#2 pianos 4 hands

[himblebo]

Might need to suddenly become an accompanist for this one specific thing… I’ve got until June

[timmydraker]

Tim Drakes parents were very traditional and overly proud of the fact that they came from old money.

They boasted about this in many ways for several years, but once their son was born they decided they would use him as a prime example of how they would continue the old ways they learnt.

Tim learnt things like piano and proper dinner etiquette before he was four, and learnt old Latin and French as a means to showcase his wealth and knowledge. They made him learn many things and luckily he enjoyed most of them, especially when it came to STEM and reading.

They also valued the arts and wanted him to learn as much as he could about architecture and literature.

When he showcased some knowledge for waltz and ballroom dancing, they decided he should do dance lessons.

This is where Tim discovered Ballet and fell deeply in love with the artistic and passionate form of dance. He began to study it around the same time he grew an interest in Batman, though he had yet to try get photos of the man.

Tim talked to his instructor and asked the older man about male dancers in Ballet and Mr Volkov was more that happy to help. Tim’s parents weren’t very in tuned with their son by that point and only cared that he was attending classes that were traditional, so they payed no mind to him learning ballet.

The skills he learnt regarding balance and core strength was greatly appreciated when he began to stalk Batman and Robin. He would do his warm up stretches while thinking about what patrol route the two would make that night, considering why Bruce Wayne chose to become The Bat while he counted each step 1, 2, 3, 4 with the music. He wondered to himself why Jason Todd became Robin when Dick Graysons motivations were much more obvious as he practiced and perfected sauté and focused on how his hands were placed, something he often forget was important.

By the time he became Robin he had been allowed to do several permanences, and was practicing for his role as Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake in just a few months.

It was one of his biggest dreams to play as the Prince in such an iconic performance, especially when he got along well with both Odettes dancer and Odile’s.

Bruce and Dick are excited for him, though Dick shows it better, and Tim is overjoyed to know that his parents will be in town when the opening night is. They say they’ll come and are proud of him for being in such a well known play and doing so in the traditional manner that the play was once made in.

Tim does wonderfully and Alfred organises for it to be recorded for them all to watch later.

Tim is greeted by them back stage after it ends and excitedly runs up to Dick to receive a huge hug. Dick is loudly saying how proud he is and that he’s so impressed his brother can do such an amazing dance. It’s the first time they’ve seen him perform and they were enamoured.

But Bruce looks tense.

“Bruce? Did… did you not like-“

Bruce cuts him off with a hug, “Of course I like it. Loved it even. It’s just…”

It’s then that Tim looks around and notices his parents aren’t there. They could have just gone home, but they wouldn’t give up a chance to boast about their money and successful heir.

Unless…

Tim looks down and tries to hold back his tears, “they didn’t show, huh?”

Tim can’t help but break down once Dick moves in to hug him, yet as Mr Volkov and some of his costars who are his friends come up and join them, he feels okay.

It’s not Janet and Jack, but it’s nice. It’s warm and kind and maybe that’s all that matters.

[gilbertscurls]

holaa i got request that like 7 mins vids of chris and reader being in love but they are bsf like some fan did vid showing moments chris and reader do that shows their love to eachother

hope you like it!! <3

also, i think i've seen a similar story somewhere, so credits to the original

7 Minutes of Chris and Y/N Being in Love ➵ Chris Sturniolo

You stumbled upon the video late one night, alone in your room with the glow of your phone casting soft shadows across the walls. It was titled “7 Minutes of Chris and Y/N Being in Love But Not Admitting It”, posted by one of the Sturniolo Triplets’ most dedicated fans. Curious, you clicked on it, not quite ready for the trip down memory lane.

The video started with a soft piano tune, and each moment was introduced by a little title. You held your breath as the first clip began.

1. “The Hoodie Thing”

The video opened with a scene from a casual vlog, probably from a random day where the four of you had just been hanging out. The camera was set up on the counter, capturing Chris as he talked animatedly about something or another. In the middle of his story, he looked over and spotted you wrapped up in his hoodie. You saw his mouth twitch in that familiar way as he tried to keep his composure, but his cheeks betrayed him, turning just a bit pink.

“Is that mine?” he asked, pretending to be annoyed, though the sparkle in his eyes told a different story.

You shrugged, smiling as you hugged the hoodie tighter. “You left it here. Finders, keepers.”

The fan had zoomed in on his face just then, catching the soft expression he wore as he looked at you, that look he always gave when he thought you weren’t watching.

2. “The Arm Thing”

The next clip was from one of their prank videos, where Nick had decided to try scaring you by hiding behind the door. The plan went off without a hitch; you’d jumped in fright, letting out a little squeal. The moment Chris heard it, he stepped in close, putting an arm around your shoulders, almost instinctively, like a protective reflex.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not even giving Nick the satisfaction of a laugh.

You laughed, brushing it off, but Chris kept his arm around you for the rest of the video. The fan had added a heart overlay on that moment, making it all the more obvious to anyone watching that this wasn’t just a casual gesture. It was his way of telling you, without words, that he’d always be there to protect you.

3. “The Way He Looks At Her”

This cutscene played moments from several videos stitched together: every time Chris’s gaze lingered on you a little longer than necessary, his eyes softening, or the way his face would light up whenever you walked into the room.

One clip was from a road trip vlog where Nick had asked you a question, and you’d gone off on a tangent, laughing at your own story. The fan had slowed down the footage as Chris watched you, his smile widening with every word you spoke. They’d even added text overlay: Look at the way he smiles at her.

And there it was—that undeniable, heart-melting look that said so much more than words ever could.

4. “The Hand Thing”

The screen faded to another clip, this time from a Q&A the triplets had done with you sitting behind Chris. He’d been laughing at something Matt said, his hand reaching back to rest on yours almost absentmindedly. You’d barely registered it, but the fans clearly had, picking up on the way his fingers subtly intertwined with yours.

At one point, you noticed and looked down, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. But Chris didn’t pull away; he just squeezed your hand gently, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The fan had zoomed in here, highlighting the way his thumb rubbed small circles on your hand, creating a moment that had clearly been noticed by everyone but you two.

5. “Little Things He Remembers”

This section showed clips where Chris would mention something small about you, things you didn’t even realize he’d picked up on. In one of the videos, you’d talked about a favorite candy that you hadn’t had in years, and a month later, in a different video, Chris had surprised you with it.

Your face had lit up, and the fan had looped Chris’s shy smile when he saw your reaction. Then came another clip from a Christmas gift exchange vlog, where he’d somehow known exactly what to get you—a rare vinyl record you’d been looking for forever.

As you hugged him in gratitude, the fan captioned it: he remembers the little things.

6. “The Almost Kiss”

This was the clip that made you catch your breath. It was from a few weeks back, a late night when you and Chris had been filming a random vlog in his room. He’d been teasing you about something, and you’d leaned in to swat his shoulder, both of you laughing.

But then there was that moment—a pause—where your faces were just inches apart, his gaze locked on yours, and everything had gone quiet. You could almost feel the unspoken words hanging in the air, the what if.

The fan had zoomed in, adding a soft overlay to heighten the tension, and you watched yourself look up at him, eyes wide, both of you caught in that heart-stopping second. His face had softened, and he’d opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but then he’d pulled away, laughing to break the tension.

The screen faded to black as the fan added one final caption: maybe one day.

You stared at the end screen, your heart racing. You’d felt all those moments before, lingering on the edges of your friendship with Chris, but seeing them compiled like this left you breathless. Your mind raced back to that last clip, to the almost kiss. What would have happened if he hadn’t laughed it off? If you hadn’t pulled away?

Just as you were lost in thought, your phone buzzed with a text from Chris.

Chris: Yo, did you see this vid someone made of us? LMAO they really think we’re in love or something 😂

You felt a rush of nerves, unsure of how to respond.

You: Haha yeah, just saw it… it’s kinda cute though, don’t you think?

There was a pause, longer than usual, and you held your breath, waiting.

Chris: Yeah… kinda cute.

Chris: Listen, about that one clip… you know the one I’m talking about, right?

You: Yeah. I know.

Chris: What if I said I wasn’t just acting for the camera?

Your heart skipped a beat. You could almost picture him, staring down at his phone, wondering if he’d said too much. But something told you it was time to finally say the words that had been on the tip of your tongue for years.

You: Then I’d say… me neither.

It was a simple exchange, a confession years in the making, and yet somehow, that was all it took.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash

[letorip]

kiss with a fist [iii]

"your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit, so we remain the same"

===+++===

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: you can't help but feel like maybe you and tara are more than frenemies, and it culminates in a night where you finally share some truths with each other.

warnings: a somewhat traumatic dream sequence lmao, mentions of sex, kissing (almost), curse words, blood

word count: 5.8k

A/N: hope y'all like this one because i definitely liked writing it. definitely a whole lot more kissing than fisting.... wait a minute....

it's 5 am, my ass is grass. anyways, part 4 relatively soon because woo wee theres still so much to explore in this story i legitimately cant believe my idiot self said it'd be done in 2 parts originally

===+++===

===+++===

"(Y/n)," a voice calls to you, sing-song and sweet as your eyes fade to darkness. It's a gentle woman's whisper, but it manages to hit you like a truck, pulling you down from wherever you came from, and plopping you wherever you've arrived. Or, rather, wherever you've always been. "(Y/n), look, darlin'."

A gust of wind gently strokes over the plane of your cheek, and when you open your eyes, all you can see is rye. On one end, it reaches out towards a sharp cliff, overlooking a lake, with nothing but rocks and the water below. On the other, it runs far up the plains of land in front of you, stopping in front of the white house you know all too well, with its rickety porch and broken tire swing.

You take a few steps forward, as if ready to run right inside, and then before you know it, you're running. Like the world is about to end, like the house is burning down, like you'll never see the place ever again. Foot after foot, you dash towards it, hearing Alisha's piano flit through the front window for the first time in years, and the smell of a pie right along with it. "(Y/n)!" the voice calls again. "Dinner time, kid!"—

But your foot catches on a root, just like it did in your memory, and in an instant, you've fallen down into the rye, with a painful thud, right on your face. You let out a grunt, feeling the dirt on your new, white shirt. The one your mother never let you wear when you were playing outside.

And when you right yourself again, sitting up out of the field, the house isn't any closer than it was before. It sits, perfectly far away, only all that stuff is gone now, and the house looks about as dark as it did the day of Mitchie's funeral.

"(Y/n)!" an excited voice calls from behind you. "Wanna play tag?"

"(Y/n)'s too old for that, Mitchie," another voice chides, and you whip around like Calvin would actually be there to chide him like that. Like he used to. But he isn't. All you can see is the rye. It stands in thick stalks, reaching up to your knees in lush groupings, tall and abundant, strong and growing.

Another voice. "Read me a story?" It's soft and it's a little girl's and it's far away, and you get to your feet and spin in a circle, waiting for her to appear. It seemed to reverberate through your ears, washing through the pathways of your brain before seeping into your heart. It fills it up, and before you know it, you can feel yourself hastily searching for her.

"'Randa?" you called into the open field. "Miranda? You there?" but she continues on like she didn't hear you.

"Would you read me a story? Please?"

"I will Miranda, but where are you?" you called back, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the barrel of the hot sun.

"I'm gone, (Y/n). You're supposed to be gone too," she says back, with a sweet giggle. "Why aren't you gone with us?"

"I—" you stammer, whipping your head around the field in search of your siblings. "I don't—"

"Do you really think that's fair, (Y/n)?" Calvin asks.

"Why aren't you here, (Y/n)?" Miranda asks again, this time her voice wavering like she was about to cry. "Why aren't you in the rye with us?" Your hands came up to your head, trying to squeeze your eyes shut and block out the noises, but they seemed to reverberate into your skull.

"Mitchie was your fault, you know," Peter chides. "We would've never let that—"

"—Why did you get to stay, (Y/n)?" Came Tomas' voice. "We're supposed to be cursed, and you're supposed to be cursed too." He was always the quiet one, but now his voice had a sharp edge to it. One of jealousy. One of anger.

"Why didn't you catch me?" Mitchie asked. "If you just would've caught me..."

"Come play piano with me, I'll teach you," said Alisha, in her light, airy laugh.

"Why did it get to be you?" snarled Calvin. "And why are you getting closer to Tara? You want to curse her, too?"

"Stop—" you stammered, squeezing your eyes shut tighter.

"Wanna play hopscotch?" said Mitchie.

"Do you miss us, (Y/n)?" Alisha said, in between tears.

"Yes, of course— I—" you tried, but now the voices were filling up your head, threatening to spill over and knocking you to the ground. You curled up into a ball as your brain filled up. Words piling up on top of words, piling up on top of words, about to split you open. "STOP!" you yelled.

And everything went silent. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself still in the field, but your siblings' voices had gone entirely. Now it was just you, in the field, alone with the rustling of the wind and the rye, as it grazed gently against your legs. You hadn't remembered standing up, but you were now.

In a flash, you could see a shape, running through the rye in a line that was very visible from where you were. You recognised the dark hair, and the yellow jacket he always wore. With the realisation came the looming dread, and you realised with very little time left what this exactly was a memory of.

You took off running, faster than you had to the house, faster than you had ever run, and faster than you had run then, chasing after him as he took off towards the cliff-end of your rye field. "Mitchie!" you yelled, trying to be louder than the buzzing cicadas, but it seemed the moment you yelled, the cicadas got even louder. He was too short to see over the stalks, but you could see him go, running in odd shapes as he got nearer and nearer to the cliffs edge.

"Catch me if you can, (Y/n)!" he called back with a gleeful laugh.

"(Y/n), grab your brother," called your mother. She didn't seem too worried, and she hadn't been, then. No one had been, until it was too late.

"Mitchie! Stop!" you cried out, feeling tears already beginning to fall down your cheeks. "Mitchie!" you tried again.

"Come on, you've gotta be faster than that if you're gonna be it!” Mitchie called back. "Catch me! Get me! C'mon! I'm gonna make it hard for you to win, Duck."

"MITCHIE! PLEASE!" you screamed, but all he did was giggle. “STOP! DON’T GO!” But the moment you reached the end of the rye, he was gone over the edge, just he had been when you were 13, and there was an arm shaking you awake.

===+++===

"Oh my god, you're about the least peaceful sleeper I've literally ever seen," Tara laughed, grinning at you from over her textbook. She had it pulled into her lap from her side of the table and titled against the table edge, and spread out in front of you were her papers galore, with notes scribbled all over them in preparation for her upcoming exam.

Mindy sat next to her, playing a stupid game on her phone, while Ethan was also studying in his own textbook. He had stopped trying to avoid you as much, as had Chad. You and Tara "dating" seemed to offend them less and less the longer it went on.

"Uh," you mumbled, still feeling a little bit disoriented from the dream. It was like a dose of adrenaline had been shot directly into your heart, and you struggled to adjust to the calm, peaceful library that actually was around you. "Shut up," you grumbled, but not like you were actually upset by her teasing.

Tara watched you with her eyebrows raised. "You look tired."

You sat up in your chair, running a hand through your hair. There was a small layer of sweat on your forehead. "Aren't you never supposed to say that to someone? Pretty sure that's how you get someone at the bar to throw their drink in your face."

"It is," Ethan nodded. "I made that mistake once. I was trying to be sweet."

"Good thing I'm not seducing you, then," Tara shrugged. "You've seen me puke everywhere. Pretty sure that ruined my chances right-out, and yet you love me anyways."

You grinned, leaning back to stretch out your arms. It was meant to be a gentle teasing from Tara, but you had only gotten better and better at deflecting the longer you were around her. "You'd be surprised, actually. That was super pretty. That was the prettiest you've ever been." Mindy snorted next to Tara.

Tara glared at you, unappreciatively. "And you're pretty when you do not speak."

"I'm pretty all the time, Tara," you mockingly shook your head. "And you think I'm joking. Find yourself a girl who looks nice covered in sweat, with her hair going everywhere, and puking in the toilet. That's my girlfriend."

"You're such a dick," Tara scoffed, but you could tell part of her was stifling a laugh. It was funny to her too, and you both had laughed at it together for days, afterwards.

If anything, it had gotten easier and easier, to act like the both of you were actually dating. You weren't too sure why, maybe Tara had become less annoying, or you had become less annoyed by her, but you had definitely at least become a better actor. That's what it was, after all. "Oh, also," she continued.

"Yeah?"

"Someone tried to call your phone, while you were sleeping. I think it was your dad."

You frowned. "You didn't pick up, right?"

"No," Tara said, shaking her head. Then she paused. She dropped her voice to speak just to you, guarding the conversation from Mindy and Ethan. "Do you and him not get along?"

You shrugged. "Eh. He was probably just checking in. We have a fine relationship." It wasn't true but it was an easy lie, that rolled off the tongue like nothing. He had already called twice, that day, and you knew why.

"Seriously, though," she said with a frown, looking up from her book. "You look fucking horrifying—"

"—Thanks," you said, flatly.

"—I mean, even more than normal, it's crazy—"

"—Thanks," you repeated.

"—Have you not been sleeping, or something?"

You shrugged. "I mean, I'm an architecture major, and it's midterms... so not really."

"Hm."

"What?" you asked, propping your head up on your arm. "What's the 'hm' for?"

She shrugged, trying to turn back to her textbook. "Hm, nothing."

You furrowed your eyebrows down at her. "Well, obviously the 'hm' was something, Tara." Mindy shot you a look again.

"Or it was just a hm."

“Would you two shush,” she said to you, rolling her eyes. “You bicker like an old married couple.” But you both ignored her.

"It's never just a 'hm.'"

"I say hm all the time. It's literally just a hm."

"No, it means you've got something to say but don't want to say it."

She frowned at the accusation but was obviously even more displeased that you were correct. "I was gonna suggest we go to the OBK party tonight, but maybe you should just go home and sleep. I was trying to be nice.”

You shrugged. "I won't be doing either, actually." Tonight was not the night for parties. You were somewhat grateful, that you had a legitimate excuse to busy your time, or else you would've spent even longer thinking about the dream. "I have to do homework. My final is due tomorrow."

Tara furrowed her eyebrows at you. "Wait, but I thought classes ended today."

You shook your head. "Nope. I've still got some stuff do."

"Oh," Tara frowned.

"Not all of us can have easy majors," you teased, trying to lighten the mood away from what was clearly concern.

"Hey! You chose the stupid thing," Tara shot back. "Not my fault I chose something fun." She stood up, gathering her things into a neat stack. The time was nearing for her midterm exam, and you stood up with her, grabbing her textbook to be helpful.

"Thanks," she said, then she wandered over and held out her hand. You grabbed it in yours, lacing your fingers together, just like you had practiced together.

The library was a tall building on the far side of campus from where you lived. It was a trek and a half to get there, which is partially why you had been a little annoyed, when Tara said she needed to go there. It ended up being the perfect place to fall asleep in, with the quiet signs and only a few murmurs now and again, and though it had been a less than peaceful dream, it was more than you had been getting for the past few days.

"I don't see why you can't just go without me," you shrugged, adjusting her book in your hands. "Just tell Sam I'll meet you there. Besides, Chad and Mindy are going to the same party, right?"

"Yeah, but I what if they realise you're not actually there and mention it to Sam, or something? And, I'd have to go there alone, since Chad and Mindy are going early."

"They are?"

"Yeah. Helping with set up. Mindy literally just mentioned that. Shows how much you listen to her.” She shook her head in a mocking disappointment in you.

“I was asleep, jerk.”

“I know,” she said, grinning.

You looked down to her, where she walked next to you, gently swinging your joint hands back and forth. "It's not a far walk to OBK. You could probably make it there in five minutes. It's well-lit, and—"

Tara frowned, shaking her head adamantly. "Not alone. Not without you, no way. Sam would want to see you at the door to pick me up. She'd probably hate the idea of it."

"Fair enough," you shrugged. "Find a movie at home tonight, then. Relax, or something. I'd kill to be done with this stupid project."

"What are you even making?" Tara groaned, breaking your hands to shove hers into her pockets. Actually, it was your jacket, and therefore technically your pockets too, but she had taken a liking to it, after your date. You had been less than pleased, when she asked to borrow it, considering how much the jacket meant to you, but she insisted it was assisting her to keep up the act. You figured you could part with it, at least for a little while.

"Architecture," you said with a thick layer of sarcasm. Tara rolled her eyes at you. She nudged you, and you couldn't help but laugh as her elbow pointed into your side.

"Oh, you think you're funny, huh?"

"I'm hilarious."

"You wish..." she scoffed, shaking her head.

It was a beautiful day in autumn, and the weather was soon to leave the sigh of brown leaves and rainy days and move into whispery winds and icy pavement. You didn't mind winter, but you didn't like the chills, even though it was undoubtedly what gave summer's warmth a certain sweetness. Still, nothing burned like the cold.

You walked her all the way to the door of the exam hall, stopping out front to hand her the textbook you had been carrying. You went to speak, but the moment you tried to open your mouth, your phone started ringing. You grabbed it from your pocket, sighing and declining the call, while Tara stared at you.

"Is that your dad, again?"

"No," you said. "Telemarketer."

"Right..." she said, frowning. "You're a terrible liar."

"Am I?" you challenged. You were, it was true.

"Why don't you want to talk to him?"

“I just don’t.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m asking why, (Y/n).”

"Why don't you leave it alone?" you shot, in frustration. You could see Tara's eyes narrow at your tone, and you felt a bit bad. There was the occasional reflex still, to bite each other's heads off. You weren't sure what it was about her, but something about Tara Carpenter always seemed to rile you up inside, and do the same for her with you.

"Sorry," you said, looking down at your shoes. "I just don't want to talk about it."

"That doesn't mean you have to be an asshole," Tara glared.

"Right... I'm... sorry."

