New chapter is up !! Being a warlock isn't as safe as you think, and you have to decide whether to face what your patron is with a smile, or try to force them to see what they've become. This is a two way street, after all !!
Bad Ritual is an interactive Twine-based romance wherein you, a corporate demon hunter, find yourself helplessly bound to an archdemon after your mysterious boss leaves you alone with a clearly unauthorized binding ritual. Who will you ally with: the archdemon, hell-bent on escaping the binding and disappearing forever, or the priestess Tahira, who would hunt him to the very ends of the earth?
they should invent a high ponytail that doesn’t give me a headache and they should invent a low ponytail that doesn’t make me look like a miller’s apprentice going off to enlist in the continental army
like. for whatever reason if you’re dating someone that isn’t caleb. i need your partner see you cry and whine in front of caleb over smth so non consequential and get really weirded out by the dynamic. do you see what i mean
Relationship: March x Farmer
Content Tags: March POV, Alcohol Consumption, Slight Jealousy/Insecurity, Developing Feelings, Hayden's 2-Heart Event (end of it), A surprising amount of almost-kisses, March is firmly in denial, (imagined) Halloween Festival, Light Flirting, Casual Affection, Background (kinda?) Balor & Farmer Friendship, Background (kinda?) Ryis & Farmer Friendship
Summary: Now that March has accepted the Farmer as a friend, he finds himself more conflicted than before.
Word Count: 7.2k
A/N: I sat there staring at the summary wondering how to summarize the next handful of events lmao. I read the extracted game data and saw that we're supposed to get a Halloween Festival, so I took inspiration from other farming sims + my own experiences growing up in bumfuck nowhere. Halloween was the biggest reason for the gap between Summer and Fall, though I have a different excuse for why Winter will take a bit longer to get to (and I'm so looking forward to the end of the chapter, too!). Thank you to @owoasis and my husband for helping me see this through.
FALL, Year 1
The chime of the new hour catches everyone’s attention, one by one looking up to the cuckoo clock to the right of Hayden’s kitchen table. The most recent round of cards has just ended, Henrietta has returned and is dozing beside Hayden, and a quick glance reveals just how tired everyone feels.
“Perhaps that’s our cue to leave,” Valen says, taking a moment to appraise everyone invited to Hayden’s little get together. “We all have long days ahead of us, and a good night’s rest will guarantee I won’t see any of you in the clinic tomorrow.”
“Oh, Valen,” you sigh with a hint of dramatics. “You’re so kind, always looking out for us.”
Pink colors her cheeks at the sincerity behind your performance before she raises a brow and gestures to the door. “Shall we get going?”
Ryis stretches, his arms reaching for the ceiling before crossing above his head. “I think that’s for the best. Valen’s right, you two,” he says, pointing at you and March as his arms come down.
As if the two of you came together (he came late) or are together (far from it) or have done anything besides bicker and taunt one another in the past hour over a series of card games (you haven’t).
While March blanches at the insinuation, you grin, sticking your tongue out at Ryis. That doesn’t stop you from yawning, nodding your head as you turn to your host. “Thank you so much for inviting us, Hayden. Tonight was great.”
“Yeah,” March agrees. “It was… fun.”
Despite arriving late and getting into a fight with a chicken, it was fun. Ryis’ game was a hit, Valen’s dip was amazing, and he even had fun playing the card games you suggested. If he could call getting competitive with you “fun.” (He does).
Hayden beams, a steady flush appearing across his cheeks. “Thank you for coming! We’ve all been working extra hard throughout the summer and our workload is only going up from here! I’m glad we were all able to enjoy a night off.”
Valen stands as you clear the table of your cards and Ryis slips on his jacket and tucks his game under his arm. As everyone makes their way to the door, Hayden follows.
“I’ll be sure to clean out your dish and return it to you tomorrow, Valen,” he says as her hand twists the knob to his front door.
She pushes it open, allowing the crisp autumn air to bite at exposed skin, and everyone exits through the opening created. Turning to look at him, she offers a kind smile and says, “I’m in no rush. Good night, Hayden.”
A chorus of thanks rings out, everyone offering waves as they step into the night.
Before any of them reach the edge of Sweetwater, you pipe up. “You guys are welcome to cut through my farm. It’ll be quicker. Besides… I don’t think you or Valen have seen it yet.”
Your eyes land on March, memories of the last time you two were here coming to the forefront. He had denied you then, but he’s grown curious. No longer suspicious that you’re slacking—not when the majority of produce offered in the general store comes from your farm—he wants to see what you’ve done with it.
“Yeah, okay.”
“That sounds lovely,” Valen agrees.
The smile that graces your features reaches from cheek to cheek, making your eyes crinkle under the moonlight. Ryis is quick to match it, also having suggested March check out your farm when he found out how often Ryis visits.
As far as he’s aware, Ryis helped with the same projects you had once consulted March on, namely your desired barn and coop. Ryis mentioned once or twice about helping you fix up your cottage, turning it into a house, but March still hasn’t the slightest clue what that means. At this point, he’s not sure whether the orders for nails coming from Ryis are for the town or for your farm, not that it makes a difference.
“What crops are you cultivating this autumn?” Valen asks.
