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dearharriet · 5 months

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a steve with fem reader fix might just cure me. maybe inspired by the song in agreement by lizzy mcalpine? i love your writing :)

ty sm!! sorry this took me a bit, i’m planning a trip for this summer n i’m so so stressed 😭

(1.5K) (cw: fem!r, mentions of sex)

“What’s his name?”

The bed squeaks as you roll over onto your stomach, pushing down a smile

“Steve,” you say, your voice tellingly sticky and sweet.

“Steve who?”

“What, are you gonna find him in the phone book, mom?” She wouldn’t have to. She knows Steve Harrington as well as the rest of Hawkins.

“Maybe I would,” she teases, but you think she’s half serious.

You consider spilling your guts. Your mom has heard very little of your love life before now, mostly because you weren’t dating guys you would ever take home. Steve, though…

You want to. Take him home. Not even as a pride thing (a little bit as a pride thing), but because you think he’s great, and your mom is great, and you know they’d love each other.

It all felt so exclusive, though. Girls take their boyfriends home to meet the family. Steve isn’t your boyfriend. You don’t even know why you’re telling your mom at all.

Sensing your discomfort, your mom changes her angle.

“Well, at least tell me about him. Is he nice?”

The velocity of your answer lodges in your throat and turns into a laugh.

“Um,” you giggle, “is grass green?”

Foamy chittering pours out of the landline.

“O-kay, message received,” your mom jokes. You wrap the phone cord around your finger, smiling.

“He’s so nice, mom. It’s almost irritating. He makes me sandwiches with the crusts cut off.”

“I think I’m gonna like this boyfriend of yours.” She’s obviously smiling, too. You can hear it in her voice. “He sounds wonderful.”

“Well he’s—“ you hesitate. “We aren’t exclusive.”

There’s a puzzled silence.

“He hasn’t asked?” A speck of disappointment seeps into the question. You roll back over, splaying yourself out in shame.

“Oh, he asked. Twice, but I told him no.”

A gasp. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did,” you confirm, wincing.

“Well, what’s the holdup?”

“Ugh.“ The ceiling looms over you, and you track the afternoon light refracted by your mirror, thinking. “I dunno. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Have you guys—” A tea kettle screams over the line. “Hold on.”

Staticky shuffles and your mother’s humming serenade you while you think about her question. What’s the holdup?

It’s not Steve. When you first said no, his face had sunken so severely you almost changed your mind, because you knew he would put the whole thing on himself. The second time around, you might’ve been more surprised than he was that your answer hadn’t changed. It was just…

The sound of the receiver being picked up, and your mom’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Have you had sex yet?”

“Oh my god, mom.”

“What? I can’t ask?”

Shoving your face into your pillows, you teeter between laughing and screaming. You’re suddenly glad you kept all your past boyfriends a secret. You pick your head back up and press the receiver to your ear, red-faced.

“No, we haven’t,” you lie. “Steve said he wants to wait until we make it official.”

It’s not totally untrue, Steve did say that. You just leave out the part where he caved two days later.

Gone is your flush by the time your mom replies, having paused so long you thought the call dropped. A serenity coats her voice, like silk sheets after a shower—everything as it should be.

“I hope you keep Steve. I’d like to meet him.”

You both leave it at that, turning over other stones for another half an hour, until your call is interrupted by a handsome devil sneaking through your door.

“Oh—hey, mom I—I gotta go, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow?” Sunny brown eyes watch you from the threshold as you say this, enjoying your casual sprawl, your sweet pajama set. Steve soaks in the privilege of seeing you, of being invited over, and of being a call-ending arrival. The phone is barely back on the hook before he rolls over you and manhandles you on top of him. You shriek but don’t fight it.

“Hi, pretty.” Steve rubs your back in big, long sweeps, melting you.

“Mmph, ‘ey,” you mumble, face smooshed into his chest. Steve is like a furnace, constantly hot, and it’s like laying on sun-warmed sand. When he laughs, it vibrates in his ribs.

“What happened to you, baby, hm? Tired?” You nod. “What’d you do all day?”

You regale the day with minimal words, all the way up to the moment he found you.

“—‘n then called mom, cause we hadn’t talked in awhile.”

“Mm-hm, I heard,” he says, not unkindly. His fingers knead the back of your neck. You close your eyes. “You didn’t have to hang up ‘causa me, yknow?”

Nodding minutely, you slur something incoherent. Steve chuckles.

“Feels good?”

More nodding. Steve kisses the top of your head.

“Talked t’my mom ‘bout you,” you spit out, too blissed to think.

Steve stills for a split second, and then doubles down his ministrations.

“Yeah?” There’s a giddy earnestness in his voice that makes you smile.

“Mm-hm,” you hum. “I told her about the sandwiches.”

An amused rumble.

“Anything else?” He asks, and if he’s trying to disguise his anticipation he’s not succeeding.

“Mmm, yeh.” A dopey smile splits your face as Steve slips a hand under your pajama shirt to scratch your back.

“Yeah? Like what, pretty girl?” Steve knows he has you limp and pliable in his lap, and he’s trying to get as much information as possible.

“Ummm, like, how we haven’t had sex—“

“We haven’t?”

You shake your head, and then it quickly devolves into rubbing your cheek on his thick polo.

“We haven’t.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees blindly.

“B’cause we aren’t official, remember?” You look up just as Steve bites back a flinch.

“Hard to forget,” he murmurs, but he pets your baby hairs back gently despite it all. “What else did you tell her?”

“That’s all,” you tell him.

Something about Steve’s sorry eyes makes you regret not telling your mom his last name. Are you ashamed of him? Do you think he isn’t worth defending? It lights a fire, burning you from the inside out. It’s so typical of you, to have one foot in and one foot out, always ready to run away. Always afraid to emotionally invest.

That’s the damn holdup.

In a self-afflicted fury, you pull yourself back together to sit up. Steve places cautious hands on your legs, gauging your mood. Knees on either side of his hips, you fist his shirt in your hands and steady your voice.

“Would you want to meet her sometime? My mom?”

Steve’s mouth drops open. He sits up, hands gripping your thighs firmly.

“Really?”

Softening, you nod. “Really.”

“‘Course I want to. Yes,” he says, breathless. “When?”

“Well…,” you sigh. Gazing at the ceiling, you pretend to think. “I’d need you to fill out some paperwork first.”

Steve raised a dubious brow.

“What, like, an NDA?”

“Ha-ha. No, not that kind of paperwork. I was thinking some kind of…certificate of exclusivity?”

Steve blinks. “I’m so not following.”

Shifting closer on Steve’s lap, you place a chaste kiss on his lips. You can hardly contain a smile as you continue, kissing between your words.

“I dunno—“ Kiss. “—just something that—“ Kiss. “—proves—“ Kiss. “—that you’re my boyfriend.”

You seal the words with a final kiss, and then hesitantly pull back to see Steve’s reaction.

Awe-stricken, Steve is playing with the hem of your pajama shorts, a thoughtful look on his face.

“You mean it?”

When you nod, Steve’s hands come up and around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

“What made you change your mind?” His hands caress your back like he’s not sure if this is real, like he’s afraid to break the illusion. You shrug, nose bumping his.

“Time, I guess. I wasn’t convinced you knew what you were asking for.”

Steve kisses the corner of your mouth, and then your cheek; Moves down to nip at your neck.

“Think I came on too strong,” he agonizes into your jaw. “But you’re so good for me. I didn’t want ya t’ think I wasn’t all in.”

Golden brown hair slips around your fingers as you massage his temples.

“I am, too,” you assure him. “All in.”

Steve grins.

“Can I get that in writing?”

thank you for reading! 🦢

masterlist

#steve harrington #request #stranger things #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington x reader #reqs open #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

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cvlutos · 1 year

Text

"DELIVER" Pt.One

✦ | 03.27.23 |

✦ | TWST!VARIOUS X GN!READER | TWST: MAFIA AU

✦ | Synopsis: | You deliver letters all across the eight districts and Ramshackles. A quite fulfilling job, until one day you and your neighbor have a horrible mix up. He's involved in something he shouldn't be and you just happened to be the last person he talked too.