Tara sighed. "I guess I'll see you next week?" She asked.

You nodded. "There'll be plenty of time after this, I just need to get this thing done."

"Okay," she nodded, failing to hide her excitement. Tara seemed to really love parties, the more and more she went to, and you were somewhat glad you could help her find something she enjoyed. It was nice to see, not that you'd ever say that to her. Doing that would absolutely result in her teasing you again, or something even more annoying.

"Good luck on your test," you said.

"Good luck on your project, babe," she said, drawing the name out.

“Now who’s hilarious,” you said with an eye roll. Tara winked at you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Me.”

===+++===

It seemed you were having no good luck on it whatsoever, actually. Laid out in front of you was all of your materials, in a messy pile of cut-out pieces and foam boards that were there, sure, but not likely to just jump together and put itself together on its own.

The clock had already ticked away to 12:33 in the morning, and your design was barely finalised to where you could get to work and finish quickly. All of the other students had left at a much more reasonable hour, and it left you standing at your table alone, quietly working to classical music in the empty modelling lab.

At this rate, you could be here for another two or three hours, and the project was due at eight. You were sluggish, slowly working through the plans you had set out days ago and working through the kinks.

Every few minutes, when you stopped for even a second, the dream seemed to rush back to the forefront of your brain. Your mother had been the one to call, that evening while you were eating a poor excuse of a dinner, and you had declined that call just like you had declined all the rest.

You were hunched over your work, probably unhealthily so, with your face buried in your iPad, hastily throwing out sketches of the various shapes. You were settling on a design that would have to do, heading for the woodcutter, when you heard a noise.

It resembled a door shutting, and you froze right where you were. "Greg?" you called out. There was no one else in the building except for you and Greg, at his usual security post, and you waited with bated breath for him to return your call.

But there was no response, and all you could hear was the sounds of classical music gently floating in the background. Usually, it set you at ease while you worked through whatever you were doing in the lab, but now all it did was raise your heart rate to match the increasing tempo. It was completely dark, except for the overhead light above you, which illuminated the table you were working at and a few of the stainless steel cabinets that held tools and supplies.

Then, off to the side, you heard a rolling. An odd, wooden rolling, slowly drifting towards you. On the ground was a pencil, gently pushed towards you, playfully rolling as if perfectly in front of your toes. You hopped to your feet. "Hello?" you called, squinting in the dim light, in case anyone else was there. "Is anyone there?" you called out again. "Greg?"

Now you could really feel the thumping of your heart. The modelling lab had always been creepy late at night, but this was a new level of unease. It was as if someone was watching you, playing with their food, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat. "Is someone there?" you said to the rest of the room.

"Hey!" said a voice, and you jumped what felt like five feet into the air.

"Fuck!" you shouted, spinning around and seeing Tara behind you. She jumped at your reaction, raising her hands up. In one of them was a tray with two coffees on it. “You scared me!”

"Woah, woah, are you okay?" she asked, face etched with concern. She walked towards you slowly, and you put your hands on the edge of the table, trying to calm yourself.

"Don't just sneak up on me like that, dude," you glared at her.

"I literally didn't, I fucking announced myself, loud as can be," Tara said, rolling her eyes at you. Then, it melded into concern. "How long have you been here?" she asked, looking around the place and its emptiness.

"Since I left you at your test," you shrugged. "How'd it go by the way?" Tara's eyebrows furrowed, ignoring your question instead for one of her own.

"Did you at least eat dinner, or something?"

"Yeah," you nodded.

"Good."

“Yeah…,” you trailed off, turning back to your work. “How did you know where I was?"

“I asked Chad. He’s still a little snippy with me about, well, thinking we're together. Tried to tell me that if anyone would know, it would be me, and I said, yeah, that’s true, but it’s only been three months, now.”

“Well,” you said, gesturing around to the lab. “This is the modelling lab.” You were a bit of a nerd about the whole place, showing it off like it was your cool superhero lair.

“I know,” Tara mocked. “I saw it on the giant sign above the front door.”

“Ha ha. Does Sam know that you’re here?” You asked, grabbing your pen and resuming your work while you continued to talk to Tara. She plopped herself down on the edge of the table, letting her feet swing.

She looked a bit sheepish at the question. “Uh… no.”

“You know she’ll kill me like she did that one time, if you’re not home when she wakes up,” you frowned, wandering over to the supplies and grabbing out a box cutter to help trim the pieces you needed.

Tara nodded. “I know. But I snuck out, so I’ll sneak back in.”

You turned back around to reply, maybe say something stupid, but you had to stop yourself from laughing, when you saw her legs hanging off the counter and not reaching the ground.

“What?” Tara asked, furrowing her eyebrows. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head and returning to the table. “…Dwarf.”

“Hey!” she said, smacking you on the arm. “I brought you coffee, don’t make me take it back.”

“That’s true,” you frowned, weighing your options. “Guess I can’t make fun of you; you brought me caffeine.”

“That’s more like it."

You worked in silence for a few minutes, feeling Tara watch your every movement. It was harder to work, under her scrutiny, but you were grateful that she was there. It wasn’t lonely in there, any more. A few months ago, you would’ve hated her guts for sitting around while you attempted to work. But not with Tara anymore. Not on that day.

“This might be an all-nighter,” you warned, sending her a small smile as you sliced a piece of foam in half and went to work to attach it to your board.

“Fine with me,” Tara shrugged. She just continued to watch you, in a calm silence. “Actually, I have beef with you,” she hummed.

You laughed, looking up while you secured the base with glue. “Why’s that, Tara?”

“You got that song, stuck in my head.”

“Which one?” You asked.

“The one you sang for me. I found it online.”

“Which one?” you teased, smiling again. Your face was tired and the smile certainly didn’t help, but you couldn’t help the newfound peace washing over you again. You had completely forgotten the weird happening from earlier.

“You know, don’t play dumb.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I really don’t know.”

“You literally do,” Tara scoffed.

“Sing a little bit. Refresh my memory.”

“Nuh uh,” she said, crossing her arms. “This is a trap.”

“It isn’t,” you insisted, sticking your pinky out to her. “Swear.”

She wrapped it in her own, rolling her eyes. She definitely knew it was, but she obliged anyway. “If you need a friend, don’t look to a strangerrr. You know in the end,” her voice broke on the low note like yours did, and you laughed while heat rose to her cheeks. “I’ll always be thereeee.”

“And when you’re in doubt,” you sang back to her, in between laughs. “And when you’re in dangerrr.” You both were tone deaf and the rendition was awful, but the mood in the lab was getting lighter and lighter the longer you were together.

“Take a look all around,” Tara sang, coming back in. “And I’ll be there.”

It was impossible not to laugh at how bad it was on both sides, and you grinned at her toothily, before turning back to your work. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re welcome, idiot,” she teased, nudging you in the side again.

===+++===

You went back to working on your model, finishing the first floor in about an hour. You and Tara occasionally talked now and again, but mostly she just watched you while you worked. “Why are you doing this all tonight?” she asked.

“Uh…” you stuttered. “I didn’t have time the past couple weeks…cause of… well, you.”

She shot up to her feet, mouth dropping open. “Why the hell didn’t you say no to me?! I didn’t know you had all this to do.”

You shrugged. “I never mentioned it. Plus, you were having fun. I’m glad someone was enjoying themselves.”

“Oh…” she said, and it sounded small.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“…Nothing."

“It’s fine, Tar. Seriously.” She blinked at you.

“Tar?” she asked, looking amused.

You looked up from your work, feeling the change in the atmosphere. “What?”

“I don’t know, you’ve just never used the nickname for me, before.”

“Yeah, I guess not. Is it weird?”

“Well… no. I kind of like it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she agreed, nodding a little. “My mom was the one who gave me the nickname Tar. Haven’t spoken to her in a little while, though.”

“Do you still miss her?” you asked, glueing your second story onto the base successfully.

“Sometimes…” she trailed off, staring out at the pitch black night through the window that hung over your workspace. "She calls me once in a while."

"Do you answer?" you asked.

"No," she admitted. "It's usually about Woodsboro. I gave up on her a few months ago, but she still calls sometimes about the town."

"You never talk about it..." you comment, trailing off with a hand on the back of your neck. "You don't have to, if you don't want to." You leaned back against the table with a curiosity, watching her face move as she struggled to answer.

"Well... it's cause I don't want to that I don't talk about it. You know how people say that shit about manifesting happiness?" you nodded, knowing what she was talking about. "Well, I keep saying I'm fine, and I'm moving on, but it just keeps following me everywhere. It's like this chronic cough I can't shake. This constant thing. No matter how much I run, it's always there. People don't see me as anything but one of the survivors."

You swallowed, feeling her words hit you. "I know what you mean." Tara's eyes snapped down to yours, but when you didn't volunteer more information, she sighed.

You frowned, turning yourself back to your work and hunching over, so she wouldn’t see the heat rising to your cheeks. “I, uh… I listened to that song you said you liked, too.”

“You did?” she asked, lighting up at the mention of it.

“Yeah… added it to my playlist… so…”

“So…” Tara laughed, amused by your awkwardness. It was somehow less awkward when you hated each other. The fact you could tolerate each other now was unusual but not unpleasant, and you still found yourself grappling with how pretty Tara’s eyes looked in lamplight. "If I get a nickname, you absolutely have to have one too."

You scoffed. "That's not at all what that means."

"You had to have had one at some point."

"No, I haven't had one," you said.

"Liar!" Tara said with a giggle, pointing at you with her finger. "You're so bad at lying it's remarkable. Now spill. What is it?"

"I'm not lying!" you insisted, but now you were laughing and it was even less convincing.

"C'mon, promise I won't say it in public�� unless it's really bad."

You stared at her for a moment, when she clasped her hands together in a begging plea.

"Please?"

"No," you shook your head.

"Please?"

"Nope."

"Pleaseeee?"

"Fine," you sighed. "My family, they used to call me Duck."

"Duck?" She asked, leaning back to look at you as if the nickname would re-contextualise your entire appearance. "Where'd that come from?"

"It's dumb. I used to wear this yellow raincoat when it was storming outside and these orange booties, so my little brother Mitchie saw me, when he was like five or six, and said I was a Duck. And so I was Duck."

She smiled at you, genuinely pleased with the explanation. "That's adorable. Where is Mitchie, tonight?"

You opened your mouth but shut it. Then, you opened it again. "Probably watching cartoons, or something. Back in Nebraska." (A/N: my ass genuinely did not know that was a U.S. state until right now)

You couldn't tell her that today was the day he had died, several years ago. That a year or two before that had happened, Calvin had gone, and a few months before that, Tomas and Alisha had passed too. That Peter had gotten sick, or that Miranda had gone missing before any of that mess had happened. That you were the only one left.

It was a bad lie, and probably one you would regret later, but it was one you ushered past, and Tara didn't seem to pick up on. From one cursed person to another, you figured it was probably best that you keep your own curse to yourself. It's part of what had made you hate Tara so much at first. She walked around knowing her days were likely numbered, so carefree and careless. And then there was you, you who was so careful in order to keep living.

But you couldn't resent her for that. It had melted away with seeing the Tara underneath. The real, beautiful Tara underneath.

"Duck is good, though. I'll bring it out when I want to embarrass you," Tara smiled, inching closer on the table.

"Yeah?" you grinned back at her, standing up to gently tap against the glue. It was set, and your model was finally finished at 4:42 in the morning. Tara leaned close, watching the glue with her own eyes, cheek almost up against yours in curiosity.

You finished the thing, looking over at her and her large, warm brown eyes, staring at the model you had made with so much curiosity and genuine interest. Tara hadn't lifted a finger to help, but you couldn't help but feel like it was partially hers.

You went to pull back but found your face turning towards hers, looking at each other for a long moment. Your eyes lingered on the slope of her nose, down to the curvature of her soft lips, turned up in the corners like Tara always did when she smiled. They looked so soft, and before you knew what was happening, you could feel Tara's hands coming up to the sides of your face, thumbs gently stroking against the skin there.

You couldn't breathe, feeling the warmth of the pads of her fingers on your face and the faint brush of her breath upon your nose. "Tara," you whispered. The pull was magnetic, and just as you were about to say to hell with it all, her phone began to vibrate in her pocket, and you both leapt apart from each other.

You wandered a few feet away, trying to seem busy while she answered it. You could feel Tara watching you while she spoke on the phone, so you did your best to hide the blush that was certainly spread wide across your cheeks.

This was the very girl you had spent the past several months hating. You suddenly felt dizzy, like the world would slip out from under your feet. Tara, the very same annoying girl who had pestered with you and bickered with you. The one who had so much more to her that what you had ever thought possible. The one who drew you in. The one in search of a hook up, for which you were only the decoy. You cleared your throat, whipping around when you heard Tara say "What?!"

"What's wrong?" you asked. "What's going on?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking up at you like she was about to cry. "They're questioning Sam again. They think Ghostface is back."

===+++===

DUN DUN DUNNNNNN anyways my ass is going to bed now. also i do not recommend anyone lie to someone they're interested in about who they are, ESPECIALLY an attempted murder victim

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit)

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 5,9K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: This fic has some special hold on me, it made me sit down by the piano this week. Also, I've committed a playlist, you can check it out on Spotify. Super thanks as usual to @mithrava for consulting on regency historical accuracy and to @rennethen who beta reads!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You hate to admit it, but you do anticipate. The last time you had awaited something with such feeling was when your mother departed to tend to your ailing aunt—or rather, to command her staff when she could no longer do so—and you and your sisters had run barefoot through the house, singing The Unfortunate Rake at the top of your lungs, much to your father’s amusement.

Now, dressed and polished from head to toe by your ever-diligent Peggy—though not without a spirited debate regarding the appropriate amount of rouge upon your cheeks—you allow yourself to drift into thought, chin propped upon your hand as you gaze wistfully at the passing landscape through the carriage window.

"Why do you look as though you are being led to the gallows?" comes the voice of your sister—the middle one. You glance up to find her brows lifted almost to her hairline and your mother wearing a look of mild reproach. "Should you not be overjoyed?"

"I am quite overjoyed, Kitty, but I thank you for your concern," you reply flatly, rolling your eyes.

Kitty is, in every way, the daughter your mother wishes you to be. Her sole ambition in life is to marry well and raise a brood of children. You find it all terribly dull, though you suspect something within her will change when she encounters her first true disappointment.

Tess, the youngest, is far more like you. She has never betrayed your confidences to Mother. She sneaks you sweetmeats from the kitchen at bedtime, insists you look lovelier with your hair unpinned, and entrusts you with her dearest secrets, knowing they are safe in your keeping. It is for this very reason that she remained behind today, occupied with the practice of her calligraphy under her lady’s maid’s supervision.

"It would not pain you to smile, my dear," your mother remarks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. A deception, you suspect.

Nevertheless, you indulge her. You summon your most winsome smile and compose yourself in your seat, all the while wondering—anticipating—what it is that Viktor wishes to say to you in private.

When the carriage draws to a halt, he is already there. Viktor stands waiting with his weight shifted to one side, the tip of his cane pressed lightly against the ground. The early afternoon light casts a warm glow over him, accentuating the deep brown of his coat—a fine, if somewhat modest piece, its cut more practical than fashionable. A dark waistcoat lies beneath, fitted neatly over his frame, with a cravat tied in a manner that suggests efficiency rather than vanity. His hair resists perfect order, a few loose strands falling across his forehead despite his apparent effort to tame them.

There is something almost careless about his appearance, yet not in a way that suggests a lack of pride. Rather, it is as if he simply does not concern himself with the rigid expectations of refinement. His gloves are well-worn, the leather of his cane handle bears the mark of frequent use, and yet—despite all this—he cuts a striking figure. Perhaps it is the way he carries himself, or the sharp focus of his gaze as he watches your approach. Handsome, undeniably so, but with a presence that unsettles as much as it intrigues.

And you find yourself grateful for the abhorrent amount of blush Peggy has pressed into your cheeks—at least you can blame the warmth rising there on that. Even more so when he grants you a fleeting glance and smiles to himself before turning to your mother.

“My Lady, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says, bowing his head with practiced grace.

She responds with a measured nod, her expression unreadable. “Mister Viktor.”

Next, he turns to Kitty, who is already smiling prettily, her hands clasped before her. “Miss Catherine,” he greets, offering a slight bow.

Kitty dips into a shallow curtsey, her tone light. “Mister Viktor, I trust you are well?”

“As well as one can be, Miss,” he replies smoothly before his gaze finally lands on you. It is fleeting—just a moment longer than propriety demands—yet enough to send a thrill through you.

“Miss,” he murmurs at last, bowing once more.

You respond with a curtsy, keeping your chin high despite the quickened beat of your pulse. Acutely aware of how desperately the two halves of you claw at each other within your chest you clench your jaw and force yourself to blink.

Your mother clears her throat. “Shall we proceed?”

Viktor is silent for a moment, his gaze flickers between you and the path ahead, considering something. Then, with measured care, he speaks. “Ladies, might I request a moment alone with my future wife? I should like the opportunity to better acquaint myself with her.”

Your mother’s expression does not shift at once. Instead, she regards him with a pensive air, weighing the request. Then, just as swiftly, her features settle into the familiar, practiced smile of social grace.

“I see no objection, sir.” She turns to you, levelling you with an unreadable look. “I trust you will conduct yourself with decorum.”

You incline your head. “Of course, Maman.”

Viktor nods in gratitude before turning his attention back to you. With an ease that seems entirely natural to him—but utterly foreign to you—he extends his arm. You hesitate only for a heartbeat before slipping your hand through, the warmth of his sleeve pressing against your palm.

At once, your mind replays the moment in the music room—the ghost of his touch at your forearms as he steadied you when you stumbled. The surprise of it. The quiet strength in his grasp. The way you had looked at one another for a long time before pulling away.

Now, as your fingers rest against his sleeve, you are keenly aware of the space between you, and the fact that—however slight—he has just closed it once more.

You march forward leisurely and even though you can’t see your mother and sister trotting behind you, you wait for a long moment before coming up with something to say. You wait for so long, in fact, that Viktor beats you to it.

“How have you been?” he asks softly, your name following the question with an intimacy that startles you.

Your fingers twitch against the fabric of your glove, and you glance at him sidelong. “Well enough,” you reply, though your voice is not as steady as you wish it to be.

“Any new rebellious music you have come across?”

“Ah, that,” you chuckle, though you scowl inwardly at how flustered the sound is. “Sadly, I have had no opportunity to evade my mother’s hound-like hearing abilities. So, only little dancing tunes for my sisters—nothing of true note.”

“A pity,” he muses. “I quite enjoyed the Sonata.” His tone is contemplative, but there is in intention hidden not that too well underneath it. “And yet,” he continues after a beat, “it is for that very reason I asked to meet you.”

You arch a brow, affecting nonchalance despite the way your heartbeat betrays you. “Oh? Are you also a great admirer of music deemed unsuitable for proper ladies?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, the humour in his tone fleeting. “But I do have another, more pressing motive—if you do not mind me speaking plainly.”

“By all means,” you say, tilting your head towards him. “Do tell, Viktor.”

He gestures with his cane, the subtle drawing your attention to the promenade before you. Couples walk in neat little pairs, each shadowed by their requisite chaperone, the ritual of courtship unfolding before you like a well-rehearsed performance.

“The endless hunt,” he murmurs. “Men trailing after their prey under the pretence of romance.”

You huff a small laugh. “Why do you presume it is only men who do the hunting? Perhaps you are the deer, and simply unaware of it.”

Viktor glances at you then, his lips curving in an intrigued smile. “An interesting proposition.” His gaze lingers, thoughtful, before flickering back ahead. “I am, however, quite aware that this—” he inclines his head towards the scene before you—“is not the future I would have chosen for myself.”

His fingers tighten briefly on the handle of his cane. “Which is why I come to you with an offer of compromise.”

Your brows lift. “A compromise?”

“A contract,” he corrects. “Between us, and no one else.”

Your stomach tightens, though with what, you are uncertain. “And what, pray, would this contract entail?”

“Freedom,” he answers simply. “As much as may be found within the gilded cage we are about to share—for better or for worse.”

You glance up at him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, but say nothing.

Viktor exhales through his nose, as if steeling himself. “I would not ask you to be anything other than what you are. You may conduct yourself as you wish—the clothes you wear, the music you play, the company you keep…” He pauses, and you feel, rather than see, his eyes on you. “So long as I am afforded the same courtesy.”

A curious sensation unfurls within you, slow and uncertain. A flutter—a fervour, almost—on one hand. Yet on the other, something sinks deep and remains suspended in an inertia for which you cannot place the cause.

Your fingers, still lightly curled around his arm, shift almost imperceptibly, your gloved fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist where his cuff has shifted ever so slightly.

Viktor stills.

His step does not falter, nor does he pull away, but for the smallest fraction of a moment, you feel it—a sharp, fleeting pause, as though you have startled him.

You tilt your chin slightly, affecting an air of curiosity. “And why,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “would you offer such a thing to me?”

He hums, the sound low. “You play your part very well,” he admits. “Colour me impressed. But I see that you are not wholly content, and I do not wish to make you miserable.”

His eyes flick once more to the couples ahead, his expression unreadable. “This,” he says, his voice measured, “has never been my desire. And I suspect it has never been yours.”

“You did not jest about speaking plainly,” you remark, though there is a note of something in your voice—something faintly wistful coming from an unknown place you are not certain you wish to explore.

You suppose you ought to be offended—particularly by such a frank allowance for debauchery (and the expectation of reciprocation on his part). Yet what strikes you most is not the proposition itself, but rather his own unwillingness to partake in this experiment, despite claiming the title of a man of science.

He turns to you at once, his brow drawing together. “Forgive me. Have I offended? That was not my intent.”