You exchange a quick glance with Ryis, rubbing the back of your neck as you hem and haw. “Well… There’s not as much diversity as I’d like.” Ryis laughs and you duck your head, some joke that warms March’s chest, discomfort starting to settle in his skin. “I have a small field for yams and broccoli, and I’m growing celosia and chrysanthemums for Celine. I need to talk to Adeline about the pumpkins, but I’m primarily growing… corn.”
“Corn? I’m surprised. Is there any particular reason for the late crop?” she asks.
“I’m going to let it be a surprise. Unless, of course, you’re able to guess why. You’ll see when we pass the trees.”
“I think Adeline wanted to keep it a surprise,” Ryis agrees, a pleasant smile shaping his lips.
“Yeah, well. I can’t really help it if Valen and March are capable of reasonable deduction.”
The tree line recedes and he’s exposed to your farm, completely cleared of the debris that once dominated the property. In the months since you’ve arrived, you’ve cut away most trees, cleared out the boulders, and carved clear paths to delineate the separate areas of your land.
Along the western edge of your property are miniature orchards, home to different fruit trees in small groupings. He recognizes the apple and orange blossoms to his left, wondering whether the first harvest will be viable. Beyond that, your primary field remains inordinately large (at least, he believes it’s inordinate), taking up about eighty percent of your property on this side of the river, all hosting the same crop. As of now, he cannot fathom why Adeline would request so much corn, but no one else is speaking up.
You lead them through the property, pointing out the different fruit trees, telling them that you expect the first half of winter to be spent reclaiming the field housing corn. Rather than the single uninterrupted field that seems impossible to manage on your own, you’d like smaller fields, easier to tend. Just past your house is a dragon statue with lanterns on either side, almost as though you’re hoping to enshrine the ancient statue.
The river slices through your land, leaving about a third of it on the other side of a bridge that looks new. Given the pleased look in Ryis’ eyes, he can only imagine the help you received. Across the water sit two buildings: a new coop, and a barn that’s nearly complete.
Earlier, he heard you and Hayden talking about animals, and seeing your coop now, it makes sense.
“Did you get chickens with Hayden?” he asks, interrupting your train of thought, rewarded by the brightening of your expression.
“I did! I have three—two hens and a rooster. I’ve been spending my mornings with them when I finish with the crops.”
Huh. Look at you. “You’re almost a proper farmer now.”
More than your grin, he catches sight of Valen and Ryis smiling, too, and his chest seizes at the sight. A strangling heat grabs him, its tendrils creeping along his veins until he’s burning with it.
“You guys should stop by more,” you say, another yawn pulling at you. “Sometime in the winter or spring when my land isn’t co-opted by,” you wave your arms, gesturing toward the corn, “this. I promise my plans for it look better than they sound.”
“I’m sure they do,” Valen says. “I look forward to an invitation when this season has settled.”
There’s something knowing about her tone, like she’s picked up on what you were trying to say earlier, leaving March the odd man out. He’ll figure it out when he’s not so tired.
Rather than retire for the night, you follow them off your property, much like the way Hayden followed them to his door earlier. You slow, reaching the river to the north of your land, glancing around the clearing that separates your land from Mistria Proper.
Valen continues forward while March and Ryis slow with you, indicating their willingness to hear whatever you’re pondering.
As you turn to Valen, you offer a slight bow of your head and a wave. “Thank you for stopping by, Valen. I’ll be sure to send that invitation!”
“Thank you for allowing me to appreciate your hard work,” she responds, returning your wave. She heads off, her boots leaving soft steps against the wooden beam bridge. Lifting her arm higher, she calls, “Good night, everyone.”
Ryis and March both turn back to you, catching your lingering gaze on the retreating doctor. Snapping out of it, you turn to Ryis.
“Hey, Ryis, do you think Adeline would let me use this…?” you ask, gesturing to the clearing.
Ryis’ eyes scan the empty land and his lips downturn as they do when he’s lost in thought before he nods. “Yeah, I think she would. I’ll see her tomorrow morning. Should I ask on your behalf?”
“Mm, no. I should be able to swing by before noon. Thank you, though.”
That heat turns electric in March’s gut at your shared smiles, feeling like an outsider looking in. You and Ryis exchange a fist bump and he wonders why he’s still here when it’s clear you two have more to talk about.
As if to prove him wrong, Ryis is the next one to step toward the bridge, half-turning when he makes it halfway. “Have a good night, you two,” he says, shooting a wink March’s way.
Blood rushes to his face and it feels as though he’s on fire, but he can’t look away from Ryis or else you’ll see it. You rarely comment on his blushes, but he can’t stand the smile you’d give him in reaction right now. Honestly, even with Ryis gone, even after he no longer feels like an intruder, he doesn’t know why he hasn’t left. Exhaustion weighs down his muscles after a twelve hour workday and three hours at Hayden’s. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds you softer than you’ve been tonight, your own exhaustion keeping your usual bite at bay.
You meet his eyes and offer a smile saturated in sleep. “Thanks for seeing the farm, Red. I… I don’t know. It meant more than I thought it would,” you say, looking away.
It’s not often that you’re unable or unwilling to meet his eyes. Even rarer is the urge he has to reach out, though it ends in a clenched fist. “It was nothing.”