[OVERVIEW]

Mafias are no joke.

They're dangerous. Violent. Some more than others. Yet it has been covered in gold, glamorized til the point of no return. Yet it isn't senseless murder, but only a few words can deem any murder from senseless to meaningful. It's best to not interact with them at all, it's best to simply know they exist and avoid them. Unless you desire end with them, or below.

Splattered drops of rain beat down on his form, shoes slippery as he turned down alleyways, shoulders and body slamming into the stone walk, nearly falling over himself to run away. His sight blinded by his wet hair, and clothes stained in dirty and blood.

He's been deemed a thief.

He can hear the loud shouts of orders from behind, the barking of dogs, and heavy footsteps that didn't stop and falter in the rain, an unmoving force that was moving faster than the boy. He continues twisted and turning, praying to any god, that he survives, he has to survive, the people have to know. They must. He stumbles out into the empty street, hands frantically wiping at his face, gasping and spitting out water, a moment to slow.

The sound of a gun rings out, ripping through the flesh of the boy, his body within moments topping over from the sheer-velocity and force, feeling the bullet rip through skin and rest painfully within his back. He blinks the tears from his eyes, as his body lands face first into the cobble stone ground.

Lifeless.

Those chasing him slow, staring the dead body be continuously beat down by the rain, and the rolling crackle of thunder, there's a hushed spread of commands, 'Grab the body. We'll show the Boss.' Voice is blank, as if almost grieving at the unnecessary loss of human life, before turning to his partner- his "friend", who easily tucked the gun away. A shark-like smile spread across his lips.

"He was wanted dead—Now he's dead." He merely shrugs, while the man with a spade symbol upon his face scowls.

"He was wanted alive. You went against the rules." The merman merely shrugs once again, making a 'blah' sound at the mention of the Queendom's rules.

A senseless murder to one, meaningful murder to another.

══════ ♡ ════════════ ♡ ══════

Death Certificate letters are the worse letters to ever have to deliver.

The road bumpy beneath your bike wheels, your leather satchel within your metal basket. You offer smiles to those you pass, those who worked in the gardens, picking and planting fresh vegetables and fruits, a group of older women and young girls, that always offer a wave and without outfail a dinner invitation, always adding 'the more the merrier' and there right, it's fun to not eat alone.

You ride your bike over twisted and bends, passing a small library where the owner watered his windowsill flowers, waving at you, and you wave back with a small smile. He's an old man, wrinkly and gray, with a single wooden leg, some say he got it during a fight with the Octavinelle Mafia, though most the others think he's lying, but a good lie never hurt no one.

The Ramschackles are diverse and lively midday, pressing on the breaks as a young man and his children blocked the road, letting his cattle walk through, leading the towards the pasture on the other side. He greets you, asking about your day, as his son climbs the old fencing shouting for the cows to go faster, and his daughter begs to ride the cows, pulling on the pants of his father. You remember the birth of the twins, nearly 6 years ago. You can't help but smile, giving each kid a piece of candy which you got from visiting Heartslabyul, which the father silently mouths a 'thank you', his wife had died in the last fall.

Once the last cow passed, your sped off, familiar with every bump and lump, though all the large rocks having been removed by a group of men, promising to make the road safer for you, and they did. Even covering up the major holes with dirt to make it even. Even amongst the mass of houses and homes, you can see the house that the certified was for, Ms. Louis, a widower, and now, a mother without her son.

Turning a sharp curve and halting in front of her home, kicking down your kickstand and climbing off your bike, yanking you satchel from the basket and fixing down your hair and clothes as you walked up the narrow stops, skipping the creaky board, as your rummaged through your bag. Before you can even knock, the door swings open, just as you grab the envelope.

"[Name], you're here." She speaks with a soft inhale, as if she ran from her kitchen to answer, she has deep eye bags, and her black hair is messy and undone. She attempts to smile, but you can tell by the shakiness of her hands, she's panicking—scared.

You pass her the envelope, yet you can't speak, far too afraid that your voice would crack, and you'd witness this woman all five stages of grief before she could open the yellow envelope. She doesn't wait til your leave, ripping off the edge immediately, you can see her green eyes begin to water, she already knows what awaits her. She tosses the packaging aside, hands running over the thick cardboard paper, fingers tracing the words of her son. She breaks down in sobs, and you hold her, feeling her frail form lean against you, arms wrapped around your shoulder, as she cries and speaks in broken sobs.

"H-he's dead! They-They kill-killed him!" She hiccups, voice cracking, you can feel her already broken heart shattering. Her crying gains the attention of others, some already sure of the fate that her son befell the moment he left the safety of the Ramschackles. Others asking to look at the certificate, as your pull away, watching them read over the piece of paper.

"Bullshit! That boy was no thief!" A neighbor, he shots angrily, holding the paper firm in his hand, as he points to Ms. Louis. "He ain't no thief!" His wife pats his arm, wiping the tears from her eyes, shaking her head at her husband's outburst. "He ain't mean it, Liz. He just hurtin""

"I know. I know." Liz let's put an exasperated laugh, shaking her head as she wipes her tears, walking down the steps and taking the paper back. "I know my Tommy was doing good," she lets out a shaky sigh, before turning back to you, "he always does good. Forgive me, it's been long since I've cried so hard. I know my boy wouldn't want be sobbin' over him like that."

"It's good to cry." You respond with a smile.

"They'r right. Tears ain't hurt nobody.” The husband speaks with a firm headnod, wagging his finger as Liz merely laughs making her way the steps to her house.

"Im in the process of finishin' that onion soup, with the chicken, if you wanna stay for lunch." The husband and wife immediately agree, the wife promising to get the newest loaf of bread to eat with it, as the husband made his way towards the house. Liz glances at you, hopefully. You feel bad, but pat your satchel.

"I got a few more letters, but save me a bite." You hop down the steps as she laughs, climbing back onto your bike and ringing the bell a few times, with a chuckle, before racing off.

The Ramschackles have always and will always be resilient.

"You had not the jurisdiction!"

Within a room of Crowley Hall, surrounding a table stands seven people. The Red-Rose Tyrant, The King of Beasts, The Deep-Sea Merchant, The Silly Sultan, The Fairest, King of the Underworld, and lastly The General. Tension is thick, palpable, you can almost taste it on yourself tongue.

Vil Schoenheit, The Fairest, was the first to speak, a clear scowl upon perfectly glossed lips, hair pulled back into a bun, clearly tired and annoyed. "Azul, we were supposed to agree,"

"And we did. Forgive me if Heartslabyul was too slow. Floyd is of course an uncontrollable force, and we wanted him dead, no?"

Azul Ashengrotto, The Merchant Of The Deep, has a faux pout, his voice drenched in fake concern, a heavy trench jacket hanging over his shoulders, eyes behind silver glasses beyond amused.

Riddle Rosehearts, The Red-rose Tyrant, stucks in a breath through his teeth, clearly angry, with the furrowing of his red brows. "You had no right. Under law, Floyd's head he be placed along my wall. Our suspect was not supposed to be killed."

"He was a thief. Isn't theft against your laws?" Leona Kingscholar, The King Of Beasts, stands directly infront of Riddle, still across the wide table, a deeply bored expression upon his face, yet his eyes seemed to glow in amusement.

"Exactly. I don't see why I'm such a target for such hate." Azul lets out a pitiful sigh, causing Riddle to slam his hands against the table, nearly knocking over various glasses, he glowers at the mafia boss of Octavinelle.

"If he fought back! You mercilessly killed him upon Heartslabyul soil! Do not deny it!"

"He had information, why give him a chance to live," Azul pushes up his glasses, a cruel grin spreading across his face, "unless you were working with him?"

Leona shakes his head, eyes fluttered close. "For shame."

"That wouldn't be a good look upon Heartslabyul either." Azul continues, before a clearing of a throat cuts him off.

Lilia Vanrouge, The General, the stand in for Diasomnia's Boss. "He had information. Information he shouldn't have. Information that resulted in his death. A shame it is..."

"It was senseless." Riddle crosses his arms, a scowl deep on his face still.

