men who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no’ which inevitably would ruin your day.

As you were debating on nicely excusing yourself away, the man cleared his throat.

“Hey—hi,” he sheepishly greeted in this voice that had been replaying in your head since that rainy weekday night.

You blinked away the surprise—the bafflement that fate had seemed to cross your path with his again and again and again. It always happened when you least expected it. After all, you spent numerous days craning your neck for even a small glimpse of Spencer Reid to no avail. Your eyes would subconsciously sweep the streets for a view of any suede coat matched with a purple pattern scarf. It had been your own version of Where’s Waldo—a past time that your friend joined as you forbade her (and by extension, yourself) from looking him up online.

You wanted to keep the mystery and it seemed fate was rewarding you today.

“Hi-hey Spencer. This is a surprise,” your cheeks stretching wide from the grin you gave him.

His fingers brushed a nonexistent stray of hair behind his ears. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it was you. The odds of ever seeing you again—or anyone I’d know on the train is low, with how many people Virginia has.”

“Isn’t it fascinating?” your hands closing the book that no longer held your attention. “How we seemed to just run into each other? Funny how that works.”

“I mean, you could say that—not that I believe in destiny or fate with how abstract and little scientific studies it has. Maybe we just run in the same small schedule or circle.”

Your eyebrow raised, appraising his look.

His hair looked unruly—with one side more flattened the the other, possibly slept on. His clothes, although free from any stains that would indicate it as yesterday’s, had crease marks that were reminiscent of its folding. They were clean but also not pressed—came from the satchel then. The very same bag laying on his lap, no doubt filled with dirty laundry and other necessities.

“I don’t think so,” you pondered on. “Are you just on your way back home from work, by any chance?”

“How’d you know that?” His voice cracking at the end.

You shrugged. “I pick up on things, small details and all that.”

“That’s really good. Must come in handy with your work as a journalist.”

Now it was your turn to be surprised. “How’d you know that? How’d—what gave it away?”

“It was an educated guess which—” he flashed you a grin. “—you just confirmed now.”

“Touche. Although that does seem unfair,” you pouted. “You know my occupation but I can’t even get yours right.”

He tilted his head to the right, eyes twinkling with life that keeps you pulled in. “You’re welcome to guess. In fact, I could give you a clue if you wanted—” he paused waiting for your agreement which you readily gave. “—alright you were right about one thing the last time: the one about me having multiple degrees.”

“You look young so I’m guessing a genius?”

“Well, my co-workers do like to tease me as one and it is true so yeah. I am a genius.”

The way his eyes shifted showed how bashful he was in admitting out loud he was one. You briefly wondered if there was ever a time where he felt embarrassed about it—probably in high school, you’d surmise. Teenagers, after all, had the tendency to ostracize anyone who doesn’t fit the rigid status quo they’ve collectively agreed upon.

“That’s amazing!” You gushed. “And it does narrow it quite down, actually. Do you happen to work for the government? I mean, I’m sure they try to collect the best minds our country has to offer, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do work for the government. And you’re right, they do tend to employ gifted adults as a way to also surveillance them—to make sure they don’t turn into anti-statists or anarchists.”

You pondered over every detail he presented. Freshly manicured nails tapping on your leg before finally guessing. “Okay so, I was first going to say NASA because—” you shrugged. “—it’s space but then that would be too stereotypical of me to assume. Plus, you’ve thrown off just about any deductions I’ve made during our first two meetings—”

Spencer nodded. He seemed proud to listen to you ramble your way through.

“—I was also going to guess administrative work but it’s a weekend and you’re just on your way home so that’s a no—”

A small spread on his face.

A good sign that you were in the right direction.

“—it can’t be the judiciary too, right? I always imagined them to be wearing neutral suits and have this stoic air around them—”

He chuckled.

“—so I’m guessing law enforcement? Can’t be a regular cop, they have uniforms. So, for the FBI? Or am I just reaching?”

Spencer vigorously nodded his head, the wavy tendrils tucked behind his ears escaping their confines.

“That’s right! Wow—you’re really good at this. Maybe you should have also been scouted!” He teased.

You giggled, the happiness from getting it right and the idea of you working with a gun seemed ludicrous. “Sadly, I may be too clumsy for that kind of work. With my type of luck, I’d probably trip over my feet and mess up a crime scene.”

The automated voice announcing the next station broke through the lighthearted conversation. Spencer’s eyes widened ever so slightly, indicating that this was his stop.

“I guess this is it, huh? See you soon then, Spencer?”

He sandwiched his lower lip between his pearly teeth. “Would you be interested in purposefully seeing each other next time? I would love to get to know you more—over dinner? Coffee? Any would be great—you don’t have to say yes of course but yeah.”

“Can I say yes to all of the above?” You teased. “I would love to.”

Spencer started to get up, hands pulling on his satchel to secure it. The train was coming to a stop and you could begin to see the stop come into view.

Your hand quickly reached out to tug on his rolled sleeve. “Wait—how do we contact each other?”

“It’s tucked in your book. My number, I mean,” he laughed. The sound coaxing you to release your own. “See you!”

Your eyes tracked him getting off the train and his would meet yours one last time, before disappearing towards the station’s nearest exit. Your hands hastily opened the front page to where a new object was slotted in between without you knowing.

His calling card.

Federal Bureau of Investigation - Behavioral Analysis Unit SSA Dr. Spencer Reid 1-761-xxx-xxxx

Giggling, you fished your phone from the confines of your wallet and quickly sent out a text.

Hey. Are you a magician too, by any chance?

The fourth or better yet, the planned first—two strings interwoven by fate

Spencer hadn’t been able to explain the circumstances that led him here tonight—walking through a nearby park in the sparkly but cold weekend night with a beautiful woman right by his side.

The dinner date had gone surprisingly well. So great in fact that he didn’t want it to end. Suggesting to walk you back home rather than use his blue well beaten vehicle left parked near the restaurant was his idea to prolong the night.

He was well aware that you both could be exposing yourselves to a seasonal bout of cold but for the first time, it didn’t matter to his overactive and over-analytical brain. Nor did it seem to matter to you—given with how vigorously she accepted his suggestion to walk.

Your dainty right hand was wrapped around the bouquet of flowers he personally selected. An array of daisies, daffodils, and sedums.

Joy from having to meet you, to new beginnings, and affection.

Spencer wanted to convey what he had been feeling since that run-in the coffee shop. Regardless if you knew what they meant.

This was all uncharted territory and the incidents that brought them into each other’s worlds was baffling to say the least.

Was this the really the works of fate?

Does this prove that destiny is true and the notion of having free choice is a lie we tell ourselves?

He concluded it probably didn’t matter.

All that mattered was where he was now—with you.

��So you really took all those degrees all together?” you clarified, eyes widening from disbelief. “The amount of studying and writing you’ve done must have been massive.”

“Well, it did help that I could read fast—20,000 words per minute, but I could still remember my hands cramping from the amount I had to type down.”

“Of course you can still remember, with your eidetic memory and all. That must be nice—never forgetting any novel you’ve read.”

He shrugged. “It does have it’s perks but between you and me, there is a downside to it.”

You halted in her step, staring inquisitively up at him.

Spencer found it cute—how even with yout heeled boots on, you could only reach up to his chest. It gave him this sense of protectiveness over you being.

“Oh yeah, like what?”

He pondered. “Well, we did have this one vampire case and one of the victim’s laptop password was ‘Cullen’ and I didn’t get the reference—thought it was ‘colon’ actually. So I decided to read the first book and didn’t like it.”

“You actually read ‘Twilight’?” You giggled. It sounded like wind chimes echoing through the trees.

“I was curious!” His voice went up an octave. “Is that what teens are reading, really? What ever happened to reading ‘Lord of the Flies’ or Franz Kafka during high school, for that matter?”

“The one where a group of boys are stranded on an island or the one where the protagonist turns into a cockroach? Doesn’t really read romance for teen girls, Spencer.”

He chuckled. “And a 104 year old vampire does?”

“It’s about the idea,” you continued on walking, free hand swinging in between you—all he had to do was reach out and intertwine it with his but could he do that? Should he? Would she want that? “How Bella is your average, teen next door and someone like Edward, mysterious and handsome, could fall for her. It’s about the premise—I mean which teenage girl didn’t dream of something like that?”

“Does that include you too?”

You laughed. “I mean—Edward isn’t really my type but sure, I guess.”

Spencer decided to do it. He tentatively reached out his pinky to yours, looping them together.

There, a small touch you could say no to.

He waited for the reaction. From himself, there was a lack of worry for germs (this surprised him) and from you, the possibility of rejecting his small advances. With a breath lodged in his throat, Spencer watched a shy smile grace your face and cheeks turn further pink.

Empowered by the reaction, he reached out to intertwine the rest of his freezing hand with yours and proceeded to tuck both into his coat pocket. Spencer felt his cheeks emit warmth, wondering where his courage came from. If Morgan just saw him now, no doubt he’d get a pat at the back and a whispered ‘you’ve got serious game, kid.’

“It’s a good thing he isn’t my type at all, don’t you think so?” You whispered. “I mean, you don’t sparkle in the sun, do you?”

His laughter echoed through the otherwise empty streets.

“Oh god—that was so so bad. Ignore my cheesy flirting, please.”

“No, no,” he shook his head, feeling lightheaded from your presence. “I don’t think I do, actually. We could check—” clearing his throat “—once the weather gives way to the sun.”

It seemed like you got what he was subtly stating. “That long, huh? I’ll hold you to that promise.”

“Please do.”

Both your steps slowed to a stop in front of your apartment complex.

Spencer sighed under his breath, he really didn’t want the night to end. There was still so much to talk about—anything and nothing at the same time. Is this what they meant when they said time flies when you’re having fun?

“Well,” you squeezed his hand twice. “This is it. I had fun tonight, Spencer.”

He squeezed back in return. “I did too. Can I—call you again?”

You nodded, a single tendril of hair escaping from its' loose bun.

Mesmerized, Spencer reached forward and secured it behind your reddening ear. “Get home safe.”

“I doubt anything would happen between my way up from the elevator to my door but I will. Drive safe and let me know you got in safely, got it?”

He reluctantly let go of your hand, slowly backing away without turning his back on you. Each second seeing you bundled up in a coat with flowers still on hand was an image he never wanted to forget, never wanted to miss.

As he was a few steps away, the wind carried your sweet voice to his ears.

“Hey, Spencer. There’s one thing I think you forgot to take with you.”

He patted his coat, unsure as to what you were pertaining to. Eyes scanning his being when the distinct sound of your heels against the pavement, getting closer and closer, made him look up.

A pair of soft warm lips met his cheeks.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

His jaw dropped. The act short circuited his otherwise intelligent brain. It felt like every thought had dropped away, turning insignificant, compared to the tensed silence between two individuals once considered strangers but now intertwined in a way he could not explain in any language he knew.

Little white specks floated down from the sky, coloring the moment in the lightest color ever possible—a hue that symbolized new beginnings.

Before his mind could catch up, Spencer felt himself moving.

Towards you.

Closing in.

Cupping your cheeks.

And meeting his own lips with the ones that short circuited his brain.

In that moment, all he could comprehend was the smell of you—like freshly cleaned laundry dried under the sun. The taste of you—cherries with a hint of the red wine you drank over dinner. And the feel of you—warm, hands grasping his coat tight, flowers dropped on the ground, momentarily forgotten.

These were details he willed to engrave in his eidetic memory. Observations he doesn’t want to forget.

And you, the single woman he hopes to never lose.

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

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unintentionalseductress · 2 months ago

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Let Me Take Care Of It

Warnings: MDNI, pseudocest, inexperienced adult reader, mild corruption kink, reader calls Caleb gege A/n: ok ok...tbh idk how this would even work irl, where reader is a grown woman and doesn't know about her clit or being horny etc...point is IDC, this is like PWMP - p**n with mild plot, but honestly, I just needed a reason to write some filthy pseudocest so here we fucking are. Written with very little thought and not proofread. Part 2 maybe if this does well.

It started out as a strange feeling; blushing whenever Caleb patted your head, or when he held your hand while crossing the street. It hadn't affected you before, but now it was all you could think about.

It was a very odd sensation: flushed face, rapid heartbeat, a soft ache in your nipples, and most curious of all, a persistent throbbing between your legs. It went away with time, but everything seemed to reignite when Caleb was back in proximity to you.

Then he left for college. That was the longest you'd gone without feeling those peculiar tingles and uncomfortable jolts in your stomach. Then he'd visit and it all came crashing down again. It was more manageable after you started living in the dorm. Separated for longer periods meant you could live much more freely, and you prepared yourself for any visits to Grandma's place. You'd successfully avoided Caleb up until now.

So imagine your surprise when you open the front door and are greeted with an enthusiastic, "Hey pipsqueak!"

Your heart skips a beat, then a high-pitched squeal leaves your lips as you're lifted off the ground. Caleb envelops you in a tight hug as he picks you up and spins you around, just like when you were kids. The familiar scent of his skin fills your nostrils, and on cue, that throbbing between your legs starts again.

"Oh, it feels like I haven't seen you in forever!" He carefully sets you down and ruffles your hair, worsening the rising heat in your cheeks. "You've been so busy the last few vacations that I haven't seen you all year pipsqueak!"

Caleb casually slinks his arm around your shoulder, his hand just shy of brushing your breast and you feel your nipple hardening almost painfully against the fabric of your bra, feeling like it might chafe against the undergarment. You clear your throat and nod, hoping none of your symptoms were showing on your face.

"Yeah it's good to see you too..." you try to sound nonchalant as you push Caleb off you, pretending to be playful, and he grins, automatically leaning back against you like a game, annoyingly yet adorably resembling a puppy that wanted pets.

"No hug for me?" His purple eyes were pleading. "No I miss you? You've really become miss independent after leaving for college. Bet you don't want my homemade dumplings or brasied chicken wings anymore either huh?"

You instantly pout, the mention of food temporarily making you forget your embarrassing reaction to his presence. "I never said that! I always want your food!"

Caleb grins. "Oh I see. You only think of me when you're hungry. What a selfish little pipsqueak."

The sight of him smiling was making your stomach tie itself into knots. "I'm gonna put my stuff away. Freshen up." You quickly grab your suitcase.

"Are you ok?" Without warning, Caleb reaches out to cup your cheek between both his hands and your breath catches, the heat welling up inside to a point that you felt like you might burst into flames.

"You're awfully warm and red. You're not sick right?" Caleb's endearing method of checking for a fever, which used to make you feel secure and safe, was now making you squirmy and awkward.

Jerking your face out of his hands, you mutter an "I'm fine," before running as fast as you can to your room. Once inside, you sink down on the bed, trying to calm down, trying to think of anything to stop that uncomfortable little pulse of heat in between your most intimate folds. You let out a growl of frustration, then startle as someone knocks on your door. You scramble into a sitting position.

"Yeah?"

Caleb wanders in, looking concerned, and you feel like a trapped animal, fighting for space.

"I'm sorry, but I don't buy that you're ok." He sits down on the edge of your bed and you look away, blushing furiously.

"You've never avoided me like this our whole lives pipsqueak. Didn't we agree no secrets? That you can always talk to me no matter what?"

His words twist guilt into your being but you can't bring yourself to look at him. An awkward silence fills the room and Caleb scoots closer, and you're sure he's trying to give you a heart attack.

"What is it? Are you on your period?"

You know he means well, but you shrink from him, and your heart clenches as you see the disappointment in his face as you withdraw; you'd never rejected his touch before.

Caleb sighs deeply, then rubs the back of his neck. "Ok. I'm sorry. I'll give you some room."

He gets up to go but you instinctively grab his hand, eyes wide and pleading. "No, don't go." you swallow, trying to form the words.

"I don't want space from you."

"Then why are you being weird?" He allows himself to be pulled back onto the bed and draws you against him, and you feel like all your senses are focusing on reliving one thing and one thing only; the pulsating warmth of your sex.

"I'm not trying to be, but I don't feel good. But I don't think I'm sick." You try to explain as Caleb holds you. "I feel...all hot. And my body keeps getting these tingles, and I feel...like my heart's beating too fast."

"Since when?" Caleb gently pats the back of your head. "You should have told me. I would've taken you to the doctor."

"There's something else. And it's kind of...embarrassing."