You shake your head, exhaling softly before tilting your gaze up at him. Unable to give him the answer just yet. Unable to lock that part away. “Which one are you?” you ask, fixing your gaze on promenading couples.

Viktor only looks at you, his head tilts slightly in your direction and you can feel his breath ghosting around your temple.

“A deer,” you continue, “or a man?”

His lips curve, though his expression remains thoughtful. “A man, undoubtedly,” he says. “But my deer is not a woman to be conquered, nor wealth to be obtained. Progress only—science.”

You consider that for a moment before asking, “And which one do you think I am?”

Viktor studies you then, a searching sort of scrutiny in his gaze. “I think,” he begins, then pauses, as if weighing his words. “A man, as well. You simply do not yet know what it is you are hunting.”

You swallow and let your face display honesty for a flicker of a second. A tremendous feeling of being watched and seen by someone who barely knows you makes you both grow and shrink—one part of you laps at it, eager and hungry, the other, shy and defeated, steps back cradling her heart in her hands.

A pause, then—

“I accept your offer, Viktor.”

***

Days pass as you mull over the new terms of your arrangement, the weight of it settling upon you like an ill-fitted gown. The household is abuzz with the nonsensical pressures of wedding preparations—your mother and sisters significantly more enthused than you.

You find yourself torn between the promise of freedom and the threat of imprisonment, for what Viktor has proposed holds both in equal measure—a double-edged sword poised to cut you both.

Each of his conditions is something you never dared to dream of, having long resigned yourself to the certainty that you would never marry, certainly not for love. That naïve conviction held firm until your mother—ever pragmatic—brought you back to earth. In time, you had learned to accept your fate, to dream, however cautiously, of a husband who might tolerate your eccentricities, just as your father does. And perhaps, if fortune were kind, one who might even grow to love you, as your father so clearly loves your mother.

But with Viktor’s proposition, such hopes dwindle by the day. The reality that awaits you is one in which you must learn to be content with the love you can provide for yourself.

He comes and goes, paying you little visits, bringing flowers for your mother and, on occasion, Jayce for your father. And once, Jayce brings his mother, and the meeting nearly rends you in two—to witness what mothers can be. How gentle they can be, how kind. Even to a child not their own. Ximena Talis holds only love for Viktor in her heart; it seeps through her eyes, through the tenderness of her hands when she pats his back and smooths his cheek, telling him how proud she is.

A fraction of this kindness reaches you when she takes your hand and tells you what a good boy he is. How sensitive and clever. And it wounds you deeply to see how enraptured she is by the idea of Viktor finding someone who will love him as she and Jayce do—blissfully unaware of the pusillanimous little mercy he has devised to ensure the success of your sham.

Yet you do find excitement, somewhere within you. At the thought of the music you will play freely, at the great fire you will make to burn the tighter half of your short stays (you must keep some for when your mother visits), at the hairpins that will go conveniently missing on the way to your new house, and the books you will read lying in the grass. It is not all so miserable.

It comes and fades, just as Viktor drifts in and out of your thoughts, lingering in the late evening hours when your night-bound self cannot cease conjuring visions of what your life will be in mere days. After many nights spent ruminating, you resolve at last that such sentiments are not worth troubling your heart over. You must stand by your acceptance of Viktor’s offer.

So you endure the dress fittings, the flower selections, and the cake tastings that your mother drags you to, a sad smile fixed upon your face, telling yourself it will all be over soon. And indeed, when the day of your imprisonment— which is also the day of your release—arrives, you find the skin of your face intolerably tight with powder and a smile affixed there, despite the wetness lingering beneath your eyelids.

You regard yourself in the mirror, refusing to let nerves take hold of you. It is only last-minute jitters, you tell yourself, even as the ultimate version of your daylight self stares back—her hands clasped into fists, her hair arranged into the most meticulous bun you have ever seen, her breasts bound by the most vile short stay you have ever had the misfortune to wear. All of it wrapped in a blue dress, a fabric of your choosing—the only compromise your mother allowed in the preparations.

Your mother has left the room to inform your father that you will soon depart for the church, while your sisters flit about you, giggling and teasing about how you will step before the altar a child and leave a woman grown. The words tighten your chest, and you wave them off with a sharp breath.

"Please, it is hard enough to breathe without all of you crowding me."

"Are you going to bring shame upon Maman now? See, Tess? We should have placed our wager while there was still time," Kitty jests, but you find no laughter within you. Tess only frowns, visibly troubled, as a child might be when confronted with emotions beyond her understanding—or perhaps because she understands them all too well.

"I will fetch Maman," she says, watching the colour drain from your face despite the rouge upon your cheeks.

"No—" you snap, grasping her shoulder firmly. "I need Peggy. Tess, I beg of you."

Tess nods solemnly, throwing Kitty a warning look as severe as a seven-year-old can muster. Kitty huffs but follows her out, leaving you alone with your trembling hands and a heart that pounds so furiously it makes your chest feel even tighter. Before you can give in to the swooning sensation creeping up your spine, the door creaks open once more, and Peggy peeks inside, brow furrowed in concern.

"Everything all right, Miss?"

"No. Peggy, no," you cry, barely managing to keep your voice from breaking. Your eyes burn, but you force them wide, desperate to keep the tears from spilling and ruining the painstaking work of rouge and powder. "Why do I feel so wretched? It is as though something inside me has died."

Peggy steps further in, hands hovering uncertainly at her sides. "Oh, Miss, whatever has happened?"

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you might will away the frantic mess of thoughts swarming inside it. "I am such a fool. I was so certain I could go through with this, and I know there is no undoing it, but—" A shuddering breath, a helpless glance at your reflection. "I was ready to simply be a wife, to accept my place, but then he came along, and I, like a simpleton, began to hope. I let myself want."

Peggy's face softens, though hesitation lingers in her posture. "Oh, my dear child… but you shall be a wife, and I daresay you shall be happy."

You let out a brittle laugh, one that holds no mirth. "I shall not. I shall not be loved, nor truly known. I shall live in a grand house beside a husband who has no wish to understand me. I shall grow old in loneliness, without affection, without companionship."

Peggy presses her lips together, as if choosing her words with great care. "And how, pray, can you be so certain?"

You inhale sharply, fingers curling into the folds of your skirts. "Because he told me so. He offered me terms, a bargain. I—foolishly proud—accepted." The confession tumbles from your lips in a rush, bitter and breathless. "A life in which I may do as I please, so long as he is granted the same. No expectations, no obligations. Not in our conduct, nor our company, nor even the way we dress. And you—" Your voice falters, the words lodging in your throat. "You will not even be there to comfort me."

For a moment, Peggy says nothing, only watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, gently, she reaches for your hands, pressing them between her own. When she speaks again, it is not with formality, but with quiet insistence. She speaks your name.

"He would be a fool not to see you for what you are. And trust me when I say this—" She squeezes your hands, warmth and certainty in her grasp. "To fall in love with you takes mere seconds."

"It has already been seconds since we met," you mutter helplessly, sniffing as your brows furrow.

"People make strange decisions when they are afraid," she says with a soft, knowing smile. "And in my experience, men are the easiest creatures to spook."

A tear escapes the prison of your lashes, and before Peggy can react, you startle her with an embrace. She hesitates for only a moment before wrapping her arms around you, and you cannot remember the last time you were held with such tenderness.

Then, with gentle hands, she tilts your chin up and says, "Come now, let us put you back to rights before your lady mother starts to sulk, hmm?"

Peggy sets to work with quiet efficiency, dabbing away stray tears with the gentlest touch, mindful not to smudge the careful artistry upon your face. She smooths her thumbs over your cheeks, fixing the powdered rouge, then reaches for a fresh handkerchief to blot any lingering dampness. With delicate hands, she adjusts the loosened strands of your hair, tucking them back into place with a precision that belies her station. The soft murmurs of reassurance she offers are meant to soothe, yet they do little to quell the tight knot in your chest. You watch her through the mirror, unblinking, as she works—fast, methodical—restoring you to the poised young lady your mother expects to see walk down the aisle. When she finally steps back, her eyes sweep over you with a quiet sort of pride, as if she has mended something far greater than a few ruined curls and a streak of moisture on your cheek.

The remainder of the time slips past in a haze, your body moving through each step as though it belongs to someone else. Your sisters return, chattering brightly, their excitement so stark against the hush in your own mind that it feels almost deafening. Your mother arrives moments later, beaming, and claps her hands together at the sight of you, exclaiming over your appearance without noticing the effort it took to make you look so flawless. You offer her a small, obedient smile, a perfect replica of the one you have worn for weeks now and allow yourself to be ushered out the door. The carriage ride is a blur of voices and silk rustling around you, the weight of expectation pressing against your skin like the stay laced too tightly around your ribs. By the time you arrive at the church, you are exactly as you ought to be—composed, lovely, and utterly unreadable.

The heavy church doors are pulled open before you, and a hush falls over the gathered assembly. The murmur of conversation, the rustle of clothing, even the faintest shifting of feet upon stone—everything stills as you step into the dim, vaulted space. The scent of aged wood and melting wax mingles with the perfume of fresh flowers lining the pews, a sickly-sweet contrast to the sharp awareness tightening your chest.

Light filters through the tall, stained-glass windows, dappling the aisle in shifting colours as you take your first step forward. Your father’s arm is steady beneath your fingertips, a firm anchor, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. Your gaze lifts, drawn forward, past the unfamiliar sea of faces, past the faint blur of expectation, to the one person who matters in this moment.

Viktor stands at the altar, rigid as a statue, his hands clasped before him. He is dressed finely—your mother’s doing, no doubt—but the cut of his coat, the carefully pressed folds of his cravat, feel like a costume rather than something truly belonging to him. His face is unreadable at first, his expression schooled into an impassive mask, but then—then his eyes meet yours.

Something flickers there. A hesitation, barely perceptible. The faintest parting of his lips, as if he might speak if the weight of the room did not demand silence. His gaze drags over you, slow and searching, taking in the meticulous artistry of your appearance, the delicate lace framing your face, the blue silk wrapped about you like a second skin. You expect nothing from him, and yet—his fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting some impulse even he does not understand.

And then, just as quickly, it is gone. He schools his features once more, his posture remains stiff, and whatever moment had passed between you vanishes into the hush of the church.

The priest turns to Viktor first.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

A silence, brief yet all-encompassing, stretches across the nave. Viktor’s gaze remains steady, locked upon yours as he answers, his voice even, assured and the words strike you with reverence you did not suspect him to have.

“I will.”

A breath catches in your throat.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” The priest turns to you.

You part your lips, but for a moment, no sound emerges. It is not hesitation, not truly—it is the finality of it, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down upon your ribcage. You feel Viktor’s gaze on you, unwavering and waiting.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palm.

“I will.”

The words leave you quieter than intended, but they are spoken. A shift of movement behind you—a sigh, perhaps your mother’s—reaches your ears, but it is distant, inconsequential now.

The priest nods, satisfied, and gestures for your hand.

Viktor steps forward, extending his hand to you, palm open. Your fingers feel unsteady as you place them in his, the warmth of his skin seeping through your glove into the coldness of your skin. He holds your hand with gentle firmness, neither possessive nor hesitant—simply assured.

He speaks first, his voice steady, the words carried by the hush of the chapel.

“I, Viktor, take thee to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting motion, barely noticeable.

It is your turn. You inhale, the breath unsteady, and repeat the vow, your voice carrying a note of quiet conviction.

“I,” you start, then speak your name quietly, “take thee, Viktor, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

As the final words leave your lips, Viktor’s grip remains unwavering and warm. The rector nods and Jayce steps forward, placing a golden band into Viktor’s open palm, while his eyes remain fixed strictly on yours.

He slides it onto your finger slowly, its weight featherlight and yet impossibly heavy. There is finality in it, a truth that cannot be undone, and when you lift your gaze, Viktor is still watching you, his lids hooded. His mouth parts, and he speaks the finals words softly, almost intimately and for a moment you feel like it’s only you and him, holding hands in this vast, echoing space.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship,” he recites between breaths, the honesty beneath it rips through your chest. You wonder if it’s at all possible for this man to be so rehearsed that he can proclaim his worship to you in such a tone, while feeling none of it. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Before you can breathe, the priest proclaims, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

And so it is, final and done, when your heart hammers in your ears as you sign yet another contract—the Register—to bind you not only in the holy matrimony, but also in the legal one. The rest is a blur, as people outside the church whistle and clap upon your emergence and the carriage takes you all back to your house for the reception.

And you brace through it as your day self—bright, charming, and polite. Thanking your guests and being the picture-perfect bride, making your mother and father proud. You smile until your cheeks ache, laugh when it is expected, and accept well-wishes with a gracious nod.

Ximena Talis is among the many to take your hands in hers, her warmth enveloping you like the motherly embrace you once yearned for. “My dear, you are radiant,” she says, pressing your fingers gently. “Viktor is fortunate beyond measure. I have always known he would find someone exceptional.”

The words settle in your chest like lead. You murmur a soft “Thank you, my lady,” but the sentiment stings. Fortunate? Perhaps, but not in the way she imagines. You wish you could believe in the same happiness she does.

Across the room, Viktor lingers at the edge of the gathering, ever the observer. His gaze flickers towards you, assessing. He sees the perfect illusion—the grace, the charm—but does he notice the way your hands tighten in your lap when no one is watching? The way your laughter sounds hollow?

At last, he steps close enough that only you can hear him. “You do not seem out of place,” he remarks idly, reaching for a cup of tea.

You do not look at him as you reply. “Neither do you.”

He hums, tilting cup as if he were looking for an answer within it. “I expected you to be more resistant.”

“I have learnt when resistance is futile,” you answer smoothly, placing your empty cup on a passing tray. “And you?”

He glances at you, just once, before bringing his glass to his lips. “I have always known how to adapt.”

A small smile curls at the edge of your mouth, just enough to be seen by those watching, just enough to be mistaken for joy. “Then we are well-matched indeed.”

His lips quirk, as if in amusement. But he says nothing more. Instead, he lingers close enough so that the heat of his body transmits to yours, and unlike you, Viktor cannot blame his reddened cheeks on powder blush.

You try to read anything within his expression, but the only thing that gives him away is the almost imperceptible tightness of his jaw.

Before you decide what to make of it, you are pulled back to your bridal duties—an obligatory dance with your father comes first.

He observes you all the way through it, as if trying to decipher how unhappy you are. “Know, that I have never been more proud of you,” he says, holding your hands firmly.

“And why is that? I have achieved nothing today, Papa, I merely got married,” you jest, but your father sees right through you. He breaks the rhythm of the dance to pull you into an embrace and whispers into your ear, “It’s not that you got married. It’s how you’ve done it. Of that I am proud.”

You gasp quietly and let yourself be held. It helps you to get through the rest of the rituals—dancing with uncles and other relatives, until a brief reprieve comes in a shape of Jayce. He grins down at you with a lopsided ease. “Look at you,” he teases, his voice light despite the tension that flickers beneath. “The perfect bride, the perfect wedding. You’ve even got the perfect brother-in-law.”

You let out a quiet huff, only half amused. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Jayce?”

“Wouldn’t need to if you’d just admit I’m your favourite already.”

You move through the dance with ease, though his hand tightens slightly on yours as he lowers his voice. “You’re all right?”

A pause. You should lie, as you have been all morning, but Jayce is not so easily fooled. “I will be,” you answer, quiet but honest. It is the best you can offer.

He nods once, accepting that for what it is. “If he ever gives you trouble, you know where to find me.”

It is an unnecessary promise—Viktor is not cruel—but you do not dismiss it.

As the dance concludes, you step away, your role in the festivities almost complete. Before the hour grows too late, you press a ribbon into Kitty’s palm, her eyes lighting with delight as she fastens it to her wrist. Tess is more reserved when you pull her aside, brows knit in deep thought before you even place the pearl in her hand.

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” she asks. Her fingers curl around the gift, her frown pressing deeper.

You smooth back a stray lock of her hair, forcing a smile. “Of course.” Even you are not certain how much truth sits in those words.

At last, it is time to take your leave. The final goodbyes begin, your family gathering around, and just as you think the moment has passed without incident, your uncle—already too deep in his indulgences—lifts his glass with a booming voice.

“Well then! Since they will not dance together, they must at least seal the night with a kiss!”

Laughter ripples through the guests, some echoing their agreement, others clapping their hands in delight. A glance at your mother tells you she will not intervene—this is not so improper a request that it can be denied. Your father only sighs, while Jayce grins at Viktor, clearly entertained.

There is no way out of this. You glance at Viktor, only to find him already watching you.

He does not speak, but his gaze is searching, flicking over your expression with unreadable intent. A flicker of hesitation—barely a breath—before he shifts closer.

The moment stretches unbearably thin.

Then, Viktor leans in.

The kiss is light, brief, barely more than the press of his lips against yours. It is proper in every sense, exactly what is expected. And yet—something in it snags deep within you. The warmth of him, the feather-light brush, the way his breath lingers against your skin a second too long.

Then, so soft only you can hear, Viktor murmurs against your lips—

"It’s all right."

You do not know why the words unsettle you so.

By the time you pull apart, the guests are clapping, laughing, toasting the moment as if it were nothing at all. You school your expression back into place, accept the briefest of bows from Viktor before he steps aside, and let yourself be guided forward, toward the carriage that will take you away.

[peekofhistory]

I got a few responses from my last post that people were interested in my experience learning to play/make the Guqin, so I'll add those posts in to my Hanfu posts :D

History The Guqin (古琴)is a very ancient and important instrument in Chinese history. Originally it was simply called "Qin" but later on "Qin" also became used for other instruments such as piano (gangqin/钢琴), violin (xiaotiqin/小提琴), etc. so "Gu" was added to the beginning ("Gu" means historical/very old/ancient).

The earliest form of Guqin comes from the Warring States period about 2500 years ago, although some records indicate the instrument existed even earlier. There is a saying in Chinese, "君子六艺", meaning the six skills all 'gentlemen' must learn under Confucian teachings. This included the Guqin (kind of like how everyone needs to learn English, math, science in school today).

Warrings States Guqin

Because of how the Guqin is played, there is a belief that the emotions of the player will affect their playing. In addition, those who are familiar with Guqin can listen to a piece and know the emotional state of the musician. There are many stories surrounding this instrument that has garnered it a lot of cultural and historical value to the Chinese civilization. China chose to put the famous Guqin piece, "Flowing Water"(流水) in the Voyager Golden Record sent to space by NASA in 1977 because of its cultural significance.

Styles + parts The Guqin is a slender instrument. Modern-day Guqin has 7 strings that are plucked to create sound. Above the strings is a set of 13 dots called "hui"(徽), these indicate where the left hand plays.

The instrument is made from 2 pieces of wood, the top portion has a slight upward curve that represents the Heavens (no religions connotation), and the bottom board is flat representing the Earth (historically, people though the Earth was flat). A standard Guqin is 3 "chi/尺" 6.5 "cun/寸" which is approximately 125cm, representing the 365 days of the year (this length can vary, however), and the 13 "hui/徽" represents the 13 months (of the lunar calendar).

There are many styles of Guqin, each with its own unique name. Guqin owners will sometimes name their Guqin and carve it into the bottom. It's also common for owners of famous Guqin to carve a line or two of poetry on the bottom of the Guqin. Currently, the most commonly found and classical style of Guqin is "Zhongni/仲尼" (which was also the courtesy name of Confucius, marking its significance).

Guqin with names and poetry carved into the bottom

Score Traditional Guqin score gave no indication of rhythm or tempo. It was purely a score to indicate finger positions and stroke technique. Students learned the overall rhythm of a piece from their teacher.

The Guqin score takes parts of Chinese characters to indicate which string is to be played, by which hand, using which finger, etc. Because of this, the score is called "jianzipu/减字谱" meaning simplified characters score.

Traditional Guqin score

Modern day Guqin score

How to read Guqin score Pic 1: Blue - Right hand only (散音) Orange - 6th string (六弦) Green - Right forefinger flick outwards (挑)

Pic 2: Blue - Right hand only Orange - 7th string (七弦) Green - Right forefinger flick outwards Pic 3: Blue - Left hand ring finger slide up to the 10th "hui" (dot) (无名指上十徽) Orange - 5th string (五弦) Green - Right middle finger pluck towards yourself (勾)

Pic 4: Green - Right hand pluck 2 strings at the same time (拨) Orange - 7th and 6th strings (七弦，六弦) Blue - Left thumb slide up to 7.6 "hui" on the 7th string, no left hand for 6th string

Pic 5: Green - Right hand flight+pluck 2 strings at same time (小撮) Orange - 7th and 5th strings (七弦，五弦) Blue - Left thumb press down 7th string at 9th "hui", no left hand for 5th string

My brain is a giant ball of confusion the first dozen times I play a a section as it tries to figure out all this information and relay it to my fingers xDD

Sound There are 3 types of sounds students learn when playing the Guqin:

1) Sanyin (散音) Only the right hand is used to pluck/flick the string

2) Fanyin (泛音) The right hand plucks/flicks the string while the left hand gently taps the string at the indicated "hui (徽)"

3) Anyin/Zouyin (按音/走音) The right hand plucks/flicks the string while the left hand presses down the string at the indicated "hui". To make the sound smoother, the string is pressed down slightly above/below the hui then slides up/down the string to the indicated hui creating a very unique sound to the Guqin

Guqin's tone tends to be in the lower range, its pieces are generally slow-paced. The instrument is quite soft, historically used for personal enjoyment or played in a small gathering of close friends, and not meant for large performances. The Guqin is often played as a solo instrument, or with the Chinese flute (dizi/笛子), rather than in large orchestras as its soft sound can be easily overpowered. Today, Guqin performances use microphones for amplification.

Guqin vs. Guzheng Many people confuse the Guqin and Guzheng. The two instruments share some similarities but vary greatly in appearance and sound.