"But the information made it meaningful." Azul continues to keep his artificial smile, eyes on Lilia. The fae merely clears his throat, crossing his arms, a smile child-like grin on his face.

"We cannot go back in time to do differently. Our next step of action is to find if he could've possibly told another person. Any ideas Idia?"

Idia Shroud, The King Of The Underworld, his eyes dart across him screen before nodding. Using his fingers to spread out a image of the Ramschackles, showing the image of a tiny hovel with a rickety iron fence and old stone pathway.

"Hey, [Name]! This is absolute gold! I gotta tell ya!"

A young boy with blonde hair, and freckles walks beside you as your push your bike. He's holding a letter that you delivered to him simply moments ago. He waves it excitedly. He was a mafia fanatic, loved anything and everything about the place. To the point it had you concerned sometimes. The letter you had given him was from the Thomas Louis, or Tommy.

"Let me tell ya! If I get this to the news! Ooh Wee! Imagine! All that money." He punches the hair, and you shake your head.

"Don't go messin' with the Mafias."

"They aint gon' hurt no nobody like me." Henry has always been excitable, there's not a moment you haven't seen him without a smile that rivals the sun. "Well, I ain't gon' be a nobody for long." He voice quiets, but the smile is still there. Silence.

He opens his mouth to speak again, until a familiar chime of a bell and a holler of 'Henry' sounds loud and clear. "COMIN' MA!" He glances back at you with a grin. "Tomorrow. Imma tell you all about my big plan."

"I'm excited to hear about it." You watch him let out a happy laugh, before running off with a final wave. You spot your home in the distance, picking up your pace, as your place your bike against the metal fence.

Now, you love your home within the Ramshackle, your Lil hovel, and your small garden with your cat. You love it, truly you do. You love your neighbors, and you love the festivals that the Ramshackle holds. You love it all.

Your leather satchel hangs off your hip, filled to the brim with different letters and papers from your most recent trip. You just returned from Scarabia, having a good easy delivery for the old man that lives up the street, and after a long day, you're finally home.

You push past the old rickety iron gate, and up the stone pathway, eyes searching along for your familiar feline friend. He usually waits for you. Hopping the old creaky steps, until you stop right in front of a card. Perfectly placed with gold decor. 'For Ramschackle's Perfect. You're invited to Crowley Hall' written directly on the front. Ramshackle's Perfect was only a joke type name among the people that lived in, said Ramshackle.

Who else would call you that?

You pick up the letter, glancing around the porch, before slipping inside your home, and closing the door behind you. Crowley Hall, also known as the Grand Dinner Hall, a place where all important events took place, especially the meeting of all seven mafia leaders. Why would someone invite you with no other information?

You flip the card, there's nothing else. Your shoulders slump, you shouldn't go. Yet, you stare at the words once again. It could be important or lead to trouble for the other people of Ramshackle. Your eyes drift over to your clock. It was only 7 pm.

You had five hours.

You glance back at the thick fancy card. Five hours before 12. You feel a familiar purr, and glance down at your cat, Grim rubbing against your legs. Five hours, and well, as long as you're back before midnight. You'll be fine.

Right?

#t.manor.horror.stories #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland smut #twisted wonderland x gender neutral reader #twisted wonderland x mc #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #mafia au #twst au

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landopics · 8 months

Text

Velocity Invitational 11.11.23

#lando norris #fan photo #curls #will make post better tomorrow need to go bed for work

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molly-ghuleh · 7 months

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Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 7

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You slowly chip away at Elizabeth's diary. Copia takes you for a little break to clear your head.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Hey hi hello!! Thank you once again for your incredible patience with these chapters. You all are so very close to my heart and I cherish every single like/reblog/comment (I cry when people say nice things to me, help). That said... let me know your thoughts!!

Warnings: possible mention of anxiety (very brief), Sister Imperator being shady, mentions of ritual sex (no graphic depictions)

AO3 / 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

You live in limbo for a full week. “A few hours” of working in Copia’s office had turned into a full day and well into the night. Then one day turned to two, and two to four, and then you found yourself in his office without him asking, simply because it would save time.

The atmosphere between you and Copia during these days is oddly comfortable. You’ve always preferred to work alone, feeling that any noise or talking would be a distraction. Your translations would always turn out more eloquent and faithful to the original text when you could place yourself into the author’s headspace, and that requires near silence or, at most, the ambience of the room around you.

With Copia, though, you find that you’re able to focus even when there is noise or talking in the corridor outside his office. Part of you wants to believe that it’s just the change of scenery. His office is opulent, as the rest of the Abbey, but understated. The wall to the left of the door is lined with bookshelves filled with books and little relics or knick knacks. The desk you work at, which sits nestled in the back corner of the room, had been piled with papers and books which you’d helped him organize (a task which he insists he owes you a favor for), but now it houses your own materials. His desk is still fairly cluttered but since you’ve started spending the days in his company, he’s made a significant dent in the work.

He’d said that having a study buddy helps him stay on task. You’ve always thought you were the opposite, but perhaps you’d never found the right person. It’s as if Copia radiates this aura of calm and focus that you can inhale by just sitting in the same room as him. Your notes are clearer, you can decode letters faster, the Latin flows from your pen smoother.

That’s not to say you always stay on task.

There have been times when a little observation or comment turns to an hour-long conversation, or an invitation to the refectory for lunch turns into a walk through the gardens to take advantage of the warming weather. Or a little glance his way turns into watching him work, memorizing the pattern of his pen’s dragging across a signature line. Watching the little cowlick he tries so desperately to keep in place as it falls back over his forehead. Spotting a tiny smudge in his black paints and remembering how his face had looked, soaked in rain and bare and flushed at your touch.

Yes, you have been living in limbo between being Copia’s study buddy and being something more.

You know, he’d said. You must.

You do know. If the past week has shown you anything, it’s that you know, more surely than you’d expected to, that you’re dangerously close to falling in love with him and that every day you tip further and further over that cliff. The abyss below is deep and if you fall you have no chance of climbing back out.

Copia… Copia is already plummeting. There’s a pleasant heaviness that settles in his chest at the thought of you, increased tenfold at the sight of you. Just existing in the same space as you makes him content with how his life has been, like every moment he’d spent alone only led him to you. Oh, yes, Copia is hurtling downwards at terminal velocity and it’s a long way down.

Somewhere within the last few minutes, Copia noticed you’ve stopped writing. Your eyes stare blankly at the letter grid, one hand pointing to keep track and the other holding your pen a few inches off the notebook page. You must be lost in thought.

“Tesoro?” Copia calls gently. A small smile plays on his lips. He’d gone for the informal paints today after staying in his office far too late to complete some work the previous night, and not at all because you’d accidentally let slip that you like his freckles during a particularly sunny walk. “Where did you go just then?”

At the sound of his voice, your eyes flick up towards where he sits at his desk, watching you. You blink. “Mars, I think,” you say with a little laugh. “I’m stuck on this one phrase.”

Copia rises from his desk chair, stretching his arms above his head, and you try not to stare at the little sliver of skin exposed when his shirt rides up. “Would you like another pair of eyes on it?” He asks.

“Here,” you nod, pointing at the line in your notebook where you’d written the deciphered phrase in Latin. “Collige virgo rosas. Literally, ‘pick, girl, the roses’.”

“Ah, so… what is that phrase? ‘Stop and smell the roses’, yes?”

“Yes, exactly,” you say. “But in the context of this, it doesn’t make sense. She’s not talking about something good.”

Copia’s brows furrow as he rounds your desk and comes to stand beside your chair. He leans over to read what you’ve deciphered in your notebook. The words of Latin slide effortlessly off his tongue as he reads your work out loud, and not for the first time, you’re reminded of how smart he really is. Not that you ever doubted it—he’s proven time and time again through answering your questions about the Ministry’s history that he’s Papa for a reason—but it’s a quiet intelligence. The two of you could be joking about something entirely inconsequential and then suddenly he’s telling you about the theistic anti-religious undertones of the works of Marcus Aurelius and somehow he makes the transition make sense.

“Oh! I see,” Copia says with a jaunty little snap of his fingers. “Here. Further down, read this part.”