"Embarrassing how?"

You swallow, feeling your face burn as you admit your problem. "I feel a weird kind of throbbing sensation."

"Is it painful? Where?"

"It's...down there." You finally admit.

A ringing silence falls around you and for a second you worry you've said too much, before Caleb asks, "Like...down down there? In your...?" he fumbles. "Your pussy?"

You let out a shriek of mortification and push him, hiding your face in your hands. "Don't call it that!"

"That's what it's called!" Caleb says earnestly, trying not to laugh. "And I think I know what's happening." He tugs on your wrist to pull you back to his side.

"You do?" Hopeful you peek at him, feeling shy as his eyes start to darken at the edges.

"I think I do. You're horny." he says it matter-of-factly, and you glance away.

"Horny? That's what this is?"

"Yup. I can check if you want."

Your heart skips a beat. "Check?"

"Yeah. Do you trust me?"

Nodding, you allow him to lay you back on the bed, resisting the urge to snap your legs closed as he settles between them. He carefully hikes up your skirt, trying to ignore the shudder that passes through him as he sees the drenched gusset of your cute little panties.

"Let gege take care of you," he murmurs hotly, and despite yourself, you nod.

"Gege knows what wrong with me?" you ask with wide eyed innocence that makes him want to rip off your clothes and take you then and there. Caleb settles for a nod.

"Yes pipsqueak. I do." He pulls off the soaked panties, dragging them down your legs and bringing them up to his nose to smell, the musky aroma making his cock harden painfully.

You're as red as an apple as you watch. "Gege why...?"

"Scent is an important part of making sure you're horny. Judging by these-" he dangles the drenched undergarment in the air before putting it into his pocket, "I'd say you've been this way for a while."

Your knees tremble but Caleb puts his hands on them, keeping them apart. "Be gege's good girl hmm? Keep your legs wide open for me."

You obey, then let out a tiny gasp as you feel his fingers on your cunt, prising them apart and stroking a calloused fingertip through the moist, swollen membranes. As he brushes closer to the apex, you moan and buck your hips, a sudden feeling of pleasure floating through you at his touch.

"Oh pipsqueak. Your clit is all swollen and pink. Are you a naughty little pipsqueak, getting wet when gege is near?" His question is a husky murmur, asked with a smirk that has you hiding your face in your hands again.

"I don't know." you whimper as the throbbing increases after the temporary respite of him touching it.

"Let gege help you. Just relax." You let out a helpless, breathy noise as he pets that little bud at the tip of your apex again, drawing smooth circles over it, your moans music to his ears. He inserts a finger into your tight virgin hole, hissing as he feels how smoothly it glides in, and when he pulls out, the digit is coated with a slick layer of your arousal.

"My little one...you're so pent up. You haven't touched yourself at all? Not even once?" he smears the fluid onto your clit, lewd squelxhing noises filling the air as he strokes you steadily.

The tenderly movements only aid in your growng arousal, hips automatically rocking in a primal rhythm to his fingers. "No..." you manage to whimper. "I didn't know this was what the problem was."

"Ssh..." Caleb silences you with a kiss on your forehead. "It's ok. Now you know. And gege is here to show you. Don't worry my little doll." Testing your limits, he reinserts his finger, followed by a second one, marveling at the stretch. "How does this feel?"

You nod your head. "It...it feels good gege..." your walls clamp around the invading digits and Caleb curls them up, running them along the upper walls of your channel until he finds a spongy little patch deep within. He strokes it with care as his thumb continues it movements on your clit, and your eyes squeeze closed, pops of color forming behind your closed eyelids.

"That's it...focus on feeling good. Can you do that for me pipsqueak?"

You nod tightly, feeling light, your whole body turning into a melting mess of pleasure as you mewl, your body responding so perfectly to his actions. Caleb can see your nipples poking through the thin fabric of your shirt and he curbs his impulses to rip the shirt off and suckle the little knots of flesh greedily, not when he knew you were so close to having a satisfying orgasm on his fingers.

The tension builds, a slippery coil of want tightening in your belly as your voice keens. You feel pressure building within, like your body was contracting and relaxing at the same time, almost like it was trying to expel something.

"Gege...I feel like...there's pressure..." You struggle to explain.

"That's normal pipsqueak. Focus on that. Trust me."

So you listen to him, tuning into the feeling and then, the world suddenly grows bright. The buidling pressure snaps, releasing an insane synergy of rapid delight, growing in your belly and radiating everywhere. Your clit and pussy flutter in tandem as you ride the wave of ecstasy, breath tearing from your throat as it ripples through you, filling you with gratification.

Caleb's fingers never cease through this event but his touch becomes softer, and once he feels your pussy start to relax, he removes his drenched fingers from your hole, licking them clean, much to your chagrin.

"That was so beautiful pipsqueak. How do you feel?" He gather you close, giving reassuring kisses to your cheeks and forehead.

"I feel...good. Like really good. And the throbbing is gone."

Caleb chuckles. "You'll let me know if it comes back? I'll always help you my little one."

Glowing at the relief, you snuggle into him. "Yes gege."

"That's my girl." He presses a final kiss to your forehead, moving away to give himself some room to gether himself, to take his painfully hard cock away from your pretty, half-naked body."

"Wash up pipsqueak. Dinner will be ready soon."

With one last look at your sated face, Caleb leaves in satisfaction. He can wait. He has all week.

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prettycalla · 1 month ago

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|| venenum paradiso ||

Pairing: Geta/Empress!Reader

Summary: Geta has some very traditional views that are not to your tastes. You decide to put him in his place. (Request fill)

Word count: 4k

Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicitly described, but still obvious!), period-typical sexism, bickering, submissive Geta, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I wrote a little blurb a while ago and decided to make it in a bigger fic. I had to scrap the original idea because I was getting way too into the lore, and let's be real, we're not here for that, we're here for Geta smut. Also read up a Lot on sexuality in Ancient Rome, and wow, did they have Opinions.)

Masterlist || Join the taglist!

Of all the men you have encountered in your life, your husband is perhaps one of the most frustrating at times.

It is not often that you argue, you are patient enough that you are willing to agree to disagree on many matters. But there are occasions when it feels as though you are on the brink of war with him.

He is stubborn, infuriatingly so, and there are times when it takes everything in your power to hold your tongue.

However, even you, diplomatic and gracious as you are, have your limits.

Geta holds certain views that are...traditional, to say the least. You are not of the same mindset.

It had started over a passing remark. A mere flight of fancy that you had had late one night, as you had laid together in bed. Of being brought to release by your husband's mouth. At worst, you assume he will think nothing of it.

How full of surprises he is.

He is rather quick to remark that he does not believe a man of his rank and status should subject himself to something so...unbecoming.

It is not so much his words, but the manner in which he says them. As if his archaic opinion is fact. How your blood boils. Then, an eerie feeling of calm washes over you. You hum in response, teeth clenched behind a tight smile.

Oh, you are most certainly at war now. And you, you will be the victor, you are certain of it.

He does not notice at first, as on the surface, you are treating him no differently than any other day.

Eventually, it starts to click into place. You will not stay long in his embrace, you shy away from his touch, you turn your head with a tight-lipped smile when he tries to kiss you.

“Wife,” he demands one night as you are readying yourself for bed. “You are angry with me. Why?”

You lay down your hairbrush on the table, turning to face him.

“Whatever has led you to that conclusion?” you ask in turn, in an unassuming tone.

“You have been treating me with disdain for the better part of two days now. I tire of it,” he tells you, with all the grace of a spoiled child.

“Surely you are imagining things,” you say airily.

“Do not insult me,” he spits.

You give him a look of feigned surprise. “As if I would ever do such a thing.”

“You will tell me what I have done,” he insists.

You brush past him on the way to bed, slipping under the covers.

“You will figure it out for yourself,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

You turn your back to him, leaving him to stand there and process your words. It is a while before he joins you. You feel his hand hover near you, but you ignore it under the pretence of sleep. Eventually, he moves away, and you cannot help the smile that creeps onto your face as he lets out an irritated sigh.

His mood only worsens from there. When you wake the next morning, he is already dressed for the day ahead.

"Did you sleep well?" you ask with a yawn.

Geta glares at you with tired eyes, but does not allow himself to fall prey to it, turning his attention to more pressing matters.

"I trust you remember that we are to attend a banquet tonight," he tells you. "I will have you by my side, as my loving wife."

You do not miss the warning that lingers in his words.

“Would you have me any other way?” you ask, the very picture of innocence.

He does not reply, instead reaching across the bed to kiss you before he leaves. You conveniently choose that moment to get up, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the bed as he misses you entirely.

The quiet snarl that escapes him is quite the reward, you must admit. Embarrassed, he storms out, leaving you alone to your morning routine. You smile to yourself. Perhaps you should not be enjoying this as much as you are, but he does make it so easy for you.

You do not see Geta again until early evening, as he is kept busy for much of the day with meetings with senators and patricians. When you arrive at the grand hall, he is already seated and deep in conversation. You cannot help but notice how decadently he is dressed, in robes of the richest reds and golds, adorned with the most beautiful jewellery, and golden laurels sit atop his fiery hair. It is far too much, even for an event such as this, and you bite back a smile. Geta only dresses in such a manner when he is upset. And judging by the look he has now levelled on you, he is furious.

He quickly schools his expression into something more fitting of a loving husband as you draw near, taking the fawning and flattery of the surrounding crowd in your stride as always.

"Wife," he murmurs, with a smile that is reminiscent of a shark.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it.

Your attention wanders as he does so. He attempts to pull you towards him, but you do not budge.

"Come, you will sit by me," he says pleasantly.

You shake your head, slipping your hand from his tight grasp.

"Oh, no, I could not possibly interrupt your conversation," you reply, "Please, you must stay with the senator."

Geta opens his mouth to argue, but you have already turned away. Caracalla has been watching the entire scene unfold before him from across the table with rapt attention, and he grins at you.

"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me," you say politely, with an incline of your head.

You take the seat next to Caracalla, who in turn looks to his brother to find him seething. Never one for subtlety, Caracalla giggles loudly, turning his attention to you.

“My dear sister, whatever has your poor husband done now?” he asks, inelegantly swirling the wine around in his cup before taking a drink.

His voice carries far enough across the table for the guests to glance up curiously. Geta looks as though he wishes for nothing more than to throw himself across the table and strangle his brother.

You smile as you pat Caracalla’s arm in a good-natured manner.

“Now, now. Is it not enough for me to sit by you and enjoy your company?” you ask innocently.

His eyes are on you then, his gaze sharp and scrutinising. A wide smile slowly breaks out across his face.

“Of course,” he replies, almost giddily.

He leans in to you, his voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.

“What games you play,” he whispers slyly.

You laugh then, your eyes drifting to where Geta sits. To a mere bystander, he would look the very image of a man deeply engrossed in political conversation, but you know him better than anyone. He is clutching the cup in his hand with such ferocity that his knuckles have lost all colour, and his jaw twitches from clenching so hard.

You are beginning to feel pity for him. But he must learn.

You are rather quickly distracted once again by Caracalla, who is making quite a spectacle of himself by reaching over people who are trying to eat to acquire food for Dondus. She is perched on his shoulders, her little hands clutching at his messy hair to balance herself.

He unceremoniously falls back into his seat, arranging his spoils in front of him. He lifts a grape up and Dondus greedily snatches it from him, pawing at it before she bites into it.

"Would you like to feed her?" he asks, holding out some walnuts.

"Of course," you reply, taking one and holding it out to the little monkey.

Dondus sniffs at it for a moment, not as familiar with your scent, before she takes it from you.

"What a sweet girl you are," you coo at her.

"Isn't she?" Caracalla agrees proudly, as he scratches under her chin.

The evening continues to pass as pleasantly in Caracalla's company. He regales you with stories, making you laugh until there are tears in your eyes. You have almost forgotten about your husband.

Almost.

As if on cue, Geta rises from his seat.

"Excuse me," he announces to the table. "I must withdraw for the evening. Please, stay and enjoy yourselves."

You watch him leave, his agitation evident in how he holds himself.

Caracalla tilts his head closer to you. "Do you think he has suffered enough?" he asks mischievously.

Not quite, you think to yourself.

It is another hour or so before you retire for the night as well. As you had suspected, Geta has returned to your chambers and is very much awake, pacing back and forth across the length of the room, as he has likely been doing since he returned.

"You finally grace me with your presence, Augusta," he says.

Beyond the public's prying eyes, he only ever calls you by your title when he is angry with you.

"I thought you would be asleep by the time I returned," you reply.

You cross the room to your vanity table, sitting down to begin your nightly routine. Geta drags the chair out to stand in front of you, demanding your attention. You look up at him. He is seething. You, by contrast, are quite unaffected.

"You seem to have forgotten your place," he says through gritted teeth.

He will not be ignored.

You tilt your head with a feigned look of confusion. "And where, exactly, is that?" you ask.

"Wherever I wish it to be," he replies. "If I want you by my side, you will be by my side."

He bends down, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he looms over you. His expression is glowering, his intense eyes made all the more so by the flickering lantern light.

"If I command you, you will obey," he says lowly.

There is a side to Geta that will rear its ugly head when he has been slighted. It craves power and control, and will not rest until both are firmly in its clutches. In the beginning, it was persistent, constant, as he was terrified of allowing you to see him for who he truly is. With time and patience, you were finally able to tame the raging beast, to prove to him that you would not hurt him, that you loved him.

The beast is raging once more, but you are no longer frightened of it. You are more than equipped to put it back in its place.

You merely smile in response. He does not like that. He straightens then, drawing himself up to his full height. His stubborn petulance is almost endearing, if not growing a little tiresome.

“You will kneel for your Emperor,” he commands.

You cross your legs as you look up at him with a serene expression. Even with the advantage of height between the two of you, he looks like a little boy in the midst of a tantrum.

You feel powerful. It is intoxicating.

“If you wish something of me, husband,” you say, “you will ask nicely.”

Geta’s eye twitches at your words, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation.

“I will do no such thing,” he says at last.

“Oh, you will,” you reply, your voice light and airy, as if you are discussing something as mundane as the weather.

You stand up, not bothering to push the chair back, uncaring of the close proximity between the two of you. Your hands slide from the arms of the chair and up along his stomach, his chest - light, teasing - before they fall at your sides once more.

“Because I tire of this discussion, and I am quite certain you have had more than enough of this argument of ours."

You hold his gaze.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” you ask.

Geta laughs, but it is without a trace of humour.

"At last you admit it," he says. "You are angry with me."

You tap your finger to your chin, as if in contemplation.

"What was it that you called me? 'Unbecoming', was it?" you ask.

Geta blanches. Now he remembers, and too late he is.

“Wife-” he starts, but you shake your head to silence him.

“No, I quite understand," you say readily, as if you truly agree with him. "I can only imagine how unbecoming it would be, to have me in such a manner.”

You lean in closer to him, your breath ghosting along his ear. He shivers.

“Beneath you, undressed and unmade, entirely at your mercy and in the throes of pleasure,” you continue.

You let out a pitiful little sigh.

“How…vulgar,” you finish, pulling away from him.

Geta watches you carefully. For once, he is without words. He swallows thickly. His eyes dart to one side for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze once more.

“This is a fool’s errand,” he says through clenched teeth.

It would sound threatening, if the waver in his voice wasn't his undoing.

“Then I am a fool,” you reply simply. “But I am a fool of my convictions.”

You try to brush by him when his hand suddenly lashes out, grabbing your arm. You stop quickly in your tracks, your heart beating at a racing pace. You keep your expression as neutral as you can manage.

“Oh, by all means, you may command me again,” you murmur. “But the victory will not be as sweet, I assure you.”

You have him there. Gently, you pluck at his fingers. To your surprise, he lets go as easily as that. For a moment, you watch each other, as if neither of you can dare to look away. To show weakness. Time seems to slow.

Geta is the first to break.

“What do you want of me?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it for a moment, before fixing him with a determined stare.

“Kneel," you reply simply.

Geta’s eyes widen, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger.

“How dare-“

“Kneel, or leave me,” you say, as if he had not spoken. “Those are your choices.”

He opens his mouth again, and you wait for the inevitable chastising for daring to suggest that an Emperor commit such a lowly act that was to come.

But it does not.