Sighing, you start to turn toward the path leading to your farm, forcing him to half-follow. “If you say so. I still appreciate it. Well, I can’t speak for you, but I’m beat. You should probably head home, too.”
He catches himself leaning forward as you take a step away, a question tumbling past his lips (though not the one that’s been lingering in his mind). “Before you go—what’s Adeline want with so much corn?”
Looking over your shoulder, you pause, tongue peeking out to wet your bottom lip. He can see it as you weigh the pros and cons of telling him. As you come to a decision, you turn to face him once more, a soft smile pulling at your lips. “How about this: you and I will find out together come Halloween?”
What? You know what? He’s too tired to try and parse your meaning, just as he’s too tired to piece together the mystery of the corn. With a sigh, he turns that soft smile into a grin. “Sure. Why not.”
Continuing down your path, you give him a gentle, “Good night, Red. Sweet dreams.”
March’s eyes are glued to you as you come meandering to the table again, sporting a new experimental cocktail. You’re further gone than he is (though, he stopped drinking so much on Fridays after you started calling him Red), which is a first since your arrival in Mistria.
The jovial mood permeates the walls of the inn, leaving him feeling out of place with his unusual near-sobriety. The kids are up on the landing, scheming this or that, and he still doesn’t know how to tell Dell that he won’t be crafting her a sword like the one he made you. The table in back is full of Hayden, Valen, Juniper, Adeline, and Celine, all participating in some kind of book club (it was some mystery that didn’t interest him this week). Hemlock has most of the older folks gathered at the bar, asking their opinions on festive drinks to serve come the Halloween Festival, and Josephine and Reina are both planning the menu for the same event.
He doesn’t know how exactly he came to be at this table, involved in this game of poker with Balor, Ryis, Terithia, and you. You sit across from him, all warm smiles and good humored as you make light jokes and ask questions, getting everyone to talk about their weeks. Every now and then you’ll shoot him a wink and he finds you more incorrigible than you are sober.
Terithia folds, the last to do so, and you challenge Balor to show his hand without raising the pot further. Up till now, his face has been smooth, betraying no emotion behind his calculating eyes, but his eyebrow twitches and the corner of his mouth downturns imperceptibly, sparking a slow grin from you.
You both toss down your cards at the same time, revealing Balor to have two eights, while you have two queens. Pair them with the queen on the board and you have three of a kind. March watches with acute enjoyment as your smile turns smug (much more smug than he’s ever seen from you) and you pull the pot to your space on the table.
Terithia laughs as Balor rests his forehead in his hand, fingers coming to massage his temples. “That’s your third win, ain’t it?” she asks, leaning forward to take the cards from Ryis, ready to shuffle and deal.
“Unfortunately it is,” Balor says through gritted teeth, answering for you.
You nudge his shoulder with your own, trying to suppress your grin.
“You two look awfully cozy on that side of the bench,” she remarks, a sly smile of her own forming, eyes flicking between the two of you.
An itch starts forming behind March’s navel and he bites his lip briefly in an attempt to push it aside.
“Do we, now?” you lilt, nudging Balor once more. Turning to look at him, March feels the itch travel further up his abdomen, settling behind his stomach. “That’s just because Balor’s such a good friend.”
“Too good, if I continue to let you walk away with my money,” he says, otherwise ignoring your attention, drinking from the bottle of beer with a black label.
You take a drink from your cider-cocktail, your finger coming to poke Balor’s cheek. He rewards you with a begrudging smile, one that seems to come involuntarily, judging by the furrowing of his brows. The trill of your laughter rings out, uninhibited if only because of your current state of inebriation, causing Balor to lose some of his tension.
“I make you more money than I take.” Setting your drink down, you come to rest your elbow on the table, half-turning to rest your chin in your palm and watch him. “Always have.”
“How long have you two known each other?” Ryis asks, gesturing to you with the mouth of his bottle.
March vaguely remembers a comment you made months ago—something about how you wanted to come to Mistria because of Balor. Why he didn’t piece two and two together, he’s not sure, but it certainly sheds new light on your current closeness.
The smile Balor adopts is the one he uses when being evasive, usually utilized for questions regarding his contacts, deals he’s made, or his past. His hand begins to wave in front of his face, and March knows the denial is about to come when you pipe up.
With a scoff, you roll your eyes at Balor’s small performance. “We’ve known each other for at least a decade now. On occasion, our paths would cross and we’d work jobs together, but nothing really beyond that.” Straightening, your eyes shift to the table. You scratch the back of your neck and March realizes that you’re lying, at least a little. “Balor’s…” your tone changes, mood dropping before you similarly adopt a faux cheeriness that makes March narrow his eyes. “He’s the one who told me about Mistria. I hadn’t seen him in a year or two and then I got a letter with Adeline’s pamphlet. Figured if he liked it, Mistria had to be somewhere special.”
To your right, Balor looks a little mortified, red rising to his cheeks as he takes you in with wide eyes and lips pressed in a tight line. Looking around the table, he eyes everyone carefully, stare lingering on March. “I’m sure I can’t remember how many adventurers I had sent similar notices to.” He schools his face with a smooth exhale. “Mistria just got lucky that our dear farmer was the one to answer.”