Your eyes follow his gloved finger down the page of your notebook to a passage you don’t quite remember deciphering. Using the letter grid is mindless now. After spending a week doing nothing but mapping and mapping and mapping every single letter in Elizabeth’s diary, you’ve learned how to let your mind drift just enough that the translation is still accurate but your mind is elsewhere.

In horto moribundo, elige rosas sanas, Elizabeth had written.

In a dying garden, choose healthy roses.

You continue to read the rest of the passage, and yes, now that first idiom makes more sense. It’s oddly… optimistic, for Elizabeth.

“Huh,” you say dumbly, suddenly all too aware of how close Copia is standing. “I don’t remember writing that at all.”

“Because you were on Mars,” Copia laughs. “Come back down to Earth and we can go for a walk, si? You seem to be, eh… zoning out.”

You smile at him. His eyes are already on yours. From this close you remember that, on top of his intelligence and kindness and wit and charm and empathy, he’s devastatingly handsome. And then you remember how you feel about this man, and how this man feels about you, and your heart kicks up a gear. There haven’t been any romantic declarations or passionate kisses, but every time you pass the romance section of the Library on your way to return Elizabeth’s diary to its lockbox at the end of the night, you’re tempted to borrow a book or two, just for the catharsis of it.

Carefully, you close the diary and wrap it in its linen to protect it while you’re away. Copia moves back to his desk and fishes his key out of the top drawer. “Let’s go to the front gardens today, cara mia,” he says.

“How come?” You ask as he opens his office door for you.

He shrugs. “It’s something different. And the sun is over there right now.”

He doesn’t mention the conversation he’d had with Terzo the night before. How he’d approached his brother, the master of romantic gestures and wooing, and asked how exactly he might tell someone he has feelings for them in a way that won’t leave anything in question. He doesn’t mention how Terzo had (embarrassingly) made him roleplay how his confession might go. He also doesn’t mention that, at Terzo’s suggestion, he’d gone to Primo to ask where the prettiest places in the Abbey gardens are, and Primo had told him that the front gardens are full of Japanese camellia bushes on their last leg of blooming for the Spring season. Copia doesn’t mention how, after that, Primo had lent him a well-loved copy of Linguaggio dei Fiori.

When you’re finished organizing your materials, Copia leads you out his office door with a warm hand placed on the small of your back. The touch, little as it is, makes you shiver.

“I haven’t been to this side of the Abbey,” you tell him. “Not since I arrived.”

Copia watches you as you speak. “The front of the Abbey is very, eh, overlooked. Most people prefer the back gardens because they are bigger. There is more to look at.”

He seems nervous, you notice. You can hear the creaking of his leather gloves as he wrings his hands behind his back. And despite his calm facade, his voice sounds… different. Not weaker, but less sure.

“Copia,” you say quietly. You always say his name with such softness and it makes his heart pound. “Are you alright?”

He smiles at you but it isn’t very believable. “Oh, yes, tesoro, I’m alright,” he says too quickly.

You tilt your head.

“Well…”

You can read him like a book, he knows. Fitting—you can read almost any book in the Abbey’s library, no matter the language, and you choose to read him. And he can read you, too. Like scholars with their manuscripts. Cheesy, he thinks. I’ve been talking to Terzo too much.

“It’s alright,” you say after a pause. “We can just walk, if you’d like. But you have my ear if you need it, or if you need some time—”

“No, no, I…” Copia gently takes your hand as if you’d drift off if he didn’t. “Please, walk with me. There are just… things on my mind, which I need to sort out.”

You squeeze his hand, relieved. “Okay. I’m with you.”

Sathanas. You’re with him. Copia breathes in and out again, shakily. You’re with him, it’s just you. Nothing to be nervous about.

It’s just… you.

You, who he’s about to bare his soul to. You who came into his life and who will stay for such a short time. All he has is a few months with you, and he’s been kicking himself for a week, trying to tell you that he can’t bear to waste any more time, not when you’re both well aware of the feelings you each hold. He can’t go another hour without knowing how it feels for you to know. He knows you know, of course, but you don’t know—

The hallway seems too long. Copia’s working himself into a spiral. His brain keeps telling him you’re as good as gone already. That if he tells you how he feels, you’ll reject him and he’ll lose you. But he’s going to lose you anyway, and he needs to know if he can have these few months with you or no time at all.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, he thinks. And sorry I could not travel both…

The two of you come to the front door of the Abbey. The old wood creaks when you push it open with your free hand, your other still holding Copia’s. You emerge outside and you hold the door open for him to follow after you. He gives you a small smile, not entirely present. Perhaps on Mars, visiting where you’d been.

The front of the Abbey is picturesque. You remember seeing it as you rode up the driveway that first afternoon. It had been so imposing then, gothic and ancient and huge compared to Marseille. These things are still true as you emerge into the sunny lawn, but in the sunbeams, with a breeze that holds only a little bit of bite compared to the air when you arrived, it begins to feel safe.

Your mind reels against the Abbey being a safe place. For your entire stay thus far, you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you don’t like it here, that you aren’t absolutely titillated by Elizabeth’s diary, that the massive Library doesn’t make your mouth water. This is just a temporary work placement, nothing more. Nothing can keep you attached. Not even Copia.

You almost have to laugh, because you know immediately that you’re lying to yourself. You’re already attached. The thought of leaving the Abbey burns in your gut, but the thought of leaving him almost makes you crumble.

You squeeze Copia’s hand. “Still with us?” You ask gently.

Your voice brings him back to this realm, but he’s already mostly through his mental recital of The Road Not Taken, and it’s better if he finishes it. It helps him breathe. Decide.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

“Yes,” Copia replies after a moment. “Still here. Sorry, cara mia.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be. Would it help to talk out loud?”

Copia turns his head and looks at you. All the words he’d practiced with Terzo are suddenly lost to him, nowhere to be found in his brain. Now he just sees you, feels your presence in his chest, and he knows he can’t use some rehearsed line with you. That’s not him. And more importantly, that’s not you.

The two of you walk along the blooming camellia bushes. You recognize them from the first time you’d walked in the back gardens with Copia. They’re the only flowers in bloom at this time of year, bright white and pale pink on a backdrop of evergreen. You wonder why more Siblings don’t spend time in the front gardens, especially at this time of year. The flowers are big and supple, if not just on the verge of wilting for the season, and the springtime breeze carries their sweet scent on a hint of warmth to come.

“Tesoro,” Copia begins, his voice soft and quiet, just for you. “I, eh… well, I wanted to… tell you that I, eh…”

You wait patiently. Your heart kicks and you think you might know what he’s trying to say, but you give him time. Neither of you have spoken the words out loud, and in your head, it exists only as the thing between you. The thing that is happening, the thing you feel.

Instead, Copia turns the subject. “I read about camellia flowers recently, you know,” he tells you. “Primo leant me his book, Linguaggio dei Fiori, the language of flowers—well, eh, you must already know that, of course, you are fluent…. Anyways, I was reading about camellia, and I learned that this kind is native to Japan, isn’t that interesting? They only bloom in late winter or early spring, and go dormant in the summer, but they don’t die because they are evergreen shrubs, which means—”

“Copia,” you interrupt gently, “breathe.”

“Right, yes…” He takes a deep breath and his shoulders drop. “What I mean to say is that these flowers will be gone soon, when the warm weather comes. I wanted to take you to see them before they were dormant.”

You stroll along the line of camellia bushes, observing the large blooms closely. The sun almost makes them glow against the dark green leaves. There are a few early bees gathering pollen for their stores, until it’s time for the summer flowers to blossom. You reach out to brush your fingertips against the outer petals of one pink flower, feeling the satiny texture and the dewdrops still clinging from the morning. “They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

“They remind me of you,” Copia replies.

Oh sweet Satan, you think, your heart suddenly pounding in your ears.

He continues after a brief pause. “In that book, Linguaggio dei Fiori, it said…” he clears his throat. “It said that camellia symbolize admiration and affection and desire.”

You look at him then, and he meets your gaze. Admiration and affection and desire.

“And longing, for someone who is far away.”

