#already making it a tag because i will be doing more posting about this

[vettelsvee]

I'M SORRY, JULIET | Mick Schumacher

Mick Schumacher x Secret Girlfriend Vettel!Reader

SUMMARY: You're secretly dating Mick, both of you hiding it from everyone in your families until you get so happy about him getting his first points in Formula 1 that your father, Sebastian, ends up finding out

WORD COUNT: 2404

WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of teen pregnancy (age 17 from Seb and Hanna), angst. Settled on 2022 British GP

VEE'S NOTES: I missed so much posting about Mick so I had to bring him back... even that means Seb is the "bad guy" here. Hope you like it and thanks for reading! I'll be waiting for your opinions <3 ↳ TALK TO ME / REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

You hadn’t attended a Formula 1 race for longer than you could remember, and truthfully, you never thought you would again until Mick Schumacher started turning your world pink.

The boy had known you since you were a child, back when you would occasionally attend races hand in hand with your grandfather, Norbert. Your relationship deepened every time you saw each other in the paddock or at family gatherings, and despite the age difference between you, you grew closer and closer until you eventually fell in love with each other.

Even before your relationship began, you were both fully aware of the obstacles in your way. It wasn’t just the fact that Mick was six years older than you, but also that you were the children of two drivers who weren’t just former rivals and friends, but also were like family.

All of that, combined with the inevitable pressure from the press if they ever found out about your relationship, mattered little to Mick. One afternoon in mid-June, when the Schumachers and the Vettels had gathered together, he had decided to confess his feelings for you. At first, you were completely in shock, hearing from the lips of the very boy you had loved for years that he loved you too.

So, of course, when Mick asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend, you didn’t doubt to say yes.

Neither of you cared what others might say because, for now, no one knew about your relationship.

And there you were now, standing in the Aston Martin garage alongside your mother and your three younger siblings, watching the race with great enthusiasm as Sebastian drove the emerald-green car.

To the outside world, it might have seemed like you were simply there for one of the most important days in your father’s career since it was his 35th birthday. But in reality more than watching your father, you wanted to see your boyfriend.

Hanna noticed the tense expression on your face. Smiling warmly and without taking her eyes off Emily and Matilda, who were playing tag nearby, she stepped closer to you.

“Are you okay, Y/N? You seem like you’re in another galaxy.”

Your body tensed at the question, something that happened every time someone in your inner circle mentioned directly or indirectly your secret boyfriend. You tried to hide what was on your mind, but the combination of your mother’s presence and your nerves made you say more than you actually wanted.

“I’m nervous because I want dad to finish in the points,” you said with as much conviction as possible, though it wasn’t enough to convince Sebastian’s wife. “And well… I’m also worried about Mick.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, curious, but not pressing. She had once been seventeen too. More than that, she had gotten pregnant with you at that age, and she knew that your concern for Mick went beyond simple friendship. Mothers developed a sixth sense when it came to their children, and she knew you too well to be fooled.

“Mick? Why would you be worried about Mick?” she asked, making sure not to pry too much or reveal how much she already knew.

“Well… he’s having a really good race today,” you replied, lowering your gaze to the floor. “I’d like him to get a high position,” you explained, “even though with the piece of crap car he has we can’t expect much.”

Hanna nodded understandingly, reading between the lines of your words.

“I get it, sweetheart. I was the same way with your dad when he started racing,” she said, deliberately choosing her words to make you overthink. “Mick has a lot of talent, but he’s not in a team that helps him shine, so I understand why you care so much.”

“If you ever need to talk about Mick you know you can trust me, right?”  Hanna added,

You appreciated your mother’s words, though you remained cautious just in case she was digging for something that might expose your relationship. How naive you were to think she didn’t already know you were dating one of Sebastian’s best friends’ sons.

When the checkered flag waved and the twenty cars crossed the finish line, your eyes remained glued to the leaderboard. Not only had Carlos, one of your best friends, taken his first victory, but both Mick and Sebastian had finished in the points, placing eighth and ninth respectively.

Your father earning two points on his birthday was amazing. Your boyfriend earning three? Even better, especially since it was his first time scoring points in Formula 1. Saying you were emotional was an understatement, and no matter how much you tried to hold it in, a few tears escaped down your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly to avoid drawing attention.

Hanna, still by your side as she fed the youngest member of the family, noticed you approaching with a hesitant expression, as if you wanted to ask something but were afraid to.

“Can I go to Mick’s garage to congratulate him?” you asked cautiously. “It’s his first time scoring, and I’d like to say something to him in person before we leave for Switzerland.”

“I know you’re excited for him,” your mother said while burping the baby, “but I think it’s better if you stay here. It’s your dad’s birthday, and honestly? I doubt Haas would even let you see Mick.”

You nodded, though sadness crept in. You looked at the monitors, seeing the top three drivers already celebrating on the podium. Even from your location, you could hear the Spanish national anthem playing over the speakers.

“Mum,” you tried again, “come on, let me go congratulate Mick. I’ll be back quickly, and I’ll be here by the time dad gets back!”

Your exaggerated gestures and the way you waved your arms were too adorable, and Hanna couldn’t help but see herself in you. She remembered how she had felt when she started dating Sebastian, wanting nothing more than to see him every chance she had. As much as she tried to be the responsible mother, sometimes she just couldn’t help it. This was one of those moments, one where she gave in to the charms of her eldest, the spitting image of her father.

“Make sure you come back as soon as possible,” she relented with a small smile. “I don’t want your father calling me a bad mother for letting his baby do grown-up things.”

“Thank you, mum!”

With that being said, you sprinted off, weaving through mechanics, fans, and celebrities scattered around the paddock. You checked your phone to see if Mick had texted you, but there was nothing. That only made you hurry toward the Haas garage. Seeing it empty, you quickly turned around and headed toward the hospitality area, which was further away. While dodging anyone in your way, you sent Mick a message telling him you were on your way and that you had to be quick before your father returned.

When you arrived, the first thing you saw was Mick soaked in champagne, holding a bottle in his hand. The Haas team members, including Guenther, were celebrating. You felt out of place and your insecurity crept in, making you want to turn around and leave. But then Mick saw you, and the moment your eyes met, you knew you had made the right choice.

Mick immediately broke away from the group and rushed to your side, hugging you tightly. He wanted nothing more than to kiss you, even if just a quick peck, but his rational side reminded him that now was not the place.

“Congratulations, Mick!” you exclaimed, your excitement taking over you. “Oh my God, oh my God! I’m so proud of you!” you squealed, throwing your arms around his neck.

“I finally get to see you, princess. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to,” he murmured playfully. “Although, I’d love to do a few other things with you.”

Your face turned bright red, something you had grown used to ever since you started dating Mick and were used to hear his endless compliments.

“How was the race?” he asked. “Did you like it, even though I probably looked like an idiot who doesn’t know how to drive?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mick!” you scolded, lightly hitting his arm. “You scored points for the first time. If that’s being an idiot, then I don’t know what that makes me.”

“That makes you the love of my life.”

Mick pulled you even closer, and just as he was about to kiss you, completely ignoring the risks, a voice interrupted.

Or rather, someone did.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mick Schumacher?!”

As soon as you heard your father’s shouts, you and Mick pulled apart. You stood frozen, your face turning completely pale as Mick began cursing himself. How was he supposed to explain to the man who was like a father to him in many ways that he was dating you, his daughter?

You didn’t stay silent. You, who had a temper as strong as the man who had given her life, stepped between Mick and your father, trying to ease the tension that had formed over a simple show of affection.

“Dad, stop! It’s not what it looks like!” you exclaimed, nervous but determined.

“What do you mean it’s not what it looks like?” Sebastian scoffed, unwilling to believe your words. “Come on, Y/N, you were about to kiss him!”

“Yes, because Mick is my boyfriend,” you stated without hesitation. “We’ve been secretly dating since last month because we didn’t want to say anything just yet,” you explained without caring about the consequences. “So don’t act like this and use your fucking head and be reasonable for once.”

The Aston Martin driver was stunned, unsure how to react to the news that his daughter had a boyfriend, and that it was none other than the son of the man he considered his best friend, who had once been his mentor.

Mick watched as Sebastian looked at you in disbelief before shifting his gaze back to you, focusing all his attention on you.

“Y/N, this is insane… Mick,” he gestured toward him, “isn’t just any driver, he’s the son of—”

“I already know, Dad!” you interrupted, your tone sharp. “And? Does it matter? I don’t care who his father is, or who mine is, or the relationship between you two,” you tried to keep your voice steady. “We love each other, we take care of each other, and that’s the only thing that should matter to you.”