Shape: Guqin: wider at the head (right hand side) and narrows towards the feet. Guzheng: rectangular

Strings: Guqin: 7 Guzheng: 22 strings (usually)

Sound: Guqin: lower octaves (unless playing fanyin), softer, more suitable for solo playing Guzheng: higher octaves, louder, more suitable for large performances

Bridge: Guqin: near the head of the instrument, unmoveable Guzheng: usually placed diagonally mid-instrument, can be moved

In some Chinese period dramas, they will use the Guzheng to dub for Guqin because given it's louder capabilities it's easier to record (but if you're familiar with the two instruments it's easy to tell them apart by ear).

My experience with Guqin I first learned of the Guqin when I was around 8-9 years old, through a Chinese TV series called Romance of the Three Kingdoms (lol, I keep mentioning this series, but I really do love it a lot).

I purchased my first Guqin at the end of 2019, but only managed a few classes before a certain pandemic hit. Because of this, I stopped my classes (my city didn't have any Guqin teachers, I had to drive 3 hrs one way to see her and during lockdown it was just too difficult). I tried to pick it up again a few years later but failed.

Currently, on my trip in China, I came across a Guqin workshop that was offering classes on how to play and make Guqin. The tuition includes room and meals. The workshop is in the rural countryside, no shopping malls, no city chaos, and I thought this was the perfect opportunity to learn Guqin.

I've only been here for about a week but so far the experience has been wonderful. There are only 2 other students besides me (the teacher is only accepting 3 students maximum), we all live here. Upstairs is our living area (the teacher doesn't live here), we get up at 7am, eat breakfast at 8am, practice Guqin, have lunch, then make Guqin in the afternoon. Sometimes the teacher takes us to meet other Guqin teachers/makers in the area. Everyone has dozens of Qin in their residences, we literally go in, pick up and Qin, and start playing.

Yesterday, our teacher took us to a Guqin workshop on a small mountain. I later learned the mountain is actually a tomb of a duke/marquis from the Han Dynasty. I also learned people will actually make Guqin out of coffin lumber (like, grave rob a tomb, break down the coffin, and sell the wood)…so if you want to purchase a Guqin and the shop owner tells you a particular Qin is made from lumber that's a thousand years old…you should think hard about HOW they got lumber that old O.O;; Luckily for me, my teacher refuses to let coffin wood into his workshop, he says it has bad energy.

Anyway, here's a short video of my Guqin-making progress so far :D

[twinsimming]

Handful of Hobby Items Collection 🪀

The Sims 2 and The Sims 4 both have really nice variations of hobby items that we have in The Sims 3, so I decided to convert some and put them together in a hobby item collection!

The basketball hoop on the right in the first photo, the basketball court markings, and the freestanding ballet barre are from The Sims 2: FreeTime.

The basketball hoop on the left in the first photo is from The Sims 4: City Living, the piano and telescope are from The Sims 4 base game, the easel is from The Sims 4: Discover University, the training dummy is from The Sims 4: Strangerville, and the dance floor is from The Sims 4: Get Together.

The piano and one version of the dance floor require The Sims 3: Late Night and the training dummy requires The Sims 3: World Adventures to function.

The basketball hoops need the Rim Rockin’ Basketball Hoop, and the ballet barre and the other version of the dance floor need the Stiff As A Board, Light As A Feather Dance Collection from The Sims 3 Store to function.

The plastic chair in the first preview photo is a conversion by aisquaredchoco here, and the mural is a previous conversion of mine here.

Entertainment -> Sporting Goods

Super Shot Basketball: three channels | §650 |

H-O-R-S-E of course Basket Ball Hoop: three channels | §2750 |

Décor -> Rugs

Basketball Markings: one channel | §50 |

Entertainment -> Hobbies & Skills

Tickle My Ivories Grand Piano: three channels | §1415 |

Rob Russ' Happy Little Easel: two channels | §600 |

Back Pocket Observatory: three channels | §750 |

Better Barre by Deuxjoint Ltd: three channels | §200 |

B64 Training Bot: non-CAStable | §500 |

Hip to the Max Cardboard Dance Floor: one channel | §50 |

Hip to the Max Cardboard Dance Floor (Store Version): one channel | §50 |

Credit: meshes by EA, The Sims 2, The Sims 4, SimPe, Sims4Studio, TSRW, Blender, Milkshape, Photoshop, and Gimp.

Download (SFS, package) | Mirror (MEGA, package)

If you like my work, please consider tipping me on Ko-fi.

Experiencing issues with my conversions? Inbox me. Enjoy! 💙

[agoldengalaxy]

a headcanon about every gravity falls character I can think of off the top of my head:

- dipper’s chewing pen habit came from his mother, who tried to get him to stop biting his nails by handing him a pen instead. he doesn’t bite his nails anymore, but he’s uncomfortably used to the taste of ink now

- mabel learned how to knit out of spite. an adult at school told her it was probably too hard for her and she learned it all by herself out of pure rage. she can and will knit nearly 2 sweaters per week now

- stan keeps a journal to document all the things he begins to remember. sometimes he’ll be talking to ford and cut himself off mid-sentence to jump up and rush to grab his journal excitedly. he jokingly calls it journal 4

- when visiting a new city, ford decides to get a tattoo to match stan’s. finally he has a tattoo that he actually likes

- soos is BELOVED as the new mr mystery. sales are even better than when stan ran it, but he keeps that a secret from stan so as to not hurt his feelings

- along with all of the obvious stuff wendy is good at like cutting lumber and climbing trees, she also holds a world record in cup stacking

- melody is trying really hard to beat wendy’s score. they have a friendly competition. soos doesn’t understand why they can’t BOTH hold the world record. he loves them both and can’t root for either and it’s stressing him out

- once the therapism took away his arts and crafts hour, they gave bill a piano. he’s surprisingly good at jazz

- when fiddleford moves into the northwest mansion, he adopts two raccoons and one opossum from the junkyard to bring with him. he is very good at taking care of them and they adore him

- pacifica collects pokémon cards. she’s very secretive and very territorial about them. no one she battles can beat her. her favorite pokémon is drifblim

- when robbie hit puberty his hair actually started getting curly, so he straightens it every day. it is completely and utterly dead from all the heat but he keeps telling himself it’s a later problem

- gideon is coding his own website to blog his journey of becoming a better person. it’s slow-moving and frustrating but he thinks he’s…having fun??

- grenda and candy have been friends since candy moved from korea at age 6. grenda saw she was sitting alone at school and had no problem going to ask her if she liked boys. to this day candy is so grateful that grenda has always been more direct than she is

- abuelita just adores melody. she affectionately calls her mija whenever she visits

- blubs and durland have their honeymoon at disneyland. durland likes the teacups the best. they make blubs sick but he does it for him

- lazy susan’s home is full of home goods decorations like “I like cats more than people” and “autumn leaves and pumpkins please!”

- toby determined finds himself settling well into his role as bodacious t. although shandra jimenez still doesn’t like him back, she’s nicer to him now. she even introduced him to a friend of hers, whom he has taken on several dates

- mayor tyler still likes to gossip and encourage fighting whenever he can, even within his own office. he insists upon a good natured rivalry with the neighboring towns, which results in some destroyed property. his approval rating is through the roof

- blendin blandin finally discovers xanax

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 7

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6

• ··········· • ············ •

The ride down the elevator was awkward bordering on comical. The enforcers had been none the wiser about your deeds, unlike the fidgeting scientist next to you.

Through the blurry reflection of the golden doors you could see him open his mouth to say something but then shake his head and turn back to the door. His foot was tapping on the floor, the rhythmic thump reverberating inside the ascensor. At some point, he had turned to you for more than a second and you had looked at him, urging him to say something but he puffed some air out and turned away from you.

When the elevator pinged and the doors opened he was quick to start his march out of the elevator but you grabbed his elbow, gently. He quickly snapped his neck to look at you, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Are you going to tell them? About…” You looked and pointed up.

“What?” He paused for a second, digesting the question, and then shook his head. “No, of course… I just… We could…if you let me…”

You recognized that expression, that tone of voice, that slight high-pitched shift in his tone. Viktor was trying to hide his excitement, and it didn’t surprise you. It was Viktor, the man who would get up from being zapped by putting his left hand in a machine to then putting the right one in there just to make sure.

Esther called your name from behind Viktor and you waved at her, smiling like nothing had happened.

“She doesn't know either… So…" "She won't know from me." His gaze pivoted from you to her. "Thank you. I’ll see you around, I guess.”

You squeezed his upper arm and walked around him, feeling his golden orbs following your figure. 

'That could have gone much worse' was the last thing you thought when you passed by the enforcers trying to roll up the banner that had fallen.

• ············ •

Another week had passed and you had successfully avoided the problem that was Viktor. Not that you thought he would tell on you, but you knew excited Viktor and that needed a compartment on your brain all on its own.  And right now you needed all your brain capacity to think of how to approach Remembrance Day since it had been formally scheduled. Which means Ambessa’s attack had a date.

You brainstormed with your mother the best way to approach it. Telling Cait about the attack would have led you to even more suspicion unless you told her about everything but the less people knew, the better. Waiting out on the sidelines was also impossible, it could be a repeat of the rocket attack and you’d be back to square one.

At some point, you mentioned just destroying the statue and they’d have to reschedule it to get a new one, but the way your mother had said your name after told you how bad that idea was.

It was a sort of joint decision that the best way to improve the outcome was to go to the actual event. Which then gave you another hill to climb: how do you convince your mother, who was now convinced she was the hero's sidekick and one of the better-known faces of Piltover, that she can't come to a major event because it could end in tragedy. For her, for you, and Piltover.

“I have to be there!” She said calmly, sipping her coffee while you fine-tuned the piano. “You can’t be there. If something happens and I have to choose, one second could be enough for someone to die.” You didn’t even look at her, your head stuck inside the musical instrument. “Why would you need to choose? If Viktor is the catalyst to the thing, you save him.” Esther shrugged like this was the easiest decision in the world. “If you had to choose, who would you choose?” You argued, looking back at her. “Viktor.” She looked you dead in the eyes, shrugging and you couldn’t for the life of you feel even a bit surprised or disappointed. “Would you even forgive me if I had chosen otherwise?”

You shook your head. The answer to the riddle was simple, but it didn’t mean it was easy. And you would hesitate.

“You can’t come.” You insisted and she grumbled. “I’ll go. It'll be good. People will see me as an official representative of the family. The new member of the Rainemours. Stop gossiping.” “Yes, because you appearing alone in an official event will not make people think you’ve killed me and buried the body.”  “Tell you what.” You leaned your elbows on the side of the piano. “I’ll go alone and then you…I don't know…a Remembrance Dinner. Or something. So people know you care…” “And why would I miss the main event when I can do both?” she questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.

A moment of silence crossed between you. You took a deep breath and nodded. Walking slowly around the piano and crouched next to where she sat. She frowned as you grinned mischievously, eyes squinting in question.

“Don't you have a book to finish?” You whispered at her. 

The gasp she gasped had you biting your cheek trying not to laugh. Instead, you tilted your head, a gleam in your eyes.

“How dare you!” She said flustered, more embarrassed than angry. “I have… I’ll have you know… the chapter is well underway… and…I…” “I’m not the editor…" You interrupted and got back up to your feet. "Tell her that. She saw me at the cafe yesterday and asked for you.” 

She turned her eyes from you, flustered, taking a sip of her coffee before turning to you.

"I'm your mother…" She humphed.

“You are, and I love you, and I can't lose you again. I won't." You told her, your words filled with certainty. "And in all your wisdom, I know could make any decision in a split second, but I can't. I'll freeze and I'll stutter and I'll scream and Piltover will crumple again. Please."

Esther looked at you and her gaze softened. Sighing she nodded.

"I've been feeling a little under the weather anyway."

• ············ •

Even without a plan, you came to the event, arriving early, a black ribbon pinned to your chest. With the invitation in hand, you effortlessly passed by the Enforcers at the entrance, even if some gave you the side eye.

You found a somewhat shadowy location in the courtyard, near a metal column and some boxes. And then you watched people, coming and going. Enforcers were slowly dropping in, remaining clustered at certain points, their vans closed and watched. The stage was closed off, the heavy curtains hid the statue you knew was there. 

The sun was setting, making the glass shimmer and reflect the vanishing light. Their obsession with glass had been their worst enemy in both attacks. Many of the injured people had been people who got hit with shards of the sharp decoration. Whether it had fallen from the dome or broken by the Chembarons.

“Hello.” A familiar salutation came from right next to you and you jumped. “Holy blue balls…” you mumbled, placing a hand on your hip and walking in circles, trying to calm your heart. “Of Hextech…” Viktor finished the joke. “It's funny because it's true. I apologize for startling you again, but I… we need to talk and you have been avoiding me.”

You shook your head vehemently at him, your finger mimicking the motion.

“For me to avoid, I would have to frequent the same places you do, which I do not. So it’s merely a coincidence we haven’t crossed paths.” You lied through your teeth.

"Your mother told me, you didn’t want to come with her to the Lab the other day. That is the definition of avoiding someone.” He smiled triumphantly at his quip and you rolled your eyes.

This is the universe making you pay for your book comment. You looked away from him, groaning low in your throat. And then a plan started to form.

“We’ll talk, right now at the Lab.” The easiest way to get him away from the Memorial, feed his curiosity. “I can’t leave.” He muttered, looking at the stage.

He slumped his shoulders and leaned his back into the column, placing his cane between his legs, keeping it steady with the feet. He was the picture of dejected. You couldn't help but smile softly at him.

Viktor had cleaned up. His usual three-piece uniform had been replaced with a form-fitting black suit and tie, adorned with red and golden details. The white cane contrasted with the suit. His hair was still a mess, but if this Viktor had any similarities to your Viktor, nobody touched the hair unless it was to cut it.

“Jayce wants us to be here together.” He blurted out, pushing his hair out of the way with one hand. “'The pockets that keep us afloat will be here', he said ‘We need to present a united front’. I do not feel united with anyone here, to be honest, so I don’t understand why I need to be here. But he threatened me with a healthcare provider.”

“A healthcare provider? You mean a doctor?” You started to hear the worry in your voice. You hadn’t seen him cough, you felt his back brace and he still limped around, but he seemed to be breathing somewhat fine.

“I have a bruise on my back.” He pointed behind him “With the brace it’s not healing so well, so I’ve been going around without it. And it’s uncomfortable so--” He stopped suddenly and looked at you. “Why am I telling you this?”

You shrugged, theorizing that somewhere in the back of his subconscious he knew you were a friend.

“Anyway. Yes… I cannot leave.” He made a disgruntled face, looking at his feet, the cane swaying from one hand to the other, but never leaving the ground.

You sat on a box next to the column and leaned your elbows into your knees, looking forward at the crowd that was starting to form.

“Someone once told me he would rather ask for forgiveness than permission ” You looked at him through the corner of your eyes. “He must have been very reckless.” He said, his voice still hinting at the frustration of his predicament. “Sometimes. But he also got things done.” 

It was excruciatingly easy for your interest to go from getting him out because of the Herald to getting him out because he was unhappy. It was like muscle memory. You'd see those golden orbs even hinting at unhappiness and you'd stop to help. 

“Yes, but they are threatening me with…medical assistance.” He spat the last two words.

You were about to reply but another familiar voice shouted, coming closer. Jayce was making his way towards both of you in quick steps, his arm extended upwards as if he could go unnoticed. He was wearing a similar look to his partner, his face determined and clean-shaven. A stark contrast to the last time you saw him.

“Viktor!” he shouted again. “Jayce!” Viktor mimicked his intonation but not his enthusiasm, straightening back up and leaning into his cane. “I thought you were gone, buddy!” Jayce declared, squeezing Viktor’s arm. “Nope…still here.” “Mel wants to get me on stage with her. Usually, I’m ok with it -- Oh…Hello…” he looked at you and paused, only now realizing there was a third person there and who that third person was. “I'm Councillor Jayce Tallis of the Tallis Family.”

He showed you his hand and you took it, shaking it confidently. It has been a while since you have seen him like this. Not excited, given the time and place, but carefree, normal…untraumatized.

“I know who you are.” You stated and he nodded. “I also know who you are.” He gave you an uncomfortable grin. “Caitlyn was not happy about your mother paying off a Judge to set you free.”

Viktor audibly groaned and you could almost see him run a hand from forehead to chin.

“Mr. Tallis,” you smiled at him, squaring your shoulders and tilting your head to the side. “My mother didn’t pay a judge to set me free. She paid an attorney to write a legally binding document that would allow me to keep being a person of interest in the investigation, but instead of rotting in a jail cell until someone decided to pluck me out because they figured out how to put me in the pit for good, I would be doing it so from the comforts of my own home.”

Silence between the scientists. You gave Jayce the sweetest of smiles and added.

“Fortunately I was born on the side of the bridge that allows me those types of…leniency.”

Jayce was about to retort back but Viktor beat him to the punch.

“I hardly think antagonizing the child of one of our benefactors is going to show a united front.”

“Ah…right… I forgot.” He blabbered, pushing a hand through his gelled hair. “How’s Esther? Madame Rainemour…you mother…” “Sick and working.”  “Yes, we received her letter.” Jayce smiled awkwardly, grasping at any straw that would make him look more approachable. “Editors' deadlines are just like Investors deadlines. Pesky little buggers.”

The deep exasperated sigh that Viktor lets out behind you was enough for Jayce to understand what he had said. You were so close to bursting out laughing. This was the elixir for all your troubles, Jayce Tallis and Viktor bickering. They could go for hours really.

“The deadlines! I meant the deadlines!” Jayce corrected himself

His shoulders deflated and you snickered, stealing a glance at Viktor, who was supporting a disapproving expression, holding his head on his fingertip, slightly shaking it.

“No worries Councilor. I understand these are…trying times.” You acknowledge, trying to get him out of his funk. “Yes.” He sighed deeply, stealing a glance at Mel’s form behind him. 

“You should go to her.” You encouraged softly, he looked at you surprised and you shrugged. “Help with the speech and all. United front. The councilors and the science.”

And if he was on stage, the criminal that was gonna jump her would be easier to fend off too. Jayce would jump at the opportunity to be a hero and unlike others, he would do it without wanting recognition, although it kept knocking on his door. That’s just who he was.

“Viktor?” He asked and you turned to look at his partner. “Go. If this is your conduit with all of our patrons, I fear we won’t have any funding left when this is over.” He rolled his eyes but smiled at his friend. “They’re right. Mel looks like she could use a muscled, broad shoulder to lean on right now.”

Jayce nodded and sighed, gaze moving to you again. He pushed his hand out again and you took it.

“I am sorry. I’m usually much more… likable.”  “You still are. Good luck.” 

You watch him walk back to Mel and place a gentle hand on her lower back, her shoulders immediately relaxing. Mel had been a good friend once upon a time and a fighter until the end.

“Please don’t judge him too harshly. He has good intentions…most of the time.” Viktor gave you a one-shoulder shrug accompanied by a side smile.

You saw a flash of pink behind him and noticed Vi approaching the center of the square, hunched down, hands in pockets. The ensemble cast was almost all here. Searching the crowd you felt a couple of eyes on you and turned your gaze to the only missing piece of the night.

If looks could kill, you'd be dead. Her eyes held the intensity of grief and loss, but also the need for vengeance and retribution and you were her closest target at the moment.

The lights began to dim and you sighed, turning your back to the Enforcer towards the stage. Let the show begin. 

People kept filling the empty spaces and getting closer to hear and see the speech. You felt Viktor’s presence behind you and took a deep breath. If something happened it would be easier to have him here where you could account for him, rather than him being with Jayce on stage.

The place was now packed with a multitude of people, from all places in Piltover. Well, all places on this side of the bridge. Some had settled in a position where they could see the unveiling while others kept moving around trying to find a better spot. 

A rushing couple was making their way to the front of the square and hit Viktor’s cane. The familiar thud and a surprised grunt were enough for you to step backward and put an arm up, without turning to him, knowing full well how he would usually stand, leaning his full weight on his walking aid.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, placing a hand on your clothed shoulder and another in your arm, to keep his balance. “No problem.” You whispered, trying to distract yourself from the touch by placing the tip of your foot under the cane and jerking your leg up, pulling the cane upwards to your hand. “Here you go.”

Viktor grabbed the cane with the hand that had been in your arm but kept the other on your shoulder. He didn’t know it, but this was a somewhat normal stance for both of you. Either a hand on the shoulder or in the crooked of your elbow. Especially on his worst days. Now it was starting to grow heavier and heavier. 

It's just Viktor. Good old reliable Viktor. You repeated and stole a glance at your present company, his always cold hand gently grasping your shoulder, his neck craned a bit to check the people around him, his golden eyes narrowed as he looked onto the crowd.

“You’re staring. “ he announced, his eyes turning to look down at you for a second and going back to scan the crowd. “Just wondering why you're standing here and not there.” You pointed to the backstage entrance, heavily guarded by two Enforcers. “Well, since I am here against my will, might as well stand wherever I feel like.” You snorted and saw him shrug. “Besides, I have seen and talked with these faces before. Many times. You are undoubtedly the most interesting person in the room.”

You blinked a couple of times, looking up at the man, who finally dropped his gaze to you. It takes him a moment to understand the words that came out. So much like Jayce sometimes. After a beat, he shrugged.

“Eh…it’s the truth. Do with it what you want.” His shoulders relaxed and he turned his face to the stage, and the curtains opened. You felt your cheeks redden involuntarily.

A podium stood in front of something covered with a sheet. You inhaled, held it, and exhaled. Mel began her speech and you mimicked Viktor’s action from before, your eyes darting from left to right, checking every face in the crowd, every enforcer. You spotted Vi, with her pink hair and bright red coat, although she wasn’t looking at the stage but at Caitlyn, who, much like you was scanning the crowd.