Without breaking away from your gaze, Geta slowly sinks to his knees in front of you.

Surely the Gods have called you to them earlier than planned. You were insistent on breaking his resolve, but you had no idea that he would actually listen to you.

You must be dreaming. And what a beautiful dream he makes. His dark eyes are fixed on you; small, shallow breaths falling from his trembling lips.

Truly, he is a sight to behold.

Slowly, you reach out a hand, your touch light as you hook your fingers under his chin.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and the shudder that runs through him at your words will surely stay with you until your last mortal breath.

"What would you have me do?" he asks in a whisper.

You do not answer. Instead you run your thumb gently across his chin, back and forth, back and forth. He is trembling under your touch, you realise with a smile to yourself.

"What was it that you would have had me do?" you ask in turn.

You lean in closer to him, your grip on his chin tightening ever so slightly.

"When you came here, and so crassly asked me to kneel for you," you continue. "What was it that you desired of me?"

You drag your fingertips along the column of Geta's throat. He swallows thickly, and you feel the sensation against your skin.

"I…" he begins to say.

His voice cracks, and he falters.

“I wished to have you as you have me now,” he says at last, his voice rough.

“Go on,” you insist. “What was I to do?”

His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Shame burns at his cheeks. How it amuses you to see him like this.

“Is it not enough that you have humiliated me-” he starts, his temper flaring up once more.

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I have done no such thing,” you reply. “I have held no sword to your throat, no poison to your lips. I am but a woman before a God.”

You move closer still, your lips dangerously close to brushing against his.

“Though I did not know that Gods could be broken so easily,” you whisper with a wide smile.

You feel him lean in and you quickly pull back. He loses his balance and his hands reach out, pressing against your thighs to steady himself. You step out of his range entirely and he falls on all fours with a snarl.

You are enjoying yourself far too much.

“Please, finish your tale,” you say as you sit down once more.

Geta clenches his fists, but does not move.

“I would…I would have had you undressed. On your knees and entirely at my mercy,” he spits.

“Quite the picture you paint,” you muse. “But I wonder…”

You reach forward, your hands plucking the delicate laurels from atop Geta’s head. You gently twirl them back and forth in your grasp, admiring the craftsmanship of each detail.

Geta looks as though he wishes to squeeze the life from you. He does not move.

Without breaking his gaze, you gently place the laurels on yourself.

“I wonder if it would be as pleasurable as you say,” you finish with a mischievous smile.

You crook your finger in a pedantic manner at him, beckoning him closer to you. To your surprise, he obeys, crawling the short distance between the two of you.

You run your hand gently through his hair. His eyes slip closed at your touch. You drag your hand down to the base of his neck, where your grip suddenly tightens and you wrench his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his throat, but he does not move to stop you.

"You will undress," you tell him. "And you will not keep me waiting."

Geta looks at you with wide eyes, as if wondering where you have been hiding this side of yourself. You are wondering that yourself.

You hold his gaze, looking down the length of your nose at him from where you sit. Unblinking, unwavering. Daring him to defy you. The very image of an Empress.

Geta moves to stand, and you shake your head.

"Surely you can manage from where you sit," you say airily. "I have been witness to you doing so in much worse states."

He starts slow, dropping each piece of jewellery to the floor with a loud clatter, in the hopes of irritating you. You, by contrast, are thoroughly enjoying yourself. Finally, he begins to remove his robes, leaving them in a scattered heap on the floor.

He looks up at you again, feigning an air of disinterest. It does not fool you. The flush that runs from his neck to his chest speaks volumes. You lean forward, running your hands from the curve of his hips up across his torso to his chest, your fingertips skirting just shy of the places he desperately wants you to touch.

"How long do you intend to shame me like this?" he demands of you.

His voice is strained, choked even. He has never looked more beautiful to you than he does now.

"My dear husband," you coo, "You act as though this is torture."

Geta glares at you, and you laugh, a soft breath of a sound.

"You will give me what I want," you tell him, leaning back in your chair. "And we will have no more of this silly argument."

He opens his mouth to speak, when his gaze drifts downwards, to where you have begun dragging your stola up along your legs. You part your thighs, unable to hide the smile on your face at the sight of Geta's mouth dropping open.

"Wife," he manages to whisper, his mouth dry.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "Whatever is the matter, husband?"

Geta has entirely given up on trying to remain angry with you. You know that look on his face all too well. He is a starving man, and you, you are a banquet laid out for him to indulge in.

You hold out your hands to him, and he tentatively takes them, allowing you to pull him closer. You can feel him trembling against you.

"I will show you what to do," you tell him in a patronising tone. "But you are a quick study, I am certain you will not disappoint me."

You place your hands on his face, nails gently scratching at his skin. He shivers, a soft moan involuntarily escaping him.

"Do not keep me waiting," you warn with a roguish smile.

You presume he will drag things out further, continue to argue, dress himself and storm out in a rage - but he surprises you, rough hands pushing at your thighs to give you exactly what you want from him.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the feel of his tongue against you. He is frantic, messy, pathetically inexperienced in his movements. But oh, how filthy he feels against you.

You drag your hands through his hair, gripping hard as you press yourself closer to his mouth. He groans then, and the vibration of it has your eyes rolling back.

You have never felt pleasure quite like it. It vexes you that he has kept an experience such as this from you for so long. All because of something as pitiful as his pride.

As you had suspected, Geta is indeed quick to learn, and he finally finds a rhythm that soon leaves you shaking against him. It's so much, too much all at once, and you try to press your legs closed, but his hands hold firm against you, keeping you open and pliant for him. Gods, how you adore him like this. As wanting and hungry as he has left you.

"That's it," you tell him, a tremor in your voice as your nails scratch at his scalp. "Good boy."

Your words elicit another moan from his pretty throat, and the sound of it, his mouth, his tongue, his desperation, has you falling from the precipice you have been so precariously dangling from. Your climax hits you like a shockwave, leaving you trembling and breathless against him. Geta does not stop, not until you release your grip on him.

He slowly sits up, still kneeling between your legs as he looks up at you. He has the audacity to look pleased with himself, but it is you who has truly won. After all, you were finally able to wear your prideful husband down to seeing how ridiculous he has been, even if he will never admit it.

He runs his tongue across his lips in a crude attempt to clean himself up, his dark eyes almost black with desire. You let out a breathless laugh, allowing yourself to slump into your chair.

"Surely you have something to say to me, do you not?" you ask, propping your chin against your hand.

Geta briefly breaks your gaze, a heavy breath escaping him. This is torment for him, and you know it. Knowing how desperate he is for your touch in this very moment, and here you are, demanding that he tell you that you were right.

How you revel in it.

"Wife," he starts.

It is an attempt to warn you, but he is so choked up in his need for you that it falls flat.

"Husband," you reply with a lazy smile.

"What would you have me say?" he says, words all but catching in his throat as you lean forward to take him in hand, touching precisely where he needs you right now.

"Tell me that I was right," you reply, stroking him in the exact manner that has him arching into your touch.

"You were-" he begins, stumbles, "Gods-"

"Say it," you murmur, "And I will give you exactly what you desire."

"Please," he whispers desperately, placing a hand on your cheek. "Wife, I-"

"Say it," you hiss, your touch teetering just on the edge of too much.

"You were right," he gasps, "You were right, I was wrong, just please, please-"

Never have you seen him in such a state. He is mesmerising, his eyes glassy as he aches for release.

And who are you to deny him, when he begs so prettily?

"Such a good boy you are, Geta," you whisper in his ear, and just like that, the sound of his name falling from your lips in such a sultry tone has him falling apart, unravelling in your grasp.

Geta all but collapses into your arms, a trembling mess.

It takes him a moment to return to himself, shaky little breaths escaping him as you hold him. Eventually, he rights himself, looking up at you. All of his rage, his fury, all of it has been washed away. He kneels before you not as a merciless Emperor, but as a mortal, who has been thoroughly put in his place.

You lightly brush your nose against his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Well?" you ask. "Have you quite learned your lesson?"

Geta attempts to glare at you, but the fight has truly left him. He places his hands on your face, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

"Perhaps...I will reconsider my opinion on the matter," he replies, almost shyly.

It is difficult not to feel smug, you must admit.

After all, you have won.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

#i really put geta through it huh #emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta x you #geta x you #prettycalla writes #angie writes

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askoverkill · 2 months ago

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In Stars and Time - Hardmode AU - Askblog CONTENT WARNING: HEAVY DARK THEMES. canon-typical warnings with more blood. (but nothing overly graphic) Read HERE chronologically (on website ONLY, not the Tumblr app) Read HERE for Trigger Warnings in detail

No spoilers. For you or the characters.

read the FAQ before sending asks!

No misgendering. That's an auto-rejection.

SFW only / but swears are okay

One statement/question at a time.

Keep silliness limited and keep to the current tone

OOC: send with ooc mentioned at the start of the ask

Asks for Siffrin are spoken as thoughts or to control them

Deities can be talked to normally, but only at select moments (NOTE: this is not strict. its ok if you forget to do these)

FAQ below + references:

Q: What is this AU?

A: Hard mode AU, everything is upped to extremes to the point of "overkill." Party Members fit their given roles; Theater themed villain.

Q: What is the tone?

A: A more intense, grim story. Siffrin's misery is turned up to an eleven. But it still retains the original's comedy and found family themes. There's hope.

Q: What's new?

A: There are two new curses that plague Vaugarde. 1) The Theater Curse, where people become puppets 2) The Blood Curse, where people rot when alive. A: The King has been replaced with the Director, a minor deity who is actively ending the world.

Q: What Curse does Siffrin have?

A: Blood Curse. He's at stage 3 and his eye became unfunctional due to the Curse. He'll periodically bleed. His Curse worsens from magic waves or from specific intense emotions. These are more frequent within the Theater Labyrinth (House-equivalent)

Q: Who are the other Siffrins?

A: There's the one we follow the story of: - Dawn (Our playable character Siffrin) - Dusk (The "goth" loner Siffrin) - Lupus (The child Siffrin) - Loop (The unhelpful guide Siffrin) - Boulder (The dead one under the bolder) - The Director ([redacted])

Q: Do you ship anyone?

A: Not really. I've warmed up to Isafrin but that's going to be a subplot, same as canon. Siffrin self shipping is not a thing here, past canon-typical teasing

Q: Will Bonnie or Lupus ever get harmed in the story?

A: Absolutely not. Only adult Siffrins were harmed in the making of this story.

Q: Can I make fanart? Theories? Analysis etc.?

A: Yes!!! please @/ me!!!!!! tag me! i want to see!!!!

Q: Can I use your art for my PFP?

A: Yep, long as it's credited.

Art References

The Director (Any pronouns)

The Siffrins (Loop: they/them Dawn: he/they ; Lupus: they/them ; Dusk he/they)

The Cast

#ooc #Pinned Post

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donjuaninhell · 5 months ago

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@strawberryswitchblader One of the problems surrounding Long Covid as a diagnosis is that it encompasses an overly broad variety of post-acute sequelae. You have people experiencing everything from scarring on the lungs, liver and kidney damage, to loss of smell. Then there are those who develop dysautonomic conditions like POTS or who are later diagnosed with ME/CFS and experience Post-Exertional Malaise. There is also a very large (perhaps even the majority) group of persons who will experience a prolonged but temporary period of post-viral fatigue; these are the people who recover gradually on their own, generally within a timeframe of six to eight months. It's not really exercise that leads to their recovery, they would have recovered on their own, and may even have recovered more quickly through a program of radical rest. My beautiful girlfriend is dealing with some post-viral fatigue right now after having gotten sick with mononucleosis this past summer. It's been a real struggle for her dealing with it, but she's also not experiencing PEM, so I'm confident she'll fully recover.

Many of the people who make claims about recovering from "chronic fatigue syndrome" through exercise therapy or some psychological treatment are in this post-viral fatigue category and mistaking correlation for causation and forgetting that the plural of anecdote is not data. The data overwhelmingly supports the notion that for patients experiencing PEM, graded exercise leads to a worsened disease state and a potentially permanently lowered baseline. Before I was diagnosed it's precisely how I inadvertently powerlifted, nightwalked and gradschooled myself into becoming housebound.

And having lived with ME at varying degrees of severity going on twenty-seven years now, I gotta say, it's very boring resting all the time. You get antsy fast. If all it took to get better was walking a bit more every day, I'd jump at the chance, but exercise doesn't really do much for chronic CD8+ T cell exhaustion, or hypofusion causing excess calcium and sodium buildup in skeletal muscles leading to mitochondrial damage. There was a paper that came out just a few months ago that published the results of analyzing blood samples from nearly 1500 ME/CFS patients and 130,000 healthy controls, and they discovered hundreds of biomarkers which indicated everything from insulin resistance to poor blood oxygenation, mitochondrial dysfunction, and systemic chronic inflammation. You can't fix any of that with exercise.

It's all a mess, there really needs to be stricter research diagnostic criteria, and better delineation between the various subtypes. It would clear up so much confusion, but that's also why there haven't been tighter criteria. Exercise and therapy makes for a very inexpensive treatment, one that insurance companies are far more willing to back than experimental anti-viral treatments or IVIg therapy, and in some countries the disability allowances for psychological conditions is less than for physical conditions. If you keep it ambiguous if Long Covid or ME/CFS or fibromyalgia or POTS are physical or psychological diseases, well you save austerity governments a few bucks there too.

#chronic illness #me/cfs #long covid #sorry for using your tags as a jumping off point for an essay. i'm glad your mom recovered.

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0-n-1-x · 10 months ago

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Hello! I was wondering if I could request a Damian x reader? But u can totally ignore this if u want🧡

Damian and reader are best friends, they go to the same school, and she (or they) is very clingy. And one day she gets a really bad headache during school and sort of begins rubbing and resting her head against his shoulder for comfort. She sort of half expects him to push or ask her to get off but he surprisingly doesn't. He's like super worried for her bc she can hardly pay attention and is really sluggish idk

Have a nice day! 🧡

link to my masterlist <33

You and Damian had been best friends for as long as you could remember, ever since that fateful day he transferred into your school. Despite his rough edges and serious demeanor, you’d always found a way to break through his stoic exterior, much to the confusion of everyone around you. It wasn’t uncommon to see you clinging to Damian’s arm between classes, chatting away while he listened with a slight smile or an exasperated sigh.

Today, though, something felt off.

Your head had been pounding since the morning, and by the time lunch rolled around, it was almost unbearable. You barely managed to make it to the cafeteria, your usually energetic self reduced to sluggish movements and a throbbing headache that seemed to grow worse with every step.

“Are you okay?” Damian asked, his voice tinged with concern as he noticed your unusually slow pace.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to wave off his worry. But even you could tell that your attempt at reassurance was half-hearted at best.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, clearly not convinced. He walked beside you, watching as you winced at the bright lights and the noise of the bustling cafeteria. When you finally sat down, you immediately rested your head against the cool surface of the table, hoping it would provide some relief.

“Y/N,” Damian’s voice was soft but insistent. “You don’t look fine.”

You lifted your head slightly to look at him, your vision blurring for a moment. “It’s just a headache. I’ll be okay.”

But as the lunch period went on, it became clear that you weren’t okay. The headache only worsened, and soon you found yourself leaning against Damian for support. You rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes in an attempt to block out the overwhelming stimuli around you.

Damian stiffened at the sudden contact, his body going rigid as you pressed against him. You half expected him to gently push you away, maybe make a sarcastic comment about you being overly clingy as usual. But to your surprise, he didn’t.

Instead, Damian wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer as he turned his attention fully to you. “You should go to the nurse,” he whispered, his voice laced with worry.

You shook your head weakly, not wanting to move from your spot. “Just let me stay like this for a bit,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Damian’s expression softened, and he nodded, letting you rest against him without protest. His usual cool demeanor seemed to melt away as he watched you, his eyes filled with concern.

As the minutes passed, Damian gently rubbed your arm, a small, comforting gesture that helped ease some of the tension in your body. He kept a watchful eye on you, making sure you were as comfortable as possible despite the situation.

“Y/N,” he said quietly after a while, “If you’re not feeling better soon, I’m taking you to the nurse.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, simply nodding in agreement. You were grateful for his presence, the steady warmth of his body against yours providing a sense of comfort amidst the pain.