Mick alternated his gaze between father and daughter, finally mustering the courage to say something. But, before he could even open his mouth, Sebastian raised his right hand, silencing him immediately:

“Stop trying to fix this. You’ve fucked up, Mick,” he muttered as he stepped closer, his voice low enough that not even you could hear it. “My daughter is too young, and you know you could get into serious trouble if this gets out,” he added before stepping away and moving back toward you. “ I just sort of saved you from shit talks about you, so consider yourself lucky.”

“You can’t blame Mick for this, Dad,” you interjected defiantly. “We’re adults, and we can make our own decisions, so just leave us alone already.”

“You are not an adult, Y/N Vettel, you’re still a kid,” Sebastian snapped, his voice filled with unfiltered anger. “Stop acting like you are, because all you are is a reckless little girl.”

“Let me remind you that when you were 17 you fucked mum and you got her pregnant.”

You threw it out without thinking, and immediately, you regretted it, placing your hands over your mouth as if that could fix what you had just said. You knew you had been the most beautiful mistake your parents had, but you didn’t think about the impact it could have in their lives, especially in your father’s.

"I'm sorry, Juliet," the older driver began, trying not to let his anger and, especially, the pain he felt from your comment show. "But it's time to leave."

"Dad..."

"Not 'dad' or anything, Y/N," Sebastian said, raising his voice and making it sound harsher than he had intended at first. "Do you think it’s funny for me to see my daughter rubbing herself up against the one I consider my son?"

Mick paled as he heard his mentor’s words, feeling completely awful because he knew Sebastian was right. You threw him a look, but didn’t have the strength to answer. You were so in shock that you didn’t know how you hadn’t just left yet.

"And you, Mick," he said now, shooting a penetrating look at the young man, "I thought you could show a little more respect for our family and everything we’ve built together all these years."

Having said that, Sebastian took you by your shoulders carefully and started walking back to where the rest of your family was, not giving you or Mick a chance to say goodbye.

"We don't choose who we fall in love with, Sebastian," Schumacher blurted out, still frozen in place.

Your father and you turned around. The look of disappointment on Seb’s face made Mick feel a thousand times worse than he ever thought he could, but it was the sight of your tears falling rapidly that made him start crying.

"I expected you, more than anyone, to agree with this," he continued, pointing at you and himself, "because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that your daughter deserves someone good who can make her life the best it can be. If I can’t be that person because you won’t let us..." he pointed at himself, "...then I’ll be okay with it being someone else."

Vettel swallowed hard, not knowing what to say to the German’s words.

"I just want Y/N to be happy," the boy said again, "and if I have to let her go for now until you can accept and see that I’m really in love with your daughter, and that she’s the love of my life, I’ll be willing to do so."

With that, the young man turned around, trying not to look back, hoping to hear some words from those he had considered his family for so many years.

But, unfortunately for him, you and your father didn’t.

[laambfuzz]

—- he knows. ft schlatt. ᝰ

summary: after a bizarre discovery about your favourite streamer, you continue to fall down the rabbit hole of his other content. you were pleasantly surprised to find he also done audio's, and couldn't resist listening to his latest post.

— tags: smut, lunch club!schlatt, mutual masturbation.. technically?, schlatt does porn (duh), dirty talk, open ending again

authors note: helloo, part 2 has been served!! appreciate the love towards my first post, so i had to get this one out to you guys asap. once again, this wouldn't be possible without the lovely @fanficfox and her lovely mind! hope you all enjoy, and don't forget to lmk your thoughts!! ♡

it had been a few weeks since the day you had found schlatt featuring in fucking twitter porn of all places

you'd be lying if you said you hadn't looked again

of course you had

and not just at the original video. you had found a mix of older and newer videos

some were solo, some were with another girl

and either way, you watched them

something you had also found however, was a link to his other content. it was hosted on a website to soundgasm

interesting name, you thought, but alright

and boy were you glad you clicked

you were met with a profile— schlatt's profile— but it was under a completely different alias

but there were tons of audios on the site, dating back to even last year

you felt almost overwhelmed with how much content there, the audios having a wide variety of themes, and the lengths being short, small instances to long played out scenes

you had your night set for you, and you didn't know which one to choose

until you seen one had recently been uploaded, in fact it was posted just an hour before you had found the site

intrigued, you clicked onto the link and got yourself into bed, snuggled under the covers as you pressed play on the audio

the second you pressed play, you were instantly met with heavy breathing— low, deep almost needy-like breaths were being let out, as if he had been holding back for too long

there's a faint shuffle, slight movement before a small exhale escapes his mouth

and he's finally starting

the slick, slow slide of his hand can be heard, and the wet noises begin to fill your ears

you hear how quickly his breathing gets uneven, as he shifts between low grunts and muffled curses

it's not long before he starts talking into the mic, his low and raspy voice sending a shiver through your body, your thighs squeezing instinctively

"fuck, been thinking about this all day,"

"i've just been— shit— so fucking hard, waiting to do this. been wanting it so bad,"

the way he speaks, his voice switches from steady to uneven interchangeably, and it somehow turns you on even more

"bet you'd love watching me, huh? bet you'd fucking get off to it,"

he chuckles to himself lowly for a moment, before he continues, "fuck, who am i kidding. i bet you already are. or at the very least, you're already soaked for me, sweetheart,"

a small whine escapes you from his words because fuck, he was so cocky, and yet so right. the slick was coating between your thighs, there was a pool of warmth sitting in your core that wasn't leaving anytime soon

the audio continued on, schlatt continuing to jerk off and talk you through as he did. giving you visuals through groaned explanations, telling you when he was stroking or squeezing

you had slipped your hand under your pyjama bottoms, allowing your fingers to graze over your underwear as you pressed against your core, rubbing gently along with schlatt

it was nearing the end of the audio, when schlatt's breaths got more erratic and his talking became more frequent

"fuck— getting close.. 'm not gonna last,"

what could only be described as a whine escaped him, before he coughed and cut himself off with a low chuckle

"but i know you— you, sweetheart— i know you're listening in,"

you were sure this was another bit to entice the viewer in and make it more personal, and you weren't complaining. you sped your fingers up, rubbing the fabric against you faster, creating a nice friction

"and i know you'll be getting off to this, cause you seem fuckin' filthy. but let me— shit, let me ask you one thing," he started again, voice shaking more than ever

you knew he was close, and so were you

he groaned deeply, leaning closer to the mic before speaking up, "i know you asked whether i've been told i talk too much, but i know you like it, like it enough to tease me about it live,"

your mouth dropped and your fingers froze momentarily, as if edging yourself for a few seconds, but they sped up again when you heard schlatt moan loudly through the audio

his chair creaked and the moans came spilling out of his mouth, little fuck's along the way as he eased himself through the orgasm. the sounds were even wetter than before, mixing in with his stuttered breath was all you needed to hear to send yourself over the edge

you came just after schlatt, the wetness soaking and staining your underwear as you rode out the orgasm, practically humping your fingers as you whined to yourself, revelling in his breathy groans

there was no outro to the audio, just a simple "see you next time, fuckin' slut," before it cut out, and you were left in a haze

nevermind from just the orgasm, but the fact he had referred to you during the audio, you had been on his mind all day from your teasing

you didn't know how to feel, or what exactly to do. but one thing was for certain

you were going to be back in his next stream, making sure to mention tonight.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Now that all the main cast's unique magic has been shown, can you make a ranking on your favorite unique magic from most to least favorite? Would be favorite unique magic from each dorm but felt some feels unfair especially Ignihyde when Ortho is confirm unable to have his own. You can include the other characters like Chenya, Rollo, Skully, and Fellow.

Originally I was gonna ask about your top favorite dreams, overblot boys' dream outfit, and chapter 7 SSRs (excluding the main Diasomonia uniforms), but there is chance there will be more dreams in upcoming chapter since some people theorize that we might see both Silver's and Malleus's now that Ace's UM is shown. Even a possibility of Silver having an SSR card. So I will be holding this question once chapter 7 is over.

[For a complete compilation of known unique magic (including name, incantation, first use, effects, and limitations), check out this post!]

To briefly explain what is mentioned in the second ask and the second paragraph of first ask, some fans theorize that with Ace’s new UM (which seemingly allows him to borrow, copy, or swap UM with a target?), he could use Malleus’s magic against him or on other characters too. This could potentially allow us to see his dream and/or Silver’s. As far as I could tell it though, there doesn’t seem to be a purpose for doing this provided by theorists yet.