Mel’s melodic voice kept going and you kept scanning. Your focus shifted from the people to the glass house around you. It was a beautiful structure, glass and cast iron. A greenhouse of sorts, made for any type of celebration.  The glass ceiling gave everyone a beautiful view of the night sky, not yet fully dark, some purple reminiscing from the sunset. 

“I’ll never understand Piltover’s obsession with glass ceilings.” Viktor whispered as you were looking up, matching your own silent concern from before.

“People in glass houses, throwing rocks at people with glass ceilings.” You mumbled back, turning your head towards his, watching his golden orbs observing you with curiosity.

“Something like that, yes.”

You turned your head back to the stage where the statue of the three deceased councilors was displayed. Anytime now. 

The beat of your heart was quickly ramping up, loud and rhythmic, only countered by your slow breathing. You became hyper-focused. Every single movement, sound, or feeling was exacerbated. 

Clothes rustling, soft sniffles, feet shuffling on the ground. The thunderous ‘ba-dum’ of your heart in your ears, Viktor’s breathing behind you, his cane scraping the floor to find a more comfortable position, his hand on your shoulders.

Your breath quickened and you became aware of how many people were inside the glass house, how it had taken a single person on stage to make this crowd stomp their way out. 

The ripping of clothes as people ran, the sound of glass breaking, the shards burning where they slashed anything soft, the sound of children crying, the last gasp someone took before dying. 

Your eyes glazed over as your focus became panicked. You won’t be able to run out fast enough, Jayce would get Mel, Caitlyn would help Vi and you could easily grasp Viktor's arm and drag him out. But what about them, the others, the innocent people who were simply living? You couldn't save them all.

A cane scraped the ground again and something squeezed your shoulder. You looked at it. Purple sinewy fingertips, squeezing your shoulder, golden gears around his wrists.

“I need to go…” you managed to blurt out as the line between this reality and the other started to blur.

“Is everything ok?” Viktor’s soft voice sounded worried. But you heard the twisted metallic twang he had gotten after…ascending…adding a cruel ‘my friend’.

“I can’t breathe.” You choked, starting to walk backward into the protesting crowd. 

You bumped into someone and whipped your head around to look back at the angry figure. The figure of an angry woman glitched into an imposing, familiar construct. And your body just stopped moving. You willed your feet to run and get as far from the enemy as fast as possible, but nothing. You tried to get your arms to punch the thing. But all you could do was blink at the mechanical deadly beauty. 

“You’re not here. I’m not there.” You mumbled incoherently.

You felt a hand grab your elbow and pull you away from the creature and into the wall of shadows that were forming around you.

“Excuse me. Thank you.” You heard someone in front of you mumble as they dragged you along by the elbow. “Coming through. Thank you kindly, good sir.”

You let yourself be dragged, looking over your shoulder towards the angel you stood tall and bright, tilting its head. 

“Oh no…” you whimpered. “I have you. Come on.”

Your breathing started to hitch at your throat, your face flushed, and your heart both felt like it was stopping and going faster. 

The cool night air hit your face and you turned your face towards the night sky, your wide eyes losing sight of the robot. The hand on your elbow moved lower and was now holding your hand, gently pulling you along the sidewalk. A cold, pale, calloused hand with long fingers. Human. Viktor.

The sounds of your footsteps mixed with the gentle tap of Viktor’s cane had your mind finding perch in this reality again. 

“Vik?” You squeaked and the scientist stopped to look at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Come. It’s a close walk to the Lab. It will be quiet at this time.”

• ············ • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg

[stqrgirlie0]

⋆✮theodore nott✮⋆

part 2 /part 4

theo’s had a hard childhood, his mother sadly died and all he has left his father. his fucked up father. there’s no wonder as to why theo took up smoking, but this doesn’t change the fact that he’s completely addicted. every inhale and exhale takes him further away from the walls of the castle, just what he wants. just what he needs. despite his mother leaving him from a young age, theo continues his and his mother’s shared passion for learning, doesn’t necessarily mean he’s at the top of his classes but he’s doing pretty good if he says so himself. theo was also taught how to play the piano but avoids doing so because he thinks it reminds him of his mother too much. but if you wake up in the middle of the night, you might faintly hear a sweet sweet melody being played from the common room.. all the neglect from his father’s end corrupted his innocence growing up, and as a child Theo often spent his time in solitude. however he didn’t let this affect his relationships in his teenhood, and still chose to foster relationships- but only as far as friendships. Theo has never been in a relationship and the ‘sleeping around’ thing his friends so often did, didn’t seem so appealing to him. that is, until he saw you. he was sure you were new but when you first talked and told him you’ve been here since first year, let’s just say it wasn’t one of his proudest moments. from that moment he knew exactly what he was going to do. it took a while, his grovelling weirded you out at first- did he like you? was he trying to do this as a joke? eventually you’d realised it was in fact not a joke, and theodre nott actually did like you, yes. however did you know what to do in response? absolutely not, so of course you turn to everyone’s go-to flirting method: feigned dislike. it worked wonders while also creating a tense but playful rivalry between you and theo. did this confuse theo at first? slightly, yes. but was he also turned on by it? absofuckinglutely. in case it isn’t obvious, things did eventually get heated… everything about you had him going crazy- your smile, your eyes, your laugh, your comebacks, your scent, your hands, YOUR HANDS. gosh he goes absolutely feral over your hands (mainly because he imagines he’ll be putting a ring on it one day, but asides from that..) the way that they fit so perfectly into his alters his brain chemistry or something because trust me this man will be holding onto it and fidgeting around with it EVERY. SECOND. OF. THE. DAY. while everyone thinks he’s a complicated character, he’s actually not. there’s a limited amount of ways to get to his heart- food, hugs and hickeys. food: you know it, every theo enthusiast has heard this about a million times, all the more reason to believe it to be true!! he will literally eat his whole weight and won’t think anything of it, and will STILL be skinny af. hugs: this man needs his hugs just to relax and have a lil breather. a back hug, a side hug, a bear hug, straddle hug, you name it he will hold onto you like a koala! hickeys: alright, enough of our soft teddy, Mr Nott knows his way around your neck, shoulders, chest, EVERYWHWRE. there’s nothing sweet about this, he wants everyone to know who makes you a hot moaning mess every night.

#hmm should I do a part two??🤔🤔#y’all know I’ll do anything for my theo bby

[niallerspayno]

About Last Night (Louis Tomlinson x reader) - Fic Request

Masterlist

Anonymous request: Hi!! I was wondering if you could do Louis Tomlinson x fem! Reader who is in the band, her and Louis always had a flirty relationship but always told people it was a joke until one night during one of their tours things get heated between them and they hook up, a few weeks later reader finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Louis so she goes to her best friend Niall Horan for advice and Louis ends up over hearing them? Smut and fluff please!!

Tags: Louis x reader, friends to lovers, smut, pregnancy, fluff, angst

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

…

The arena hums softly with the buzz of amps and muffled conversations, but your focus is already on Louis, who stands near the drum kit, spinning a drumstick between his fingers with that familiar mischievous glint in his eye. This is how it’s always been with the two of you—partners in chaos, constantly toeing the line of what you can get away with, but never crossing it. The harmless flirting, the relentless teasing—it’s your thing.

“Don’t even think about it,” you call out, a grin tugging at your lips.

Louis turns to you, all innocence and dimples. “Think about what, love?”

“Oh, you know exactly what,” you say, stepping closer. “Put the stick down before you get us all in trouble.”

“Trouble?” he echoes, mock-offended. “I am the very definition of responsibility.”

“You’re the definition of a menace,” you retort, grabbing the other drumstick off the snare. You twirl it between your fingers and smirk at him. “If you’re going to cause chaos, at least make it entertaining.”

His eyes light up at your challenge. “I knew I could count on you, partner.”

Before anyone can stop you, Louis taps the microphone stand with his drumstick, and you follow suit, matching his rhythm with the snare drum. The resulting cacophony blares through the speakers, earning a collective groan from Liam and the sound crew.

“Really?!” Liam barks from center stage, throwing his hands up. “Do you two have to do this every time?”

“Yes,” you and Louis say in unison, both grinning like kids caught raiding the cookie jar.

“Unbelievable,” Liam mutters, shaking his head.

“Oh, lighten up, Payno,” Louis says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “We’re just making things more fun.”

“Fun is subjective,” Liam replies, deadpan.

Louis doesn’t even acknowledge him, already pulling you toward the piano at the corner of the stage. “Come on, let’s give them a real show.”

You follow without hesitation, laughing as you plop down on the bench beside him. “Alright, Mozart, let’s hear it.”

“Watch and learn, darling,” he says, cracking his knuckles dramatically before slamming his fingers onto the keys.

The result is an aggressively off-key rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and you immediately burst into laughter, doubling over as he continues his “masterpiece.”

“Wow,” you say between giggles, clapping along. “Move over, Beethoven. Louis Tomlinson has arrived.”

“I know,” he says smugly, tossing you a wink. “Don’t be jealous of my talent.”

“Talent?” you tease, leaning closer. “This is more like a crime against music.”

“Oh, you wound me,” he says, clutching his chest in mock pain. “But I’ll forgive you because you look cute when you’re pretending to be unimpressed.”

You arch an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to close the space between you. “Who says I’m pretending?”

He falters for a split second, just enough for you to notice, before recovering with a smirk. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply, but the playful tone in your voice makes it clear you’re enjoying every second.

The moment lingers, his eyes locked on yours, the air between you buzzing with unspoken tension. But before anything can happen, Liam’s voice cuts through like a bucket of cold water.

“Enough!” he shouts. “Can we please get back to work?”

Louis groans dramatically, standing up and offering you a hand. “Fine, Payno. We’ll behave. For now.”

“Behaving’s overrated anyway,” you say, letting him pull you to your feet.

He grins, leaning in just enough to make your heart race. “Spoken like a true partner in crime.”

You smirk back, the flush creeping up your neck impossible to hide. “You couldn’t handle this partnership without me.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, before finally letting you go.

As you return to your spot on stage, his laughter still ringing in your ears, you can’t help but feel the familiar thrill that comes with being Louis’s partner in crime. This is just how it’s always been—safe, playful, and light. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

…

The club is alive with pulsing music, flashing lights, and the hum of conversation. The six of you—plus a few crew members—have commandeered a booth near the dance floor, a place to regroup between rounds of drinks and bursts of reckless fun. The night is supposed to be lighthearted, a rare break in the chaos of touring. But your attention keeps drifting toward the bar, where Louis leans casually against the counter, chatting up a pair of girls who can’t stop giggling at whatever he’s saying.

You take another sip of your drink, the sharp burn of tequila doing little to distract you. It shouldn’t bother you. This is Louis, after all—flirty, charming, and always ready to make someone’s night with a cheeky grin. It’s harmless. Always harmless. Just like it’s always been with you and him.

But tonight, it stings.

“You alright there, love?”

Niall’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to find him sliding into the booth beside you, a fresh pint in hand. His blue eyes are sharper than they should be after three rounds, catching onto your mood immediately.

“Fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just enjoying the view.”

Niall snorts, following your gaze toward Louis. “Ah. Him.”

“Him what?” you ask, though your tone is defensive even to your own ears.

“You’re watching him like he owes you money,” Niall says, smirking, but his voice softens when he adds, “What’s going on?”

You hesitate, swirling your drink in your hand. Niall’s always been the one you confide in, the one who listens without judgment. But this—whatever this is—feels like dangerous territory.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

“Sure it is,” he says, leaning closer. “Come on. You’re never this quiet.”

You glance at Louis again, just in time to see him lean in to whisper something in one of the girls’ ears. Your chest tightens, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“It’s stupid,” you say, setting your glass down with more force than necessary. “I just… I don’t get how he can be like that. Flirting with everyone, acting like it’s all a game.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “That’s just Louis, though. You know that.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, staring at the condensation on your glass. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s ever not a game for him. If he ever actually means it.”

Niall doesn’t answer right away, his gaze steady and thoughtful. Finally, he says, “And what if he does? Would that change things?”

You laugh, though it’s bitter and hollow. “Not for him. He’d still be Louis, and I’d still be the idiot who gets worked up over it.”

“Hey,” Niall says gently, nudging your shoulder. “You’re not an idiot. You care about him. That’s not stupid.”

You look at him, startled by how easily he’s put words to something you’ve been trying to deny. “I didn’t say I care about him.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His voice is kind, but it hits you like a punch to the gut. You reach for your drink again, draining the rest of it in one go.

“Okay,” you say, standing up abruptly. “I need another one.”

“Hang on,” Niall says, grabbing your wrist before you can escape. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You��re already—”

“Drinking?” you interrupt, flashing him a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. That’s kind of the point.”

Niall lets you go, watching as you make your way to the bar. You don’t look at Louis as you order another round, but you can feel his presence—his laughter, his charm—like a static charge in the air.

When you return to the booth, Niall’s still waiting, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to tell him, you know,” he says quietly.

“Tell him what?”

“Whatever it is you’re feeling. If you’re not ready, that’s okay.”

You sit down, your drink clutched tightly in your hands. “What if I never am?”

Niall shrugs, his usual easygoing demeanor softening. “Then that’s okay, too. But just… don’t beat yourself up over it, alright? He’s an idiot, but he’d be even more of one not to see how great you are.”

You manage a small smile, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade. Across the room, Louis throws his head back in laughter, and you drain your drink, trying not to think about what it would mean if Niall was right.

...

You’re halfway through your drink, the alcohol starting to make the room blur at the edges, when you feel someone slide into the booth beside you. It’s not Niall this time—he’s gone to the bar for another round.

“Having fun, partner?”

You don’t need to look to know it’s Louis. His voice, low and warm, cuts through the haze like a match striking in the dark.

“Loads,” you reply, your tone sharper than you intended. You focus on your glass, not him.

There’s a pause, and then he leans closer, so close you can feel the heat of him against your arm. “What’s got you in a mood, then?”

You scoff, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Why would I be in a mood?”

Louis’s brow furrows, and he studies you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Dunno. That’s why I’m asking.”

You shrug, trying to brush him off. “It’s nothing. Go back to your fans.”

Realization dawns in his expression, and his lips curve into a small smirk. “Ah, so that’s what this is about.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says, his tone light but his eyes sharp. He tilts his head toward the bar, where the girls he’d been chatting with have moved on. “They’re just fans, love. Took a couple photos, had a laugh. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your drink.

“Clearly, it does,” he counters, his voice dipping lower.

You glance at him, and the teasing edge in his expression is gone, replaced by something quieter. More serious. It makes your stomach flip, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin.

“I just don’t get how you can do it,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Turn it on and off like it’s nothing.”

Louis stares at you for a moment, his blue eyes searching yours. Then he leans back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You think it’s nothing?”

You don’t answer, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not. I just… I don’t know. It’s easier sometimes to keep it light, you know? Keeps people from expecting too much.”

Your chest tightens at his words, and you look away, focusing on the dance floor instead. It feels safer than looking at him when he’s being like this—honest and raw in a way that catches you off guard.

Louis follows your gaze, then nudges you with his shoulder. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Dance with me.”

You blink at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, standing up and holding a hand out to you. “Unless you’re scared you can’t keep up.”

It’s a challenge, one you’d normally accept without hesitation. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you, something that makes you hesitate.

“Louis…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Just one dance, love. For old time’s sake.”

You sigh, finishing the last of your drink before placing your hand in his. His grip is warm and steady as he pulls you to your feet, leading you toward the dance floor.

The music is loud and fast, but Louis doesn’t seem to care. He spins you around dramatically, earning a laugh despite yourself, and when he pulls you close, his grin is infectious.

“There she is,” he says, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” you reply, though you’re not sure it’s true.

“No?” he asks, leaning in until his lips are just inches from your ear. “Then what are you?”

The question lingers, hanging between you as the beat of the music thrums in your chest. You glance up at him, your breath catching at the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, your fingers tighten around his, and you let him pull you closer.

The music is deafening, the bass vibrating through your chest as Louis pulls you closer. The heat of the crowd presses in around you—sweaty bodies moving together in time with the pulsing beat—but all you can feel is him. His hand rests lightly on your waist, fingers brushing against the bare skin where your top has ridden up, and the touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

You match his rhythm, your bodies swaying together as the lights flash and the room spins in a blur of color and sound. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs something you can’t hear over the music. But it doesn’t matter, because the low rasp of his voice alone makes your pulse race.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then slide down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your fingertips. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, and for a moment, it’s as if the entire club has faded away.

He’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before, like he’s trying to memorize every detail. And you can’t look away.

“Louis,” you manage to say, but your voice is swallowed by the music.

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you even closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. His hand tightens on your waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, and it’s almost too much.

The air between you is charged, thick with something you can’t quite name but can’t ignore either. And when his lips brush against your temple—soft, almost tentative—it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your resolve snaps.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and tug him toward the edge of the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until you find a dark hallway leading toward the bathrooms.

“Here?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless as you pull him into the dimly lit space.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” you reply, your back pressing against the wall as he steps closer, crowding into your space.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on your hips in an instant, his lips crashing against yours with a force that makes your head spin. It’s all heat and desperation, months of tension unraveling in a single, searing kiss.

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans softly against your lips. The sound sends a thrill through you, and you arch into him, gasping when his mouth moves to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice low and strained.

But stopping is the last thing on your mind. “Don’t,” you whisper.

The noise of the club fades into a dull throb, your pulse pounding in your ears as Louis pulls you deeper into the hallway. His grip is unrelenting, his hand firm around your wrist as he guides you toward the dimly lit bathroom, the air thick with the sharp scent of alcohol and sweat. When you step inside, he doesn’t hesitate. He closes the door behind you with a soft thud, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s already pulling you toward him, his hands sliding to the curve of your waist.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice low, gravelly, as he looks you over. His eyes darken with something primal, raw. "I need you."

The way he says it—like there’s no choice in the matter, like he’s been waiting for this—makes your stomach flutter with anticipation. Your heart races as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His body presses flush against yours, the heat radiating off of him like a furnace.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—his breath against your skin, the brush of his chest against yours, the sensation of his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he carries you toward one of the stalls. The door bangs against the wall as he kicks it open with a force that leaves you breathless. You barely register it, too caught up in the way he’s looking at you—so intensely, so urgently—that it’s like the entire world outside has ceased to exist.

Louis doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. He presses you back against the door, and the sharp click of the lock echoes in the small space. His hands move to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately, until the cool air hits your skin. The contrast of the cold on your warm body makes you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of him against you.

"God, you're perfect," he mutters under his breath, his eyes raking over you like he can’t quite believe you’re here. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your pulse spike. He’s everywhere at once—his lips, his hands, his body—leaving no space between the two of you.

His lips trail lower, his breath hot as it brushes against your collarbone, and you can’t help but shiver, arching into him as his hands slip lower, tracing the curve of your waist and hips. “Louis,” you breathe, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“You want this,” he says, his voice rough with hunger as he presses his body into yours. His hands slide under your skirt, gripping your thighs, his thumbs brushing the inside of your legs. The sensation sends a shock of desire through you, and you tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer.

You’re both moving instinctively now—his body surging into yours, your hands tearing at his jeans, pushing them down just enough so you can feel the hard line of him pressing into you. You’re both breathless, desperate, as your bodies start moving together, finding a rhythm born from nothing but pure need.

The heat between you is overwhelming, suffocating. You can feel every inch of him against you, your bodies grinding together with a desperation that feels like it's been building for weeks, months even. His lips find yours again, more forcefully this time, his tongue slipping between your lips as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of his body.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans against your mouth, his hands moving to the zipper of your skirt, tugging it down, leaving you exposed to him in the dim light.

You gasp as the cold air hits your skin, but the shock of it only fuels the fire between you. You push him back slightly, giving yourself enough room to pull off your panties, tossing them carelessly to the side. His eyes darken at the sight, and he groans again, his hands trembling slightly as they slide down your body.

“God, you’re killing me,” he mutters as he presses his body into yours again, the door rattling against the force of it. His lips trail down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin, and you can’t help the moan that slips from your mouth.

“You want me?” he asks, his voice low, dangerous, as his hands slide between your bodies, his fingers brushing against you, making you gasp.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, I need you.”

And just like that, he’s pulling you closer, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he positions himself against you. The first thrust is slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t take long for the urgency to take over, for both of you to lose control.

Your bodies move together with a frantic rhythm, the pressure building, tightening, until you feel like you’re going to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, and you cling to him, feeling his hands grip your skin like he’s afraid to let go. His breath comes in ragged gasps against your ear as he buries his face in your neck, his body pressing into yours with every thrust.

The world outside the stall is forgotten—there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the rhythm of your bodies, the urgent need to feel more.

When it happens, it’s all at once—the sharp pull of release, the sensation of your body shuddering as he groans your name, the feeling of him inside you. You lose yourself in him completely, and for a moment, the entire world falls away, leaving nothing but the raw, pulsing connection between the two of you.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. You’re both panting, trying to catch your breath as you stand there, still tangled together in the small, dimly lit stall. The air is thick, heavy with the aftermath, and the sound of the club’s music feels distant now, like it belongs to someone else’s world.

Louis rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your hips as if he’s afraid to let you go. His breathing slows, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft, the intensity from moments ago replaced with something else. Something almost tender.

You nod, your hands tracing the lines of his back, still feeling the echo of his touch. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m more than okay.”

And for a brief, fleeting moment, it feels like everything has shifted.

...

The morning light seeps through the curtains, casting pale slivers across the room, and you wake with a pounding headache that has everything to do with last night. As you sit up, stretching stiff muscles, your fingers graze your neck, and you freeze.