You click your tongue and roll your eyes at the way he says “our dear farmer.” For a second, March thinks you’re about to leave, that tiny spark of irritation present in your eyes, only for you to lean into Balor, draping your arm around his shoulders. You bring your face close to his and he resigns himself to whatever antic you have planned, relaxing in your hold with a defeated sigh before you nuzzle your nose to his cheek.
“Poor Balor. He’ll never be rid of me.” You pull away, arm slithering across his back as you rest your elbow on his shoulder.
The casual affection makes March blush, makes him want to look away as a clawing, gnawing stinging shoots through his gut. Just as you start to look at him again, Terithia laughs, a loud guffaw that pulls your attention away.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you nag on him like a sibling.” She finishes her drink, also hosting the black label of your imported beer. Her smile is electric, and her comment soothes some of that burning in March’s veins. She abandons the shuffled cards, standing from the table. “Anyone want a refill?”
Balor’s the one to take her up on the offer, lifting his empty bottle to show her his drink. She takes it from him, always one to be conscientious of waste. “They’re good, yeah? I’m glad you were able to bring these in. Never thought I’d like them as much as I do.”
“If not for our dear farmer,” he says with a sigh, shrugging you off of him while simultaneously poking fun at you, “they would have remained a distant fantasy.”
Terithia leaves and you watch as she does. “Something good had to come from my hometown, right?”
“If we’re measuring by that metric, I think that’d be you,” Ryis says before finishing his beer.
Rather than answer, you wave your hand similar to the way Balor had. “Say, what if we take a break from poker?”
“Do you have another game in mind?” March asks, surprised by how quickly your eyes snap to him. The idea of mingling isn’t sitting well with him and, before this, he was enjoying himself.
“Yeah, but I need a breath of fresh air.”
“A break would be good,” Ryis agrees, Balor nodding before turning to watch Hemlock behind the bar.
March watches as you swing your legs around the bench, more or less fluid in your rise. Without another word, you slip out of the inn. As he waits, his skin begins crawling and he can’t help but want to follow. March meets Hemlock’s eyes as he gets up, prompting a fresh beer to be offered. He takes it before going to find you.
Cold nips at him as twilight takes hold, leaving the warm, flickering lights of the lanterns across the way to illuminate the streets. A glance to the left reveals you to be leaning against the wall of the inn, ankles crossed as you stare at the stars. He nears, compelled to turn his eyes upward, reminiscent of that last night of summer.
“Hey, Red?” you ask, leaving him to wonder how you knew it’d be him instead of Balor or Ryis. When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “You think you would’ve been…? Never mind.”
He hates when you do that. “Do you think I would’ve been what?”
Your lips quirk up, but you still don’t look at him. “Sorry. I… Do you think you would’ve been just as… rude if another adventurer had come to Mistria instead?”
“What, you think you’re special?”
At that, you laugh, light and less melodious than he’s come to expect. “Thank you for keeping me humble. I guess I’m not, huh?” The smile that comes carries a weight with which he’s unfamiliar. Not from you. You stop craning your neck, eyes slow as they come to rest upon him.
He looks away, wanting to quell the sensation rising in his chest. “I didn’t want anyone to come. I… thought we didn’t need anyone else. Like you said, Ryis and I had things covered. Mostly.” Words threaten to spill from him, so he takes a drink to busy his mouth.
“Yeah, but you gotta admit: I’m your favorite farmer now, right?” you ask, pushing yourself from the wall to step closer, your smile turning mischievous.
“You’re the only farmer I know.” He remembers the way you signed his birthday note, folded and tucked into his book as a bookmark.
“What about Hayden?”
“He’s a rancher,” he says, forgetting that, technically, that would make two farmers he knows. And technically, that would make you his favorite farmer.
Blowing air between your lips, you pout. “Okay, but now you’re arguing semantics. So you’re saying I’m not your favorite farmer?”
There’s something unidentifiable weaving itself in your words, some weight that sits uncomfortable on his skin. “Since I only know one farmer, I can’t have a favorite. No winning by default with me.”
He isn’t expecting you to deflate, or for your eyes to stop focusing on him, or the little Oh that leaves you, escaping on your exhale.
Fuck. “Don’t do that.”
His eyes are drawn to the way you tease your bottom lip between your teeth, working out whatever it is you need to work out. When your eyes meet his again, they’re unexpectedly serious.
“I guess that’s fine.” Your voice cuts a bit harsher than he likes before turning flippant. “I know some part of you likes me.”
He grows hot, a fire burning from his chest, rising up his neck, catching on his ears and cheeks. His mind goes blank before he adopts a half-hearted scowl, meant to stop this line of thought more than scare you away. Either way, it doesn’t work, not with the way you come closer still. You study him, preventing that fire from being extinguished, and your hand comes up, fingers soft against his before you wrench the bottle from his grip.
Mesmerized by the curve of your lips, they shape your next words, making your cheeks lift. “If you didn’t, you’d tell me to fuck off and wouldn’t let me hang around so much.” Raising the bottle to your mouth, you press your lips to the same place he did.
You’re drunk. You wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t drunk.
He takes the bottle from you, relieved when you relinquish it freely, and you open your mouth to say something more when Terithia steps out.
“Hey. Ryis mentioned you had a new game you wanted to try?”
“Oh, that’s right,” you beam, stepping away from March, leaving him in the cold. “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with twenty-one? Instead of playing against each other, we play against the dealer.”