Aaand with that aside, here’s my personal ranking of the UMs, with explanations for each below. It’s not numerical, but rather tiers. This is primarily based on how practical or fun I think the UMs would be to my daily life, NOT based on power level or some other metric.

“Useful overall”

Snake Whisper/Snake Charmer — At the risk of sounding slightly unhinged, this would make life in general easier. Shockingly few drawbacks or limitations too. (Big surprise, the person who says they are similar to Jamil puts Jamil’s UM as at the top…)

I See You/Arrow Afar — As someone that easily gets lost while traveling and easily loses things, this UM sounds like a godsend. Just tag whatever you want to locate and you’re good to go!

Far Cry Cradle — The idea of experiencing stories by touching a random object is so fascinating. Endless entertainment but could also help with answering questions. Bonus: reminds me of the Dimensional Scream from the Pokémon Mystery Dungeon Explorers games.

“Fun to experiment with”

Doodle Suit/Paint the Roses — The simple act of being able to change the smell, taste, or texture of something would make dietary restrictions so much easier to deal with. Other applications would be nice for comfort too, like adjusting the perception of brightness or loudness just for yourself in a group setting like a movie or concert. (There’s some ominous fan works and theories about Trey being able to use his UM to overwrite others’ emotions or thoughts too, but I’m only sticking to what he is shown to be capable of in canon.)

Split Card — I’d wanna see how many clones can be made at once and what each is physically and mentally capable of. (awe already know the magical power of the original and the clones goes down, so what about other parameters?) Useful for multitasking.

Joker Snatch — It's basically the same has having multiple UMs. Would fuck around and find out what this sucker is capable of. :9

Fairest One of All — Such a flexible and customizable UM, honestly. You can basically set whatever conditions you like, just be careful about the wording because the curses get pretty locked in.

Meet in a Dream — The idea of hopping around dreams and seeing what weird shit goes on in people's heads sounds so fun! Then you can embarrass them about it in the waking world :>

Not All My Head —Ultimate stealth... You can bypass into some of the most secure places in the world just for the lols 🤣 or, y'know... sneak into the kitchen to steal some snacks or something.

“Messing with the forces of nature because fuck you, that’s why”

King’s Roar — Could be used for a fight, but also to clear an area. What's that? Destruction of nature/property? Potential for murder? IT'S OKAY, JUST BREATHE IN THE SAND PARTICLES FLUTTERING IN THE BREEZE AND DON'T CHOKE :))

Oasis Maker — Need clean water to drink? BOOM. Want to water your garden? BOOM. Making a random swimming pool? BOOM. Maximum output for minimum effort.

Fae (of) Maleficence — You become a literal god of time and space. Scary amount of potential for control.

“The trail mix where I pick out the bits I like and leave the gross stuff in there”

Laugh with Me — Not really useful unless for small pranks or you + the target are in a convenient location already (since you'd have to take steps forward to get the target to do the same).

Sleep Kiss/Crimson Slumber — Can be protective (but can't seem to be cast on the self, only on others). Also useful to put people to sleep. Would like to use to send my pet or loud neighbors to sleep early instead of staying up late and bothering me :v

Living Bolt — Very good for an extra boost of speed and/or power if in a rush or in a desperate situation. Unfortunately comes with electrical side effects so that's... not optimal.

Scary Night — Basically Off with your Head but also limits your movement, so I consider it an upgrade with applications besides just combat. Wonder what happens if you cook with those pumpkin’d people or smash the pumpkin on the ground… Is that instadeath? Gruesome to think about, but unsure of since we see so little of the UM in action.

“Requires rizz”

It’s a Deal and Life is Fun — Same reasoning for both; takes a certain amount of charisma to pull these UMs off and if you lack that then this magic sucks. Would be useful if you did have these characters’ sway though.

“Fistfighting central”

Off with your Head — Could shut down a hostile party’s magic, but if you’re not as trigger happy as Riddle is then how often would you realistically use this? And if the target has no magic then this basically does nothing.

Bet the Limit/Double Down — Assuming you’re not already dead from the blows you’ve already eaten and/or you can aim properly and get that shot in before you wipe??? Okay, sure 😂

Bind the Heart — Only deflects magical blows. Physical hits will still pass. Would get my ass beat anyway.

Dark Fire — Primarily useful only for combat, which most people don’t get up to on a regular basis. Must be a true hater or be surrounded by true haters to get the most power out of this. What happens if everyone holds hands and sings a song at you? Do you just pathetically whimper and die out in a pile of ashes/j

“Not a furry, don’t @ me”

Unleash (the) Beast — The idea of a big furry... creature... charging at me makes me want to run and hide 🤢 Could have its use for strength and speed, but… I still don’t want a massive dog around.

“This could have been an email”

Shock the Heart — Nothing a reasonable amount of blackmail research cannot do. Has so many limitations (eye contact, only one use per person, target may resist/refuse anyway, etc.) you may as well need a PhD in order to manufacture plans to effectively use this UM.

“So niche it has like no practical application”

Gate to (the) Underworld — Y-You just… open and close a door to a pit of Phantoms. Discounting opening the pit to retrieve Phantoms to test or experiment on, why would you not just keep this closed all the time and just never use this UM 💀

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.5.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst & smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.6.

word count: 6,2K

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, orgasm denial/forced orgasm, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: The next update will be on Sunday. Other than trigger warnings, I can only say that this chapter is mostly conversation and 'conversation'. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You stay. And the longer you do, the more awkwardness seeps in. At first, it’s all tender—Viktor bathes you with hesitant hands, silent until you gasp at his fingers between your legs.

“Sore?” he asks, his expression a mix of worry and fascination.

You nod, and he nods back, placing a kiss on your temple. “It’s okay,” he murmurs constantly as your fingers clutch his arm.

You get dressed in his boxer shorts and sweater. The further the two of you move from what just happened, the more alien everything becomes. His smiles grow more rehearsed. His touch turns hesitant. Your hands fidget as the familiar feeling of being a guest creeps in. You want to say so many things, but none of them will pass the barrier of your mouth.

By the time you both sit on the couch, the distance between you feels vast, every grunt and uncomfortable cough echoing within it. You hug your knees and pull his sweater over them. Viktor winces, knowing this will stretch it into a shapeless rug, and passes you a blanket instead.

You glance around, but the empty shelves glare back at you, so you keep your eyes low. Viktor exhales slowly, rubbing his fingers together as if debating whether to speak at all. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than you expected.

“I don’t really know where to begin.” The sentence sounds pointless to his ears, but he needs it to hear his own voice and confirm it’s still present in his throat. You watch him carefully, searching for any sign of certainty in his expression, but all you find is measured restraint.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything,” he says, avoiding your eyes.

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “That sounds very finite.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “That’s not what I was intending it to sound like.” He shifts slightly, fingers tightening where they rest on his knee. “But if I were to apologize for every single thing, you wouldn’t get out of here for a week. So… I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to run. And for making you uncomfortable… later.”

Your stomach knots. There’s something unsettling about how carefully he chooses his words, how he holds himself so still, as if afraid of what he might do if he lets go. A stark contrast to what was barely an hour ago. God, I love you, falling from him, unfiltered and unguarded already feeling like a stranger.

“Are you apologizing for dating Julia?” you ask, forcing yourself to look at him.

He doesn’t flinch. “No. It felt natural when it happened. So I’m only sorry for being a… dick about it.”

You press your lips together, your fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. His tone is frustratingly even, revealing nothing beyond what he wants you to hear.

“Is that why you broke up?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “Because it stopped feeling natural?”

His reaction is small but noticeable—a brief clench of his jaw, the subtle shift of his fingers as if suppressing an impulse. He hesitates, his silence stretching long enough that your heart starts beating harder against your ribs.

“Yes,” he finally says, but there’s something else there. His throat bobs, his poise wobbles and you could swear you saw something. Having your eyes drilled into him, he adds, “And… I technically cheated on her.” His voice doesn’t waver. “With you.”

Your breath hitches, but Viktor doesn’t move. He’s watching you now, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses your face.

“And?” you press, barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he does nothing. His fingers twitch, his lips part, and then he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly—as if at himself, as if he already knows that you know, but it has to be said anyways. “And… it felt like the right thing to do.”

Your pulse stumbles. “Breaking up with her or cheating?” You wince at yourself, so fucking needy and stupid you have to get everything spelled out for you. But the moment is so cramped, you cannot pack it with a bunch of half-truths, there has to be one, honest-to-God truth or you will burst.