You already know what you’ll find. Your stomach flips as you rush to the mirror, pulling your hair away to reveal dark, circular marks. Hickeys. Louis’s hickeys.

Heat floods your face as the memories from last night rush back—his hands on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear, the way he kissed you like he was starving for it. A shiver runs through you, not from regret, but from how damn good it all was.

Still, the marks are a problem. You grab your makeup bag and get to work, layering concealer and powder until they’re faint enough to be hidden by your hair. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. You can’t let the others see. You can’t let anyone see.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, pulling you from your thoughts. It’s a message from Louis: "You good?"

Your heart hammers as you type back: "We need to talk."

A few minutes later, you’re knocking on his door. When it swings open, Louis is there—hair tousled, barefoot, still half-asleep, but the way he looks at you makes it clear he knows why you’re here.

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside. Your voice feels thin, unsure, but you force yourself to keep going. “About last night...”

Louis closes the door behind you and leans against it, crossing his arms. “Yeah,” he says slowly, watching you with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his.

“I woke up with... these,” you continue, gesturing toward your neck. His eyes follow the motion, a smirk twitching at his lips as he realizes what you’re talking about.

“Didn’t think I went that hard,” he teases, but there’s something softer underneath his usual playfulness. “Sorry about that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers brushing over the covered marks. “It’s fine. I covered them up, but, Louis... no one can know about this. The others would never let us live it down.”

Louis straightens, the smirk slipping into something more serious. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s probably best if we keep it between us.”

The weight of that decision settles over the room, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, Louis lets out a low laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, for what it’s worth... it was a really fucking good time.”

Your breath catches, your heart flipping at the sincerity in his tone. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah,” you admit softly, meeting his gaze. “It really was.”

The tension in the room shifts—heavier, but warmer. There’s something unspoken between you, something lingering from last night, but you force yourself to push it aside.

“But it was... a one-time thing,” you say, your voice firmer now. “We were drunk, caught up in the moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Right?”

Louis hesitates, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he nods. “Right,” he agrees, though his voice doesn’t carry the same conviction. “Just a one-time thing. We go back to normal. Friends. Bandmates. No weirdness.”

You nod, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Alright,” you say, standing and smoothing your shirt. “I’ll see you at soundcheck.”

Louis follows you to the door, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah,” he says softly. “See you there.”

You step out into the hallway, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between you. The memory of last night burns in your mind, and as much as you tell yourself it was a mistake, a small, stubborn part of you knows it wasn’t.

And as you walk away, you know the secret you’re both keeping won’t be the hardest part. The hardest part will be pretending that you don’t want more.

...

The hotel bathroom feels impossibly small, its tiled walls closing in on you as you stare down at the pregnancy test in your trembling hands. The instructions are simple, straightforward, but they feel like a foreign language as you reread them for the third time.

Niall is waiting just outside, sitting on the edge of your hotel bed. You hadn’t planned to involve him this much, but when you decided to sneak out and buy the test earlier, he’d been the one person you trusted enough to call. Now, as the reality of what you’re about to do looms over you, you’re beyond grateful he’s here.

“Everything okay in there?” Niall’s voice drifts through the door, steady and calm.

“Yeah,” you call back, though your voice wavers. “I’m doing it now.”

“Take your time,” he replies, his tone gentle.

You follow the instructions mechanically, your heart pounding louder with every step. When it’s done, you set the test on the counter, face down, and set the timer on your phone. For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the edge of the sink to steady yourself.

When the timer buzzes, you hesitate, your hand hovering over the test.

“You good?” Niall asks from the other side of the door, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

You take a deep breath and pick up the test. The result is instant.

Pregnant.

The air rushes out of your lungs, and you open the bathroom door without even thinking. Niall is on his feet in an instant, his eyes scanning your face.

“What does it say?” he asks, his voice soft but urgent.

You hold up the test, your hand shaking. “It’s positive,” you whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Niall just stares, processing the words. Then, he crosses the room in two quick steps and pulls you into a hug. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

You cling to him, tears spilling over as the weight of the situation crashes down on you. After a moment, he pulls back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he studies your face.

“Do you… know who the father is?” he asks carefully.

You nod, wiping your eyes. “It’s Louis.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth falls open slightly. “Louis?”

You laugh, a short, incredulous sound that bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “Yeah. It was that night we all went out to the bar.”

Realization dawns in his eyes, and he stares at you like he’s trying to piece it together. “Wait—so… the bathroom stall?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Yes, the bathroom stall,” you say, your voice muffled.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to your surprise, Niall starts to laugh—a low chuckle that quickly turns into full-on laughter. It’s contagious, and soon you’re laughing too, tears streaming down your face as the absurdity of it all sinks in.

“I can’t believe I’m having a baby that was conceived in a bathroom stall,” you manage to choke out, shaking your head.

Niall grins, his laughter fading into a warm smile. “Hey, at least you’ll have a good story for the kid someday.”

You snort, wiping your cheeks. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great.”

As the laughter subsides, Niall’s expression grows serious again. “You're going to have to tell Louis.”

You shake your head, the weight of that reality settling over you. “Not yet. I don’t even know how to tell him.”

Niall squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “You don’t have to figure it out alone. I’m here, alright? Whatever you need.”

His support steadies you, and you nod, a small spark of determination flickering to life. “Thanks, Niall,” you say softly.

He smiles, giving your shoulder a final squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

...

The hotel dining room buzzes with the usual morning energy: clinking cutlery, muted conversation, and the aroma of coffee filling the air. You sit with the boys, doing your best to seem normal as you pick at a piece of toast. The nausea has become a constant companion, and exhaustion drags at you more with each passing day.

“Still not feeling well?” Liam asks, glancing at your plate with a worried frown.

You force a smile. “It’s just a bug. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” Zayn points out, his tone sharper than Liam’s, though there’s concern in his dark eyes.

Harry leans back in his chair, studying you closely. “You need to see a doctor. You’re barely eating, and you look knackered.”

“Thanks, Harry,” you say dryly, hoping humor will deflect their growing concern.

Louis, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet throughout breakfast, lifts his coffee cup to his lips but says nothing. His eyes linger on you, though, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist again, grabbing your mug and taking a sip even though the coffee turns your stomach. “Just need some rest.”

The boys don’t look convinced, but they eventually let it drop as the conversation shifts to tour logistics. When breakfast wraps up, everyone begins dispersing to their rooms.

As you step into the hallway, Niall gently catches your arm. “Hey, can we talk for a sec?”

“Sure,” you say, letting him steer you toward a quieter section of the corridor.

Unbeknownst to either of you, Louis lingers just out of sight around the corner, pretending to check his phone.

Niall keeps his voice low as he speaks. “How are you holding up? Really.”

You glance around nervously, making sure no one is nearby. “I’m okay,” you lie, though your voice wavers. “Just... trying to figure things out.”

He frowns, clearly not buying it. “You’ve got to stop pushing yourself so hard. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

“I know,” you whisper, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s just... it’s a lot, Niall.”

“Have you thought more about telling Louis?”

The question hangs in the air, and your heart sinks. “I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “How do I tell him that I’m pregnant and it’s his baby? That it happened in a bloody bathroom stall?”

Niall snorts, though his expression quickly turns serious again. “You’re going to have to tell him eventually. He deserves to know, and you deserve to have his support.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just… I’m scared, Niall. What if he freaks out? What if it changes everything between us?”

“He might freak out,” Niall says honestly. “But he’s Louis. He’ll step up. You’ve got to trust him—and yourself.”

Neither of you notice the shadow around the corner or the way Louis freezes in place, his breath catching as he processes what he just overheard.

“I’ll tell him,” you say finally, your voice shaky but resolute. “I just need to figure out how.”

Niall nods, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ve got your back.”

You manage a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Niall. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As the two of you part ways, Louis remains rooted to his spot, his mind racing. He had only stopped to grab his jacket, not to eavesdrop—but now, he can’t unhear what’s just been revealed.

Pregnant. His baby.

The words loop in his mind, crashing over him in waves of shock and disbelief. He grips the wall for support, his heart pounding as he tries to process what this means—for you, for him, for everything.

...

The hotel suite is unusually quiet, the remnants of breakfast scattered across the coffee table as the boys lounge around. You’re absent, having slipped away earlier, and the rest of the group assumes you’re just taking some much-needed time to yourself.

Louis, however, can’t sit still. He paces the room, his jaw tight and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, but one thing is clear: he needs answers.

Niall, sitting on the armrest of a couch, notices the tension radiating off Louis. “Mate, you alright?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

That’s all it takes for Louis to stop pacing and whirl around to face him. “No, Niall, I’m not alright,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to make everyone else in the room sit up straighter.

“What’s going on?” Liam asks, frowning.

Louis ignores him, his blue eyes locked on Niall. “How long were you planning on keeping it from me?” he demands, his voice rising.

“Keeping what from you?” Niall replies carefully, though his face pales slightly.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” Louis shouts, taking a step closer. “I know. I heard you talking to her this morning.”

The room falls into stunned silence, and Zayn and Harry exchange wide-eyed looks.

“What are you talking about?” Harry finally asks, his tone laced with confusion.

Louis doesn’t even glance at him. His focus is still entirely on Niall. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she? And it’s mine.”

Niall’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. The rest of the boys look utterly shell-shocked, their eyes darting between Louis and Niall.

“Is it true?” Liam asks, his voice quieter now, though no less serious.

Niall lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t my place to tell you, Louis,” he says, his voice firm despite the guilt flickering in his eyes. “She needed time to figure out how to say it herself.”

Louis’s laugh is bitter, almost disbelieving. “Time? You don’t think I deserved to know right away? That I deserved to hear it from her—or at least someone—before overhearing you whispering about it in a bloody hallway?”

“I was just trying to be there for her,” Niall says defensively, standing now to meet Louis’s glare. “She’s scared out of her mind, Louis. This isn’t easy for her.”

“You think this is easy for me?” Louis shoots back, his voice cracking slightly. “Finding out I’m going to be a dad like this?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw.

Zayn leans forward, his brow furrowed. “Wait. Are you saying Y/N’s pregnant, and it’s yours?”

“Yes,” Louis snaps, throwing his arms out in frustration. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Harry sits back, his jaw slack as he processes the revelation. “Bloody hell.”

“Look, I get that you’re upset,” Niall says, his tone softer now. “But she needed time to figure things out. I was just trying to support her until she was ready to talk to you.”

“She should’ve come to me,” Louis mutters, his anger ebbing slightly but still palpable. “I deserved to know.”

“And she knows that,” Niall replies. “But she’s been scared, Louis. She didn’t want to mess everything up. She didn’t know how you’d react.”

Louis takes a deep breath, his hands raking through his hair as he processes Niall’s words. “I don’t know how to react,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “This is... massive.”

“It is,” Liam says, speaking up for the first time since the confrontation started. “But it’s not something you have to figure out alone. We’re all here for both of you.”

Louis looks around the room, his frustration slowly giving way to uncertainty. “I need to talk to her,” he says finally, more to himself than anyone else.

“Then do that,” Niall says gently. “But give her some grace, mate. She’s dealing with a lot.”

Louis nods, his expression still tense but less combative. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving the rest of the boys in stunned silence.

...

You’re standing at the sink in your hotel bathroom, clutching the edge of the counter to steady yourself as another wave of nausea passes. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, adding to the headache pounding at your temples.

Splashing cold water on your face, you glance at your reflection, pale and drawn. You’d thought you could keep things under control, at least for a little while longer. But the toll on your body is becoming harder and harder to hide.

A knock at the bathroom door startles you. Before you can answer, Louis’s voice cuts through.

“Y/N, it’s me. Open up.”

Your stomach twists for an entirely different reason now. His tone is firm, no trace of his usual teasing lilt. You grab a towel to pat your face dry, stalling for time.

“I’m fine, Louis,” you call back, trying to sound normal.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, and you can hear the resolve in his voice. “We need to talk.”

With a resigned sigh, you open the door. Louis is standing there, arms crossed and a look of determination on his face. The blue of his eyes is intense, searching yours for answers you’re not ready to give.

“Can we do this later?” you ask weakly.

“No,” he says, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. “I know.”

Your breath catches. “You know what?”

“I know you’re pregnant,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “And I know it’s mine.”

The air feels sucked out of the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

“How—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I heard you and Niall talking this morning,” he admits. “I wasn’t eavesdropping—it just happened. And now I need to hear it from you. Is it true?”

You look down at your feet, your hands trembling. “Yes,” you whisper.

Louis exhales sharply, leaning back against the door as he runs a hand through his hair. “How long have you known?”

“About a week,” you admit, your voice barely audible. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I took a test. Niall’s the only one I told.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly. “Why did I have to find out like this?”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you sink onto the closed toilet lid. “I didn’t know how to, Louis,” you confess. “It’s not exactly an easy thing to bring up. And I didn’t know how you’d react. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?” he asks, his brows knitting together.

“No,” you say quickly. “Not of you. Just... of everything. What this means for us, for the band. I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

Louis crouches down in front of you, his hands resting on your knees. The unexpected tenderness in the gesture makes your chest tighten.

“You’re not ruining anything,” he says softly, his voice steadier now. “But you can’t shut me out of this. I deserve to know what’s going on, Y/N. This is my baby too.”

The weight of his words hits you, and you nod, wiping at your eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, Louis. I was just... trying to figure it all out.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore,” he says, his hands squeezing your knees gently. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You look up at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he says, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “We might not have planned this, but it’s happening. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days, a flicker of hope sparks in your chest. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Louis stands, offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of this bathroom. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. And for the first time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to face this alone.

Louis doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you out of the bathroom, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. He stays standing for a moment, running a hand through his hair as if trying to gather his thoughts. When he finally sits beside you, he turns to face you fully, his expression serious but gentle.

“I know this probably feels overwhelming,” he starts, his voice softer now. “But I need you to know something. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

Tears prick your eyes again, and you bite your lip, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his words. “Louis, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts firmly. “This isn’t about what I have to do. This is my baby, and you... you’re everything to me.”

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

He exhales deeply, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips. “I mean I’ve been in love with you for ages, Y/N. I’ve just been too much of a coward to say it.”

“Louis...”

He laughs softly, though there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. “It’s true. I’ve hidden behind all the jokes and the flirting because I was terrified you didn’t feel the same. I thought if I said something, I’d ruin what we have. And then that night at the club happened, and I thought maybe... but you said it was a mistake, and I didn’t want to push.”

You shake your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It wasn’t a mistake,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I only said that because I was scared. Scared of ruining what we have, just like you were. But I’ve been in love with you too, Louis. For so long.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks utterly stunned. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching for his hand. “I mean it.”

He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “All this time, we’ve been dancing around each other like idiots.”

You laugh too, though it’s choked with emotion. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

The two of you sit there for a moment, letting the weight of the truth settle between you. Then Louis’s grin turns mischievous, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Can you believe our kid’s going to have the most ridiculous conception story ever?” he says, his voice teasing.

You can’t help but laugh, the tension breaking slightly. “Conceived in a bathroom stall at a nightclub,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not exactly the romantic story you tell at family gatherings.”

Louis chuckles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. “No, but it’s our story,” he says, his tone softening again. “And I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

The warmth in his gaze makes your heart swell, and before you can overthink it, you lean in. Louis meets you halfway, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s nothing like the heated, impulsive one from that night. This one is slow, deliberate, and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face. “I’m all in, Y/N,” he says quietly. “For you, for this baby. For everything.”

A tear slips down your cheek, but this time it’s one of relief, not fear. “Me too,” you whisper.

The two of you sit there in the quiet, holding each other as the enormity of the moment settles in. For the first time in weeks, you feel like everything might just be okay.

...

Part 2

[gunsandspaceships]

Tony’s Childhood. Part 1: Identifying facts

In the MCU, Tony sometimes acts like a kid. There is a reason behind every behavior, so I wondered what it was like for him when he was a real kid.

So, the questions of the day: what do we know about Tony's childhood? Did he have one? And, most importantly, how did it affect him?

Let’s first list what we know from the movies:

At age 4 Tony built his first circuit board (IM1)

At age 6 built his first engine (IM1)

Was sent to a boarding school by Howard (IM2)

Cracked the Pentagon’s firewall in high school on a dare (AoU)

Had a nanny until the age of 14 (IM3)

Went to college at 14 (IM1)

Built Dum-E and U when he was there (IM1)

At 17 graduated summa cum laude from MIT (IM1)

Continued his education until his parents’ death (CW)

Tony’s genius gave him two things: the brain and the pain. And by the pain, I mean that instead of interacting and bonding with his parents, enjoying life, playing, having fun, making friends, taking care of pets, and all the other things children do to gradually prepare for adulthood and grow up "healthy", he got this list of achievements. That doesn’t make a person normal.

Parents

We know his relationship with Howard was complicated. Howard loved him in his own way. He had too many things to do to be a good father: SI, S.H.I.E.L.D., scientific projects, trying to build a better future with clean energy, etc. All good, except when you want your child to love you back. Especially if in the tiny amount of time you spend with him, you don’t show him any signs of affection.

What do we know about Maria? Her name, what she looked like, that she played the piano, and died at Winter Soldier’s hand on Dec 16, 1991. That’s it. She didn’t spend much time with Tony either. Remember, he even had a nanny, instead of a mother. Tony's words about her showed that he loved her, but he didn't talk much about her. Because she wasn’t present in his life enough. Why? Because…

School

Howard sent Tony to a boarding school.

Here’s in the S.H.I.E.L.D.s file we have this information about the school:

“Phillips Academy, Andover, MA 1977-1984”

This means he was there from age 7 to 14. Howard sent him to a boarding school when he was SEVEN.

Phillips Academy Andover serves grades 9-12 only (it is a college preparatory school). Thus, either this is a mistake by the creators of the film/file, or Tony, due to his genius, became an exception. Since the early age he was already at school was also mentioned in IM2 tie-in comics, and in Earth-616 that was also 7, we can mark 1977-1984 as valid.

Think about it again: Tony was sent to boarding school in another state when he was 7 years old. He spent another 7 years there, alone, among high school-aged teenagers. No parents around, no peers.

For example, even Hogwarts accepts 11-year-old children, and they live with their peers. Now imagine Harry Potter, at the age of 7, is thrown into a dorm with 7th-year students and locked there. Doesn’t make a person normal either, does it?

Nannies and Jarvis

Since Tony was at the boarding school, there are two options for how he could have a nanny (mentioned in IM3) and spend time with Edwin Jarvis:

1) He was at the boarding school with a nanny. There is almost no possibility that the nanny was Edwin Jarvis because Jarvis was Howard’s butler and had other responsibilities.

2) He had a nanny at home in the summer and during short school breaks. In this case, his parents couldn’t even give him this little of their precious time.

In any case, he could only see Jarvis at home, a few months a year at most.

Note: There is a date error in IM3, stating Tony was 14 in 1983. This is clearly an error and we can omit this detail.

Bullying

Remember this dialog between Tony and Harley in IM3?

0:45:15 – Harley asks him how he knew he was being bullied at school. Tony doesn't answer. He gives him a non-lethal flash thing to "discourage bullying."

We see that Tony knew exactly what was going on with Harley at school. Because that’s exactly what happened to him there. Harley reminded him of himself. Brilliant kid with no friends and practically no parents. He was bullied by 9th-12th graders.

If he had a nanny with him at the school, that probably made things even worse. He would be bullied because he has a nanny, and despite he has one to look after him.

In Part 2 we will discuss how all this affected him. Stay tuned.

[lovingpiastri]

GOOD OLD FASHIONED LOVER BOY (op81 x female!reader)

ꪆৎ who the hell cares if it is 2024! oscar's one true mission is to show you all his love languages. even the 'outdated' ones..

warnings: tooth rotting fluff!

dating in the modern world is possibly every hopeless romantics most haunting nightmare, their bane of existence if you will. unlike enamoured couples in the fifties, people these days have lost the plot of loving one another, & displaying affection seemingly became equally as difficult as scavenging for a needle in a haystack. most loverboys adapted into heartless playboys alike to all the cliché 2000s chick flicks that the protagonist has their heart stringed tugged by.

on the other hand, oscar piastri would never resemble anything remote to those ruthless segments of crap. afterall his most favourite thing was to cherish you and he had the most unique methods of doing it in this loveless generation.

1. illegally burning cds with all your most adored melodies and harmonies of songs. perhaps the riskiest one of all but it's the thought that counts . for the longest time music has been your escapism, and it's only fair for oscar to gift relaxation for you on a silver platter. sure he could create you a lousy spotify playlist , but it's the effort that adds the cherry on top.

2. sharing a sickenly-sweet milkshake in a time capsulated 80s diner that has been stuck in a forgotten for far too long . the delightful gesture has a silent intimacy, one that's almost to difficult to spot yet it's most definitely present. especially when your foreheads clash together on accident as you both lean in for a long sip of the vanilla treat.

3. holding up a much-too-heavy boom box outside your home, alike to lloyd dobler, in attempt to serenade you using only the most romantic frank sinatra song 'love is here to stay'. all whilst swaying to the sound of the jazzy saxophone and the amorous piano instruments working in symphony. oh what a dork!

4. even remembering the tiniest details about you never fail to make you giddily kick your feet, so it was excellent that oscar didn't happen to have short term memory loss! from how you prefer your coffee down to your silly catch phrases when something unfortunate occured. he remembered them all.

5. dragging you along to a much too exhausted photo booth, a machine in desperate need of repairing yet the damage was what made the gesture all the more amorous. the old strip of film was threatening to rip apart even when brand new, so as one would (or just oscar) he stored it in his phonecase, resembling a display case in a museum which entrapped the most compellingly stunning soul: you!

©lovingpiastri

[lisired]

navigation

yani, 22, she/they

⤷ 18+ blog primarily for long nct fics. masterlist below. no requests.