For the rest of the lunch period, Damian stayed by your side, his protective nature shining through as he made sure you had everything you needed. When the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, he helped you gather your things and walked with you to your next class.

“You should go home and rest,” Damian insisted as you reached the classroom. “I’ll tell the teacher you’re not feeling well.”

You looked up at him, touched by his concern. “Thank you, Damian,” you murmured, managing a small smile despite the pain.

He gave you a rare, genuine smile in return, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “You don’t need to thank me. I just want you to feel better.”

And with that, Damian led you to the nurse’s office, his hand never leaving yours as he made sure you were taken care of. Despite his usual aloofness, it was clear that when it came to you, Damian was willing to drop his guard and show just how much he cared.

#dc x you #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne headcannons #damian wayne #daman wayne x fem!reader #damian wayne x gender neutral reader #damian wayne x male reader

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genderqueerdykes · 9 months ago

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to chime in on a point made by another user, as i have personal experience with this as well- the terf argument of "kids being forced on to HRT" when they are willingly transitioning is incorrect. but other kids, intersex kids, ARE forced onto HRT without any will or say in the matter, and it is usually encouraged by their parents/guardians/caregivers.

when i was told about my intersex condition as a minor, there was NO discussion about the medications i would be taking or how they would help me. i had no option to take testosterone, or nothing. i was forced on to estrogen HRT to "Fix" my masculine features. it made me miserable for years. it worsened my chronic fatigue for years. and it didn't even help with the heavy menstrual periods i was having at the time, like they said it would. it made me grow breast tissue, which i wasn't comfortable with.

a teenager knowing and being educated on the effects of HRT and wanting to pursue it is not being "forced' on to HRT- but i was. it wasn't called HRT at my appointment, i was just told i had to take estrogen (and progesterone) now to "fix" everything that was "wrong", like my facial hair and high androgen levels. it was until i was able to take things into my own hands and start testosterone that i felt much more like i was inside my own body. i WISH i had gotten the choice to start T, or just not take the estrogen at all, but i wasn't. i was told i HAD to take it, because something was "wrong" with me.

hrt can be and is a wonderful thing for people who are willingly making that decision, but there genuinely are millions of people who have been affected by having their hormone levels policed by their medical team. all it takes is 1 doctor to make that decision and then your gender and biological sex are no longer up to you. what you want is no longer a factor. what makes you feel comfortable and safe is never considered.

when we advocate for bodily autonomy, please remember and speak about intersex experiences. to fight back against terfs by saying "NOBODY gets forced on to HRT as a kid" is not helping anyone. to say that "no one" is forced on to HRT when talking about trans autonomy, it steps on the toes of intersex people who have been forced on to HRT. trans kids wanting to transition aren't being brainwashed. but intersex kids are forced into making decisions about their bodies they don't want to every single day. it's not pretty, but we can advocate for both groups without making the other feel undermined.

#intersex #lgbtqia #lgbtq #lgbt #queer #hrt #hormone replacement therapy #hormones #our writing #about us

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ririsasaki · 4 months ago

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Cramps Be Gone

Loki X Reader Fluff

Summary: You’re on your period, you’re frustrated, and Loki’s there to help you.

A/n: I got this idea on day one of my period, so… here we are.

The day could’ve been much more cheerful. You and Loki originally planned to go out today. Instead, you were curled up in your bed, groaning every other minute. Why? Because a very unwanted guest showed up at your door this morning. Guess who? None other than your monthly bleed-out session, aka period.

You were lying in your bed with the unhappy knowledge that this will not end anytime soon. Waves upon waves of stab-like pains shot through your lower abdomen, making you groan and press down on that spot. You were tired. So damn tired of it. You were looking forward to this date, but now it’s ruined. You were originally thinking about taking painkillers, but Loki absolutely disagreed.

‘Painkillers,’ he said strictly, ‘are merely something Midgardians came up with to gain more money. They do not help conquer it; it only allows them to forget about it. If you use such things, y/n, believe me, you will behave carelessly and only worsen it and wish me to get you more. Therefore, no, you will not be using such trashy Midgardian medicine. It isn’t even medicine, in my eyes.’ He added, pulling a face.

Loki was there for you, of course. He was always there to help you with your needs, he even let you have breakfast in bed (something he doesn’t usually allow. ‘You’ll dirty everything,’ he used to say in a tone of finality). But he wasn’t there for the most part. He has work to do, you know this, but you still wished he could give it all up and just stay with you. Flipping over under your blankets, you resumed cursing your life.

I’m lonely, you thought sadly, your head under your blankets. You wished your period showed up just one day later. You and Loki have been dating for nearly a month now, it was clear to you that your time of the month was going to hit anytime. But why on this day? On the one day you don’t want it?

You were, not gonna lie, very frustrated. And angry. In need of something (or someone) to rage to, you started blaming your boyfriend for your pain. What was possibly so important that he had to leave you? Couldn’t he leave it till your bleeding days were over? Why? That word seemed to exist in every single thought you had flowing in your head. Why?

On day three it was going terrifying. It was hurting so much you couldn’t even bring yourself to sit upright in your bed. You prayed it would be over, but apparently your prayers were ignored. Oh, how you’d like this shit to finally just end. Loki had to feed you breakfast, it was so painful. He even teased you. Like, is this guy for real? (‘I mean, I could make it go away for nine months…’ he had said while smirking. You slapped his hand, scrunching up your face.) But after that he just pressed a kiss to your forehead and walked out. Sometimes you regret dating this guy.

It was nearly noon when he came back. Your aches soothed a little, but were almost just the same as before. He sat down at the edge of your bed, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face.

‘Oh, now you decide to show up,’ you groaned, ‘now that I’m literally dying in my bed. How was work?’ you put emphasis on the word ‘work’ as you knew he must feel at least slightly guilty about leaving you hanging. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and said: ‘Well, about that…’ He looked at you with a pleading look, as if wishing for you not to get angry for what he was going to say. You narrowed your eyes, staring back with a suspicious look.

‘What?’ you asked, your breathing kind of shallow due to the pain throbbing in your lower abdomen. ‘What wonderful surprise have you prepared for me?’ Loki sighed, as if preparing himself for a scolding, and said: ‘I have not been working. Or at least, I wasn’t doing Avengers’ work.’

You bolted upright, causing a stab of pain to shoot through your body. His hand instinctively rose to hold your back and lead you back down. ‘What?! So you’re telling me that you weren’t even doing important shit while I was mentally and physically dying?! What-‘ he put a finger to your lips to shush you. ��Let me finish,’ he said gently. You reluctantly laid back down, staring at him with accusatory eyes.

‘I have been working, darling. For the past few days I have been digging through my books to find a safe and healthy painkiller for you. You see, Asgardians value health over money, and we have much safer medicines than those on Midgard.’ He says, brushing his hand over your hurting part over your blanket. Heavens, he looked hot when he looked at you with these loving eyes.

Even after listening to his explanation, you still wanted to blame him. Keeping that annoyed look on your face, you whined at him: ‘Well… that’s very… nice of you. But- you should’ve told me beforehand! I thought you were being careless and didn’t give a shit about me! I was so upset.’ Loki looked at you knowingly before answering: ‘Honey, if I told you, you would’ve distracted me with your rushes and caused me to slow down my pace.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘After you’ve recovered, darling.’ He replied, smirking. You rolled your eyes, your cheeks reddening. This man knows exactly how to get to you, you can give him that.

With a swift move, he slipped your blanket off. You shivered slightly at the sudden chill, but Loki reassured you that it wasn’t going to take long. Softly, he brushed his hand over your abdomen, and you felt a warmth surge through where he touched. Soon, you could feel the pain leaving you, finally giving you peace. You sighed, relieved that it was all finally over. You laid back down, closing your eyes and drinking in the fact that Loki was your lover.

‘Be careful,’ he warned as you beamed at him, ‘you may stain easier, now that you don’t feel it.’ You didn’t even wait for him to finish before half-singing: ‘Yeah, yeah, I know-‘ you were suddenly so happy that your period said bye-bye, you thought Loki might’ve given you a cheer-up spell or something.

Eager, you tried to get out of bed, but only got shoved back in. You pouted up at him, staring into his blue eyes. ‘Just because you don’t feel it does not mean it is no longer there. Stay in bed.’ He said.

You hmphed at him, burrowing back into the sheets to sulk. Loki smiles. What a girl he had found.

HELLO! Hope you enjoyed it :D My posting is still kinda limited, thank you for your patience

Taglist: @simplyholl @mischiefmaker615 @vbecker10 @kathren1sky-blog

Tell me if you want to be in my taglist!!

Feel free to comment lol

#god of mischief #loki marvel #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #loki x you #loki #loki x reader fluff #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki x y/n

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prettygirl-gabi · 6 months ago

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"Caught On Stream"

Rating:Teen And Up Audiences

Warning: fluff, secret relationship, money bets were made, protective Chris, pet names: mamas, baby,sweet girl

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Soft!Reader

Fandom:Sturniolo Triplets

Summary: getting your period on stream....Chris gets protective... more than friends...or no who knows

Word Count: ~1.2k

I loved hanging out with the triplets. They were my comfort zone, my laughter medicine, and, well, one of them was a little more than that. But no one knew about Chris and me—not Nick, not Matt, and definitely not their fans. It wasn’t that we were hiding it out of shame; we just loved the privacy.

So, when they asked me to join their stream, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I adored spending time with all three of them, and it sounded like fun.

“We’ll set up in the room,” Nick had said, bouncing around with excitement as he placed snacks and drinks on the desk.

When the stream started, it was chaos right from the get-go. The chat was going crazy, commenting on everything from Nick’s shirt to Matt’s hair to Chris’s grin. And, of course, they noticed me right away.

“Who’s the guest of honor?” Nick asked dramatically, turning the camera toward me.

I waved awkwardly. “Hi, guys. I’m Y/N.”

The chat exploded with messages.

WHO IS SHE?!

She’s so pretty omg.

Matt’s gf confirmed??

That last one made me laugh, and Matt shook his head with an exasperated sigh. “Guys, stop. Y/N’s just a friend.”

Nick smirked. “Or is she?”

“Shut up, Nick,” Chris muttered, his eyes flicking toward me for a split second. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks but played it cool.

The stream continued, the four of us bantering and answering questions from the chat. I was perched on Chris’s lap since there were only three chairs, a fact we explained away as “no big deal” when someone inevitably asked about it.

But about thirty minutes in, I felt the first telltale cramp. My stomach twisted, and I shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore it.

“Baby, you good?” Chris whispered in my ear, his voice low enough that the mic didn’t pick it up.

I nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine.

Ten minutes later, the cramps had worsened, and I started feeling that awful dampness that told me my period had arrived—uninvited and completely unwelcome. My face burned with embarrassment as I tried to figure out what to do. I couldn’t exactly stand up and announce my problem to the room or, worse, to the thousands of people watching the stream.

Chris must have noticed something was off because he gently squeezed my hip, his head dipping closer to mine. “What’s wrong, mamas?” he murmured.

“I think I got my period,” I whispered back, barely able to meet his eyes.

His expression shifted immediately, concern clouding his features. “Do you need to get up? Change? Anything?”

“Chris—” I started, but before I could finish, he was already muting the stream mic and standing up, lifting me with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yo, what are you doing?” Nick asked, frowning as Chris carried me toward the door.

“I’ll be right back,” Chris said, his tone brisk.

Matt glanced at Nick, then back at us. “Uh… okay?”

The chat went wild.

WHY IS HE CARRYING HER?!

OMG ARE THEY DATING??

CHRIS AND Y/N CONFIRMED.

Once we were out of the room, Chris set me down gently in the hallway. “Okay, baby what do you need? Pads? Tampons? Medicine?”

“Chris, I—”

“Hey, hey, hey stop,” he said softly, cupping my face in his hands. “Don’t be embarrassed, okay? Periods happen. Just tell me what you need.”

I bit my lip, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I don’t want to ruin the stream…”

“Screw the stream. You’re more important, especially right now sweet girl” he said firmly, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “Now, tell me what you need.”

“Um… a pad. And maybe some Advil?”

“Done,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead before disappearing down the hall.

By the time we returned to the room, the chat was in absolute chaos, and Nick was glaring at Chris like he’d just committed a crime.

“What was that about?” Nick demanded, his arms crossed.

“None of your business,” Chris shot back, guiding me back onto his lap.

“Oh, it’s definitely my business,” Nick countered, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been acting weird around her all night.”

“Yeah, you’re, like, extra nice to her,” Matt added, smirking.

Chris rolled his eyes, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. “Can we just get back to the stream?”

“Sure,” Nick said slowly, a sly grin spreading across his face. Since he had un muyed the stream while we were gone. “But only if you admit it.”

“Admit what?” Chris asked, his tone laced with faux innocence.

“That you’re dating her.”

Chris froze for half a second, his eyes flicking to mine. I gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. If this was how it came out, so be it.

“Fine,” Chris said with a sigh, his lips quirking up into a small smile. “Yeah, we’re dating.”

Nick let out a triumphant whoop, spinning in his chair to face Matt. “Told you! Pay up!”

Matt groaned, pulling a fifty-dollar bill out of his pocket and slapping it into Nick’s outstretched hand.

“You bet on us?” I asked, my jaw dropping.

“Of course we did,” Nick said, grinning. “It was so obvious. Chris can’t keep his hands off you.”

Chris groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. “I hate you guys.”

The chat, meanwhile, was exploding with messages.

I KNEW IT!!!

CHRIS AND Y/N ARE SO CUTE TOGETHER OMG.

Nick was right all along.

"I love this for y'all honestly." Nick said still doing his happy dance waving the $50 in the air.

Despite my earlier embarrassment, I couldn’t help but laugh. Chris tightened his hold on me, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.

“Well, the secret’s out now,” he murmured, his voice warm.

“Guess so,” I replied, leaning back against him.

And honestly? It didn’t feel so bad.

---

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-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

#support the writers!#oneshot #gabi writes #matthew sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nicholas sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris fluff #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo oneshot #fluff #secret relationship #sturniolo fanfic

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lostintransist · 7 months ago

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Fallen Angel | Hugs That Heal

AO3

Today had been shit. There was no other way to say it. You got yelled at by no less than three customers for issues that weren’t actually issues, your childhood dog had died, and your friends had to cancel on coming by the shop before close. And your fucking period started today meaning that even though you kept it together all you wanted to do was weep.

You had only been living with Simon for a few months. He wasn't home much and often on a near unpredictable basis. Hoping against hope that he wouldn't be home today you slid your key home. When the door opened, the key still in the lock, you knew hope would not save you.

He still wore his mask and had hard eyes. Fuck. This was Ghost, the mismatched name for a man who wears a skull mask to keep his identity hidden.

Staring at you he didn't move.

"Move or I will find out if you are afraid of tears." They are already brimming at your lash line.

Ghost stepped back. You still had to wedge yourself between the wall and his stiff body. The contact with a body that held no softeness for you was too much. Tears slid down your cheeks as you toed off your shoes and moved on socked feet to the bathroom. Done there, toilet used and teeth cleaned, you moved to your room. Changing turned out to be difficult as your tears worsened and the shaking started.

Barely holding it together you find the kitchen by memory alone. The large shape you can see when your vision isn't filled with tears confirms your roommate is still awake.

"Ghost?"

No reply. Your crying turns to sobbing.

"Can I have a hug?"

Eight sobbing breaths pass before the air shifts in front of you. Reaching out blind you bury yourself into his chest, unleashing the full force of everything that had been bottled up today. His arms drift around you, holding more onto himself than you. That's fine. You don't need much tonight, only to know you are not alone.

Chest hollow you step back, sleeves scraping at both eyes.

"Sorry about that Ghost." Glancing up you see the presence of a soul again. Simon must be back. "Simon. I apologize about that. I am going to go be mortified in my bed now. G'night."

Turning on your heel you march to your bed, hurling yourself between the sheets as self flaggliation becomes your favorite refraine.

Fallen Angel Masterlist | Masterlist

#Fallen Angel COD #cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #price x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap cod #roach x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 4 months ago

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The little things

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Masterlist

My headcanons about the Lads boys. I will keep updating this if I find things to add. Suggestions are welcome! Last update: 04-02-2025

Ever so slightly nsfw, so don't read if ur under 18.