His eyes lock onto yours, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Both,” he says. His voice is quiet, but firm, like a confession that for once he isn’t ashamed of. “Both felt right when they happened.”

You tear up, but will your eyelids to hold the wetness in. Your hand shoots up to rub your face in a weak attempt to disguise how your feelings are threatening to overspill again. Viktor takes notice but continues, his voice measured, deliberate.

“How did it feel for you? To break up with him?” He will not say that name again, he decides.

“Awful. But necessary,” you admit, the words scraping your throat. Then, before you can stop yourself, you add, “You hate him, don’t you?”

Viktor exhales, his fingers pressing briefly into his knee. “Oh, I hate him, yes,” he says without hesitation, his eyes flick to yours, sharp with intent. “But would I be wrong if I said you hate Julia too?”

Your breath stutters. The air inside you compresses into a void. “N-no,” you manage, your voice smaller now. “I suppose not.” And it’s not rational nor fair but hating her allows you to not hate Viktor.

He shifts, just barely, like he’s testing the distance between you. His gaze lingers, dark and unreadable, before he speaks again—softer this time, uncertain. “So… it means we still care about each other then?” Lots of breaths taken between the words and Viktor settles on one, unsteady inhale at the end.

You swallow, hard. If the kissing and the sex and all the crying hasn’t been enough of a testament to your shared sentiment, then this definitely gives it a final weight that tips the scales. You nod, and with the movement, a tear slips out of its prison and rolls down your cheek, to your chin, falls onto your hand.

“Why are you holding back?” Viktor asks, his gaze following the tear to where you try to hide it. Eyes glimmer and his expression falls apart from composure to wonder. He will have to check it a million times before it’s confirmed, but the feeling is undeniable. A sharp pang, there, where his cock grows out from his groin and the cramp low under his stomach and it’s so uncanny that the sensation of being cried for wakes it, he almost scolds himself. But his gaze doesn’t waver, and his fingers grip his knee tighter.

“W-what?” A hiccup distorts your voice, as the fear of being seen creeps back in. Your breath stumbles, hands tightening on the blanket. Your body tenses as Viktor’s relaxes. There’s a shift in his posture, a quiet but undeniable pull in the way he looks at you now. His expression isn’t one of pity, nor discomfort. His breathing slows, his eyes—sharp, fixated—drink in every trace of wetness clinging to your lashes, every twitch of your mouth as you try to keep it from trembling.

“You want to cry, I can see that. Why are you holding back?” His voice is gentle, but his question digs deep with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, I… I don’t know, I just… I’ve cried so much today already,” you murmur, blinking rapidly as if that alone could chase away the evidence. You sniffle, wipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater and look anywhere but at him. You feel stupid, falling apart again.

“It doesn’t matter. If crying will make you speak, then cry.” He says too fast and winces. Too much. Too revealing. His stomach knots, his chest tightens with something weightless and hot that makes his head feel lighter than it should. He doesn’t move, but he feels it, the way his breath shudders through his ribs, the way warmth pools at the base of his spine.

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh, voice fragile, burying your face in your hands.

He moves before he can think better of it. A slow drag across the couch, the hesitant pull of his body closing the space between you. He reaches out—not to comfort, not exactly—but to uncover, to claim. His hands slip over yours, peeling them gently away from your face, and before you can protest, he leans in. His forehead brushes yours, then the damp curve of your cheek. His breath is warm, uneven, as he nuzzles into you, his skin meeting the slick, salty trails of your tears. A sigh leaves him, quiet, almost relieved, like something inside him has settled. In a whisper, sounding dangerously close to hopeful, he asks, “Are you crying for me?”

Your lips part, a sharp inhale caught in your throat. “I’m… scared that I will blow this somehow,” you admit, the honest-to-God truth slipping free. “I miss you. Every day I miss you and chase you away and then miss you again.”

He’s so close you can whisper now. So you do and each one of those confessions gets progressively quieter, progressively bigger as these are the truths you wouldn’t say out loud even to yourself. “I am… so lonely without you.”

“Do you want to try again?” Viktor asks between heavy breaths. His face doesn’t leave yours as he bathes in your tears and his cheeks are warm and hands already grab your neck with thumbs pushing into your throat gently. His lips catch against yours and brows knot and he knows that he is begging but he doesn’t care.

“What if it doesn’t work again?” You say, nodding and your eyes squeeze shut at the thought of what it would feel like to be there again. Chests ripped. Hands scratched, stomachs aching.

“We will survive,” Viktor lies through his fucking teeth. “We will be better,” he vows. “I will be better, you will be better. Promise me, we will be better and that we will try harder, because I can’t—” he cuts as he takes a breath.

His lust confuses his sadness. The simple act of being cried for makes him feel so clean. As if he is not replaceable. As if the fact that he is difficult to love won’t stop you from loving him anyway. As if choosing him means your truly are choosing him over something secure, something easy and comfortable and it makes him grow a little taller, a little broader, a little better.

“I will be better,” you say quietly, even as your insides are crying, screaming, kicking for him.

“I missed you,” Viktor sighs, pulling you closer to his chest. Your legs swing over his, and your arms cradle his waist. His palm rests on your thigh, while the other snakes beneath your hair, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He breathes in deep, measured breaths, trying to calm himself.

You let your tears dry as you rise and fall with the steady rhythm of his chest. “I’m sorry too,” you finally say, and Viktor squeezes your neck in recognition.

“Hmm, whatever for?” he asks, brazen. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging gently, coaxing the tension from your forehead in a familiar gesture.

“God, I’ve missed this,” you hum, and Viktor takes the cue, pressing his thumb between your brows and tracing a firm line across your arch to your temple. He repeats the motion on the other side, and slowly, you feel the tightness in your face and throat begin to ease.

“I’m sorry for being such a coward,” you confess, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your voice doesn’t waver. You feel safer. “For disappearing. And I mean before I actually disappeared.”

“And what else?”

You swallow and blink. “What else?” you echo, hesitant. “What else do you want me to say?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “Anything that you are holding back.” His voice is steady, rawness lingering beneath it as if he is asking for something he is not exactly ready to hear.

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “I thought leaving was the only way to make you see me. To make you care enough to stop shutting me out.”

His fingers tighten slightly at the base of your neck. “So you left to punish me?”

“No,” you whisper, but you don’t sound convinced. “I—I left because I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t let me in, Viktor.” Your breath catches as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “I was always waiting. For you to look at me, to see me. And when you finally did, I—” You huff out a bitter laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was so angry. I wanted you to feel how I felt.”

“And did it—” he asks, low and measured. “Did it make you feel better?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “No,” you admit. “It didn’t. It just made me feel alone.”

Viktor is quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing absently against the back of your neck. Then, finally, he speaks. “I was selfish.”

Your head snaps up, startled. “What?”

“I was selfish,” he repeats, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “Not because I shut you out—I did that out of habit and complacency. But because I still expected you to wait.” His hand slides from your neck, settling against your cheek. “I thought you’d understand. That you’d know without me having to say anything.” His thumb ghosts over your skin. “But that is not how love works, is it?”

Your breath shakes. “No,” you whisper.

He nods, and you feel the need to trade one confession for another. “Sometimes... I was so angry with you that I would make you start a fight,” you offer quietly. His fingers still, a silent question painted on his face. “I would go out of my way to piss you off. Just so you would interact with me. And so it would be your fault that we had a fight in the first place.” You recoil as you hear yourself saying it.

“Was it intentional?” He gives you a window. And he sounds so hopeful that it twists your guts.

“Not really. I realised it once I did it to… Paul,” you mutter, cringing at the admission. Pieces fall into place as you uncover something about yourself, and Viktor is the first person to witness it. “God, that’s just awful, isn’t it?” you sigh, clasping a hand to your face.

“Eh, a little awful, yes,” Viktor chuckles, trying to uncover your face. “But also weirdly insightful of you.”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something more. He wants to tell you about the note but bites his tongue—too much in one sitting. He speaks your name softly and sinks down a bit. “I’ve done awful things to forget you as well.”

“Like what? Save for the obvious, like changing the locks,” you shift, grateful for the change in attention.

“Ah, that,” Viktor sucks in a breath and scratches his head. “I… haven’t changed the locks exactly. Just made a new set—” He trails off as your eyes drill into him in disbelief. You shake your head, but a smile tugs at your lips.

“And what else?”