March trails behind you, listening as you briefly explain the rules to a nodding Terithia. The warmth of the inn seems almost overwhelming, suffocating when he can’t stop replaying the last minute with you. Everyone takes their previous seats, though you’re noticeably further from Balor this time. Ryis, always having enjoyed dealing, plays the dealer, and Balor is surprisingly reluctant to play. It isn’t until you add a perfect ruby to the pot that he stops wavering and commits.
“Such a one-of-a-kind belongs in my collection.”
“Only if you can win it,” you quip. “Only a perfect twenty-one will win the ruby. Everyone agree to that?”
A round of agreement circulates the table, though March remains fuzzy on the rules. After placing bets, Ryis deals, giving two cards to each player. Terithia asks for another card, and another, and a third before her score hits twenty-three. Balor is oddly quiet, only tapping the table to ask for cards and waving Ryis away when he reaches nineteen. Your cards total twenty, so you stand. March decides to double down at thirteen, receiving a seven from Ryis and a low whistle from Terithia. Ryis then draws, hitting twenty-two before dispersing winnings from the pot.
The game goes smoothly, with Terithia winning the next round and you losing, and by the fourth game, March finds Balor’s silence to be… odd. Misplaced.
You must think so, too, because after the cards are dealt the fourth time, you whip out the knife on your belt and bring it down between Balor’s open fingers on the table with keen precision. The sound knocks so cleanly that the book club quiets, heads turning toward the card table.
“Quit counting the cards, Balor.” Despite your level and amiable tone, your eyes are sharp, as is your smile, reminding him of the curve of the last hunting knife he crafted.
Balor turns to you, his own smile forming, sickly sweet in its own right as he moves his hand. “There you are. I was wondering when you’d drop the act.” Bringing his attention to the table, he says, “You have to understand, it takes quite a bit of alcohol before our farmer crosses the threshold from tipsy to intoxicated.”
Pulling the knife from the table, you sheath it before also turning to the group. “If you’re to understand anything, it’s that he’s never won a game of cards against me. He’s always fair and honest until things get interesting over a game of cards.”
Terithia laughs at the development, at the revelation of one of Balor’s little known facts, and Ryis starts asking about the jobs you two once shared. While you answer with aplomb, all March can think of is the dexterity required to handle your blade like that, the firm reminder of an underutilized skill set of yours, a previous life left behind.
When you look at him again, your eyes soften as they had outside and he wonders just how sober you were for that conversation.
Adeline calls everyone to the lower square signaling the close of the Halloween Festival. It’s more crowded than it has been in years past, no thanks to all the work she’s put forth to attract tourists this year. Since the earthquake, the festivals that would usually attract outsiders have been contained to townspeople only, so she went above and beyond, sending adverts offering to “sell” tickets in exchange for being entered into a raffle. The sales would be donations spent to beautify the town and enhance the following years’ events. And it worked.
Maybe a little too well.
People jostle past you two in their attempts to get closer to the stage, eager to see what else the town might have to offer. You press against March’s side, your grip on his arm tightening as you do.
It’s funny. For the past couple hours, he’s complained about the way you haven’t let him go, linking your arm with his as you’ve dragged him from booth to booth, from game to game, but he can’t be bothered right now. If anything, he pulls you closer when a family of four comes up from behind you.
The air grows stifling, the constant chatter a bit overwhelming, and he’s glad when you pull on his jacket, requesting he lean in to hear you.
“Hey, you ready to get outta here?” Furrowing his brows, he frowns, earning a smirk in response. “C’mon. We haven’t been to the farm yet.”
Right. The entire reason for your being glued to his side all afternoon.
The lights around the square dim to emphasize Adeline’s presence on stage, the torches providing most of the illumination. Whatever she’s about to do is ready to start and the excited energy from the crowd grows to be too much.
“Yeah, fine.”
You grin, turning around as you unlink yourself from him, your hand traveling down his arm, settling around his wrist. Guiding you both from the crowd, you don’t properly release him until you’re passing the inn. Your cape slides from your shoulders as you stretch, arms reaching for the sky, but your hood stays in place.
He follows wordlessly, ready to shove his hands in his pockets when he remembers the damn wolf ears attached to his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he’s glad to see everyone preoccupied with Adeline and Else, meaning he’s free to remove them without complaint.
“Can’t believe she made us wear costumes,” he grumbles, yanking the headband off.
Turning around, you walk backwards, your hands tucked behind your back. “If you can even call these costumes,” you say, echoing his earlier words. “It’s good that you let Louis put those on you. I think Adeline was about five seconds away from having an attack of some kind if we pushed back any longer.”
Reaching forward, you take the headband from him, fully relieving him of his “costume.”
“You’ll have to begrudge me my cape, though. It’s too cold for me to take it off just yet.”
It hits him suddenly, the urge to offer you his jacket (he runs warm anyway), but he ignores it. You two are nearly at your house; you can grab something there if it really bothers you. The urge doesn’t dissipate, so he shoves his fists in his pockets, looking at the remnants of the pumpkin patch across the bridge.
“Did you really sell all of them?”
You rotate, assessing the empty patch, that thing you once pondered with Ryis the last time March stood out here with you. He hears your inhale, your voice shaping around your smile. “Yup! Quicker than I thought, too. We sold about two thirds of them by two, then Hayden came around and offered to cover so I could enjoy the festival.”