⤷ revehae is my side blog where i write evil little stories that normal people will find off-putting. ireverie is the enhypen equivalent.

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DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES

⤷ JOHNNY SUH, 23k, 1/3 of the wanted: dead or alive series.

five years ago, you were part of a unit assigned to eliminate the head rival of a crime syndicate. the plan backfired miserably. ever since you have been laying low, but then your former boss calls you with alarming news.

KEEP ON

⤷ JOHNNY SUH, 13.6k

All things love and commitment are feared upon by you. You keep a tight crew and let few people in, cynical of other’s intentions and leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake. If you break other people’s hearts first, they can’t break yours. And yet, it was all too easy falling for Johnny, digging yourself into a depthless hole of love. But he is no exception to your heartache games.

WAITING GAME

⤷ JOHNNY SUH, 9.1k, 1/4 of the Temptation series.

Your best friend’s dad is a smoking hot dilf seeking vengeance after you’ve spent the past couple of years teasing him, but it seems that you can’t handle a taste of your own medicine.

LITTLE DO YOU KNOW

⤷ LEE TAEYONG, 14.9k

After three years away from Miami, Taeyong is finally ready to return to the city. He left a world behind here, but most importantly, he left you. And being invited on a friendly get-together trip to a beach resort gives him a little too much time to resume unfinished business between you both.

DRESS CODE

⤷ NAKAMOTO YUTA, 7.4k, 3/4 of the Temptation series.

Nakamoto Yuta and his rings have caught your eye. In an effort to seduce your professor, you decide to take your best friend’s advice and change your wardrobe. You’re given an advantage when Yuta’s son asks you to tutor him, and it’s like Satan is handing you opportunities on a silver platter - but at what cost?

I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD

⤷ NAKAMOTO YUTA, 20k, 2/3 of the wanted: dead or alive series.

after investigating the activity of a local gang, your boss abruptly disappears, and it's up to you to find out what happened to him. you almost immediately suspect the reapers, one of the most infamous gangs in seoul. and yuta is willing to lend a hand in your operation, but only at a cost; forget him in the end.

VENOMOUS

⤷ NAKAMOTO YUTA, 18.8k

Born into the underworld, crime was all you’d known your entire life and was practically in your blood - murder, drugs, money, power, and everything in between. In spite of your father leading one of the two major gangs that dominated Asia, you managed to keep safe. But all that changes once the rival gang has bad blood to settle with your father, and suddenly a vendetta’s being pursued against you.

WHISPER

⤷ KIM DOYOUNG, 8.9k, 2/4 of the Temptation series.

When you were nineteen, you could only dream of meeting Kim Doyoung in his sheets. Behind his back you watched all the movies he starred in, wanting nothing more than to be the one he touched whenever a sex scene came on. So when the opportunity surfaced four years later after you’re casted together in the same movie, you didn’t hesitate to snag it - even if it meant hiding from his wife, your father, and the public. And even if feelings developed.

DIE IN YOUR ARMS

⤷ JEONG JAEHYUN, 22.4k

Every single night before bed, you play your royal husband, Jaehyun, a song on his grandfather's piano as a distraction from the ominous sounds you hear. To the public, you're all smiles, but discreetly, you're a slave to your suspicions. Though it seems the more you pry, the more secrets you start to unravel.

HONEYMOON AVENUE

⤷ JEONG JAEHYUN, 12.3k

A year ago, wedding bells were ringing and you were screaming, “Yes!” at the top of your lungs. Last Christmas, you were supposed to be wed under a mistletoe. This Christmas, company finds you in the form of your ex-fiancé that broke off your engagement after you’re both inconveniently trapped in an elevator.

WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

⤷ JEONG JAEHYUN, 14.5k

Three years ago, you had a summer fling with Jung Jaehyun, and what was simply sex turned into more after you caught feelings for him. Then, you find out he has a girlfriend, and decide to call it quits. Three years later, he's back in town, trying to come back in your life, and most importantly trying to come back into your heart, but you're a little hesitant to let him.

WISH I NEVER

⤷ JEONG JAEHYUN, 27.2k

Your brother, Johnny, hates Jaehyun and has never told you why. Although you intend on leaving it alone, unforeseen events thrust you into a forbidden love affair with Jaehyun. In between hookups and stolen kisses, you have to bury your feelings for Jaehyun around your overprotective older brother.

CAN YOU KEEP IT DOWN?

⤷ MARK LEE, 10.4k, 4/4 of the Temptation series

The apartment next door to yours has been vacant for months. No one had gone in or out, not until your new next door neighbor moved in two weeks ago. Mark, a slightly older guy who prides himself on his patience and willpower with a penchant for control. But when you make it clear you’re resolved to wither away the things he values most, Mark decides he’s down for the challenge, determined to put a leash on your unrestrained behavior - and most importantly, finally shut you the hell up.

EX MARKS THE SPOT

⤷ MARK LEE, 19.9k

Two months ago, you and Mark called it quits and haven’t spoken to each other since. As per tradition, your respective friend groups gather each Christmas eve to keep the peace, but this year somebody has a different plan. And the new chick on Mark’s arm isn’t the worst thing to happen.

PRETTY LITTLE WEAPON

⤷ MARK LEE, 25.7k

A lifetime worth of adversity had brought you to Bloodlust. You joined them to escape your history, but with Mark Lee - an undercover narcotics agent with a secret to keep - comes the threat of being forced to confront your past. Old wounds are opened, but scars heal.

(AT THE END OF THE DAY) EVERYBODY DIES

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 20k, 3/3 of the wanted: dead or alive series.

denial after denial, your step-brother continues to nag you about an upcoming high school reunion, until you finally agree to tag along. it’s awkward seeing your ex-boyfriend, haechan, again for the first time in years, but you have no time to dwell on the past with the threat of undead students banging on the school gates.

CHANGE YOUR MIND YET?

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 4.6k

You’re going to kill him. You swear, You’re going to kill him. how did Liu Yangyang accidentally tell Lee Donghyuck—your greatest enemy—that you think he’s hot and that you’ve been in a dry spell recently? Now you have to avoid the inevitable confrontation, and worst of all, deal with the most stubborn person alive (who ironically thinks that you’re the most stubborn person alive).

FOREVER YOURS

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 23k

Thirst for exhilaration and a stupid dare brings you, your boyfriend Haechan, and your friends to the eerie camping grounds of Chimera - the name of a town rumored to be occupied by a number of vengeful, lurking spirits. But nothing is as it seems in this ghost town.

LOVE JONES

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 25.5k, part one, part two

After breaking off your engagement to your fiance, you move to Los Angeles to pursue a modeling career. There in the fairytale land where stars go to shine you meet Haechan, an aspiring photographer with a penchant for mischief and flirtation.

SMILE FOR THE CAMERA

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, PARK JISUNG, 19.8k

upon accidentally finding a video of you and your boyfriend haechan doing some very sexual things, jisung knows that he shouldn’t watch it. he knows that it would be an extreme invasion of privacy, but he’s unable to control himself when he sees the thumbnail. so he settles for only watching 30 seconds. except, 30 seconds turns into 30 minutes, and by then he’s buried himself too deep into a life-changing situation—or in which jisung’s terrible at keeping secrets.

SUPERMODEL

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 23k

Five years ago, you left your hometown and ex to recreate your identity in California. Now, you're a staple of the fashion industry and on the front cover of magazines everywhere. Your hard work has paid off, but when you realize that you might be pregnant, you have to decide whether you want to be a full-time model or a full-time mother.

THE DEVIL’S CUP

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 6.8k

In a world where humans and demons are separated by earth and the unknown, you’re curious about the creatures that most mortal beings are too frightened to investigate. More specifically if they can please you sexually. As they say, curiosity killed the cat.

WHO NEEDS CUPID’S BOW?

⤷ LEE HAECHAN, 11.1k

Cupid is not on your side, it seems. He’s made you fall in love with the worst possible person ever, AKA your best friend, AKA the man who still eats tootsie-pops—willingly. And frankly, it feels like the damn candy has a better chance of dating him than you ever will.

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure FILTH as promised: hair undone, bras abandoned, naked ankles and no stockings, Reader is in her whore era. Jk, there is some actual filth :v some warnings that I forgot to mention before: Reader is obviously a virgin, Viktor is not, Jayce? Jaybe, Jaybe not, I was told he reads as one and honestly, I don't mind :') Other than that, this fic has an implied age gap, that will be mentioned only once, of around 8 years between Reader and Viktor. So, sorry for the inconvenience, I'm somewhat biased when it comes to this topic, and consider age gaps to be worth mentioning when they oscillate around 10+ years.

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,3K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family's wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author's note: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for beta reading!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You adjust the piano stool to your height and give its mouth an experimental caress. You can see your distorted reflection in the polished lid. Once its teeth are bare, you press on the A key tentatively. Then, you give the keyboard an abrupt slide with the back of your palm, fingernails clacking against each one with a dry, repetitive click. A sigh escapes you, while you contemplate what should be the first tune you play in your new home.

It did not take long for you to grasp that your honeymoon was far removed from any sweet undertones, lingering instead in the realm of the dull and tasteless. The day after the wedding, as you stepped out of the carriage that had brought you and your husband to your new household, said husband took that very opportunity to step into a completely new personality—one you had not yet met.

Almost as if the crumbs of his previous kindness had been scattered before you solely to keep you from straying from the path. And it was not that he was being cruel—no. Distant was the more fitting word. Or rather, absent.

Absent was perfect.

During your silent journey, Viktor had been wholly absorbed in a text on the voltaic pile. You watched as his lower lip disappeared between his teeth, a finger tracing the lines of letters as he re-read the most intriguing fragments. Every so often, he would sigh or let out a soft gasp, his mouth parting as if to speak, only to freeze mid-thought—perhaps deciding that the present audience would not grasp the grandiosity of the subject matter.

He looked rather pretty like this, you noted—focused and flustered over something as dry and practical as a battery. You wondered if this was what you looked like while playing the piano. Yet besides Viktor, who had only ever had the opportunity to watch your back—or so you thought—there were no witnesses to confirm your speculation.

So you sat there, watching his reflection in the carriage window as he flexed his hand, took notes, and grumbled whenever the wheels jolted over the uneven road, smudging his careful handwriting. By the time you arrived, you had memorized the pattern his hair formed on his forehead and the slight crease between his brows when he concentrated. Not that sentimentality was at play here—merely a lack of better substance to occupy your mind. Soon after departing the city, the landscape had dissolved into a monotonous stretch of rolling hills, scattered trees, and shallow ponds.

Viktor offered you a hand to step down safely and an arm to escort you into the main hall, where your new staff awaited. You were introduced to the butler, housekeeper, lady’s maid, cook, and the rest of the footmen before being led on a tour of the house. Room after room unfolded before you, each accompanied by the expectant gaze of Algernon, or rather Mr. Griffiths, the butler, as he meticulously detailed the strengths and weaknesses of each space.

He led the way through the entrance hall, his measured steps echoing against the polished floor. The space was impressive, if a touch austere, with high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and dark wood panelling that made the morning light from the tall windows seem distant rather than inviting. A large, gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the assembled staff and, just behind them, you and Viktor—him standing with his usual careful posture, his expression impossible to read.

The butler cleared his throat and gestured towards the double doors on the left. "The drawing room, my lady. A fine space for receiving guests."

You stepped inside, taking in the elegant furnishings—brocade-upholstered settees, a stately fireplace adorned with a marble mantel—but your gaze caught on the gleaming pianoforte tucked into one corner. A quiet, unexpected relief settled over you at the sight of it, the first familiar thing in this house that was not yet a home.

You forced a smile, turning towards the housekeeper, a severe-looking woman introduced as Mrs. Forsythe. “It is lovely,” you said warmly, though you wondered if you would ever feel at ease here.

"The adjoining parlour, should you prefer a more intimate setting," Algernon continued, leading you through a side door into a cosier space with softer furnishings, smaller windows, and a delicate tea service already arranged on a sideboard.

Next came the dining room, its vast mahogany table stretching the length of the chamber, surrounded by high-backed chairs and illuminated by a heavy crystal chandelier. The room smelled of polish and beeswax. You folded your hands in front of you, smiling at the cook, Mrs. Harrod, when she stepped forward to curtsey.

"The kitchens are below, of course," she said, eyeing you with a mixture of deference and curiosity. "We’ve a well-stocked larder, my lady, and I shall ensure your meals are to your liking."

"I'm certain everything will be wonderful, Mrs. Harrod," you assured her.

The tour continued, each room unfolding before you as Algernon detailed its use. There was the library, lined with bookshelves that stretched nearly to the ceiling, the faint scent of leather and parchment lingering in the air. Viktor’s gaze lingered here for the first time, but he said nothing. Then, the morning room, light and airy with pale floral wallpaper and comfortable chairs arranged for quiet conversation. The study, reserved for correspondence and household matters, sat adjacent, its heavy oak desk perfectly arranged.

A long hallway led to a billiards room—more for guests than yourselves, you imagined—followed by a small music room, where an older harp sat in one corner alongside another pianoforte. The footmen glanced at you, waiting for a reaction, and so you smiled again, nodding approvingly even as your jaw began to ache from the effort.

Viktor remained silent throughout, his expression unreadable. He neither reacted nor interrupted, allowing Algernon to carry on without interference. Occasionally, you felt his gaze on you, but whenever you glanced in his direction, he was already looking elsewhere.

Ascending the stairs, you kept your posture straight, mindful of the way the staff’s eyes lingered. The second floor opened into a wide corridor lined with closed doors, each leading to a chamber of its own. Algernon led you towards the first of them.

“This,” he said, opening the door with a measured hand, “is His Lordship’s bedchamber.”

The room was of generous size, its furnishings well-appointed yet distinctly reserved. The four-poster bed stood against the far wall, its dark wood frame matching the writing desk stationed beneath the window. The fireplace was already prepared, a modest armchair set beside it. Everything was in place, tidy, waiting. It did not feel like a space belonging to a man who had just taken a wife.

You stood at the threshold, taking it in. Viktor, beside you, regarded the room with unreadable eyes, his hand tightening ever so slightly around his cane.

“I believe,” he said after a moment, his voice deliberately even, “that I shall conclude the tour here.”

You turned to him, expecting an explanation. He was already shifting his weight, his movements careful, precise. With a slow breath, he lowered himself into the chair by the fire, adjusting his leg with practiced care.

“My leg is acting up,” he stated plainly, an excuse so mild it almost dared no further comment. His amber gaze flickered to yours, cool yet observant. “You may continue without me.”

Algernon hesitated only a fraction before bowing. “As you wish, my lord.” Then, with a glance towards you, he gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”

“By all means,” you murmured, your eyes lingering on the door as it closed almost in front of your nose. And that was the last you saw of Viktor that day.

Behind those closed doors, Viktor took his first real breath. He waited for the sound of your footsteps to fade down the corridor before letting the back of his head thump against the thick wood. He sighed to himself.

“Imbecile.”

He did not know what would do more to ease his mind—sleeping or going straight to the workshop your father had arranged for him and Jayce. He did not know how much longer he could maintain this careful performance, nor how he was meant to uphold his end of the secret agreement you two had forged. But he had to regroup.

He slumped onto the bed, arms and legs spread wide, and sighed again.

“Absurd.”

Absurd was the way you licked your lips when you met in the morning to pack your belongings. Absurd was the way your hand had squeezed his when he helped you in and out of the carriage. Absurd was the way you had watched him the entire journey, barely blinking, breathing deeply—your eyes fixed on his fingers, on his hair, gaze burning right through him, making his clothes feel tight and his seat unbearable.

Absurdity. That was what he was making of it in his deranged mind, because clearly, you were just measuring up your opponent.

He loosened his cravat, then, growing impatient, pulled it from his collar entirely. He unbuttoned his shirt and pressed his hands against his chest. His heartbeat was uneven—final proof of his insanity. The heels of his palms pressed deep into his eyeballs, chest rising and falling, brace digging into the flesh of his leg uncomfortably when Viktor tried to make out anything that would make sense to him. And nothing did.

A vague, unsettled feeling took root in your chest when you finally reached your bedchamber, and Mr. Griffiths paused at the door. “Do you require anything else, my lady?”

“I think… Could I use the music room?”

“By all means, my lady. Everything in this house is yours to use as you please.”

Which is precisely how you’ve found yourself here—perched at the edge of the piano stool, subjecting the instrument to a volatile rendition of Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor, swinging between tender, thoughtful passages and frantic, feverish key-smashing. Hunched over, eyes shut, your mouth moving as if forming words in a language only you can understand.

The sound echoes through the music room, spills into the hallway, and carries through the corridors—all the way up to Viktor’s bedchamber, where he presses his hands to his ears. His core burns, his hips rut helplessly against the mattress, and he mutters, “God, spare me,” desperate and alone.

***

Your first few weeks do not look all that different from the life you left behind. It feels as though you packed it up and brought it with you—everything except your parents, sisters, and, most painfully, Peggy. Your new lady’s maid is much younger and far more timid than she was.

Eliza knocks on your door every morning and helps you dress, just as Peggy once did, yet her reserve and cautiousness make the ritual all the more unbearable. Just to avoid giving the poor girl a heart attack, you almost instinctively continue to slip back and forth between your night and day self, growing more and more adamant by the day.

How many times have you tried to bring yourself to say a polite little no to a short stay, it is only for you to know. The only thing you have achieved so far is your bun becoming looser and looser, to the point of falling apart by the end of the day—much to Eliza’s horror over the number of pins lost somewhere around the house.

You spend your days alone, reading and playing the piano, performing for no one but yourself and your devoted staff. Viktor, meanwhile, spends all his waking hours in the lab, having effortlessly shed the composed facade he maintained upon arrival. Whenever you glimpse him—usually only for a fleeting moment as you cross paths in the dining room—his hair is mussed, his shirt collar undone by at least one button, his cravat entirely absent, and, to your utter ruin, his sleeves are often rolled up, exposing the taut skin of his forearms.

These glimpses are brief. He is always finishing his breakfast the moment you step into the dining room, wiping his glistening lips with a napkin before downing the last sip of coffee—already on his feet. You greet him with a rigid hello as you take your seat at the far end of the long table, another silent symbol of the growing distance between you. And each time, it strikes you: you do not even know if he has just woken at dawn or has yet to retire for the night.

Until today, when something is visibly askew, and Viktor lingers in the dining room a moment longer than usual. He sits hunched over a stack of notes when you enter, not sparing you a glance—only a quiet, hollow, Good morning.

Of all days, today, when you managed to furiously pluck the pins from your hair on the way to breakfast and shove them into a plant pot in one of the corridors, huffing at yourself in condemnation—why are you valuing your lady’s maid’s peace of mind higher than your own in the first place?

You gather your untamed hair away from your forehead, flip it over your shoulder, and sit carefully, mindful not to trap the curls beneath you. You hum and fuss over your plate, chin propped in one hand, until you finally crack the egg open with an echoing smack—and Viktor hisses, visibly annoyed.

“Is something the matter, my dear husband?” Your unamused voice carries through the room, and Viktor winces, huffing before setting the parchment down with a click of his tongue.

“I was an inch from solving a problem,” he replies with exaggerated politeness. There is more to the remark, lingering somewhere in his throat, but when he finally looks up at you, all he says is—

“Oh.”

“Oh?” you parrot.

“Forgive me, I must—” He stands almost abruptly, nearly knocking his coffee over. “I must call for Jayce. And possibly get back to this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the papers scattered on the table.

You watch him as he turns, noting the unevenness in his step—the slight wobble, the way his weight shifts too quickly onto his cane. Before he can pass, you twist in your chair, reaching out instinctively. Your fingers close around his forearm, just above where his hand grips the cane.

“Have you rested at all?”

The question lands between you like a stone dropped into still water. He freezes beneath your touch. The muscles under your hand tighten, but he does not pull away instantly. You feel the warmth of his skin, his sleeve rolled up, the faint tremor of exertion, and then—goosebumps, rising where your palm lingers.

You watch it with glazed eyes, your mouth slightly parted, and it becomes unbearably hard to stay motionless as you dangle between snapping your hand away, smoothing your palm down to his wrist to see if the tremor of your heart has a companion in his, or simply squeezing your fingers around him tighter. To keep him with you for just a little longer.

His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. Then, just as quickly as the moment came, it is gone. He retreats, wrenching his arm away as though burned. He does not dare look at his own skin—fears to check whether the imprint of your touch will be glaring at him, a brand he cannot afford to acknowledge.

“I need not your pity, my dear wife,” he says, sharper than necessary, the words laced with a venom that does not quite belong.

Your breath hitches, but the response comes swiftly, cutting through the tension like the precise stroke of a blade.

“I do not pity you. I am merely guessing that you have not retired for the night.” A pause, deliberate, pointed. Then, voice soft but unyielding: “It is only my suspicion, though, as you are a phantom that shows itself to me on rare occasions.”

Viktor blinks caught off guard by your words. His gaze sharpens, but there’s a hint of confusion in it. He turns fully, the squeak of his cane against the polished floor punctuating the moment. You take him in now, properly. The absence of his usual polish makes him appear almost boyish—no layers of coats or stiff cravats, no carefully smoothed-down hair. His shirt is loose at the waist, half-pulled from his slacks, the fabric creased with wear. It softens him, or so it should. But what follows does not suit his harmless appearance.

“I am merely taking full advantage of our agreement, as vowed.” His voice is smooth, edged with annoyance that sends a shiver through you. “Hunting my prey.”

Your breath catches, but you do not waver. His eyes drag over you, assessing, and then he gestures vaguely in your direction. “And yet, between the two of us, you afford yourself nothing more than loosened hair.” For the briefest of moments Viktor conjures the feeling of your curls beneath his fingers, a vignette of his own hand closing around the fistful of hair floods his mind’s eye, warmth waking in an unwanted place. No matter.