Copia steps closer to you. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, as if to tell you that it’s alright, he won’t ambush you, that these are those feelings and now he’s saying them out loud. Your eyes stay locked on his own, watching as his green eye grows more vibrant against the backdrop of the camellia bushes’ leaves. His other hand lightly runs down your arm to take yours.

“I’m not far away,” you whisper.

“No, you are not,” Copia says, and he’s close enough that his breath wisps over your face. You have to tilt your head up slightly to hold his gaze as you stand nearly chest-to-chest. “You are here, and the camellia are getting ready to close their flowers.”

“And when I go, they will bloom again.”

“Yes. And when they do, I will long for you, Camellina.”

Camellina. Little camellia. His flower, his blossom in the cold. Here until you’re not. “Copia…”

He reaches up and brushes a stray hair from your forehead, then traces his fingers down your cheek until he cups your jaw tenderly. “I don’t want to keep dancing around each other,” he tells you softly. “If we only have so much time, I don’t want to waste it.”

Your eyes flick back and forth between his own, and you’ve committed your own cardinal sin. You’ve gotten attached. So very attached. Incredibly, deeply attached, and you’re terrified, but Lucifer below, how can you be scared when he’s looking at you like that. Like he might already love you.

“No,” you say. “I don’t want to waste it, either.

“Then please, camellia mia, let me kiss you.”

He waits for just the slightest nod of your head before he draws you in and presses his lips to yours.

It’s really not a kiss at first, just a light brushing of lips together. He wants to know you’re sure that this is what you want. And when you don’t run, or disappear, or turn into a frog like some fairytale bastardization, he kisses you for real. Your lips fit together like they were cast from the same mold, built as the perfect opposite by Satan himself. He kisses you like you’re ethereal.

His hand on your jaw pulls you closer while his other hand slides around your back, and your own find his shoulders to keep yourself upright. He tastes like overly sweet coffee and whatever the refectory had served for breakfast and something else you can’t really place, but has the same distinctness as how he smells. The subtle oakiness of his cologne fills your nose as it sweetly bumps against his. His thumb gently pushes your jaw up, tilting your head to kiss you deeper at a better angle. You feel his tongue swipe along your bottom lip and you don’t even have to think before you let him in.

Your hands trail down from his shoulders to his chest and you press slightly, feeling the warmth of his body under his vest. You can feel the quick pounding of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips and you know from the thundering in your ears that yours is paced the same.

When he pulls away, it’s barely far enough to stop the embrace. With every slight movement, your lips brush together in the lightest touch possible, an echo of the kiss you’d just shared.

“Impie… seigneur des ténèbres en bas,” you breathe against his lips. It seems the only words that can escape you now are those thanking your Dark Lord for the man standing before you. What else can you say when Copia has just drained your brain of any coherent thought? “Embrasse-moi comme ça pour toujours.”

Copia laughs, the puff of air brushing against your lips and cheek. “I’ve broken her, I think,” he says. “She’s lost her English.”

You swallow and try to suppress the heat rising to your face. “I, uh… merde, I can hardly think. Maybe you did.”

“Is this a good thing, camellina?” Copia asks, his thumb brushing against your cheek. He’s still wearing his leather gloves but you wish that he’d take them off. You want to feel his palms against you.

“Oui—sì, er… yes,” you stumble.

Copia laughs again and presses another kiss to the apple of your cheek. “You know, I thought I was going to be the one tongue-tied,” he says with a little smirk. “But I’ve rehearsed this in my head about a million times, so perhaps the shock hasn’t set in yet.”

“Oh? It hasn’t?” You ask, finally coming back to your head. You lean up and kiss him again, simply because you can.

“N-no, not yet. Sathanas, do that again.”

You oblige, and kiss him once more. This time you linger, your fingers gripping the fabric of his vest and pulling slightly. You feel him smile into the kiss. He’s still smiling when you pull away. “I don’t think you ever finished your thought,” you say, remembering what he’d said before… all this.

“No, I did,” Copia tells you. “I had this whole speech planned, telling you how much I adore you, but I kind of… stumbled through it.”

You smile, imagining what his rehearsed speech might’ve been like, but it doesn’t feel right. You can’t imagine it going any other way than it did. “I adore you, too,” you say softly. “And your speech was perfect. Very you.”

“Awkward, long-winded, but somehow made sense?” Copia asks. He draws you into his side and takes your hand again, resuming your stroll through the front garden.

You laugh, and Lucifer below, it’s the sweetest thing Copia’s ever heard. “Exactly.”

Oh, this is bad. Maybe you would’ve gotten away with a mild heartbreak when you left if you hadn’t kissed him. But you had, and you know that when you leave you’ll be devastated. Kissing him, allowing yourself to finally feel the feelings you’ve been desperately pushing down since you first met him, is just digging yourself deeper into the hole you find yourself in.

But how comfortable and warm and perfect this hole is.

You remember the passage from Elizabeth’s diary you’d been having trouble with. In a dying garden, choose healthy roses. Find the good within the bad, the light in the dark.

When you spare a glance at Copia as the two of you continue strolling through the front gardens, you find that there’s a dimple on his cheek that hadn’t been there before, and little crinkles beside his eyes. He’s smiling. You smile too, and look forward again.

Pick, girl, the roses.

~~~

“You remember what we talked about, I’m sure?” Sister Imperator asks Secondo, who stands in her office rather against his will.

“Yes.”

“And you have kept it a secret?”

“Yes.”

He hasn’t.

No, in fact, he’d done the opposite of what Sister Imperator had asked him to do, just to slight her. He’d told you exactly how old Elizabeth’s diary is, and what he knows about Prime Movers. Although it seems like Sister Imperator knows more than he, if she’s so adamant about keeping it hidden.

“Good,” Sister nods. “We wouldn’t want some little French girl getting any ideas.”

Secondo huffs and looks out the window of Sister Imperator’s office.

There you are, walking hand-in-hand with his younger brother, looking quite cozy. From the second-floor vantage point, Secondo can tell the two of you are talking, but he can’t tell about what. The window is situated at Imperator’s back—she’d given herself the corner office, of course—so she can’t see what’s happening just under her nose. Secondo’s lips quirk up at the corner at the sight. From the little interaction he’s had with you, he knows you’re not some naive little French girl.

“Sister,” Secondo begins, “I do not understand what is so important about it that it has to stay a secret.”

Sister Imperator is irked. “Because it must,” she says, as if that’s a good explanation. “We can’t have just any Sibling with a womb vying for Papa’s attention because they heard a silly rumor. Not everything is full of sunshine and butterflies.”

“And what rumor is that?”

Sister sighs. “Being a Prime Mover is not glamorous, Secondo. The role is barbaric and dehumanizing, and I would not have any Siblings think otherwise.”

Secondo turns to leave with a huff. “I was hoping you would tell me something I did not already know.”

“Ask your father,” Sister Imperator says, and perches her reading glasses on the tip of her nose in dismissal.

~~~

March 29

I woke up in Papa’s bed this morning, alone. I do not fool myself when I say I had not hoped differently.

Mother says the ritual went well. She says the candelabras in the garden chapel stayed burning all night, a sign of approval from the Dark One. She says that candles lit from the fire of burning ritual bedsheets will burn until the sun takes over, but I think it is just because the candles were large and extra care was taken to ensure the chapel is not drafty.

He was very gentle. He was very… skilled with his hands and mouth. He treated me like a lover when we were alone in the chapel. It was as if the ritual bed was my own, and all I could focus on was how I felt and how he felt. Whispered words and praises and caresses on my skin. He was human for those moments. He became Papa once more when the knocker sounded.

Mother said to be glad that he was gentle at all. She said, ‘pick, girl, the roses.’