That explains why beneath your cape, you’re wearing your work pants and a plain white top. It also explains why you came when you did, dragging him along.
“I was hoping,” you draw out the last consonant, “that Adeline would let the whole costume thing slide, especially with how much work I put in for the festival, but…”
He needs no reminder of the way she cornered you both, frantically asking why neither had a costume on, making it seem like the image of the town hinged on every citizen being appropriately dressed. He was almost grateful for the way Olric took over, guiding them to Louis’ costume stand, only for them to push you two to “match.” Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf (at least so far as you could tell people, wearing nothing more than a red cape and wolf ears).
Made it seem like you two are something you’re not, and the way you carted him around town definitely didn’t help. But… if he’s being honest with himself, it was… almost enjoyable. More than in years’ past.
You wait for him at the top of the steps leading to your farm, rocking from the tips of your boots to the heels, exuding more energy than he’d expect from someone who just proclaimed their exhaustion. Turning, you offer him an excited grin, quick to slip your arm in his again, though you don’t lead him this time.
The corn has fully grown, double the height of Luc, imposing as it stands on your farm. March doesn’t know how you did it, but there are ropes secured by poles set up every so many feet, creating a grid with lanterns hanging from each vertex, offering soft illumination over what he can see to be a maze. Near the bridge leading to your animals is your harvest, the last of the season, full almost entirely of corn waiting to be shipped. The same decorations found around town are scattered across your land, strategically placed for maximum effect.
It’s… impressive.
He offers you a low whistle and you push him with your shoulder in acknowledgment of his nonverbal praise. Walking down the lit path, your eagerness turns infectious, and he understands why there was a line to your farm, why you were so insistent on coming later. When you two reach the path to your house, you pull on him, unwrapping yourself from his arm until all that’s attached is your hand at his elbow, tugging in the direction of your house.
“I wanna put on proper clothes. You’re free to wait or come inside.”
“Could just start without you,” he says as you release him, making no move to enter the maze without you.
At least with you, the chances of finishing at a decent time are higher.
Your hand comes flying to your chest as you gasp, “Red! You wouldn’t dare!”
He snorts at your dramatics and you smile, lopsided and carefree, pushing open your front door. For a moment, he decides to wait, content to cross no other lines in this friendship tonight, and then he hears the hooting of an owl to the southeast and the chittering of bats near the barn. Wind howls as it causes the lanterns to sway, some of them flickering, though none go out. It’s creepy enough that he follows, walking through your open door.
Your house is cozy, sparsely furnished, though still comfortable in its own right. The cape and ears are discarded on the table and he hears you rustle around in one of the rooms before an Aha! indicates your supposed victory. As you emerge, donned in orange flannel, he finds himself missing the red.
“You want water or something?” you ask, trying and failing to mask your surprise.
“Nah. I’m still good from the inn.”
A contented smile appears as you close your eyes, remembering the holiday feast pushed upon you two. “Mm. That was good, wasn’t it? Well, we should get going if we hope to be done before midnight.”
“I’m sorry—” he starts as you cross your home in several strides, walking past him like it’s no big deal, “—what do you mean, ‘midnight?’”
“Oh, nothing,” you lilt, heading to the entrance, indicated by the wooden arrow painted with Ryis’ handwriting.
“Nope. Nuh-uh.” He shuts the door behind him, closing the distance. “What do you mean, ‘midnight?’”
“Let’s just start, yeah?”
Glaring at you, you simply smile, threading your arm through his once more before pulling him into the maze. It’s easy at first, only one path ahead for the first couple turns before it splits in three directions. He looks at you, still a little peeved, only for you to remain blissfully unaware, a contented smirk on your lips as you look down each path.
“You have to know the way through, right?”
In the low light of the lanterns above, you appraise him, eyes dancing across his face, the gentle curve of your lips never wavering. “Must I?”
“You grew the damn thing, didn’t you?”
“I dunno. I mean, when you came here earlier in the season, the field was full, wasn’t it?”
He deadpans and you snicker. “You expect me to believe that Adeline drew up plans for the maze and managed to carve through your land without your explicit OK?”
“Hey. She’s the one who gave me the free land. If there’s anyone in town I’m not going to say no to, it’s her.”
“Evidently.” The wolf ears and red cape are proof enough.
“Besides. Don’t you think it’s the teeniest bit possible that she got someone like Hayden to see it through? Divvy up the information?” Refusing to dignify it with a response, he shifts his weight to his left leg, subtly pulling you with him. Your laughter rings out in the night, interrupting the chiropteran accompaniment overhead. “Fine, fine. Yes, I do know the way through the maze. But—”
“Of course there’s a ‘but.’”
“Shush, you. But I refuse to tell you unless we’re taking too long.”
“What? How does that make sense?”
“I want you to experience this maze for all its glory. Olric told me—”
“He needs to stop telling you shit.”
You elbow him in the side and he can’t help but laugh at your annoyance.
“Fuckin’... Olric told me,” you start again, glaring in your periphery, “that you haven’t enjoyed the Halloween Festival in years. So! That’s what we’re going to do.”