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Zayne

Secretly tracks your period and changes your diet with your cycle to make sure you suffer as little as possible. (But does let you indulge in chocolate on your period even though it might worsen the cramps.)

Does not care for your pranks but appreciates you feeling comfortable enough to prank him.

Enjoys foreplay almost more than the actual act. He likes to watch you climb onto his lap, likes feeling you touch any part of uncovered skin, likes kissing you until you can't breathe anymore.

Has extras of almost all the products you use stashed. This includes shower gel, makeup, perfume, and sometimes snacks but those run out quite quickly.

Reads a lot of romance books in his free time.

Really, really, really likes your hands. Will spend hours studying your fingers, massaging your palm, kissing your knuckles. Never gets bored of it.

Will (and has, but only for a minute to drive the point home) tie you to the bed if you refuse to rest while sick.

Loves blow drying your hair after you shower.

Likes matching his tie or watch or whatever accessory he wears to whatever you are wearing.

Doesn't really do PDA but has his hand on the small of your back whenever you are walking around. Sometimes, when he's feeling bold, he'll hook his pinky onto yours as his way of hand holding.

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Xavier

Pretends to take cover when he sees you almost sneezing.

Likes doing your laundry. To him, it is a very small way to show you he cares. Leaves everything folded and sorted in piles of shirts, dresses, pants, etc, on your bed for you to put away. (Every once in a while a pair of panties will go missing though.)

Will try to absolutely smother himself between your thighs. Has asked you to squeeze his head like a watermelon on more than one occasion.

Favorite sleeping position is on top of you while you're reading on the couch with his head on your chest and your hand scratching his head.

Is actually a pretty ok cook. He just like watching you cook so sometimes he burns things on purpose. Just to convince you to cook for him. (How else would he have survived for so long?)

Needs to always have his hands on you in one way or another. If it's inappropriate to hold your hand, he'll grab the hem of your shirt or something.

Scowls at any men trying to talk to you.

Loves listening to you yapp. It's soothing to him, but he'll never fall asleep during it. He's always an active listener. Unless he asks you to tell him gossip until he falls asleep.

Leaves marks during any makeout session or sex, whispers "Mine" against your skin after every mark.

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Rafayel

Takes note of your morning ritual and "secretly" helps you when you have a bad morning by handing you your toothbrush, having your breakfast ready for you, or getting you a glass of water before you can even think about taking your meds.

Likes to paint your back when you lay naked on the bed. Sometimes it's something truly impressive, other times he does silly doodles.

Sometimes accidentally gets annoyed for real when he pretends to because he gets into it too much.

Is a munch. Like, you cannot get him to stop until he's had his fill. Besides your safeword, there is absolutely no way to keep him from ravishing you.

Is completely enamored with lipstick kisses. Loves the way they look on his skin and even more on yours. Has put on lipstick for that reason more than once. Sometimes takes pictures of his work after with your consent and has used them as references for paintings.

Will take any chance given to him to stare at your boobs or touch your boobs. At this point, you can't really care anymore. It's just part of your day.

Likes when you allow him to pick your outfits. He always wants his muse to look their best.

Loves helping you put your makeup on. Is watching YouTube tutorials to get better at it. Wants to be your personal MUA.

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Sylus

Likes working out, but likes it even more if you're watching. You don't have to join. It just boosts his confidence to see you salivating over him while pretending to be busy on your phone.

Adores having you on top in any situation. Sitting on his lap, cuddling, sex. He just enjoys watching you on top of him.

Is secretly a great mixologist and absolutely loves making drinks for you. Will make syrups and juices from scratch. Bonus points if you don't drink alcohol because now he has a new way to impress you. (Cause most alcohol free "liquors" are absolutely shit.)

Absolutely loves marking you in places no one can see when you're wearing clothes. He likes the privacy and possessive nature of it. Knowing that you are completely his while no one else knows.

Makes sure you are holding him properly when riding on the back of his motorcycle. Enjoys it when you let your hands roam over his body while he drives.

Has been taking note of your opinions on his clothes, his furniture, the food he makes, and makes changes to assure your comfort without making you feel like you're asking too much of him.

Gets on his knees to help you put your shoes on. Loves it when you put your hand on his shoulder to keep balanced.

When you can't reach something, he will move behind you, press his body against yours (sometimes even grind against you), put his hand on your hip, and reach out to grab it for you.

Always smells clean for some reason. Even after a gunfight, a fistfight, a boxing match. Never the faintest smell of sweat on him.

Lets you do anything on your own, but is always close enough to step in if you ever need help.

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Caleb

Absolutely despises milk. Isn't lactose intolerant, just does not like it at all.

Told you he can't always wear his chain because of certain missions but in reality the chain sometimes itches and he just needs a break. Will wear it while he sleeps though.

Power bottom.

Will never agree with you on where to eat. Does always end up taking you to a place you will like.

Has a weird obsession with your shoulders. Tries to always be touching them. Either by putting his head on your shoulder, his arm around you, kissing them. Whatever he has to do to get close to your shoulders.

Cringes at his own words very often and secretly wishes he could be as carefree with you as he was before the accident.

Would cover your neck in hickeys because he likes showing off that you are his.

Needs to be holding you when he sleeps because he's always scared he'll lose you again.

Rests his hand on your thigh under the table and squeezes when someone else tries to get your attention.

Dominates conversations but always listens to you when you speak.

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akutasoda · 8 months ago

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| | "drink my love, keep my blood"

╰ ➜ includes - dracula!argenti

⇢warnings - gn!reader, fluff, kind of angst?, implied to be set in 1890-93, maybe ooc?, small mentions of food/wine, mention of blood, wc - 3.7k

taglist - @mitsvriii, @tragedy-of-commons, @tetrachrxmacy, @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

a/n: my chosen prompt was "dracula"! hehe here's my entry for the stellaronhvnters event <3 had so much fun writing this :) got very carried away...

this was a mistake.

you should've listened to your rationality, now it was too late, now you were stuck dredging through a forest in a storm. the rain was relentless, piercing through the thin layers of clothing you hastily threw on prior to departure. the tiny droplets fell in clumps that felt like tiny blades clawing into you. chills racked through your body - you could even feel the oncoming cold that would haunt your body for ages afterwards, if you even made it back.

when you left, the clouds hung low in the sky and were a warning in themselves for what was forecasted for later. you ignored them however, thinking you could run a final errand before the storm. a grave miscalculation. the dreary clouds blocked out any possible light that could seep through and illuminate your path. not that any light would have been seen, it was most likely night by this time. you didn't have an exact idea but it felt like you'd been out for ages and were confident that the sun had set.

unwanted confidence was held in the idea that the storm was not due to pass anytime soon. the barrage of rain seemed to only worsen by the very minute. your feet were aching, your clothes clung to your frame in a feeble attempt to keep you warm but it only served to bring the moisture closer to your very core, and your eyes drooped low in fatigue - the bag you carried only served to tire you out more but you didn't dare lose it.

the hopeful part of yourself was dying, falling away as quick as the rain fell from the sky. dragging yourself steadily through mud and foliage, you cursed your previous self for deciding to take such a risk. your vision was limited, but a deep rooted part of yourself knew that you were lost. never before had you dared venture this far into the forest bordering your home. you tried turning around and heading back the way you assumed was where you had come from, but that seemed to be a hopeless, last ditch effort thought. now it was getting harder to think straight, the fatigue was overwhelming and the storm filled your vision making everything look the same,

you were convinced this was it. the chances of you surviving the night in such conditions were slim.

very faintly, footfall could be made out in the distance. walking most likely based on the periodic steps. you assumed it was an animal, some poor critter that had been caught up within the storm but you thought that the animal would be moving with more urgency - to shelter from the storm, something you wished you could do about now. now the footsteps were getting closer, heavier, and then it occurred to you. was it a human?

nobody was insane enough to trudge through a forest in a storm. nobody that didn't have good intentions. all of a sudden, the downpour was no longer your biggest concern. it was the potential threat of someone else in the forest with you. with visibility low, movement limited, and fatigue wearing down your limbs, if that person had bad intentions you wouldn't be able to do anything. you couldn't even muster the strength to run and hide. you stared down the direction of the approaching figure and with every step they took, it became more apparent it was in fact a person.

features were blurry. the only thing you could make out was a cloak, one that draped over their face and covered their body entirely. panic was setting in, but you couldn't do anything. the figure seemed to move quicker and with more emergency as they got close - they were definitely heading towards you, intentions still blurry. a part of you was hopeful, maybe they had been sent out to find you, to take you back and save you from the storm. but doubt was more powerful. overshadowing your hope and dreading the worst.

however, all your concerns were rendered useless as the stranger reached out a hand once in your vicinity -

“take my hand, i can lead you to safety, you just have to trust me”

their voice was soothing, a deep rich tone that radiated something akin to high status, but it sounded honeyed, as if they were genuinely concerned for your safety - and you weren't exactly in a position to be picky. either this stranger did as promised and lead you to safety, or put you out of your misery. either way you were out of the storm. so you took their hand.

it was just as warm as their voice. suddenly you became subconscious about the dampness that clung to your skin, but the stranger didn't seem to mind. you allowed your hope to build back up again. they moved fast, like they had the entire forest mapped out in their mind and you tried to keep up with them, stumbling and tripping over your own feet in the process.

a part of you was concerned that you couldn't see where the stranger was leading you. likelihood would be that to get home you'd need their help to get home, otherwise you probably would only get lost in the forest again.

it wasn't too long before that changed. through the barrage of rain, you looked up at the castle ahead. it was a stunning building from what little you could make out - did this stranger really live here?

the answer was soon revealed as they quickly unlocked the two grand wooden doors, heaving one open with a strength you could only wish to have. they hurried you inside before following suit and pushing the door closed yet again. sealing you inside the castle with them.

the inside was no less cold than the outside. atleast it was dry. it was dark inside, occasional candles were scattered around the walls and on a rather ornate chandelier hung up high. your vision adjusted rather quickly to the dim surroundings and soon you were distracted by stunning architecture of the supposedly glum castle.

from what you could make out, velvet golds paired with silvers and golds made up most of the decor and surroundings. an educated guess could be that it was all very well kept. the architecture was very cathedral like, beautiful arches and stained glass windows were a prominent feature.

something that couldn't go unnoticed was the smell. or more accurately the fragrance. it was sweet. a tad but of spice such as cinnamon, but mainly like honey or even apples. but it carried the same honey-like warmth the stranger did, something you could now place as a reminisce of wine. it wasn't strong, but it was prominent enough to leave you wondering.

all your thoughts were quickly shoved to one side as from the corner of your eye you saw the stranger pull down his hood. a waterfall of vermillion fell below their shoulders, long locks that looked very well cared for. the stranger quickly rid himself of the rest of his cloak before turning to you.

“my name is argenti” he explained “may i know yours?”

you were hesitant to do so, but he had just saved you and so you indulged the man. he offered a warm smile before ushering you further into his abode. argenti explained how he saw you on his way home and couldn't possibly leave you to suffer in the storm. thus bringing you back to his to wait out the storm.

admittedly, you were still wary about him but you were exhausted, cold and near ill. what could be the harm in staying here till the storm passed?

argenti soon walked you down a corridor to a spare bedroom. he offered it to you to use for the time being and soon excused himself to find something for you to wear until your clothes could dry properly. the spare bedroom was no less ornate than the rest of the castle had been.

it was definitely much better quality than anything you could hope to have. you set your bag down on the floor, anything inside it was probably ruined by now. your suspicions were proved correct when you opened the bag and practically found a puddle inside.

luckily, you hadn't lost anything too important. the majority of the bags' contents were fruits and such, small things you picked up as winter was drawing near and so they would become scarcer to grab hold of until spring, or even summer for some. a sigh still escaped you as know you had to remember to find those same things that had been destroyed as soon as you got back home.

soon enough your attention was drawn back to the room. the same theme of crimsons, golds and silvers lined each and every corner. cautiously, you took steps around the room, checking out each and every corner. it did feel a bit invasive but argenti had given you this room until the storm passed, naturally you would have a look.

out of all the luxuries in the room, the most intriguing to you was the bed and bedside table - perhaps your fatigue was getting to you.

the candlelight was still dim but you could still perfectly make out most shapes and details. the bed was certainly impressive. a small touch to its pillows and sheets were enough to convince you that he was certainly of a higher class.

but the luxurious bed was soon forgotten when you spotted a small, dark stain on the corner of the pillows. it looked like something had been split, something red. upon closer inspection, you could make out a faint coppery smell from it. you pushed your thoughts to the back of your mind and turned to the bedside table.

upon it rested a rather ornate vase, holding a full bloom of roses.

reaching a hand out you gently felt the petal, they were a nice shade of ruby with a velvety feeling to them. although something else caught your eye, a small dot of something rested upon the petal. upon your touch, it dripped. a thick crimson droplet fell from the petal and hit the table.

before you had the chance to do anything else, you heard a knock.

that same velvety deep voice called out “may i come in?”

you called back, saying he could, and quickly shot up and paced back over to the now open door.

“apologies, but this was all i could find for you-” he trailed off, looking down toward your bag and shooting his empty hand up to cover his lower face, taking a few steps back.

it startled you and you quickly asked if everything was okay with him. argenti quickly regained composure and let out a small, awkward chuckle, “yes, sorry but is that garlic in your bag?”

you knelt down to your bag, and sure enough it was the garlic you purchased earlier “it is, is something the matter?”

“you see i'm quite allergic to it, if i may ask, can you move it elsewhere for the time being?” his response shocked you.

mainly because you didn't want to give your host an allergic reaction, especially after he saved you and so you grabbed it out the bag - argenti winced as you did so before asking “may i request you throw it out the window”

he didn't miss the shocked look on your face and he quickly continued “i can reimburse you the money to buy more later”

you didn't argue with him and only nodded. he quickly set aside the pile he was carrying, one hand still over his lower face, and rushed to open one window with a key he fished out of his pocket. you waited until he stepped back before rushing forward and throwing the garlic.

argenti thanked you with a smile, locking the window and turning back to pick up the pile of clothes again.

he handed over a small pile of clothes, the fabric was nicer than anything you owned and your current attire was drenched, you'd take anything but clearly he didn't want to give you anything subpar. and so argenti quickly left again to give you room to change - as he left he called out that he'd be making dinner for a short while later.

and true to his word, not too long later, argenti knocked on your door again and escorted you down to the lavish dining hall.

you sat across from him. the dining table was large but not large enough to create such a distance where you couldn't hold a conversation with him. argenti claimed to of made the meal himself - and if so, you were very impressed, it smelled divine.

the whole situation had left you famished so, cautiously, you took helpings of the dishes you found appetising. you took a hesitant bite of the food and it was as if the the divine smell translated perfectly into the taste.

you watched as he starred down into his embellished goblet before swirling it around, whatever it was had an odd smell, almost coppery, but you used it as an opportunity to break the silence

“what's that? is it wine?” the hesitancy in your voice was painstakingly obvious.