I want to believe that Papa hates this as much as I. He seems kind. Perhaps a man obligated by faith into such a demeaning practice, but kind nonetheless. I want to believe he cares for me in some regard. If not now, I hope he will grow to, as we will be spending much time together. But he was kind, and he was gentle. In a dying garden, choose healthy roses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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big-barn-bed · 1 month

Note

paul mccartney has a face made for taking a cumshot

you’re right but no one ever talks about the consequences.

you have your one romantic escapade with paul and invite him back to your house. he seems like he’s up for anything. you could fuck him, even. but no… ‘paul mccartney has a face made for taking a cumshot’..so you shoot all across his little mouth and round cheeks and doll eyes.

he flinches and does that little grossed out look and bats his eyes to protect them from the splooge. and the length of his lashes combined with bitchy velocity flings it all over the room until there’s more spunk on the walls than at a las vegas hotel.

years later, your firstborn daughter goes to the scholastic book fair and buys a secret spy journal with invisible ink pens and a black light. She uses it in and sees that her room is mysteriously covered in what upon first glance appears to be cheetah print under this magic light. she spends years convinced that this is a secret code that she’s discovered, possibly from aliens or the government, and dedicates all her nights studying the pattern.

she doesn’t graduate high school because she needs to decode the jizz. without a high school diploma her prospects are dim. eventually, she loses her spark and leaves the splooge room behind, but you know you’ve ruined her life because you didn’t have the guts to tell her there was no code. her life becomes meaningless. cycling between entry level jobs and a husband you can’t stand.

she can’t afford to put you in a nursing home, so you live your last sad years in the baby batter pattern house, wishing you could go back in time and creampie paul mccartney instead.

gif

#tldr; he does have a face made for nutting on…but can’t we consider paul hole?!#ask

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captaincryolicious · 2 years

Text

Your grumpy neighbor

➳ Scaramouche x gn!reader (ft. friend Kazuha)

➳ Bulleted fic + Drabbles ; 3.8k

➳ Enemies to lovers ; Cursing, Scara being mean

You weren't expecting your new neighbor would be such an ass, but things take an interesting turn when you get to know him a little better. [06.11.2022]

Zep's Note ; This fic is mostly written while I fought a sudden writer's block lol. Also thanks to @kaewrlds for the idea of grumpy neighbor Scara!

[Part two] Dating your grumpy neighbor

It was as if a sharp breeze pulled through the poorly isolated hallway of the condo building you moved in yesterday. You shuddered, stuffing your hands into your pockets as you waited for a response from your new neighbor. It was minutes ago that you had knocked on the door to the left of yours, carrying a tattered plate with the number eleven engraved on it. So far you heard nothing that implied a sign of life. Maybe they weren't home? You'd wait for another minute and if they still didn't answer the door, you'd come back tomorrow.

There were a lot of exciting things about moving. A new beginning, a new adventure to indulge in, new surroundings to turn into a place you'd call home, and maybe the most exciting of all; new neighbors to meet.

You were not done unpacking yet and far from being settled, but you just wanted to make your presence known to the other people who lived in the building with you. After resorting to eeny meeny miny moe you opted for the neighbor who lived to your left. Though you weren't sure whether to dread or look forward to meeting the others, you knew it had to be done.

You glanced around the deserted hallway, and the door to your apartment looked inviting. You had much better things to do than waiting there in front of your neighbor's door, and it seemed that you were wasting your time.

As you were about to walk away, the door suddenly flew open, revealing a male with a violet gaze that held naught but annoyance.

"How long did you plan on standing in front of my door?" he asked, raising a brow. Oh, it was so clear that he was judging you!

"How do you even–" you began, taken aback by his aggravated demeanor.

"There's a peephole in the door, blind ass."

Ouch. This meeting was going absolutely terrible. Barely two sentences into your first conversation ever and he was already calling you names. You wanted nothing but to retreat to your room and pretend it never happened, but you had to stick up for yourself here. You straightened your composure, offering the angry male a hesitant smile.

"It's not like that," you explained hastily. "I'm Y/N, I moved into the apartment next to yours yesterday."

Realization seemed to dawn upon him, and the sheer annoyance in his eyes diminished just a little. Still, he looked at you with a scowl.

"Oh, I've heard. You're the talk of the day." He narrowed his eyes at you, cold and inhospitable. "I don't really care, though. Don't bother me."

With those final words, he slammed the door shut. The wind that came with the gesture's velocity picked at your hair, and you stood there with wide eyes. What on Earth just happened? You were frozen momentarily, your feet riveted to the ground as your mind went wild. You felt upset, angry even, but most of all you felt ashamed and you had no idea why. You had nothing to be ashamed of, right? All you did was reach out to your new neighbor like any normal person would.

"What an ass," you scoffed.

"Don't mind him, he's always like that," a voice rang from behind you, and you turned around to find another male standing there. He offered you a friendly smile, a stark contrast to the grimace you faced barely a minute ago. "His name is Scaramouche. No one really interacts with him."

"Oh," you said.

"I'm Kazuha, by the way," the guy then introduced himself, still wearing a calm smile. "I think I live to your right."

You felt a wave of relief. This guy looked nice and a lot easier to get along with, and you were happy that you had at least one neighbor you could see yourself getting along with.

"I'm Y/N," you replied, reciprocating his smile.

Kazuha ended up being your first friend in your apartment building. He offered to help you unpack that evening, and you got a lot of work done and you discovered that he lived up to the first impression you had of him. He was nice and easygoing, friendly and warm.

You even ended up forgetting about your brief yet menacing encounter with your other neighbor.

But it all came back the moment you saw him again, walking ahead of you towards the entrance of the building. You lowered your pace, afraid to be as much as seen by the guy.

Scaramouche was his name, wasn't it?

Was it true what Kazuha had told you about no one really interacting with him? Well, he kind of had it coming with an attitude like that, but you couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't feeling lonely if no one reached out to him here in the building. People needed social interactions at least to some extent, right?

After that realization, you couldn't really get him off your mind anymore. In your head, you started to make up excuses for his rude behavior – which was wrong, you knew that. Yet, it happened automatically, and after a while you were convinced he had to have his reasons for acting like a total douche.

"Has he always been like that?" you asked Kazuha one day, curiosity getting the best of you.

"For as long as he lives here," came the reply. "No one has ever seen him act remotely nice."

You pushed aside the thoughts that followed. You weren't going to speculate, for with speculations came assumptions and you did not want to make any.

Instead you kept him on your mind silently, your eyes following him whenever you saw him inside or around the apartment complex. He had a massive resting bitch face – like, if looks could kill, you wouldn't stand a chance – but you had to admit he was really pretty regardless.

Sharp and fine features and a gaze of vivid violet, with bangs in a dark shade of deep purple tickling his forehead and curtaining his eyes. If only his face wasn't contorted in a nasty scowl most of the time.

Just like Kazuha told you, you never saw him interact with any of the other residents, nor did you ever exchange a word with him after your awful encounter that one day. That was probably for the better, but you couldn't help but feel a certain pull every time you noticed Scaramouche was near.

You thoroughly wondered why?? He had been nothing but absolutely mean to you so you had no idea what was going on. Why did he intrigue you that much? You weren't exactly happy with the speck of infatuation.

Kazuha, with his keen eye, noticed your inner debates regarding your very grumpy neighbor but decided not to comment on it.

Get off my mind, Scaramouche, you mentally cursed more than once. No one interacted with him and that was for a good reason. He was an ass, so you too should have nothing to do with him.

You started to ignore his presence, even more so than before. You no longer stole any glances at him nor did you offer him much room in your thoughts. What do you mean, grumpy neighbor? The apartment next to yours might as well have been empty.

Well, you tried to think so, but it wasn't all that easy. His pretty face seemed engraved into your mind, so much that you were close to forgiving him for being such an ass that time. But you didn't want to give in so easily so you tried to ignore him even harder.

Until you heard a loud crash coming from the apartment to your left, followed by a string of curses that filtered easily through the thin walls. How could you ignore that?

You fled from your apartment, hardly bothering to close the door behind you as you stepped into the hallway. The door to your left was wide open, and you hesitantly approached to peek inside, wanting to find out what happened next door. Was Scaramouche okay? It certainly didn't sound like he was.

"Hello?" you called out, your fingertips grazing the surface of the door as you pondered whether or not to push it open further. "Scaramouche?"

"What do you want," he grunted, his voice strained.

"I heard a noise," you explained worriedly, finally making up your mind and stepping inside. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," the male spat, eyes widening when he caught you entering his apartment. "Hey, what the heck do you think you're doing? Get out."