That’s— incredibly annoying and somewhat disarming. With a sigh, he glances around the different paths, ultimately deciding on the left. Each time he hits a division in the path, he turns to you, only to find you pleasantly watching him, offering no answer. Only once he starts getting turned around do you pull him in a new direction.
“Thought you weren’t going to help.”
“I think you underestimate my memory. I’d be doing this even if I were unfamiliar with the landscape.”
Heh. Right.
Actually, that makes sense, considering your past. “You have a lot of experience navigating mazes?”
He feels your attention on the side of his face, minute disbelief. It’s not that he never asks about you, but… he kinda rarely asks about you.
“Yeah, actually. I was usually hired onto caravans as a navigator. Mostly for caverns, but I wasn’t picky.”
“And now… you’re a farmer.”
“And now I’m a farmer. Your favorite farmer, might I add.”
Really? “You’re still on that?”
“Yup. Will be until you admit it.”
“I already told you—”
“‘No winning by default.’ I’m calling bullshit.”
Turning to you, he finds you pointedly looking in the direction of the paths ahead, another three-way split. “You can’t call bullshit.”
“I just did. I’m your favorite farmer and you know it.”
“You don’t just get to decide that.”
When you finally turn to him, there’s a wicked glint in your eye that makes his heart thunder in his chest. You release his arm, slipping from his grasp as you take a step back. Your eyes narrow and you take another step away. “We both know I’m your favorite farmer.”
You can’t know— “Do we?”
“If you need a little encouragement to say it, that’s fine.” Your grin is keen, challenging, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Before he knows it, you take the path to the right, disappearing behind the corn. Shouting over the corn, you spook the bats into silence. “Admit I’m your favorite farmer and I’ll get you outta here!”
“Seriously?” Is it that important to you? He follows to the right, assuming you’re heading toward the exit. Worse case, he can try to follow your footsteps (except there are a great deal of footprints left in the dirt). Maybe he can pinpoint where you are if he keeps you talking. “Why’s it so important to you what I think of you?”
“I guess it’s not.” Your words hit him in the gut, a little painful, and he can’t say why. “Truthfully?”
You’re off to the left. March heads down that path, meeting an immediate dead end. Dammit. “Yeah. Truthfully.”
“You were kinda a dick to me once and it really pissed me off.”
Which time? Retracing his steps, he heads to the right, finding where the trail heads left. “Okay. That doesn’t say much.”
“I know for a fact that your opinion of me has changed since then.” And? Do you really need to know that you’re his favorite farmer? Does it matter that much? “I wanna know.”
“Know what?”
You sound like you’re dead ahead, but the path breaks to the right again.
“Either tell me that I’m your favorite farmer or tell me what you think of me now.”
Your observation from a couple weeks ago rings in his mind, the pointed reminder that if he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t let you get away with half the shit you do. Something twists in his chest, uncomfortable and hot as it tangles in his ribs, borderline panic-inducing when he thinks about telling you what he thinks about you now (he isn’t even sure himself).
“Fine! I guess… you’re… my favorite farmer.” His voice dies as he says it, growing quieter and he’s not even sure whether you heard him (can he even repeat it if you didn’t?).
The silence grows suffocating and he’s left with the frantic beating of his heart in his ears. There’s rustling to his left before your head pops around the corner. Instead of the victorious smile he was sure you’d be sporting, you’re oddly serious. As he nears, it melts away, the ghost of a smile appearing in contrast to the look in your eyes.
“Was that so hard?” you ask, taunting.
In a moment of hot frustration, he grabs you by the flannel, bringing you close until he can smell you—a mix of lavender and citrus masked by dirt and sweat. “You are so—”
“Amazing? I know.” You grin, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“—infuriating.” He searches your face, desperate to find the key to why he’s feeling like something has fundamentally shifted between you two, only to land on your lips.
Your smile disappears and your lips part, tongue wetting them before he looks up again, finding your attention similarly drawn to his lips. His grip on you loosens, his hands starting to itch, and you take the opportunity to step away before joining his side again. Only your hand wraps around his arm, nestling itself in the crook of his elbow. This time, you don’t look at him.
“C’mon. You tell me which way you wanna go and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“What happened to letting me figure things out?”
“Oh? You wanna spend more time with me that bad?” Heat crawls up his neck, settling on his cheeks, and he’s glad that you don’t look over. “‘Sides. It’s getting late.”
“How can you tell?”
“Dunno if you heard earlier, but the cat started mewing.” Did it? “Little guy comes home each night at eleven like clockwork.”
Oh.
Shit.
He follows through with your compromise, feeling pretty good when most of his suggestions are correct, a little disappointed when you two exit near the entrance toward Sweetwater. While you don’t give him the same attention as before—while he still feels like he’s going crazy for being bothered by it—you stay attached to his side, fingers still pressing into his arm.
The cat comes running down the steps when you near, offering an angry set of mewling that prompts you to untangle yourself from March. He watches as you bend down to greet the cat that rubs itself on your legs, snaking around them before running back to the door.
When you look at him again, that sparkle’s back in your eyes, even if you still feel half a kingdom away. “Thank you for humoring me today, Red. I know it couldn’t have been easy—”
He sighs, watching as you tilt your head, your smile faltering. “It was fun.” He scratches the back of his neck as your grin comes back and you return to yourself in full. “I’m impressed with everything you did for the festival. Good… Good job.”