“wine? no, i have not such a taste for that” he paused, looking back down once more, taking a sip before asking you a question

“is the food alright?”

you feigned a smile and responded “yeah, it's nice”, looking over at his place at the table you couldn't help but notice the lack of plate, or even cutlery before him “aren't you having any?”

he shook his head with a smile “no, but please don't let my lack of appetite disconcert you” making a vague gesture to the spread along the table he continued “it was all prepared for you”

although you found it hard to enjoy the meal now knowing that your host was not indulging in the food he made - admittedly it made you rather subconscious but not eating what was left on your plate seemed worse.

the rest of dinner was silent, save for the storm that constantly battered against the stained glass and the wind that seeped through cracks in stone and howled upon arrival. or the occasional times argenti stood up and left, goblet in hand, and came back with supposedly a full glass. each time the smell of copper grew stronger.

eventually it was over. argenti soon escorted you back to the spare room and bid you goodnight. he also quickly gave you directions to his chamber, should you need something during your stay, but you were sure to forget them soon enough.

looking over at the bed, you became very aware of the exhaustion that was seconds away from making you collapse. and so you decided to turn in for the night. ideally you would've preferred to leave ages ago, but the storm was no less better than it was hours ago. so tonight you would have to sleep in argenti’s castle - you were just lucky he was so accommodating..

yet in spite of this, sleep wasn't coming easy to you. whether it was because of the fact you were staying overnight in a castle owned by someone you barely knew, the storm, or the constant feeling of somebody, or something, watching you. but you did notice something in between your tossing turning-

that smell was back.

that rusty, metallic smell that was present during dinner. except it was stronger. more potent than you would've liked - so much so that it was sickly. it was heavy in the air, overpowering the usual sweet cinnamon fragrance.

at this point you were convinced that everywhere in the castle would have an underlying scent of copper.

the next thing you noticed was the sound of something being dragged, just past the door to your room. to say you were freaked out was an understatement. getting up and checking it out seemed like a horrible idea, so you didn't. or you at least waited until it seemed reasonable that if there was someone, they would've been gone.

however, before you could move, you heard footsteps walk back past your door. toward the entrance hall if you recalled correctly. so you waited until they were faint among the sounds of the storm.

cautiously, you made your way to the door. slowly opening it, praying the wood wouldn't creak, and poking your head out looking left and right. it was dark, you couldn't make out much, maybe it was just the walls battling with the storm.

you had no clue what had come over you, but a sudden burst of confidence made you take a couple cautious steps into the cold hallway. candles were truly useless, they were dim and barely gave off heat but they were all you had to illuminate your way.

your steps were quickly faltered when you stepped on something. a liquid. lowering the candle, a trail of crimson slightly turned orange by the flickering flame was leading all the way past your room. looking to the side, it clearly went deeper down the hallway-

someone was watching you.

you felt the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. slowly, filled with dread, you turned around. and there he was.

argenti was stood at the other end of the hallway, wearing that same cloak from earlier, expect this time you could make out faint marks covering most of it. marks that weren't that different to the ones on the floor.

“what are you doing up?” his voice was gentle, like it was trying to soothe you - something that contradicted his actions as he slowly walked towards your figure that was rooted to the spot.

noticing your lack of answer he kept going “did something wake you?”

he was now within less than a meter from you. that coppery smell clung to him like a blanket and it was overwhelming, it made you want to gag. from this close up you could definitely say that the stains and blotches coating his previously pristine coat, were in fact that same crimson trail below.

shakily, you nodded and he gave you a sympathetic smile “ah apologies, was it the storm? afraid there's not much to do, perhaps trying to sleep again is your only option”

was that? was that what you thought it was?

a part of you was convinced that you had seen something, a fang or two, peeking out when he spoke. no. you were tired. your mind was playing tricks on you, surely argenti wasn't…

“if i may ask politely, please return to your room and try and get some sleep.” he stopped to to urge you to turn around “when the storm passes you have a long trip back”

you mindlessly complied. there was no point in overthinking, if argenti really was going to hurt you he would've done so by now, right? one night. that was all. and at this point you didn't even know what to think. your mind too frazzled, scared, and you too exhausted that you just wanted the storm to pass and go home.

and as you tried to get back to sleep, the only thought that crossed your mind was, is argenti really what you thought he was? was he a vampire? you thought they were fictional, a ghost story, the signs were all there but maybe not…

you woke up after what felt like the worst sleep of your life, despite the fact you probably had slept in the most comfortable bed in your life. you quickly found the pile of your now dry clothes and dressed. you desperately wanted to leave, to not overstay your welcome.

argenti found you quickly after you exited the spare room. he showed you to the front door very quickly after hearing you wanted to leave as soon as possible - he was hoping you'd stay for breakfast but he didn't want to force you.

he opened the heavy wooden door again, and you noticed how he stopped at the door, not crossing into the daylight. he smiled “apologies but there is something i have to tend to, don't fear i have requested someone to escort you back the way we came”

in the sunlight you could now tell that there was some kind of pair of fangs peeking out from behind his lips.

“they should be here soon” argenti glanced away to the forest before looking back at you “i do hope we meet sometime in the future”

that sickly sweet smile made you want to run. now that you were refreshed and not worried about dying in a storm you could clearly see all the signs. it made you uneasy. you really just spent the night in a vampire's castle…

you shook the thoughts away and left, grateful to have the opportunity to return home alive. that was it. you'd never see him again, it was best to forget and move on.

although, you could never shake the idea that someone, something, was watching you. through all your theories and attempts to shake the feeling, you never noticed the light scarlet bat that hung outside your house at night.

it wasn't too long after that night that you walked past a group of kids and one adult. and you could never forget the way your blood froze when you saw the adult gesture to the woods you got lost in and say -

“dracula. a creature of the night, don't tempt your fate out in those woods”

#stwf : pumpkin patch!#x reader #x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x you #argenti x reader #argenti x you #hsr argenti

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 4 months ago

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Almost Every Popular View of “Nosferatu” (2024) is Wrong

And the film itself says so.

When I say almost everyone is completely misunderstanding “Nosferatu” (2024) is not an understatement. And this film has barely left the theaters and I’m already manifesting the “renaissance “Jennifer’s Body” style era” when everyone will be apologizing to Robert Eggers for butchering the entire meaning behind his passion project. Will it take ten years, too?

You need to understand that Robert Eggers has no interest in doing “modern takes” on his work in the sense everything that happening in the story (dialogue; behavior; way of thinking) is from the time period POV: "I never think of things in a contemporary context," director Robert Eggers says […] "I try to stay in the worldview of the characters.”

Second, you need to leave your confirmation bias at the door because Robert Eggers is subverting this entire story: “My influences are all very clear, and Nosferatu is a remake, after all,” Eggers says, yet he plays with the canon, with expectations and clichés – “hopefully subverting them to do something unexpected.”

“Orlok targeted Ellen” = Incorrect

He was dead and rotting since the late 16th century, until she resurrected him and cursed him to be a strigoi (Romanian folklore) with her summoning prayer, in the prologue. This is confirmed twice by her to Von Franz and to Thomas; and twice by Orlok himself, right at the prologue, and in the first time they are meeting face to face at the Harding household, as he calls her “his affliction” (as in “disease”; “plague”).

“Child abuse” = Incorrect

Ellen was 15 years old at the prologue (confirmed by Robin Carolan). She says she was “an innocent child” because (1) she’s accusing Orlok of corrupting her innocence; (2) the concept of “teenager” or “adolescence” didn’t exist (was only created after World War II); people went from “childhood” into “adulthood” with nothing in between. And there was no "astral sex" going on between them (but more on that later).

There was no “child abuse” between Ellen and her father, either. I’ve seen this getting thrown around and I was kind of shocked. What she tells Von Franz is that her father, as she was growing older, wouldn’t allow her to play in the fields and at the forest anymore (“Father… he would find me in our fields… within the forest… as if – I was his little changeling girl. But as I became older it worsened… Father dispraised me for it…”). Because that’s not suitable for a Victorian young lady; she needed to prepare to be a wife to respectable husband (marriage and motherhood as a woman’s destiny). She also says “her touch” started to “frighten” her father, which means he wouldn’t give her physical affection anymore (which is the total opposite to whatever this interpretation is).

Ellen's father called her “his little changeling girl” as in European folklore of children kidnapped by fairies, elves or demons and a substitute child being left in their place, because she enjoyed playing and being in nature. When she was supposed to be indoors (domestic sphere).

“Orlok r*ped Ellen for years” = Incorrect

He was just there as a shadow, a haunting, a ghost (like when he appears on her curtains). Still creepy, but he never touched her, and the narrative proves that this is all he was to her.

At the prologue, Ellen is actually masturbating. Because when Orlok does touch her (when he reveals himself), she has a seizure. Which indicates he wasn’t touching nor doing anything to her before that.

While on his way to Wisburg, Orlok says to Ellen: “Soon I will be no more a shadow to you. Your spirit was never enough. Soon our flesh shall embrace and we shall be as one”; which, again, indicates he never had sex with her (“and we shall be as one” = finally; at last). He has only been a shadow (haunting) to her, until now; they have not yet been as “one” (sex).

When they meet "in the flesh" for the first time, Ellen tells Orlok (in a very sexual tone) she felt him like a serpent in her body, he says it’s not him, but her nature (her sexuality); this implies Orlok never touched her in that way. She also talks about “felt you” and she appears to have never seen his physical appearance before (while strigoi can haunt dreams, we can cut that option, too).

As their covenant is fulfilled, and before he drinks from her (and she gives him her soul), Orlok says: “as our spirits are one, so too shall be our flesh”, which indicates, again, he never had sex with her before. Which also explains why he is hyperventilating before actually having sex with her at the end; and he stands there, waiting for her consent.

Last but not least, Orlok is a strigoi from Romanian folklore (not an incubus, two completely different creature). Orlok can astral project himself as a shadow or a ghost (at the prologue he was a vision/dream); but he has to be physically present in order to do physical things. And his whole ordeal with Thomas and him coming to Wisburg prove this. He made Herr Knock drag Thomas all the way to Transylvania just to divorce him from Ellen, and then he had to travel all the way to Wisburg, himself, to complete their covenant. The entire story proves it’s impossible for Orlok to do physical things from afar.

What Ellen has been doing during her teenage years (when she believes that Orlok "took her as his lover"), was, in fact, masturbation: a huge taboo in Victorian society, and the ultimate sin, as Ellen’s father calls it when he finds her naked, and yes, masturbating.

Orlok was there was a presence, a haunting, a shadow (either watching or talking with her), as that's how Robert Eggers describes him. Either way, Ellen was fantasizing about him. She tells Thomas “you could never please me as he could” because the purpose of masturbation is orgasm (which is what she associates Orlok with; “epilepsies”) and vaginal orgasms by penetration (alone) can be difficult for most women to achieve.

When Orlok asks her “Remember how once we were? A moment. Remember?” is connected to the reincarnation theme in this story.

“The lilacs represent Ellen innocence” = Incorrect

The lilacs are the visual storytelling device to showcase Ellen and Orlok’s relationship, including the reincarnation theme.

“Orlok r*pes Ellen repeatedly” = Incorrect

We already established he can’t touch her in that way, without her almost dying (like we saw at the prologue), and we never saw anything like this again in the entire film.

Look at Orlok’s body position: he literally just got here to grab Ellen’s neck (almost suffocating her in the process). This scene establishes he can’t touch her without something like this happening.

And this is why we are shown Herr Knock Solomonari Sex Magick ritual (masturbation). This man assembles an entire ritual room just to communicate with Orlok, and he starts by masturbating, which gives the audience two crucial bits of information: (1) it’s sexual energy that summons Orlok; (2) Orlok has to be conjured (invited) for these communications to happen.

And teenage Ellen, similar to Knock, would masturbate and summon Orlok; which is why she believes he actually took her as his lover, even thought he didn’t touch her, because, if he did, it would almost kill her (which is why she says “it would kill me” and she means it literally because Orlok, being a strigoi, his very presence is life-threatening).

Which tells us, all the moaning and body spams are on Ellen herself. She knows Orlok is coming to Wisburg, and she’s summoning him to her. This her yearning for him. He haunts her because she wants him to haunt her; Orlok has to be summoned and invited in, in every way, and the film clearly establishes this. And this is why when she's having sex with Thomas she starts saying "let him see! let him see our love!"; she's also conjuring Orlok in that moment.

This is all on Ellen. That first screenshot is also her giving in entrance into the city, by sea.

“Orlok cannot love Ellen” = Partially True

He cannot love her wholly in his present state as strigoi because this curse removed his best human qualities. He did retain his most fierce and strongest desires into his strigoi self; Ellen’s soul and passion. Which indicates he did love her fiercely and deeply in their last life (or lives). He will be capable of love her once the curse is removed (which is what happens at the end).

I argue it’s “partially true” because Bill Skarsgård managed to convince Robert Eggers to let Orlok have vulnerability in his scenes with Ellen, in connection to Orlok’s backstory (Eggers doesn’t want to share with the public). So there’s still a spark there, and she’s his only humanizing trait.

“Ellen sacrifices herself to save Thomas and Wisburg” = Incorrect

Thomas wasn’t in danger because Orlok wasn’t invited into his house. The moment he left the Harding household (where Orlok was given entrance, thanks to Ellen herself), and arrived at his own house, he was safe, and Orlok couldn’t harm him, in any way, shape or form.

Orlok, like your regular vampire, has to be invited in, and this is established by the film:

At the prologue, Orlok shows up at Ellen’s window: asking for entrance;

The Nuns tell Thomas “remain here. His evil cannot enter this house of God” (it has nothing to do with God, but with Orlok not be giving entrance);

Ellen opens a window at Hardings household for Orlok to enter (she also gives him entrance into the city);

Thomas tells Ellen at the carriage scene (when she asks to go with them): “Of course not, Ellen. You must be kept safe away”. And he leaves for the night believing she’s safe because Orlok doesn’t have entrance into their house;

After finding Harding dead, Dr. Sievers says to Von Franz and Thomas: “But Orlok... Will he not have already risen? Should we not return to our homes?” (where he can’t enter and they are safe)

Ellen opens the window of her own house at the end, asking Orlok to come to her and giving him entrance.

And besides Von Franz never tells Ellen about the instructions on the Solomonari codex of secrets. But her sacrifice is still connected to them because these instructions are confirmed to have been successfully fulfilled by Von Franz himself, at the end.

“Ellen is coerced into succumbing to Orlok” = Incorrect

I’ll let Orlok himself answer this: “the compact commands she must willingly re-pledge her vow. She cannot be stolen.” And “willing” and “compelled” are two completely different things, and Orlok knows this. He gives Ellen the three nights countdown because he wants her to face the truth; her nature will never be accepted by Victorian society because “she’s not for the living, she’s not for human kind”. Which is exactly what happens because Robert Eggers describes his Ellen as a “dark, chthonic female heroine" who “makes the ultimate sacrifice and she’s able to reclaim this power through death.” chthonic” means spirits or gods who inhabit the Underworld.

Ellen doesn’t “succumb” to Orlok (this is the nonsensical marketing for this film); she’s reclaiming ownership over her power (death) and her sexuality (sex); she’s accepting herself represented by accepting him. Her “power” is medicalized by Victorian society, and her “sexuality” is owned by her husband. She’s liberating herself. But more on that later.

“Ellen tricks Orlok into staying until dawn” = Incorrect

You cannot trick the person who wrote the Şolomonari codex of secrets, whose instructions are being used in that scene.

When searching Herr Knock’s office alongside Dr. Sievers, Von Franz finds symbols he recognizes as Şolomonari (from Romanian folklore), and discovers a book, which he identifies as the Şolomonari codex of secrets. Later, he reveals to Dr. Sievers and Harding: “our Nosferatu is of an especial malignancy. He is an arch-enchanter, Solomonari, Satan's own learned disciple.” Here, Von Franz is telling the audience the codex belongs to Orlok; because it’s the second time a character has confirmed him as the Şolomonar of the narrative.

This is based on the “Dracula” novel by Bram Stoker; where Count Dracula studied at the Scholomance, a school located in the Carpathian Mountains, in Transylvania, where the Devil is said to instruct 10 or 13 students, which will become Şolomonar after their graduation (Romanian folklore). The course lasts 7 or 9 years, and their final assignment is to copy their entire knowledge of humanity into a "Şolomonar's book"; this codex doesn’t merely belongs to Orlok’s, he wrote it himself as his final assignment to become a Şolomonar.

Like in the novel, it’s Von Franz (Van Helsing book counterpart) who reveals that Dracula/Orlok that studied at the Scholomance/is a Şolomonar: "learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due"; which is exactly what the Old Abbess tells Thomas: "A black enchanter he was in life. Solomonari. The Devil preserved his soul that his corpse may walk again in blaspheme."

In these book are the instructions in how a Şolomonar can break free from his own Nosferatu curse (which can happen when you are dealing with a quest for immortality). Which is exactly what Orlok was after; this is his “masterplan” sort of speak. He wants Ellen to break the curse she put on him, for his spirit to be set free, and he wants to take her soul with him, forever united (“you shall be one with me, ever-eternally”).

Orlok has no Satanic symbols on his sigil and coat of arms, because he's, in fact, a Pagan enchanter, worshiper of the Dacian god Zalmoxis (Robert Eggers is following an academic thesis that links the folkloric Solomonari with Zalmoxis worship) but Paganism was demonized by Christianity and their followers labeled as "devil worshippers". And Von Franz, student of the occult or not, is a man of his time.