“Well, you already know I sold our bed.” Your heart jumps at our. “What you don’t know is that I might have ended up burning a first edition of Naked Lunch in the whole process of the bed exchange,” he blurts in one breath, bracing himself for a smack. But you only stare, your mouth hanging open as you sit up to kneel next to him.

“Viktor—” you speak more to yourself, disbelief colouring your voice as you search his face for any sign that he’s joking. He’s not.

“I’m so sorry,” he says with a small, embarrassed smile, his brows knitting together in apology, hands reaching for your face.

You seize them and kiss his knuckles, startling him. He doesn’t realise what he’s just admitted yet—a confession worth more than any I love you. “Please, forgive me. I had no idea,” you whisper against his skin.

Viktor laughs, trying to cup your face, but you don’t let him. To do something so desperate, so romantic—to try and rid himself of you in such a way—makes you ache with shame.

You climb onto his lap and kiss his face, over and over, murmuring I’m so sorry between the pecks.

Viktor laughs through it, startled, embarrassed by the sudden surge of affection, yet something blooms in his chest at the familiarity of the gesture. “Are you not angry?” he asks, bewildered.

“No,” you half-chuckle, half-sigh. “I love you so, so much,” you breathe out, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

Viktor’s face does something utterly strange—like he’s about to cry—but in the end, he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses you. Grateful. Deep. Full of breaths and tongue. And it feels like coming home.

And you sit there for a while. Kissing, laughing, fetishizing each other’s flaws until your stomach gives away a loud growl and Viktor chuckles straight into your mouth. “Food, yes?”

“Such thing was promised,” you smile and allow him to take your hand. And he keeps it in his as he abandons his cane on the sofa and leads you into the kitchen, his thumb absently stroking over your knuckles. The warmth of it lingers even when he lets go, moving toward the counter. The space looks the same, mostly—same chipped tiles, same half-broken cupboard door that never quite shuts—but the air feels different. Lived in, but not by you.

You hesitate near the fridge, gaze flicking over the notes tacked haphazardly to its surface. His scrawled handwriting crowds the scraps of paper—grocery lists, half-legible reminders, a date circled twice with no explanation. Your stomach clenches when you skim over them, hunting for something, anything. Another Miláček meant for someone else. A new name creeping in where yours used to be. But there's nothing. No Julia. No stranger. Just Viktor’s usual chaos.

“Tea?” he asks, already filling the kettle.

You nod, slipping onto a stool, watching him move. He retrieves bread, some cheese, and a tomato from the counter, methodical but oddly cautious, as if remembering how to exist in this rhythm with you. It should be simple—slicing, assembling, waiting for water to boil—but something about it feels… off. The gaps of silence stretch too long. His hand hesitates on the knife.

You rub at the edge of the counter, feeling the grain of the wood beneath your fingertips. “You eat like a student,” you remark, a weak attempt at normalcy.

Viktor huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he plates the food. “I am a student.” He sets a mug in front of you. “Still. Always.”

The steam curls between you. You should reach for his hand again. You don’t. It’s awkward. He passes you the sandwiches and a cup and you both eat in silence.

Once your plate is clean, the weirdness settles deeper in you—there is nothing left to do, at least not for now. The wise thing would be to bid Viktor goodnight and go home. And as if reading the thought, watching it write itself across your forehead in glaring letters, Viktor beats you to it.

“Will you stay?” he asks.

“The night,” he adds, in case you thought he was already pleading for forever. “Will you stay the night?” His voice is steady, like he’s just confirming something he already knows the answer to.

You nod, and he smiles, muttering okay under his breath, again and again. Then Viktor limps toward you, takes your hand, and gently urges you to stand. When you do, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, leaning into you like a secondary cane as you walk together to the bedroom. A tiny flutter of fear stirs in your chest at the thought of what’s in there—what has replaced your beloved, cursed bed. The empty shelves, the hollow spaces in the cabinets where your things used to be—little signs of your absence foreshadowing the dread.

As if he feels it too, Viktor’s hand tightens around your shoulder as you step through the door, stopping you when he sees your eyes wide and wandering.

“Is this alright?” he asks quietly.

You study the bed before answering. The words aren’t fully formed until you take in the dark wooden frame, the still-crisp mattress, the sheer size of it making the room feel significantly smaller. It’s just an object, you tell yourself. It’s probably not worth mourning every single bit of the past, playing a game of sentimentality.

“What do you think?” Viktor prompts, and your bubble bursts. This is all very silly, but his anticipation warms you—his silliness matches yours.

“It’s just a bed. It’s all good, Viktor,” you say.

He exhales, visibly relieved. His chest sags, and his fingers loosen their grip on your shoulder. He presses a kiss to your temple, then walks you gently to the edge. Your calves meet the frame, and you sit before he presses his hands on your shoulders, urging you to lie down.

Then he clumsily crawls on top of you—needy, grateful—his keen fingers tracing your skin, his sharp hip bone digging into your side until you wince. But the awkwardness is gone. It’s almost as if your bodies speak better than your mouths, and your mouths are only useful for kissing apologies and remorse into each other’s throats. The wound keeps sealing and opening, each next rip smaller and smaller, the scar uglier and uglier. But still, a testament to healing.

Viktor mumbles a lot of sweet things to you—half-words, all of them cut off by your mouth invading his. His voice grows harsh, dropping into a breathy whisper as he repeats your name over and over. His lips grow impatient, wandering down your throat. His hands slip beneath the sweater you’re wearing, tracing your stomach, cupping your breasts—so full of wanting that it clouds your mind.

And soon, it’s only Viktor there.

His toes tickling the soles of your feet, his thighs between yours, one pressing there where you are already soaking through his briefs, stomach bellowing into your ribs, breaths catching against each other in stutters, his drool leaking into your mouth with a lewd sound of wetness spreading around the room. And his fingers, hooking beneath your waistband and yanking the underwear down with one hand, other resting firmly around your neck. Keeping you in place, as he disconnects from your mouth with a loud smack and the string of saliva stretching between you finally breaks off, once his head hovers over your stomach to place a kiss there. And then lower, on your hip bone. And then a lick across your navel, as he shimmies himself down to splay his chest flat between your spread thighs, knees bent, his ankles playfully bumping against each other. He flattens his palms on your abdomen and gently kisses your clit.

Your body jolts, you almost kick him in the head, but he catches your shin, bites it and licks it before throwing it back in its place. His tongue parts you lazily and you feel yourself buzzing, the urge to grab a fistful of his hair and guide him overwhelming, but Viktor is faster again. When he notices your fingers creeping toward his face, he grabs them, entwines them with his and pushes your palms into your lower belly, making a soft sound of, “Mm-mm” to scold you.

And to know that this man’s worship of you ever became doubtful in your heart—it’s unthinkable. Having him here, now, completely devoted, quite literally kissing your feet and your cunt, humming in appreciation, makes everything else feel distant. And you wonder—had you only imagined the distance between you? Or is it a fluke that you found your way back to each other with so little sacrifice?

Which, of course, was anything but little. And yet, compared to how monumentally your love swells in your chest right now, it seems like nothing but dust.

It’s strange, sharing something so grand with only one other person—one who also recognises it as grand. Both of you are just specks in the vast web of the universe. And yet, there is nobody else to witness this.

Only you and Viktor know how this feels—to be like this, with each other.

Your own thoughts distract you, when Viktor is torturing you with the slow pace of his flat tongue, his mouth occasionally sucking, his soft lips easing your sore and you feel yourself gradually melting, dripping straight into his throat. He murmurs and chuckles into your core when you give him strangled whimpers and he finally allows your fingers to tug at his hair when he sees you need to hold onto something. And when you can almost touch it, when the cramp in your guts is an inch from release you curse yourself for all the corny thoughts that swept through your mind a moment ago. Because Viktor retreats. And you whine, the sound stretching your neck, close to ripping it in half.

“Fuck, why?” you almost growl, and he dares to smile like a five-year-old.

“Just… trying something out,” Viktor says, resting his chin on your pubic bone, an innocent grin tugging the corner of his lips down. It’s an experiment. Well, of course.

“Now? You’re trying something out now?” Completely exasperated you glare daggers at him. Having your orgasm dangled in front of you only to be snatched away at the last minute is, to say the least, a dick move.

“Shh, lásko, patience,” he tuts, placing a peck on your clit. “Can you trust me?” he coos, throwing you the bedroom eyes to die for. That look from under his lashes—no bad bone in his body—the let me love you plea that leaves you with your mouth hanging open.

So you groan and nod obediently.

“Good girl,” he hums, eager, and your skin prickles at all the pet names. Amongst the hums in your head, you’re thankful he hasn’t dropped the one that was tainted.