He didn't look fine. Scaramouche sat on the ground, his face in a pained grimace as he tightly gripped onto his ankle. A few boxes lay scattered around him, and it wasn't hard to figure out what happened. Obviously, he tripped over something while carrying those boxes inside and hurt his ankle.

"You don't look like you can get up on your own," you dryly commented, not making any motion to approach the guy on the floor yet.

Scaramouche stubbornly tried, but as soon as he put his weight on his ankle, he sunk back to the floor with a pained grunt. He seemed to be in too much pain to move around properly, but you weren't sure if you could get him so far to let you help him. You simply stood there, watching how he tried again to prove that he didn't need you. But he didn't succeed, and the annoyance in his eyes was burning as he looked at you.

"Fine, I can't get up," he admitted briskly. "Are you just gonna stand there and watch me suffer?"

"You make it very tempting," you replied, fighting a teasing grin. Maybe it wasn't smart to set him off even more but you couldn't resist.

"Okay," he breathed out, the look in his eyes close to being absolutely malicious now. "Can you please help me up and get to a chair?"

"Of course," you chirped, now flashing him a smile.

Though you tried to come off as confident as you approached the male, your pulse was racing at this point. Not only did you feel like you were walking straight into the lion's den, but you were also in the direct vicinity of the guy you found pretty for the first time. Everybody knew he was hard to get along with – if one could even get along with him to begin with – so you had no idea what to expect.

You reached out your hand for him to take, and you were quite surprised when he took it. His expression was grim, merging into one laced with pain as you helped him to his feet. He wasn't tall, so he wasn't too heavy either. It went quite swiftly and before you knew it, the male stood next to you, leaning onto you for the support he direly needed. That was only phase one, now you still had to get him to his chair.

Hesitant, you draped one of his arms over your shoulder to support him as much as you could. Your free hand went to Scaramouche's waist to make it a little easier for the both of you, but you very well realized the sort-of intimacy of your current position. It meant nothing, you reminded yourself, as you slowly brought the violet-haired male to the living room. He limped next to you without a word, which you were grateful for. You weren't ready for any snarky remarks, or else you would deadass drop him to the floor and leave him be.

Pretty boy or not, you had your boundaries.

Relief washed over you when his weight shifted off your shoulders as he sank into a comfy-looking chair. He wasn't all that heavy, but you weren't used to dragging around a grown person.

He refused to look at you, and you took the opportunity to study his ankle. There wasn't much to see, though, especially since you knew next to nothing about matters related to anything medical. You had no idea how to help him.

"I'm not good with first aid," you admitted.

"I didn't ask for first aid," came the snarky reply.

Right, that was the final straw. If he was that adamant on avoiding your nice gestures, you would gladly oblige and leave him alone. You got up, forcing your worries to the back of your mind and giving him an icy look.

"Well then, good luck."

With those words, you walked away from him, leaving his apartment and shutting the door behind you with a thud that was a little too loud. What a little shit, you thought. All you did was being nice – though you had absolutely no reason to do so – and he still acted like an ass. You started to see why no one at the complex bothered to interact with him. Scratch that, you knew all along but you still gave him the benefit of the doubt because you are too nice.

"What was that all about?" Kazuha asked as you ran into him in the hallway. He looked between you and Scaramouche's door curiously.

"I should've left him on the floor," you muttered, unlocking your apartment and getting inside, leaving your friend behind with a confused expression.

You didn't want anything to do with Scaramouche.

You stayed true to your word.

Ever since that moment, you didn't give two shits about the rude male anymore.

You had explained everything to Kazuha the day after – who was surprised just as much as he was amused – and you swore to never speak his name out loud again. Actually, you didn't even want to think about him anymore but that was quite a challenge since he lived next door.

And of course you couldn't help but wonder how he solved the problem with his ankle. It seemed quite serious; he couldn't even stand on it and you were pretty sure he needed at least a little medical assistance. But you always dismissed the thought with a huff. His wellbeing was no longer your concern. Your offer to help was rudely declined by him so you shouldn't care about it anymore.

Which was easier said than done.

You didn't see him for a few days, but then you saw him limping through the hallways again. While you swiftly ignored him on the surface, your heartbeat picked up regardless. Though you didn't look at him, you felt his violet eyes on you.

Why did he even bother to look at you?

It made the heat rise up to your cheeks, so you sped up and beelined away from him.

And with that, he was on your mind again.

It was so unfair!

Eventually you complained to Kazuha, and for your sake he would pretend that he didn't catch on long ago.

Stupid Scaramouche, you told your friend. Such an ass but you couldn't get him off your mind and he was so annoyingly pretty!? You couldn't stand it.

You just had to live with him being on your mind so much. It had to be because you disliked him so much, right? Your dismay towards him was so strong that you thought about him almost the entire time. That had to be it. At least you had a valid explanation now.

Oh, Kazuha would be so amused when you present him your reasoning. But he'd hide it, smiling knowingly behind his hand. He totally knows what's up lol.

There was this one day about a week after the incident and you were doing something, your neighbor blissfully off your mind for a brief moment. You found peace!

Your peace was interrupted when someone knocked on your door. Expecting Kazuha, you got up to open it, only to find someone completely unexpected there.

"Scaramouche?" you blinked. You fought the urge to slam the door shut in his face, too intrigued by his sudden and surprising visit. Why on Earth was he on your doorstep?

"Y/N," he greeted curtly, avoiding his eyes.

A silence fell. It was so awkward. You sucked in a breath inaudibly, your eyes searching the hallway so you didn't have to look at him. What was he even doing here?

"Can I come in?" he asked after a while, his voice so obviously full of aversion.

You tilted your head, not understanding what he was getting at. Was he for real? He couldn't seriously be requesting that, right?

"Why would I let you in?" you inquired.

"Gee, nevermind then," the male retaliated. He was about to turn around, but that didn't sit quite well with you either.

"No wait, come in."

Boy, you were glad you cleaned your apartment the day before. It was still tidy, while it had been quite a mess at first. You'd be terribly ashamed if Scaramouche would see your apartment like that. Even now, with everything being spic and span, you felt awfully self-conscious as he followed you quietly into your living room.

"Uh, take a seat," you awkwardly offered. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"No," Scaramouche replied curtly.

"Then what do you want?" you asked, taking a seat on the other side of the living room. "Why are you here?"

"Because I have two things to say," the violet-haired male explained. "Sorry and thank you. Now I'm going to leave again."

He genuinely looked like he was about to get up, and you shook your head vigorously.

"No you're not. Elaborate."

Scaramouche muttered something under his breath, leaning back into his seat a little. He looked ill at ease, just like you did when you were in his apartment.

"Sorry for being an ass and thank you for looking after me that day," he mumbled, and the laminate flooring suddenly seemed very interesting to him.

Wow. You weren't expecting that. When Scaramouche showed up on your doorstep you were kind of expecting some sort of scolding for entering his house uninvited or something like that, and not at all had you foreseen an apology and words of gratitude to spill from his lips – albeit very gruffly. The malice in his violet gaze was absent just as much, and you realized; he came in peace today.

"It's such a pain," he suddenly began, finally resting a glare upon you. "It's like you cursed me. You barged in totally uninvited and you did the same in my mind. Ic can't fucking stop thinking about it and it's your fault. Do something about it, Y/N."

There was the much expected scolding, but it wasn't at all about what you could've possibly imagined. It made your eyes widen in shock as you looked at the male and it was as if your poor heart skipped a few beats. Was he for real? He had to be messing with you, right? There was no way he was in the same boat as you were. But the look in his eyes told something different, as if he actually held you responsible for his problem. A problem you struggled with just as much.

"What am I supposed to do about that?" you asked incredulously. "It's not like I can help it that you think about me so often."

But then there was the wave of relief, when you came to realize that you also pestered his mind continuously just as much as he pestered yours. You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up your throat; the situation was just funny to you.

"What do you think about me then?" you pried.

"That's none of your concern," the male replied defensively, looking at you as if you had lost your mind. "Why would I tell you that?"

"Because I have exactly the same problem," you admitted. "You're also on my mind permanently and it's annoying me to no end."