“Orlok didn’t get Ellen’s soul at the end” = Incorrect

Orlok is a strigoi, and as such, it’s not blood he feeds on, specifically. It’s “life force” and “living energy” (“blood is the life”); he feeds on his victims souls, and that’s what sustains him. And that’s why Thomas had to be exorcised.

When he’s feeding off Ellen’s blood, he’s actually feeding off her soul, giving life to himself, for the Solomonari ritual to be possible. Their souls are merging inside of that rotten corpse. At dawn, when it gets destroyed, Orlok and Ellen’s united souls are set free as their combined blood pours out of “Nosferatu”. And Orlok is now an “empty shell” because their joined souls have been liberated to the Afterlife, together, forever. And the last shot of the film really drives home this; as they lie embraced in death, both finally at peace, their souls united, as it was fated to be.

“Orlok is the villain of the film” = Incorrect

The villains of this story are the Victorian characters and Victorian society. Everyone keeps romanticizing.

Robert Eggers calls Ellen a “victim of 19th century society” several times on interviews, and how she’s completely misunderstood and unseen by everyone around her (except by Von Franz and Orlok):

“People talk a lot about Lily-Rose Depp’s character’s sexual desire, which is a massive part of the character, of what she experiences — being shut down, and corseted up, and tied to the bed, and quieted with ether. Misunderstood, misdiagnosed. But it’s more than that. She has an innate understanding about the shadow side of the world that we live in that she doesn’t have language for. This gift and power that she has isn’t in an environment where it’s being cultivated, to put it mildly. It’s pretty tragic. Then she makes the ultimate sacrifice, and she’s able to reclaim this power through death”.

The real tragedy on Ellen’s story is not her connection with Orlok; it’s her human life in Victorian society; where her supernatural gifts are medicalized, and dismissed at every turn. Like Robert Eggers also says: “[Ellen is a] victim to 19th-century society […] she can see into another realm, and has a certain kind of understanding that she doesn’t have the language for,” Eggers said. “But people are calling her melancholic and hysteric and all of these things.”

This entire story is Ellen liberating herself from her oppression by Victorian society, like Linda Muir, the costume designer, tells us in an interview about how Ellen’s wardrobe tells a story about female repression and liberation:

Her [Ellen] true nature [takes over] in the end. She liberates herself by ripping herself open, ripping her striped dress open. She liberates herself by wearing the same garment over and over and over again when she's staying at Harding's home. So she's liberated herself in that she doesn't feel the need to dress up completely each and every day. And then she liberates herself completely in the end.”

Linda Muir also talked about the importance of "Ellen's corset" to the story in an interview with "The Art of Costume", and it symbolizes her oppression and medicalization by Victorian society.

Historically, corsets have always been considered an instrument of women’s oppression, so it’s not surprising to see them having the same meaning here. Corsets were restrictive devices that rendered women immobile, passive and prone to fainting, and the Feminist movement of the 20th century saw them as “as one of the quintessential Victorian social horrors”. Corsets were also considered a sign of respectability, because they controlled the body, and, by extension, physical passions.

Ellen corset consumes her until she tries to break free from it during her “possession scene” with Thomas; the point of that scene was her showing him her true nature, and his reaction was to call the doctor on her. His “love” and her medicalization are the same. That’s what she leaves behind. And at the end, she’s fully naked before Orlok, no more corsets, fully liberated.

This is a very feminist story through the lenses of Historical Feminism, because this is about Ellen reclaiming her own power, through death and sex (the core themes of this story).

#Nosferatu 2024 #Robert Eggers #Ellen Hutter 2024 #count Orlok 2024 #Thomas Hutter 2024 #Anna Harding #Friedrich Harding #professor Von Franz #Nosferatu #historical feminism #lilac fang #Ellen x Orlok #Orlok x Ellen

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mirohlayo · 1 year ago

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F1 DRIVERS TAKING CARE OF YOU

ON YOUR PERIODS

including mclaren, ferrari, mercedes + verstappen, ricciardo & gasly

・WARNING : mention of period/cramp, fluff

・NOTE : i didn't wrote it in fem reader so this is for anyone who is menstruating

!! english is not my first language !!

ᦈ OSCAR PIASTRI 81

he would be the most caring and understanding boyfriend. he knows how painful your period cramps are and he hates seeing you suffer like this. so he does his best to help you, either by buying you your favorite snacks or putting a hot water bottle on your stomach. hums in your ear sweet words like "everything is okay" to boost up your mood. lots of kisses on your forehead to keep your energy. also he'll plan in advance your others periods to make sure he'll be ready to take care of you when they'll come back.

ᦈ LANDO NORRIS 4

poor boy would be completely lost at first. he doesn't really know what to do, he starts panicking because he doesn't know how to ease your pain. so he would call his sisters to get help and advices. he'll do everything they told him to do : buying you extra snacks, making hot tea and any warm drinks, start a stock of painkillers. he joins you in bed, tucking you close to his body and cuddle you with tons of kisses here and there. he would also gently massages your tummy because he thinks it ease the pain. literally became the sweetest boyfriend.

ᦈ CHARLES LECLERC 16

he doesn't think twice before running over the store to buy you your survival kit. i know for sure he would blush really hard when the cashier scans the pads right in front of him. but then run back again to your apartment to check on you. he won't leave your side, he's stuck with you until your periods end. he'll always ask you if you're fine, if you need anything, if you want something. when your only answer was "you" he'll get so shy but happily cuddles you, pressing some kisses on your poor tummy. he just hopes pain would disappear because he doesn't want to see you suffer.

ᦈ CARLOS SAINZ 55

like when you're sick, he knows how to deal with your periods. princess treatment on top. he would cook your favorite food and put your favorite movie on the tv. he keeps an eye on you from the kitchen and if he hears you growl from pain he's already next to you in a second. also prepares you a hot bath to relax your stomach from cramps. he'll put all his being and all his efforts to make sure your periods are a little less painful. he won't rest for a whole week, and of course he doesn't forget to fill you with so much love, like with soft kisses on your cheeks.

ᦈ LEWIS HAMILTON 44

literally the softest boy ever. he hates when you're on your periods because it looks like you're going to die. he perfectly knows what to give you. all you need to do is to rest on the bed and the rest he takes care of. he's just so caring, so sweet and gentle with you. he would constantly rub your stomach, sometimes pressing a hot water bottle on it. he'll also play with your hair, just do anything to distract you from the pain. he makes sure your full attention is on him and not on your cramps. and if so, he'll curse the cramps because they make his poor baby suffer.

ᦈ GEORGE RUSSEL 63

he would 50% knows how to handle it and 50% messes up. like of course he's aware of your cramps and how much it is painful. but he's thinking about one million ways to help you to go through it that he ends up getting headaches. he would do literally anything he thinks is good for you. some things work and some just worsen the pain. and he'll panic about it, stress fills his body. but you reassure him, and after you told him what he needed to do, everything was finally okay. he becomes so much caring, and he's so gentle with his touches. he'll learn about it and you can count on him to make you feel better, thanks to his cuddles.

ᦈ MAX VERSTAPPEN 33

periods ? he always forget them, but don't worry he's always ready to help you and to take care of you. he gives you extra comfort and extra treats. tea, snacks, hot things to soothe the pain. if you crave something he'll literally search it everywhere for you. his lover needs the best treatment during periods. but i feel like he would be curious about it, and while you're laying on the bed he'll ask you about periods and how painful it is. just to understand better in order to be the perfect caring boyfriend for your next periods.

ᦈ DANIEL RICCIARDO 3

what is even periods ? first time you told him you were on your periods he didn't get it. but then he saw your painful face and he knew something was wrong. when it's your first day he always stresses, he doesn't know how to act anymore. like completely lost. but he quickly put himself together and manage to take care of you. he's for sure joking about it sometimes, like teasing you gently just to put a smile on your face. but he knows how painful it is and so he always ends up in your arms, his head on your tummy as he sleeps and strokes your waist. he hopes this ease your cramps.

ᦈ PIERRE GASLY 10

he transforms into a strict boyfriend. because he wants you to rest for your whole periods time. he asks you every minutes if you're good and if you need anything. you just keep saying that you're all okay but still he's not completely relaxed. if you sigh softly he's already overthinking about it, thinking something is wrong. so to calm him, he would pull you into his arms, your head on his chest. kisses the top of your head and rubbing your stomach with one hand. he'll end up sleeping with you too, and dream about how long your periods will be, because he can't hold seeing you suffer from it.

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #george russel x reader #max verstappen x reader #daniel riccardo x reader #pierre gasly x reader

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see-arcane · 5 months ago

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Examining the Nosfertrio

I must uphold my position as Words Georg and yammer about the Nosferatu Trio (Nosfertrio) that makes up the core of Nosferatu (2024). Specifically in terms of the love triangle and their roles within it.

Spoilers and a massive monolith of text below.

Ellen and Orlok

I’ve already seen a handful of posts going into the metaphors inherent to their relationship. Orlok as Ellen’s id, as the repressed darkness and fey nature she must keep bottled up for the sake of her era and society, as brutality and sensuality, et cetera. And there’s definitely truth in that. Just as it can be found in a lot of horror-attraction (I hesitate to give all of them the blanket of ‘romance’ but attraction is key on one or both sides for hero and antagonist) stories in various degrees from bodice ripper to outright nightmare. There is a definite cathartic itch that’s scratched in everything from Labyrinth’s Jareth to The Phantom of the Opera’s Erik all the way to this, Orlok at his most cadaverous and insidious.

People want to be wanted. On some level, we want to express the repressed depths of ourselves, be they perverse and violent or weird and whimsical. 99 times out of 100, we still restrain ourselves from doing the Immediate Gratification action—anything from snatching the last piece of cake because we know someone else is looking forward to it or taking a hammer to an annoying customer’s skull—because appeasing that kneejerk urge will have consequences. We will feel bad about having done it or else outside forces will punish us. Repression is a fact of life, with some forced to constrict themselves more than others. Not always for good reason. Case in point, poor Ellen stuck in period piece hell.

Ellen was suffering as a young girl. Her clairvoyance and supernatural susceptibility made her an early outcast and the death of her mother left her alone with a father who we learn had a period where he seriously considered sending her to an asylum. A period we also learn came after Orlok began either causing or infinitely worsening her epileptic fits. The one Ellen describes to Von Franz involves her being found naked mid-spasm. Something to do with her flesh.

Was she found orgasming? Had she clawed at herself, perhaps at her breast where Orlok couldn’t yet feed and bleed her? Maybe she was caught in a masturbatory act that Orlok played puppeteer to. We don’t know because we’re only meant to conjure something mortifying for Ellen to be caught at; just as her other public fits have been. Her father is disgusted by it, whatever it is.

Sometime in this miserable window, Thomas enters her life.

Thomas Hutter who is in every way Count Orlok’s antithesis. He loves where Orlok only wants. He wishes only to give to Ellen, to make himself and their life a thing worthy of her—note, she lived in a stunning mansion as a girl and Thomas needed a loan from Friedrich Harding to afford their tiny home; Ellen married down to be with him and he knows it. If Ellen is an owed piece of property in Orlok’s view, Ellen is precious beyond words to Thomas, who even in his terror and ailment, loves her more than he fears anything.

Then comes Orlok in person, slapping Wisborg with plague and murdering friends and children and threatening to go after Thomas if Ellen does not ‘willingly’ submit to him. A big bloodstained temper tantrum is needed before Ellen dons her wedding dress again and gives herself to Orlok for the sake of being the Judith to his Holofernes. When Orlok’s time comes it is an agonizing thing. A final dose of pain for him to suffer in recompense for years of violation inflicted on a girl since puberty.

Ellen kills him. Ellen dies for the sake of killing him and guarding Thomas. In pure emotional math, she is true to what she told Orlok outright:

No. I love Thomas.

I care nothing for your affliction.

I abhor you.

You revel in my torture.

Nothing but truth here. She loves Thomas. She doesn’t give a shit how ‘afflicted’ Orlok is by him wanting her. She abhors him. And, with almost a lifetime of evidence on her side, yes, Orlok appears to get off on casually, repeatedly, flashily subjecting Ellen to her spasms, however pleasurable or painful they might be, to say nothing of her embarrassment and being ‘helped’ by the era’s dehumanizing quackery.

And yet.

Ellen has two visuals and two lines that suggest that buried in her hate and horror at Orlok and all he does, there is still one wisp of…I really hesitate to call it love. Attraction might be in it. ‘Affliction.’ Whatever it is, it is the tiny buried stretch of spiritual ore that I imagine brought Orlok sniffing in the first place. Ore that has been honed by years of abuse and the hopeless inescapability of his attentions into something that Ellen shelves with the rest of her shame and fear, but cannot let go because it is a part of her and part of what kept her from succumbing to total despair in her time before Thomas.

Because Ellen was lonely once upon a time. Did she know Anna as a young girl? Or did that come later, after Thomas? Either way, she prayed for a companion. For comfort. She felt alien and alone and wrong. Which Orlok scented as she called out blindly—a familiar essence he could take advantage of. Because he is a tyrant. A monster. And he is alone too.

You are not for the living. You are not for humankind.

The visuals:

Ellen meets him in Anna’s room. Comes close close close to kissing him—and reverses (I abhor you).

Ellen stays with him in the bed, lightly cradling Orlok as the sunrise kills him; and he does not claw or tear at her in his death throes, even knowing her betrayal. Only lays a gentle grasp on her shoulder. They recline again as they die, Ellen letting him lay rather than letting him fall off.

The lines:

Before Orlok strikes her mind: He took me for his lover! (Not victim. Lover. She believes it.)

While Orlok has reached out and pressed his influence on her again, her words possibly not wholly her own: You could not please me so well as him. (Is it Orlok goading? Is it Ellen telling a truth or a lie to prod Thomas into sex? Is it a jumble?)

Ellen loves Thomas more than Orlok or her own life. But there is a grain of care for the monster who obsessed over and menaced her for so long. It’s the grim and heady little whisper under all the trappings of horror-attraction, why fiction loves a demonic dom or a pining terror.

I was never alone with them infecting my life. I was the focus of all their attention and passion. I saw so much violence done for the sake of them coercing me to their side. I had these throes forced on me and in being forced to endure their darkness I was absolved of any guilt in moments of pleasure from it. I held hands with Death in a dream and I was so happy when everyone I knew—everyone I smother myself to accommodate—was dead.

It’s there. Of course it’s there.

But what else is there with it?

Ellen and Thomas

Enter the newlyweds who didn’t deserve Any of That Shit.

We don’t really get much time with these two beyond establishing that they are very genuinely in love, have been thoroughly enjoying a too-short honeymoon, and are each prepared to kill and die for each other.

But something I’m seeing around the edges of post-film analyses is a phenomenon that I recognize from certain unfortunate reads of Jonathan Harker’s character, both from Dracula’s book canon and almost 130 years’ worth of trash adaptations. Already this boy is teetering on the precipice of being done dirty the exact same way Jonathan was via sanding down his full role and character in the story. I’ve seen takes that reduce him to the Normal Guy Your Weird Ex Hates, the Guy Who Doesn’t Listen to His Wife, the Useless Guy, the Boring Normie Guy, the Connecticut Clark to Ellen’s Malfina, et cetera et cetera.

But like. You have to miss a mountain of context clues to land on any of these statuses as Thomas’ deal.

Let’s look at the chief offense: Thomas disregards and/or shuts down Ellen.

First:

Thomas tries to shush Ellen about her nightmare(s). For a moment. But Ellen insists, and so he listens to the dream of wedding Death. He does shush her then, but in the way of soothing. It was just a dream, not a portent. All will be well. What is he supposed to say otherwise? Yes, I believe you. Yes, something horrible is about to happen. Worry, fear, fret. It’s the best course of action.

As for him leaving the bedside and ultimately going out to Orlok’s castle despite Ellen’s pleading? Again, what else is he logically meant to do? This boy does not know what genre he’s in. Ellen does because she’s Ellen. Thomas thinks he’s in a period piece romance with a happy ending and his moneyed best friend repaid for his loan and his beloved back to living in the luxury he knows she left behind to be with him. To do that, he must work for it. He must jump through whatever hoop Herr Knock tells him to. Between the latter and the bait of the commission he and Orlok dangle in front of him—Friedrich paid back, a step toward a plush future to gift to Ellen—and the fact that Ellen’s warning plea comes from dreamt vapor, it’d make no sense for him to just kick off his shoes, endanger his job and roll back in bed with her because his permission slip would read:

‘My wife said no :)’

Even if he wanted to, and it’s hard to think he doesn’t want to going by how uneasy he was the moment Knock put the job in his hands, Thomas had no real room to refuse without putting himself and Ellen in real economic and interpersonal trouble. At best he might have feigned illness, but even that would be a gamble. All the things Ellen wanted him to do—stay longer with her, heed her premonition, don’t go on the journey—Thomas did want to do. But couldn’t.