And then his mouth is back on you again. Hot breath washing over you as his tongue resumes the work and soon he joins one finger to tease you from the inside. So delicate, to keep you there on the edge of pleasure, he drags it and curls it to explore every crevice. A bunch of pretty whimpers drip from your lips when you try to push your hips lower to meet his hand, but he holds you tight. He whispers sounds of appraise into your flesh: so wet, so good for me, good girl, trust me. And when you finally do and let your hands fist the sheet and your head fall back, eyes squeeze shut as your breath hitches and stomach curls into another cramp, Viktor fucking stops.

“Viktor, I hate you!” An undignified cry escapes you as your body jolts upright, eyes wide in disbelief, tears prickling in the corners.

“Ah, and whatever happened to trust?” He fixes you with a glare.

“This… this is cruel.” You gasp for breath, almost hyperventilating at the audacity of his behaviour. Something crestfallen flickers across Viktor’s face—like he’s disappointed you didn’t trust him blindly.

“No, my heart. This,” he murmurs, crawling back up until his face is level with yours. You feel his cock pressing against your entrance, his breath tickling your cheek.

“This is mercy," he says, voice low. "Because I really want to fuck you again, and I don’t want to hurt your poor pussy further. So you see how important it was for me to prepare you.”

And just like that, shame washes over you. What kindness was that, that you so eagerly discredited.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, the words spilling out faster than you can think. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him into a kiss of apology. But Viktor tilts his head just enough that your lips land on his chin.

“We’ll see about that now, won’t we?” he murmurs, dipping lower. His whisper fans over the shell of your ear, his breath burning. “Because as far as I’m concerned, I don’t have to make you cum tonight,” he chuckles darkly as the head of his cock slides inside you with ease, and indeed, you are so wet it doesn’t hurt.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, ah—” you gasp, as his cock hits the spot, a tear rolls down from the corner of your eye, and you catch something in Viktor’s expression. As soon as it happens, he presses his sweat-slicked forehead to yours and begins licking into your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips so greedily you could choke, hips roll into yours, making a lewd sticky sound each time he retreats to push back again, and again.

Viktor’s arms cage around your face, his fingers anchor into your hair as he tilts your head up to lo look at him, his eyes draw up to yours with a gaze full of intent.

“Will you behave now?” He states more than asks. The world becomes soft at the edges, when he looks at you like that. When he fucks you like that. When his fingers curl around your hair and his thumbs press gently into your temples.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice nearly absent. Your eyebrows knit together more and more with each slow slam of his hips between your legs and the tightening in your stomach comes back, stronger than before. You spread your legs further apart, lifting your pelvis to meet his, your toes curl and muscles tense up around him.

“And will you do as you are told?” he asks, and his voice gives way to something hopeful and needy.

“Yes,” you reply, this time audibly with a full vocal moan and try to snake your hands between the two of you to cradle his neck, cup his face. He keeps the angles fixed, slapping your clit with his pubis in a steady rhythm.

“Good,” Viktor coos, giving you a wet drooling kiss. And then another, before he thinks for a bit. His lips brush yours, when he whispers, “Be my good girl and cum on my cock.”

And if that wouldn’t break you completely, the bite on your neck would and it does. You feel it down to you marrow, surging through, as your cunt clenches around him and Viktor pants and grunts into your skin. You come pressing your nose against his with a loud fuck, knuckles paling on his arms. Tears start pushing themselves through the corners of your eyes again and when you think he will come too and stop, he doesn’t.

He sucks his stomach in and snakes a hand between your sticky navels, fingers finding your clit when he rasps, “Again.” You yelp, startled, your cunt going numb before you feel his touch and you try to jolt away, hypersensitive and swollen. “One more time, for me,” Viktor mutters into your ear, voice dripping heavily from his tongue. You can feel he is close too in every little spasm of his cock, but he holds back. He batters your lips with his, swallows the heedless sounds you make. Like a reward for your struggle, he caresses a hollow of your cheek and whispers quiet praise in between kisses.

And when you regain the feeling in your womb, a new tension builds itself on top of the previous one, ready to snap you in half. You clasp your thighs around him, fingers still digging into his flesh to the point of bruising and when you cum again your vision goes blurry from all the tears welling down your cheeks, and Viktor, oh, he rubs his face against yours, purring, as if you have just given him the most precious of all gifts. The orgasm lasts forever, fucks you out completely, breath rips out of your lungs when you finally find a way to grab his neck and moan everything straight into his wet mouth.

He swallows all of it and seconds later gives it back with his own completion—a couple of ragged hard snaps against you, while he spills himself inside you with a strangled groan falling from his lips. Before you can say or think of anything, he jams his tongue back into your mouth and kisses you deeply, gratefully, moaning and whimpering at the last twitches of your cunt milking him dry.

Then he nuzzles into your neck and takes a deep breath, his belly pressing against yours. In this soul-crushing moment, all words feel like strangers to you, and Viktor grants you another little mercy when he asks, “How are you?”

You swallow before replying. You have no idea. Fucked numb? Sad? Happy? Full? Empty? All those things at once? In the spirit of trust, you say quietly, “I don’t know.”

A warm chuckle reaches you as he pulls out and up to cradle you. You look at his face, convinced the exact opposite of his expression is painted on yours, when he tries to soothe you with a quiet, “It’s alright.”

Gentle hands bring you closer, and he places a kiss on your temple, breathing in deeply. “Just tell me if anything aches.”

“It doesn’t,” you say quickly. And then a stupid question pops into your head, bounces around, and rolls out through your mouth. “Did you plan for this?” This could mean so many things, but Viktor, by some uncanny intuition, knows.

“To sleep with you? Oh no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “My nearly perfect plan to really tell you and then see you out failed miserably.” Viktor murmurs while stroking your hair, and you wrap your arms around him tighter—both happy and sad. Happy that his plan failed, sad that he had one in the first place, and it wasn’t about winning you back.

“But that’s not new,” he sighs, and you raise your eyebrows in question. “We haven’t done the best job keeping away from each other.”

“Viktor,” you start, disbelieving the sound of your voice. “I am terrible at keeping away from you. I think if I have to do this again, I’ll die of cancer. I won’t survive if we do this again, I swear,” you mumble, wincing at how pathetic your first words sound. But you maintain, reinforcing your confession with a nuzzle into his touch. At least it’s not awkward anymore.

Viktor’s fingers trace absent-minded shapes on your shoulder. His voice is soft when he finally says, “Some things will need to change.”

You shift slightly, tucking your face closer to his neck. His warmth is comforting, but the words sting a bit. “What do you mean?”

His hand stills. “We cannot fall back into the same rut. We have to—” He exhales, shaking his head like he’s unwilling to phrase it too neatly. “Do better.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. It’s the answer you expected, but still, something in you balks at the finality of it. The If not, then nothing feels heavy. “Do you want to forgive me?” you ask, your voice quieter than intended.

Viktor hums, considering. “I already have.”

Relief floods you—but before you can lean into it fully, he adds, “That does not mean I trust you.”

Your breath catches, and you lift your head to look at him. His expression is unreadable, and you search his eyes for something that might tell you how deep the wound still runs.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, gaze steady.

You open your mouth, then hesitate. You do. But not fully. Not in the way you used to. Not in the way that feels effortless. The hesitation speaks louder than words.

Viktor smiles, not unkindly. “Exactly.”

A prickle of shame rises in your throat. But he doesn’t pull away. His hand finds your back, rubbing slow circles as if he knows you need reassurance.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, as if it’s a promise rather than a question. “We’ll take it bit by bit.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. It’s terrifying, starting over like this—unsure, tentative—but then again, when have either of you ever done things the easy way?

So you take a breath. “Alright,” you whisper. Things have already changed, and Viktor is already someone else compared to a mere week ago. So far, so good. Your mind swells with thoughts of the last four hours, and you catch yourself staring at him, searching his face for answers to questions you haven’t yet put into words.

He opens one eye and cocks a brow. “You’re still trying to figure me out,” he murmurs, more amused than accusatory.

“Yeah,” you admit.

He huffs a quiet laugh and closes his eyes again. “Good.”

And he holds you closer.

[hisfavegirl]

HOTD Characters when you posted something that angered them on instagram.

a/n : with their revenge.

Aegon :

Aegon wasn’t just jealous—he was seething.

He hadn’t been paying much attention to his phone, probably nursing a drink or sprawled out on his bed in boredom, when his notifications started going off. Dozens of messages, tags, and mentions, all leading back to one thing.