“Thanks. It means a lot.”
Does it?
“G’night, Red.” You offer a wink before picking up the cat and entering your home, giving him a quick wave as you shut your door.
The entire walk home, you’re all he can think about—the way it grew cold without you by his side, the way his chest ached when you suggested you didn’t care what he thought, the discomfort he felt when you wouldn’t look at him. And, in spite of all that, he had fun.
900w drabble inspired by this thirst from my goat @saudadiste
warnings: piv sex, cervix bruising, grief, manga spoilers, aki has a massive cock, the reader loses their mind and fucks the gun fiend. a lot of horny angst. mdni
The Gun Fiend doesn't touch you like how Aki did.
You'd started sleeping with Aki after that journey into Hell. Somewhere between rehabilitating Power and helping Aki adjust to working in the kitchen with only one arm, the two of you fell into bed with one another. Himeno once implied to you that Aki was a mediocre lay—detached and quick, almost like sex was a chore for him—but this turned out to be untrue. Aki was extraordinarily tender with you. Sometimes it seemed as though he was afraid you'd break if he got too rough with you, if he hurt you in any way at all. He kissed you calmly and intentionally, curled his fingers inside you carefully and patiently, and fucked you slow and deep. He was careful even when you asked him to be rough, squirming beneath him and begging to give you the entirety of his cock.
“You could go deeper,” you whined. “I don't mind. I wanna feel all of you inside me.”
Aki panted into your neck, and you could feel his cock twitch inside you—the part of it that he'd pushed into you, anyway. Aki never let himself bottom out. The two of you tried once and he only got maybe a little over halfway before you felt him press against your cervix, forcing a strangled cry out of you. You hadn't tried again since. But you could tell he wanted to give you the full thing then, with the way he looked at you—eyes hazy, pupils blown.
“I don't want to hurt you,” he ground out.
“You won't,” you reassured him. “I'll be fine, I promise, I'll be—ohhh—”
His cock pressed into your sweet spot—angled carefully, precise. Aki let out a breath as he ground his hips against yours, watching you writhe beneath him, feeling you squeeze around his length. “I think this is more than enough for you,” he remarked mildly, and when you tried to protest he started pumping himself into you, and suddenly you were panting into his mouth, too incoherent to argue.
The Gun Fiend isn't nearly so mindful.
If there is anything of Aki left at all in his corpse, it doesn't have much influence over the devil possessing it. It doesn't bother kissing you, for one. You don't know if it even knows what kissing is. You don't know if it totally understood what you were doing when you leaned in and pressed your lips against its mouth, tears and self-loathing spilling out of your eyes.
It seems to understand desire, though. It understands that you want to feel close to it. It understands that you need something inside you, something to fill your emptiness. It understands your urgency, your desperation. Where Aki would have once chided you to be more patient so he could take his time with you properly in bed, the Gun Fiend has pushed you onto the floor, supine, ripping the seams of your pantyhose as it seeks access to your sex.
You shouldn't be so wet. You shouldn’t want this so badly. You shouldn't be parting your thighs so willingly for the monster that killed Aki, but you miss him and your body misses him and your cunt’s soaked through your panties by the time Aki’s hands have torn them off. And maybe the Gun Fiend doesn't touch you like how Aki did—it feels more animal than human when it mounts you, more possessive than loving when its arms cage you—but it’s all you have and you'll take it even if it hurts.
You stare down the barrel of a gun as you spread your legs for a monster.
It doesn't give you much warning. You feel the fat head of its cock press against your entrance, silky and hot against your cunt, and then it's pushing inside you, stretching you out. Your mouth falls open, a cry tearing from your throat. You can't help it. Aki is—was—always so gentle with you, you aren't prepared for being handled so roughly. Unused to the feeling of being filled up past your limits, your cunt struggling to swallow the full length of him. Unused to being stuffed so full cock that you can feel it not just in your cervix, but in your throat. The Gun Fiend pauses there, feeling you tremble around its length, maybe watching salt track down your face. Can it tell the difference between tears of pain and tears of pleasure? In the eyes of a devil, are grief and ecstasy indistinguishable?
Your breathing evens out. Your body relaxes as it's broken in. You shouldn't be so wet, you shouldn't want this so badly—but your pussy is starting to squeeze around Aki’s cock, your cunt slick and dripping for the monster violating it. But the Fiend is staying itself, for whatever reason—doing nothing but watching you, a gun aimed at your racing pulse.
“Why aren't you moving?” you whisper.
It takes you a moment to understand what it's saying. The Gun Fiend rarely talks, so Aki's voice is rusted with disuse, each syllable halting, heartrending:
“I don't want to hurt you.”
You hear a pained noise—a strangled cry. Aki's hand is cupping your face. He's wiping your eyes. Let’s slow down, he’s saying. His kisses are so patient, so comforting, so intentional. Let me make you feel better.
The Gun Fiend is thumbing away your tears. You wonder if it's going to kiss you. You wonder how its mouth will feel savage or if it will feel familiar. You wonder how it will break you.
You take a deep breath, and you wrap your legs around its waist.
“Don't worry,” you say, resting your hand over the Gun Fiend's, kissing its fingers. “That’s fine. I want it to hurt.”
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
2087
janainaart