Second offense:

Thomas ignores Ellen when she says their petite home (and ohhh doesn’t that sting in the 21st century to think that a place like theirs was considered ‘small’ or lower class once upon a time) is fine and Thomas need not push himself to extremes to finance a bigger better household with a maidservant and other bells and whistles to satisfy her. True! No denying it! Just as there is no denying that, out of the entire ensemble, Thomas Hutter is from the lowest class out of everyone.

Friedrich is his friend, a wealthy inheritor to a father’s shipping company who lent Thomas the money needed to pay for the little home and possibly his and Ellen’s wedding. Anna is Ellen’s friend, two girls with a friendly and possibly amorous history from what we can infer is a similarly well-off social level. Thomas is only in their circle by dint of somehow crossing paths with Friedrich and being charming enough to win an otherwise Classically Masculine and Rich Man’s regard.

And Ellen, again, stepped out of the wealthy life to be with him out of love. In her dream her father was there, one of the dead, but he is absent for the entire film. Considering her only other mentions of him were a childhood of his calling her a changeling girl or an unclean thing meant for a madhouse, we can assume the man did not empty his pockets for or applaud her choice of husband. Hence Friedrich’s loan. But for all the discomfort of her family life, Ellen did live a far more polished life than the one Thomas can give her as-is.

(I envy you, said to Friedrich outright.)

This is Thomas’ most standout flaw in my opinion, one that amounts to a single facet of a wider issue: Thomas Hutter feels inadequate on multiple fronts.

He is not wealthy enough to give Ellen the lifestyle he wants to return to her. He has not made up enough savings to repay a man he wishes were only a friend rather than an all-but-in-name sugar daddy. He’s unequivocally not within spitting distance of any other male character’s classic forms of manliness. Just an ongoing mantra of ‘not X enough,’ and that’s before Orlok gets in his head. More on that later.

He’s not shutting out Ellen’s insistence that she’s happy with their simple surroundings because he doesn’t care about her opinion. He’s shutting it out because he can’t get out of his own head about how much lesser he feels compared to her and their friends, feeling as if he has to make up for not coming from where they do and for basically taking his princess away from her metaphorical castle. Fittingly, it’s the complete reverse of Orlok’s treatment.

If Ellen is the prize to be conquered for Orlok, she is the undeserved prize on a pedestal to Thomas. One who needs precious things foisted on her to make him worthy of her loving him despite her saying otherwise. The guy can’t see past his own low view of himself to accept that she is sincere in his insistence that he is enough.

And that brings us to the third issue:

Ellen says she wants to come Orlok-hunting. Thomas shoots her down.

Bit of an echo from Dracula there, with Jonathan and the rest of the Drac Attack Pack unanimously deciding Mina has to be kept out of the villain’s reach while they go a-hunting..! Only for that very move to be what puts her in an unprotected position when said villain comes skulking up to her. It is a very old school Protect the Fair Maiden! move. Fitting for the genre and the time period and so on.

But unlike in Dracula, Thomas and Ellen’s playing of the scene makes much more sense.

They are not dealing with Dracula the Conqueror. They are dealing with Orlok the Repeat Rapist and Tantrum-Murderer Obsessed with Ellen. If there was one person in the entire ensemble not to bring into closer proximity to Orlok, even if she were at maximum anachronistic girlboss badass levels, or even just armed with her own stake and pistol, it would still very much be Ellen. Orlok’s been making her life hell at a distance. Willingly putting her in arm’s reach would make me blue screen too if I were Thomas. This isn’t Jonathan fearing the chance that Dracula might go after Mina out of convenience. This is Thomas rightfully clocking that Orlok will 110% go directly after Ellen. Obviously he says Ellen shouldn’t be on the hunt.

Which was just as obvious to Ellen before she even suggested it.

Because with or without Von Franz promising to lead Thomas and Sievers on the wild goose chase for the sarcophagus, Ellen was already planning to barter herself in exchange for protecting Thomas and Wisborg. Which Thomas would also 110% slam the brakes on if he knew what she was up to. She didn’t suggest her joining the hunt because she had any intention or expectation of them agreeing. It was to make sure that the suggestion was shut down and that Thomas and the others would be far away when she baited Orlok to her.

Both Hutters are terrified for the safety of one another and would rather face Orlok themselves and risk dying than put their beloved in danger. They are too alike in that regard, just as the Harkers are, and that love and desire to protect is abused by both versions of the Count to get what they want. It’s just that Ellen knew exactly how to ensure Thomas would do what she wanted by nettling him with the concept of her coming along and risking proximity to Orlok; perhaps intentionally implying she meant to put herself between him and Thomas as a shield. Cue him declaring absolutely not. Irony of ironies.

But alllll this is just window dressing compared to my main nitpick when it comes to some folks’ view of Thomas paired with Ellen. And that’s that he is the milquetoast nothingburger ignorant could never truly understand or please her! husband.

Shut the hell your mouth. I am a proud monsterfucker. I am all for the dark gothic fuckeduppedness of Orlok and Ellen’s whole dynamic. But as Stoker and Murnau are my witness, You Shall NOT Slander This Lad as Jonathan Harker was Before Him.

Ellen was the one wheedling Thomas to stay home and roll around in bed while he was late for work, wanting more of whatever he was dishing out. They were left unsupervised in someone else’s foyer for 0.5 seconds and immediately started tongue wrestling while sinking to their knees and cutting away to [REDACTED INTIMACY WHILE STILL VERY VISIBLE IN THEIR FRIENDS’ HOUSE]. Thomas jumped into a river, dragged himself from the brink of undeath, and rode half-dead all the way home to reach Ellen and try to get her out of Orlok’s range. Thomas, who was terrified of Orlok, still put that horror aside because he learned of Orlok’s torturing of Ellen and intended to kill the fucker for it to keep her safe.

Before all of that, Thomas earned Ellen’s love in their even greener youth.

Ellen, the girl who was strange and Other and tormented by Orlok’s spells and despondently alone with her monster? That was the Ellen who Thomas met. Who Thomas fell in love with. Who fell in love with him. And it was a love intense enough to blot Orlok’s shadow. When that shadow came back—

I am become a demon! I am unclean!

—Thomas stayed in the dark with her—

I love you! I love you!

—resolving to either kill the thing that had preyed on her or die trying.

Even if we knew none of this, Ellen’s final act is its own proof of what he was to her. We saw what she’s like with someone she clocks as an asshole when she confronts Friedrich for his actual ignorance and actual callousness. If any character is the starched ‘refuses to believe the supernatural reality/adheres to patriarchal bullshit’ figure, it’s him, not Thomas. (Hello echoes of Jonathan Harker versus John Seward, but I digress.) Ellen calls that shit out.

Why do you hate me? How can you be so stupid? So cruel?

She feels what she feels and says what she means and is the most observant character in the entire story.

And in the end, she deems whole fucking murder-suicide as a price she’s willing to pay to protect Thomas. Whatever we could not see before the film began, whatever romance the Hutters shared, it was true and powerful enough for her to do this.

Which leaves Thomas behind, her cold hand in his, all tears and grief at this—his last failure to tally on his internal chalkboard. He was not the Hero, but the Damsel unaware. He could not protect Ellen because she and Von Franz tricked him into safety as the latter schemed and the former gave herself up to the martyr role. Thomas was too trusting and too late and too much himself rather than the Man ™ who should have saved her from throwing herself on Providence’s pyre.

On that note.

We have to address the mess in the castle.

Thomas and Orlok

Eggers added a lot of meat to the very trimmed-down characters of the 1922 Hutters and Count. Original concepts and harvested bits from Dracula were all applied. The way he composed them served to fix what I still consider to be a barely-concealed plot hole.

In 1922 and 1979, the Count sees a girl in a locket and immediately becomes obsessed with her. That’s it. That is the entire bulk of his awareness of her before Thomas arrives at his castle. An arrival that was very much based in the original Dracula’s desire to move himself and his deadly presence away to a new place. Original 1922 Orlok seems to just be in it for mysterious plague harbinger reasons. 1979 Dracuorlok seems to be genuinely distraught and resigned to some kind of irresistible condition that says He Must Go Bring Death. But Orlok 2024?

According to Von Franz and his reading, Orlok wants to kill the whole world with his plague..! But has just been chilling for a few centuries I guess. No rush. Not until Ellen happens. She and her covenant and—gasp!—marrying another man!? Barely a man at that.

Ellen Hutter and her new marriage is Orlok’s impetus in coming out of the castle and planting himself in Wisborg. Him stealing the locket and being obsessed with her now makes far more sense than it did in any preceding film because we get the new context of him preying on her since she was a teenager…

…which was interrupted because of Thomas.

The other man. The boy. The laughable gentle meek shivering rival who Knock sends to his door and into his power.

Where 1922 Count was rigid and awkward to the point of seeming like he had to fight rigor mortis with every step and 1979 Count was glassy-eyed and frantically grasping with lonesome eagerness, 2024 Count is stewing over jealousy and disbelief and derision and only the flimsiest attempt at playing client to fool the young man into signing his status as Ellen’s husband away. A farce, a farce. But the covenant demands he cannot kill him outright. That would be theft, not Ellen ‘giving herself freely.’

But after? After the signing, surely he could wring the boy’s neck. Could sit and watch as the wolves tear him to pieces. He could fill him up with plague or snap him in half or drown him like the Pied Piper with a rat… All these things he could have done after he tricked Thomas’ signature out of him on the occult document.

And didn’t.

Let’s retreat to that first strange night together.

Thomas gets subjected to Orlok’s trance the second he reaches the crossroads that leads to the castle. He does not walk as much as float into the coach that has no driver, his next scene showing him abruptly on his feet with his eyes shut in sleep. The doors open to him without hands, leaving him to trail after the Count as if on a string. Orlok gives Thomas two orders the moment they reach the dining room.

One, get out the paperwork. Two, Thomas will address Orlok as his Lord.

“Pardon, sir—?”

“Your. Lord.”

“yesmylordforgivememylord”

Thomas takes his seat and gets treated to Orlok very obviously flexing his powers by doing his little teleportation trick around the table, getting right up in Thomas’ space to pour him his wine, his hand nearly brushing Thomas’ face before retreating.

Thomas asks about the vampire hunting scene he saw in the graveyard and—

“SPEAK NOT OF IT AGAIN!”

Thomas speaks not of it again. Orlok tells him to eat. Cue the mishap with the bread knife and the bleeding thumb. Orlok sounds caught between snarling like an animal or climaxing at the table at the sight of the blood and insists Thomas go sit by the fire where Orlok can see to the wound. Thomas blinks and has lost time again: Somehow he’s been moved to the chair by the fire, fully paralyzed and in tears as Orlok closes in on him, locked in a waking nightmare as the innkeeper woman warned him. This is where Eggers cuts away. All we know for certain is that Orlok fed at Thomas’ breast at least once in the night.

And that he went out of his way to leave Thomas laying face down on the floor come daylight.

The reveal shot is posed as almost comical when coming straight after Ellen’s pining comment about him. I heard some people laugh in the theater. But combining this visual with others to come makes it one of the most awful scenes in hindsight. Because I believe it’s the clearest sign that Orlok outright raped Thomas.

No jokes, no implications, no metaphors. I think he performed the literal act. The only way it could stop short of that in my mind is if Orlok abused his trance state to force Thomas to his knees before or after feeding on him for some emasculating puppeteer work. But no. I think it was genuine rape. It may have happened again in the next feeding night, where Orlok is shown wholly naked as he feeds on Thomas’ breast again. Both times Thomas wakes up dressed. Both times Thomas was preyed on in the exact same way Orlok preys on Ellen.

And notably, not in the same way as Anna Harding, who immediately got whacked with a dose of plague. Her children had their throats torn out. Ditto the ship’s sailors. Everyone else just sickens and rots and blood-vomits to death.

Thomas and Ellen are the only ones Orlok goes out of his way to prey on in an erotically posed way that results in trauma and ailment, but not the plague or raw slaughter Orlok’s throwaway victims get. Ellen makes sense because she’s ‘his enchantress.’ Thomas because..?

Hm. How does jealousy really fit in here as a reason, Count? Why is it that Thomas is the only man in the film you go out of your way to target by mounting and suckling on him? Why is it that you put words in Ellen’s mouth to describe him as a swooning lily of a woman who fell into your arms? Why is it that you still have your feelers in Thomas’ head to airdrop visions of yourself and your last assault on him? And—big big question here—how much influence did you have on Thomas and Ellen during their spontaneous lovemaking scene? Were you watching like Ellen implied? Did you want to?

Last and certainly not least:

You say you couldn’t kill Thomas or it would spoil the covenant. Yet you were surprised that he was still alive. And you reacted Violently+ when Knock suggested he be ordered to go out and kill the young man in your service. Why is that?

(Who made that vampire in the graveyard?)

((Which of those coffins in the crypt was going to be Thomas’?))

This is dancing around the subject, I know. The gist is this: Orlok wasn’t just angry at Thomas for stealing Ellen from him. He was incensed at Thomas being just as out of place as Ellen herself was. Ellen is not a classic fair maiden. Thomas is not a classic manly man. Thomas is, to Orlok’s surprise, making him pissed and horny. And that opens the door to the Count attacking Thomas in a way that seems to be a warmup for his future laying with Ellen. He wants to ‘make a woman’ of Thomas, the lesser, weaker, kinder, prettier, chosen man.

See? See? She has no husband to thwart his conquest! This quailing thing under him can be no man, so it must be a woman. Ha. Ha.

Cue him leaving Thomas on the floor, ass up, for Reasons.

Whether Orlok blithely accepts his attraction to Thomas (he is merely an Appetite, after all) or is grimly wrestling with ye olde compulsory heterosexuality and quietly framing all his weird attentions to Thomas as just him humiliating/emasculating the young man, we also have to turn the lens on Thomas himself.

Theories have been passed around that, given the queer elements of the film, Ellen and Anna, Thomas and Friedrich, all had romantic pasts of their own. Or at least friendships as intimate as they could get away with before they paired up with their respective significant others. Ellen and Thomas especially are heavily bi-coded. Ellen has Anna, naturally (Thank you for loving me), but Thomas has beats with Friedrich, with the unnamed and charismatic leader of the vampire hunting party in the graveyard, and, if only due to Orlok’s trance, Orlok himself.

Even if it was magically induced, Thomas saw a vision of Ellen in Orlok’s place as he was fed on. Seeing it, seemingly experiencing it, Thomas looks to be in a heady stupor as Orlok feeds—blearily welcoming the initial attack and whatever might have followed it.

Cut forward to his breaking from his fever in Ellen’s company, still in traumatized shock, unable to speak on everything that happened to him. She’s seen the bite wounds on him. That isn’t a secret. Something else, something worse—I can’t breathe! Get off me! Get off!—is left unspoken, and he cannot bring himself to admit it to Ellen. Not even after she divulges her history with Orlok. Not even after the fight or the sex or the broken spell and their embrace. Orlok did an awful thing to Thomas that he is too afraid and ashamed to speak aloud, at least on screen. Would it be better or worse if there had not been a memory of pleasure to taint it as it taints Ellen’s assaults?

Ellen calls Orlok her shame. Now he’s a shame for both of them.

…

With all that said. Yes, ‘love triangle’ is the easiest name to pin on this entire hot mess, if not a perfectly accurate one. Ellen and Thomas are in love, but the right words don’t exist to label the lines that connect Ellen and Thomas to Orlok.

tl; dr: Orlok was never going to make this polycule happen and I will not give him kudos for trying.

#you thought I was going to go without a text brick about Thoseferatu?#you thought I wasn't going to ramble ad infinitum about this nightmare polycule??#ha #ellen hutter #count orlok #thomas hutter #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024 #spoilers #my writing

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