Your post.

The second he saw it, his entire body tensed. His fingers gripped the phone so tightly he nearly cracked the screen.

You were practically naked. The lighting was teasing, the pose deliberate—bare skin, just barely covered, revealing far too much. His mouth went dry, his jaw locked, and his pulse spiked with something dark and possessive.

And then, the comments.

“I think I just died and went to heaven.”

“No way you’re single posting this.”

“You’re actually cruel for this.”

“Let me take you out, I’ll treat you better than he ever could.”

Aegon snapped.

His tongue pressed hard against his cheek, his breathing slow and measured—forced control. Every part of him burned. The thought of other men looking at you like this, imagining things they had no right to—it made his vision blur with rage.

Did you want this? Were you trying to make him lose it? Because if so, congratulations. It worked.

His hands were shaking as he opened your messages.

Aegon: What the fuck is wrong with you?

Aegon: Take it down. NOW.

Seconds passed. No response.

His jaw ticked, his heart pounding. He could already see you smirking at your phone, enjoying this.

Aegon: Do you think this is funny? You think I’ll just sit back while you let every desperate asshole on the internet drool over you?

Another moment of silence.

And then—

Aegon: Fine. You don’t want to listen? Then I’m coming to you.

He didn’t care where you were, who you were with. This wasn’t going to be solved over text. If you thought you could push him, make him jealous, tease him like this—

You were about to find out exactly what jealous Aegon Targaryen really looked like.

Aegon Revenge :

THE INTERNET WAS NOT READY.

People had barely survived your last stunt.

And then—

He ended them.

A video.

Dim lighting. A massive, ornate mirror reflecting everything.

You—completely bare, wrapped in Aegon’s arms, your back pressed flush against his chest. His grip on your thighs, fingers digging in as he held you up, your body rocking against him.

And then—

Him.

Silver hair messy, sweat dripping down his bare chest. His lips bruised, parted, his eyes half-lidded—but focused. Locked on the mirror. On you. On himself.

He didn’t even turn off the sound.

Your whimpers. His low groans. The sound of skin against skin.

And then—his voice. Rough. Arrogant. Possessive.

“Let them watch. Let them know exactly who you belong to.”

And the caption?

“You’ll never be me. You’ll never have her.”

THE INTERNET? DESTROYED.

The guys:

“What the actual fuck?”

“No way. NO WAY. I refuse.”

“Delete this right now, Aegon, I’m not joking.”

“BLOCKED. REPORTED. SOBBING.”

“She was supposed to be ours. OURS, YOU BASTARD.”

“First, she posts that picture, now THIS? Haven’t we suffered enough?”

“Aegon. BRO. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.”

“This wasn’t just a flex. This was a declaration of war.”

“Bro didn’t even try to be subtle. Just straight-up ruined us.”

“I WAS LIVING A PEACEFUL LIFE, AEGON.”

“I can’t even be mad. He won. He fucking won.”

The Girls:

“This is the most disrespectful thing I have ever seen, and I need more.”

“The mirror. The hand placement. The fucking arrogance. I’m unwell.”

“HOW DO I SIGN UP FOR THIS LIFE.”

“He knows he’s that guy, and he’s making sure we do too.”

“Aegon is actually dangerous because why is this so hot??”

“This should be illegal. In every country. And yet I can’t look away.”

Meanwhile, Aegon?

He was smirking, watching the absolute chaos in the comments, lazily scrolling, completely unbothered.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Cope. She’s screaming my name, not yours.”

With that—

The internet was officially incinerated.

Aemond :

Aemond rarely paid attention to social media. It was a distraction, a meaningless void filled with people desperate for attention. But when his phone buzzed relentlessly—notifications flooding in, people tagging him, sending him something over and over—he knew something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

Your post.

His entire body went rigid. His grip on the phone tightened, fingers twitching against the screen as his eye locked onto the image.

You were practically naked.

The dim lighting barely concealed you, your pose deliberate, teasing, calculated. It left just enough to the imagination while making it painfully obvious what you wanted people to see.

And judging by the comments, it was working.

“You’re actually a goddess.”

“This is illegal. It has to be.”

“I need a minute. Maybe an hour. Maybe my whole life.”

“If he doesn’t wife you after this, I will.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His chest burned with something vicious, a white-hot fury that spread through his veins like wildfire.

Who the fuck did these men think they were? Speaking like this—like they even had the right to look at you, let alone imagine more.

His breathing was slow, controlled, forced—because if he let himself fully feel this, he’d break something.

He opened your messages, his fingers moving before he could even think.

Aemond: Take it down.

No response.

His teeth ground together, his patience already paper-thin. He could feel you smirking at your phone, waiting, pushing him.

Aemond: Now.

Still nothing.

A dangerous heat flickered behind his eye. His grip on the phone was dangerous now, his mind already racing with possibilities.

Aemond: You think this is a game? You think I’ll just sit back while you let every desperate bastard in the world stare at what’s mine?

His lips curled into a sneer as he refreshed your post, seeing the numbers climb—more likes, more comments, more eyes on you.

Fine. If you wanted attention, he was about to give it to you.

Aemond: You’re going to regret this.

And before he even gave you a chance to answer, he sent one last message.

Aemond: I’m coming to you. Right now.

You wanted to test him? To push him to the edge? You were about to see exactly what happened when Aemond Targaryen is jealous.

Aemond revenge :

The Internet Was Not Just Broken—It Was Destroyed.

Aemond had been quiet lately. Too quiet.

People should have known he was plotting.

And then—

He dropped the video.

Dark sheets. Low lighting. Your body sprawled against his bed, wrists tied above your head, satin bindings digging into your skin.

And then—

His hand.

Slow. Intentional. Inside your cunt.

Aemond wasn’t even looking at the camera—his gaze was locked on you. Sharp. Unrelenting. His lips curled into something dangerous as he watched you struggle beneath him.

And then—his voice. Low. Rough. Possessive.

“They can watch. But they’ll never touch.”

And the caption?

“Don’t bother fantasizing. She’s already ruined for anyone else.”

The Internet? Utterly Incinerated.

The Guys:

“I can’t keep doing this, bro.”

“AEMOND. THIS WAS NOT NECESSARY.”

“This wasn’t even a flex. This was pure domination.”

“I was a happy man. Now I’m in hell.”

“He could have just hinted at it. But no. He had to prove it.”

“What the actual fuck is this??”

“I just dropped to my knees in Walmart.”

“I need time to process. Maybe a lifetime.”

“WHO ALLOWED THIS???”

“No way. NO WAY. I refuse to accept this reality.”

“This is actually a hate crime"

The Girls:

“The hand placement. The bindings. I actually feel pain.”

“Aemond Targaryen is actually disrespectful for this.”

“I don’t know whether to cry, scream, or book a one-way flight to his bed.”

“The way he’s just watching her struggle—I am NOT OKAY.”

“WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT??”

“I hate her. I love her. I want to be her.”

“The fact that he tied her up and still made sure to show off?? I need a moment.”

Meanwhile, Aemond?

Unbothered. Probably sipping wine, watching men suffer, knowing no one could ever take you from him.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Cry harder. She’s not leaving my bed.”

With that—

The internet was officially annihilated.

Jace :

Jace wasn’t the type to obsess over social media. He didn’t scroll mindlessly or waste time checking comments. But when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when his notifications were flooded with messages, tags, and people sending him something over and over—he knew something was up.

Then he saw it.

And everything else faded.

You. Practically naked. The lighting was soft, shadows barely concealing you. The way you posed, the way your skin was on full display—every inch of the picture was deliberate.

And the comments?

“Holy fucking shit.”

“No way in hell Jace is letting this slide.”

“You’re actually unreal.”

“If you ever need someone to treat you better… just say the word, baby.”

Jace’s jaw locked. His grip on the phone tightened so hard his knuckles went white.

His chest burned—jealousy, rage, something dark and possessive twisting deep in his gut. Did you want this attention? Were you enjoying the way these men spoke to you, the way they looked at you? Did you forget who you belonged to?

His vision blurred as he opened your messages, his fingers moving before he could think.

Jace: Take it down. Now.

Nothing.

His knee bounced, jaw ticking as he refreshed your page, watching the numbers climb. More likes. More comments. More eyes on you.

Jace: Don’t make me repeat myself.

Still nothing.

His tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek, his blood boiling. He knew you were doing this on purpose. Testing him. Pushing him.

Jace: You think this is funny? Letting every desperate asshole in the world think they have a chance?