He was scrutinizing you now, his narrow eyes resting on you for long seconds. It was as if he was trying to peel your thoughts about him from your mind, and it genuinely felt like he could see straight into your soul. He had such a piercing gaze, one of enchanting violet. His eyes were stupidly pretty, just like the rest of his face. Curses, your cheeks grew red under his gaze.

You laughed it off, trying to lighten the tense mood that hung in the air between you. This situation made no sense, yet at the same time it did.

"You think about me and I think about you," you joked. "Hah, maybe we should just date already."

It was such a bad joke, and you cringed after blurting it out like that. You had a feeling that if you made a fool out of yourself in front of Scaramouche, he wouldn't let you hear the end of it. You just did, making a stupid remark, and you peeked at his face to see his reaction. Why did you even say that? You wanted to bury your face in the palm of your hands in shame.

"Are you an idiot? We barely know each other," he replied, his brows knitting together into a frown.

"That's what you're concerned about?" you said, disbelief surging through your being. "I thought you would freak out and leave my apartment with a string of profanities."

Silence.

"Uh, well, I know we don't know each other but that can be fixed," you hesitantly added. Scaramouche's face was unreadable, and you didn't know how to interpret his frown.

"Fine," Scaramouche growled. "Meet me this Saturday at two pm at the cafe down the street. Your treat since meeting up was your idea."

You barely had time to process what he was saying, as he got up and limped away. You sat frozen, hearing the sound of your front door opening and closing again.

Your mind was blank, just as much as it was racing at the same time. Complicated things were going on inside your head, all revolving around the fact that you had a date with the neighbor you thought you despised so much? When did the matters turn so rapidly? Out of all things that could possibly happen, this was an outcome you never had even dared to dream of.

A date? With Scaramouche? Unbelievable.

Your body was rigid with all sorts of feelings as you got up. Excitement was one of them, and you mentally cursed yourself. It was as if your mind was betraying you; you were supposed to dislike him and here you were. You had a date with him in four days. It was such a strange turn of events, and you struggled to properly grasp it all. Butterflies created a whirlwind in your stomach as you left your living room behind.

You had to tell Kazuha.

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact imagine #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact scaramouche #genshin impact kunikuzushi #genshin impact the wanderer #genshin impact the balladeer #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche imagine #kunizukushi x reader

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mister-ious · 8 months

Text

YouTuber!Ghost participating in YouTuber collabs omfg..

There was a million requests for collabs in his comments—many others in videos—since there was no email address linked to the YouTube account. It was mainly fitness influencers that have asked for Ghost to appear in their videos and vice versa. It was kind of funny actually, just seeing comments in an email format under his videos asking for collabs, with thousands of likes from their and his fans.

Ghost was hesitant at first. He didn't know these people; they were complete strangers that just wanna monetise his appearance in their channels. Price and a couple of higher ups that monitored the channel were indifferent about it, they would allow collabs if Ghost wanted to—of course with very strict rules.

There was an influencer that had wanted to make the usual 'I tried military training' with Ghost. Another wanted a fitness competition, something having to do with an obstacle course. Others wanted to make a video to review and go through Ghost's workout routine and diet to find out how he stays so big.

Ghost was coaxed to agree to the invitations by 141. I don't exactly know how, but to make this scenario work let's say they—Price—bribed him with a really nice room at the barracks with a private shower room and offered to do most of his paperwork, or they were just really good at talking him into it.

Sooo... Ghost agreed to do the workout review one with a YouTuber (imagine it was someone like Kim Jong Kook where he'd basically review Ghost's workouts and help him with form and even improve the routine). Ghost was invited to their gym. It's funny to imagine how sketchy the other YouTuber would think of his arrival; Ghost would come with like two other big military people that would make the YouTuber sign papers—it was basically a paper that makes them send the video over to the military incase there was anything that needed to be cut out.

Their eyes widen, gasping, "Wow. You are so much bigger in real life... uhm, sir...?" "Ghost." He grunts from the black surgical mask plastered on his face. His furrowed eyebrows giving himself a stern countenance. Very intimidating but he reaches his hand out for a handshake. "You'll need to talk to my people first before we start." Ghost points behind him; two more big hunks of muscle. "Christ." They whisper.

Ghost in these collabs would wear an all black attire. Hoodie, with a fitted shirt under, and sweats. Sometimes he'd deck out a beanie or baseball hat. However, he wouldn't wear his skull balaclava—or any balaclava for that matter—he'd just wear a surgical mask with some shades. Yes, the fans would go absolutely ballistic for this, making edits and thirst posts of that tiny scar that would pop out of his mask/shades for like five seconds in a video.

I didn't get to mention this but yes they'd also go insane for his full sleeve of tats. Yes, velocity edits on his arms flexing when doing anything. Yes, thirst posts of when they see his eyes crinkle from making a facial expression that they couldn't make of in his videos. Yes, making sound bites of the "I like my women how I like my coffee" joke—anything that he said that they thought was sexy. And yes, Brittany TikTokers making videos about him.

Anyways, back to the collab.

Ghost would definitely let some curse words slip, some bleeped out and some are kept in. He'll be talking about stories from his earlier days in the military, grumbling about how fucking bleeping punishing it was. Also, his voice would still be obscured post editing.

After they'd made their greetings outside, walking into the underground gym, they ask, "Was it hard in the military, Ghost?" "'Course it fucking [bleep] was. That's a stupid question." Ghost curtly replies, slouching his shoulders to fit in the stair case as he muttered something about it being too small. "I don't even know how I survived some of the training—there were too many arseholes for sergeants when I was still new. The real missions were even worse." He goes on further, "Can't tell you shit about all of it on video though. Maybe I'll tell you about them later."

When both of them finally start the workouts and reps, the questions about Ghost's routine and diet finally come.

"How did you get so big? Natty too." "I participated in mandatory training everyday, also went to the gym often. I also ate a lot of protein bars at base, albeit tasting horrible."

Ghost would also be asked to show off his muscle. I think this part would be what he anticipated the most, to flaunt his herculean body, the amount of discipline that it took to look and be this strong. He'd take off the hoodie and roll up the already short sleeves of the shirt underneath, tensing his muscles.

"Good god, dude, you can see his lats and everything under his shirt." They comment, pointing their finger as Ghost rowed one of the machines. "Do you mind if I touch you?" They request, Ghost lets out a grunt of approval as they moved their hands to his back muscles, squeezing the tautness, exclaiming that "He's tough as a brick!"

They'd also ask him for workout/gym advice for the people at home watching, but I don't think he'd have the most useful tips for us. He'd talk about the usual gym tips, but he can't really go into more detail and elaborate since he's a soldier, and none of his actual good tips would be helpful for (most of) the people watching him.

"Also, if you guys are wondering, he sounds exactly like you think he would." They wink to the camera. "S'that supposed to mean?"

Ghost would further talk about his routine, how many sets he does and how many reps there are.; what his favourite workout was; when his favourite time to workout was; if he liked working out with other people.

I workout everyday. I don't have designated days for the different parts of my body; I do workouts that I think I haven't done in a while. I like to do calisthenics, but I also lift weights and use machines. I prefer working out early in the morning, after waking up and before eating breakfast. I also prefer to workout alone but I sometimes can't help some of... my acquaintances from joining me. Er, if I had to choose, I'd pick brutal bench as my favourite workout. It took quite a while for me to learn and properly do.

Then he'd demonstrate what a brutal bench was and his shirt would 'accidentally' ride up his torso showing off his abs. Though they weren't defined, you could still tell that he trained them and that they're strong. He'd mention that he did (still does probably) a whole lot of them in his earlier days in the military, then shows off his calloused palms to the camera.

Lastly, lower body workouts. I can just imagine how mouthwatering Ghost would look in a hip abduction/adduction machine: His hands gripping the seat while he looked up, his thighs pushing in on the steel leather padded squares, each set to 80 kilos (~176lbs), holding in his groans.

really abrupt and weird ending to this one i know but what can i do.

Next video he'd appear on would be him demonstrating and putting an influencer through the training of the special forces. I think some of 141 might appear if they were coincidentally at base for the recording.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw x reader #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #cod simon riley #ghost call of duty #cod x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley x reader

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