He steps closer, slow and calculated. “I do not see you running barefoot. I do not hear you playing the piano. I do not see you eating what you please, reading what you please. I see no effort at all to find your deer—” He leans in, voice a near whisper now. “Let alone hunt it.”

Your heart thunders, but you hold your ground. You meet his gaze, chin tilting upward in defiance. “You could have stopped at ‘I do not see you,’” you say, voice steady despite the heat curling at the back of your throat. “That would have been enough.”

Silence stretches between you, taut and unbroken. Then, Viktor exhales, and when he speaks again, your name falls from his lips softly—too softly. A warning.

You wait, but nothing follows.

At last, he straightens, stepping back just enough to sever the unbearable tension between you. “Indeed,” he murmurs, the usual tone devoid of emotion returning to his voice. “I am feeling rather tired.” A pause, measured. Then, with a glance toward the hallway, “Perhaps I should retire for a few hours before Jayce arrives.”

With that, he is gone, and you realise the spoon you’ve been holding has left a dent on the inside of your palm. A tremendous feeling surges through you—a mixture of anger and excitement. Both halves of you stir with something unspoken, as if you have been challenged, and you wonder if Viktor has the faintest idea of what he has just set into motion.

The answer to your question lingers in the corridor, where Viktor halts his wobbly trot to lean against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. The weather has grown unbearably hot these past couple of weeks, he tells himself. He will have to go completely nocturnal to survive this. It is possible—he is already halfway there. Jayce will arrive in the evening and take his mind off the intrusive thoughts. He cannot confuse the deer, not now.

The rest of the day passes in seemingly unimportant activities, though in truth, you strike another contract—one with yourself. Your day and night selves reach an accord: it is time to taste some of the alleged freedom that has been granted to you.

By the time the day dims into evening and Jayce’s carriage rumbles up the drive, you are already retired for the night, determined to wake before Eliza steps into your room, her gentle hands poised to constrict.

And so, when dawn stretches its pale fingers across the horizon, you are not in your bed.

You are already dressed—or rather, half-dressed, as far as society is concerned. No short stay, no stockings, bare feet enveloped by delicate satin slippers. The cool air kisses the skin left exposed by your loosened chemise, and for the first time in weeks, you feel unburdened.

Eliza’s head peeks through the door, her voice tight with worry. “My lady, you are up so early! Forgive me my oversight!” She steps in hastily, hands reaching as if to remedy the damage.

You only smile, brushing past her gently. “I can manage on my own.”

You are nearly at the door when a faint, barely audible squirm from Eliza makes you pause. Without turning, you add, “I can dress myself. But I wouldn’t mind some company from time to time, if you find a moment for me.” Your voice is warm, the offer genuine.

Eliza blanches, her face draining of colour. She nods—too quickly, too vigorously—and you cannot tell whether it is because she has noticed your scandalous lack of undergarments or because, somehow, you have become utterly intimidating overnight.

No matter which it is, you take your leave, stepping lightly down the grand staircase. The air is crisp with the promise of morning, your confidence unshaken—until your bravado falters slightly at the sound of voices drifting from the dining room. Viktor’s and Jayce’s.

You step forward anyway.

Their voices sharpen as you near, rising in a rapid exchange of ideas, heated but not hostile. The dining room door is ajar, and through the gap, you glimpse them—both dishevelled, shirts rumpled, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, the remnants of a long night spent in relentless pursuit of something just within their grasp.

“I’m telling you, the reaction stabilised, but only for a moment—” Viktor gestures sharply, his cane propped against the table as he leans forward, hands braced against scattered notes.

Jayce shakes his head, pushing a plate of untouched food aside. “Then we’re missing something. Maybe—maybe the cooling process is too fast? We need to slow the transition.”

“That would—” Viktor stops mid-thought, snapping his fingers as if trying to seize the fleeting revelation. “That could work. If we control the gradient, if we—”

You step into the room.

The soft rustle of your movement isn’t enough to pull them from their world. Jayce rubs his forehead, squinting down at a set of scribbled calculations, muttering under his breath. Viktor paces—or tries to, moving in uneven strides before settling for gripping the edge of the table. Neither acknowledges your presence at first.

It’s only when you take your seat—silent, waiting—that Viktor glances up.

His entire body stills.

“Oh,” he breathes, his exhaustion-worn features shifting as his focus lands fully on you. His brow furrows slightly, as if trying to reconcile the image before him with the one his mind is struggling to catch up to. “Did we wake you?”

You shake your head lightly. “Not at all.” A pause. You glance between them, their energy still thrumming in the air like a current not yet dissipated. Amusement tugs at your lips as you add, “But I can't deny I'm feeling like I'm interrupting something.”

Jayce, who has been slower to register your presence, suddenly snaps to attention. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands abruptly, eyes widening in realisation before he bellows your name. The sound echoes across the room, bouncing off the high ceiling, and before you can react, he’s already closing the distance.

His enthusiasm outpaces his manners.

He sweeps you into a hug, broad arms folding around you in an unpractised but genuine embrace. His hands pat your back—gentle at first, then slower, as if something unexpected has dawned on him. You swear you catch the faintest sound from him, a quiet huh, before he swiftly schools his expression into a bright smile, brushing off whatever surprise had momentarily struck him.

“Why are you all the way over here?” He gestures toward the edge of the table where you had settled. “Come, sit. You must tell me how you’ve been—I was worried we’d miss each other.”

You laugh, wholeheartedly, startled by the first honest touch you’ve experienced in days. Then, you glance over at Viktor, who is still standing, braced against the edge of the table. He gives you a timid nod while closing his mouth, then sits, smoothing down his hair.

Jayce, a faint blush playing on his cheeks, guides you with a hand on your back to take a seat between him and Viktor. He fixes your chair and slumps down beside you, leaning in with a boyish curiosity, shedding the last remnants of formalities now that it’s just the three of you. There is something familiar in it, something that makes you feel less like a wife on paper and more like a natural part of this strange little household.

He leans in conspiratorially. “So, tell me everything—how much of a thorn in your side has he been?”

You consider, for a moment, telling Jayce that something must be present to be a nuisance in the first place. But something deeper, some instinct not yet fully understood, warns you against such an admission. Betraying loyalty—even in jest—would lead nowhere.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, casting a glance at Viktor before saying, with measured amusement, “I find I have little cause to complain.”

Viktor, still smoothing a hand through his hair, blinks slowly at you, eyes narrowing just a fraction before he inclines his head in the smallest of nods.

Jayce huffs. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “And are you not going to ask if she has been a thorn in my side?”

And Viktor would have plenty to say on the matter. Not only have you somehow managed to work around his erratic schedule, but it would seem you are well on your way to orchestrating his downfall—death by one’s own sword. The familiarity of your arrangement is creeping into spaces he does not wish it to occupy, slipping into idle moments, threading itself through his thoughts when he least expects it.

The number of times he has stopped by your door, only to hesitate at the threshold, has already reached a ridiculous count—much to his own dismay. And all of this, when the two of you barely see each other.

Jayce barks out a laugh so sudden and loud that it nearly startles you. He claps a hand against the table, shaking his head. “Right. As if there exists a soul more exasperating than you.”

Viktor only rolls his eyes, briefly contemplating calling for a hearse in advance to carry away his still-warm corpse before Jayce tears him apart in front of you.

Thankfully, the rest of breakfast passes without much torment for Viktor as Jayce and you fall into easy conversation, catching up on the time lost between visits. By the time the clock strikes nine, Jayce yawns—big and unreserved—before pushing back his chair and announcing his departure. He remarks that he has already overstayed his welcome and promises to arrive at a more humane hour next time, which, he assures, will be in four days.

Before leaving, he turns to Viktor. “I’ll get the things we need from the city before my next visit.”

With their goodbyes exchanged, Viktor leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes wearily. He sighs, then looks at you. “Are you not going to berate me into bed this time?”

You arch a brow. “Last time, it earned me some rather harsh commentary from you, so I will refrain from mothering you.”

His expression softens instantly. And suddenly, he is back—or rather, he shifts into one of the versions of himself that you have grown to like the most. Soft-spoken, his features gentle, a hand lingering on the table as though caught in indecision. He does not reach for you, and yet you feel the warmth of his skin as if he had.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I grow... irritable when I am overtired.”

“It’s quite alright. I am not easily offended.”

He hums at that and stands, bidding you farewell with a slight bow of his head. Yet somewhere between the table and the door, he hesitates, glancing back at you. His gaze flickers downward—just for a second—to your bodice, to your bare feet in their slippers.

“I see you have taken my advice,” he remarks.

You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. “Yes, I am merely testing the waters.”

A sound—so faint you barely catch it—escapes him. Something like a sigh, like the start of a whine swiftly swallowed down. “Good,” is all he says before taking his leave.

You smile to yourself, kick off your shoes, and curl up in the chair, biting into an apple without slicing or peeling it.

***

By the time of Jayce’s next visit, Viktor has managed to adjust his sleeping schedule—if only slightly—into something resembling human behaviour. He cannot deny his own excitement about the threshold they are about to cross. So much so that some of his defences have loosened almost without his noticing.

When the morning following Jayce’s first visit arrives, you take your seat all the way back by the table. Viktor notices before he even means to, and his mouth is faster to speak than his mind can stop him. “I see we are back to the original seat arrangement?”

You glance at him over your cup, the barest glint of amusement in your eyes. “Unless you don’t mind me sitting where I sat yesterday?”

Viktor nearly scowls at this game, realising too late that he is about to lose. He braces himself, carefully setting his spoon down before conjuring an answer that might put you in check. “I would not mind if that was what you desired.”

A perfect deflection—or so he believes, right up until you tilt your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. Without hesitation, you approach the seat you had claimed yesterday and sink into it with deliberate ease, smoothing your hands over the tablecloth as though you had always belonged there. “Then I suppose I shall have to keep you guessing as to what it is I desire.”

Viktor stills. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of the table, mind racing to counter, to regain footing in a match he hadn’t realised was taking place. But you have left him no opening, no move to reclaim the upper hand.

Checkmate.

The air shifts between you, tension strung so finely it might snap at the slightest pull. Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, as if attempting to dispel it, and seizes upon the first neutral topic that comes to mind.

“Did you sleep well?” His voice is steadier than he expects, though he distracts himself by reaching for the sugar dish.

“Well enough,” you reply, mirroring his movement. “Though I admit, I nearly slept through breakfast.”

Your fingers brush against his—just a whisper of contact, fleeting yet electric. Viktor’s breath catches. It is the smallest of things, entirely unremarkable, yet his reaction is anything but. Heat prickles at the back of his neck. He withdraws a fraction too quickly, fingers curling into a loose fist against the tabletop.

You seem unaware of his flustered state, but he cannot risk testing his restraint further. Pushing back from the table, he stands, offering a polite nod.

“I should return to my work,” he says, voice carefully composed. A pause. Then, softer, “I will see you at dinner.”

He does not look back as he leaves, though he feels the weight of your gaze following him all the way to the door. Leaves you with your brows scrunched, before you finally shrug and go about your day.

Another time, he allows himself an odd smile during a brief conversation with you—a small greeting when he finds you reading outside, your belly pressed against the blanket, bare feet swinging idly in the air as you kick at your own buttocks. He is the one to initiate the chatter, asking what has you so engrossed, before his mind catches up with the inevitable flustered reaction caused by the sight of your bare shin.

Viktor nods absentmindedly as you speak, his ears processing the words—something about musical composition, about Bach’s fugues—but his mind does not listen to him.

Some primal instinct takes over, overriding his better judgement, and all he can do is memorise the delicate shape of your ankle, the gentle swell of your calf. His gaze lingers, bordering on something obscene, tracing the bare stretch of your skin where it catches the dappled sunlight. The sight is almost hypnotic, and yet, in your innocence, you mistake it for unwavering focus.

“In fact,” you say, perking up, your expression bright with enthusiasm, “I believe this is something that might catch your interest.” You shift, moving aside to make space for him on the blanket, and in the process, your skirt rides up just slightly—just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your knee.

It is nearly too much.

Viktor coughs abruptly, his throat tightening as if his own body conspires against him. He tugs at his collar, attempting to create more space, but it is no use—the air has grown thick and stifling.

“I—” His voice comes out strained, so he clears his throat again and schools his expression into something neutral. “I would, but I must prepare the lab for Jayce’s arrival.”

The excuse is polite, reasonable, and entirely necessary, lest he make an utter fool of himself. Without waiting for your response, he inclines his head in farewell and turns on his heel, making a swift retreat before temptation can take root any further.

Leaves you blinking dumbfoundedly as your mouth stops speaking mid-sentence again.

Never mind that, the rest of your day is consumed with the attempt to put your freshly devoured knowledge into practice. You spend hours hunched over the piano, fingers chasing after patterns, testing the way structure gives way to emotion in each phrase. The passing of time eludes you until the golden light of the setting sun vanishes entirely, leaving only the soft glow of candle sconces to guide your way.

Footsteps in the corridor signal movement in the house, the shuffle of weary men returning from their labours. You take it as your cue to retire for the night.

Stepping into the hallway, you find yourself crossing paths with Jayce and Viktor. They are both visibly spent, their shoulders drawn with exhaustion, but there is something undeniably triumphant in their expressions. Viktor carries the scent of burnt oil and paper, while Jayce's hair is in complete disarray, as though he has run his hands through it a hundred times over.

"Any groundbreaking success?" you ask lightly, directing the question to Jayce as he stretches with a groan.

"Hopefully," he says, laughing. "We’re making progress—some of it even intentional."

You huff in amusement. "I shall look forward to hearing the grand announcement, then."

"You’ll be the first to know," Jayce assures you, then clasps Viktor’s shoulder before departing. "Goodnight, you two."

That leaves you and Viktor alone, the silence between you both weighted, not uncomfortable but not quite settled either. Without speaking, you fall into step together, instinctively adjusting your pace to match his—slower, deliberate, the quiet tap of his cane punctuating each measured stride—as you ascend the stairs in tandem.

At the landing, where your paths are meant to diverge, Viktor hesitates. Just for a breath. Just for a moment too long.

Your eyes meet.

And then, as though scalded, he steps back, inclining his head with the faintest of nods before slipping away into the dark.

With a huff of resignation, you allow Eliza to undress you and prepare you for bed. She moves deftly, fingers working through the laces of your gown, but you do not miss the way her lips press together as though suppressing a question.

You arch a brow at her in quiet encouragement, and with a shake of her head—half exasperation, half amusement—she finally relents.

“If it is not too bold of me to ask, my lady—” she hesitates briefly before pressing on, “—it has been nearly a month now. How do you find marriage suits you?”

You let out a small breath of laughter, too tired to weigh your words with careful diplomacy. “Not too different from unwedded life, if I am to be truthful. Save for the absence of my sisters’ endless chatter.”

Eliza hums as she loosens the ties of your corset. “If I may say so, my lady, Mister Viktor strikes me as a good husband. Hardworking, thoughtful.”

You pause for half a moment before answering, smoothing your hands over your chemise. “He is a good friend, that much is certain.”

A small huff of laughter escapes her then, as though she cannot help herself. “Oh, my lady,” she says, shaking her head, “I may be young, but even my inexperienced eyes can see that you and Mister Viktor have long since passed the realm of friendship.”

You blink at her, caught off guard, and at once, she seems to realise she has overstepped. Her back straightens, her expression tightening as she rushes to amend her words. “I—I beg your pardon, I spoke out of turn, I did not mean—”

You hold up a hand, cutting off her flustered apology. “No, no, I rather liked that,” you say, surprising even yourself. A smirk tugs at your lips as you add, “Much more, in fact, than your continued attempts to sneak me a short stay each morning. I do hope we will soon be past that.”

Eliza exhales in relief, her mouth curling into a warm, genuine smile. She dips into a small curtsy. “Anything you wish, my lady.”

With that, she bids you goodnight and quietly takes her leave.

Left alone, you crawl into bed, drawing the covers up to your chin. The house is still, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hush of the wind beyond your window. But despite the quiet, despite the heavy comfort of your bedding, sleep eludes you.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to Viktor. To the way he had lingered by your door just moments earlier, caught in a hesitation neither of you had dared to name. To the way he had spoken to you at breakfast, as though testing boundaries he did not yet fully understand. To the fleeting brush of his hand against yours, his fingers warm, his breath catching just so—

You turn onto your side with a soft, frustrated sigh. Morning will come soon enough.

And yet, you do not think you will sleep at all. You swing your legs over the frame with an intention take a stroll to calm your mind.

Your bare feet make no sound against the polished floorboards as you slip into the corridor, the cool air brushing against your skin like a whispered warning. You tell yourself this is only a brief walk to settle your thoughts, to quiet the restlessness that refuses to let you sleep. Yet, without meaning to, your steps carry you past Viktor’s door before you can register the path you have taken.

You mean to keep walking. Truly, you do. But then—

A ghost of your name reaches your ears.

You stop short, the breath catching in your throat. Perhaps it was nothing—a trick of the night, the house shifting in its slumber. But then it comes again, unmistakable now, low and hoarse and pulled from behind that door.

Your fingers hover over the wood as if drawn by an unseen force. You glance down the corridor—empty, silent—before pressing your ear against the surface.

What you hear sends a shiver racing down your spine.

His voice is rough, uneven, his breaths laboured between the syllables of your name. Even through the barrier of the door, the strain in his tone is evident, the sound of it sinking straight to the pit of your stomach. He is panting, sighing, the rhythm of his breaths quickening into something unmistakable.

Your mind can only grasp at the edges of what is unfolding beyond that door, yet the images come unbidden.

Viktor, alone in the dark, his fingers ghosting over his parted lips as he imagines yours wrapped around him instead. His hand strokes himself with urgent, desperate movements, the need unbearable, overwhelming. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a curse. His mind is flooded with visions of you—your bare skin, your hands gripping at him, your body surrendering beneath his touch.

He pictures you riding his cock into oblivion, your hair cascading down your back, tickling his thighs as your head lulls on your shoulders in pleasure, lips moaning out his name. Your throat calling out for him, for God, as his thumb rubs you and his palm clasps around your waist. Your belly stretching over a bulge where his cock fills you up—if he were so lucky for you to lean back, propping yourself on his legs, presenting yourself to him. Your body long and arched as he runs a palm against your stomach, feeling himself hitting that spot that makes your thighs clench around the sharp angles of his hips.

Then, it’s your mouth on him again. That sweet tongue you stick out whenever you play the piano is now flicking against the bundle of nerves under his tip, teasing him. His thumb, no matter how precise, does you no justice—he is certain. His hand is a poor tribute, nowhere near good enough to mimic what your mouth would feel like, sucking on him. Were he so lucky. But clearly, he isn’t.

What he has instead is his own hand—calloused from years of tinkering and writing, ink stains embedded into his skin for eternity. His wrist aches, on the verge of pain, as he pumps himself hastily, chasing completion that wears your face. His free palm runs up and down his torso before clasping around his balls, picturing your wet cheeks pressing against them.

He writhes against the sheets, his self-restraint fraying, his control slipping with every ragged breath. He curses himself for this weakness, for this indulgence. But even as shame wars with desire, he cannot stop.

His own contract—his careful, calculated arrangement—has turned against him. He had thought it would be a shield, a safeguard. But instead, it has left him starving.

And now, the second contract—the one he has spoken aloud in front of many witnesses, the vow to worship you, body and soul—feels dangerously within reach.

His stomach contorts and curls as lust coils tighter and tighter. His skin nearly burns with the friction of his swollen cock, twitching in his own grasp, fingers curling tighter as he pretends it’s your cunt squeezing him. He pretends it’s your mouth enveloping him, your cheeks hollowed out as you hum around him.

With a wrenched-out grunt, he paints his own belly white, chanting your name to the rhythm of his stuttering hips. Drenched in sweat, he pumps his cock until the last drops of seed take their exit, leaving him spent—yet his soul still longing.

The last groan has you gasping, your body tightening and clenching around nothing—a sensation wholly unfamiliar until this moment. It is strong, undeniable, leaving you weak as you stagger back to your bedroom. You bury yourself beneath the covers, heart racing, mind muddled, lips dry. What on earth?

And Viktor groans again in his damp bed, his stomach slick with his own spent. The want for you is overwhelming, insatiable—his hand nearly not enough. How he is meant to keep his part of the deal, he does not know.

He may as well call for that hearse.

[thesevenstarfoxes]

Stephanie Brown ADHD headcanons

1. She got good grades on tests due to her high intelligence but teachers didn't like her because she couldn't sit still and be quiet during class. She often started arguing with the teacher when he said something that made her angry.

2. Undiagnosed (obviously). Barbara suggested she get tested during her Batgirl days when she saw how she was in class, but Stephanie refused, both because she doesn't think she has ADHD and because she doesn't want to have it. Sort of like "I don't want to get official confirmation that something is wrong with me".

3. Gets into hyperfocus very easily. She can watch a gang or play the piano and just… everything will fade away and before she knows it three hours have passed. She hates it, it reminds her of her father with his riddles.

4. The type of ADHD that has to move all the time or they feel intense distress. Even just moving her leg or fidgeting with her hands, but it only helps for a short time, she needs more range of motion. This is one of the reasons why when her father locked her in the closet it was so terrible for her (besides that it is a terrible punishment and any child would suffer if their parents did it). Having this type of ADHD and being stuck in a small space for a long time is a nightmare from hell, at some point the need to move is so strong that you feel like you have fire under your skin.

5. One of the reasons she loved being Spoiler/Batgirl/Robin so much is that adrenaline works like a short-term Ritalin for people with ADHD. She was finally able to focus easily and felt like her abilities were higher.