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair before sending one last message.

Jace: Fine. You don’t want to listen? I’m coming to you.

Because if you thought you could make him jealous, make him furious, and just get away with it?

You were about to learn exactly what happened when Jace Velaryon snapped.

Jace Revenge :

The Internet Was NOT Okay.

People were still recovering from the last time you posted something that had them spiraling—

And then he ruined lives all over again.

A video.

Low, moody lighting. The golden glow of a bedside lamp casting soft shadows over your bare back, your skin flushed, the smooth curve of your spine on full display.

And then—

His hand.

Fingers twisting in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, exposing the slope of your neck, the sharp inhale that followed.

His other hand—out of frame, but you could feel it.

The video was silent, except for the sound of breathing—his and yours, deep, uneven, filled with undeniable tension.

And the caption?

“Mine.”

The Internet? SHATTERED.

The Guys:

“Jace, bro. What the fuck.”

“This is personal. I feel personally attacked.”

“Nah. This is war.”

"BLOCKED. REPORTED. UNFOLLOWED.”

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m logging out forever.”

“This is actually illegal. I’m calling the police.”

“Jace, be honest… was this necessary? Was it??”

“I just threw my phone across the room. I can’t look at this.”

“Bro really said ‘you thought you had a chance?’ and ended us all.”

“At least let me heal from the last post first, damn.”

The Girls:

“That hand placement? That possessiveness? Yeah, I’m in pain.”

“Jace Velaryon is the standard. I’m sorry.”

“The hand in the hair. The bare back. The silence. Yeah, I’m not okay.”

“HOW DO I APPLY TO BE HER?”

“The way he’s handling her like that… this is too much.”

“I will never get over this. Ever.”

“Who gave him the right to post something like this?”

Meanwhile, Jace?

Completely unbothered. Probably smirking, watching the chaos unfold, scrolling through the absolute meltdown happening in his comments.

And just to ruin them further, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Don’t be jealous. She’s right where she belongs.”

With that—

The internet was officially in ruins.

Daemon :

Daemon wasn’t a man who checked social media often. He didn’t care for it. But when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when people kept sending him something, tagging him, warning him—he knew something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

And the world around him went silent.

It was you. Practically naked.

Soft lighting, shadows teasing just enough to make the image dangerous. The way you posed—deliberate, taunting, meant to provoke.

And the comments?

“I need a moment. Or a lifetime.”

“She’s actually unreal.”

“Daemon’s done for. There’s no way he’s letting this slide.”

“If he won’t treat you right, just know my DMs are open, .”

His fingers curled around his phone, grip tightening until the device creaked.

His jaw clenched, his breathing slow and controlled—because if he let himself fully feel this, if he let the jealousy and rage take hold, he would break something.

Or someone.

You were his. And yet, here you were, putting yourself on display for every desperate, pathetic fool to see. Did you enjoy this? The attention? The way they drooled over you?

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he opened your messages.

Daemon: Delete it. Now.

Nothing.

His nostrils flared, his lips pressing into a thin line. He refreshed the page—saw the likes climbing, the comments piling up. More eyes on you. More men thinking they had a chance.

Daemon: I won’t ask again.

Still, no response.

His vision blurred at the edges, his pulse pounding hard in his ears. He didn’t need to guess what you were doing—smirking at your phone, waiting, pushing him.

Fine. You wanted to play this game?

He sent one last message.

Daemon: I hope you had your fun. Because I’m coming to you. And when I get there, you’re going to regret making me jealous.

If you thought you could tease him, taunt him, make him seethe like this and get away with it—

You were about to learn exactly what happened when Daemon Targaryen snapped.

Daemon Revenge :

The Internet Was Not Ready.

People were barely breathing after the last time you pulled a stunt—

And then, he ended them.

A video.

Steam curled in the dimly lit bathroom, water cascading down your bare skin. Your body, glistening under the soft glow, was pressed firmly against the fogged-up glass.

And then—

Daemon.

His hand, wrapped around your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His body, completely covering yours, silver hair damp, clinging to his skin.

He wasn’t looking at the camera—he was looking at you.

His lips ghosted along your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin as his voice—low, smug, downright sinful—rumbled against your ear:

“Go on, love. Tell them how badly you want me.”

And the caption?

"Try harder. She’s not going anywhere."

The Internet? Decimated.

The Guys:

“THIS IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY.”

“I am NOT okay. This is NOT okay.”

“You didn’t just flex. You obliterated us.”

“Daemon, bro, was this NECESSARY???”

“The way he claimed her, I—no, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Just say you hate us and go.”

“I actually felt physical pain watching this.”

“Daemon, bro. This was unnecessary.”

“HE’S NOT EVEN FLEXING—HE’S JUST OWNING US.”

“This man has no mercy. ZERO.”

“I would literally sell my soul to trade places with him.”

The Girls:

“I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.”

“The way he’s just holding her there like that… I need to go outside.”

“Hands behind her back??? IN THE SHOWER??? I am ACTUALLY in pain.”

“That hand placement… I’m unwell.”

“You’re telling me she gets to live this life for FREE?”

“Daemon is disrespectful for this and I love it.”

“The way he’s handling her… yeah, I’m done.”

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and I will never recover.”

Meanwhile, Daemon?

He was grinning, scrolling through the utter destruction he left in his wake, watching the internet collectively lose its mind.

And just to make it worse, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Tell me again how you had a chance?”

With that—

The internet was officially in ruins.

Luke :

Luke was never the jealous type. He was sweet, easygoing—never the one to start fights, never the one to lose his temper.

But when he saw your post?

That soft, kindhearted boy? Gone.

His breath caught in his throat as his grip tightened around his phone, fingers pressing into the edges so hard the plastic nearly cracked. His jaw clenched, his heartbeat hammering in his chest.

You.

Barely covered, skin on full display, your gaze sultry, teasing—like you knew exactly what you were doing.

And the comments.

“This is my Roman Empire.”

“Imagine waking up next to her every morning.”

“Luke is too soft for this, he ain’t doing what needs to be done.”

“If Luke won’t handle her, I will.”

“She doesn’t belong to just one man. She’s for us.”

His vision blurred with rage. Us? The fuck do they mean, us? Did they really think they had a chance? That they could talk about you like this?

He immediately opened your messages, his breathing sharp, his fingers moving fast.

Luke: Take it down. Now.

Nothing.

His nostrils flared. He refreshed the post—saw the likes climbing, the comments piling up.

Luke: I’m serious.

Still nothing.

His patience? Gone. His normally warm, easygoing demeanor? Shattered.

You thought this was funny, didn’t you? You were pushing him, testing him.

Fine.

His next message was short.

Luke: Keep playing, love. But when I see you, don’t bother acting innocent. You wanted my attention? You’ve got it.

And Luke Velaryon?

He never let things slide.

Luke Revenge :

The internet collapsed.

People were barely breathing after your last post, still clawing their way back to sanity—

And then Luke decided to ruin lives.

A video.

Dim lighting, tangled sheets, the heavy sound of breathing filling the air. The camera was shaky, intimate—Luke wasn’t filming for them, he was filming for himself.

And then—

Your voice.

A broken, breathless moan of his name, soft, needy, wrecked.

And in the background?

Luke.

Smirking.

The angle barely caught him—just a glimpse of his sweat-slicked skin, the possessive grip of his hands on your waist. His voice, low, teasing, barely above a whisper:

“Louder, love. Let them know exactly who you belong to.”

And the caption?

"I don’t hear them laughing now."

The Internet Was NOT Okay.

The Guys:

“Nah. This ain’t right.”

“Luke, bro, please, have some mercy.”

“I can’t breathe. I actually can’t breathe.”

“I was having a good day.”

“I need everyone to stop what they’re doing and just process this.”

“He knew what he was doing. And I hate him for it.”

The Girls:

“I am actually going to scream.”

“Luke Velaryon is disrespectful.”

“She is so lucky and I hate it here.”

“I need what she has. IMMEDIATELY.”

“He really had to flex like this? On today of all days?”

Meanwhile, Luke?

He was grinning, scrolling through the absolute carnage in his comments, watching men and women completely unravel.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Jealous? You should be.”

With that—

The internet was officially deceased.

Margor :

Maegor didn’t do social media. He barely tolerated its existence. But when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when people kept sending him something with messages that ranged from “Bro, you need to handle this” to “LMAO, she’s testing you”—he finally checked.

And his blood boiled.

It was you.

Practically naked.

Soft lighting, shadows teasing every dangerous curve, your expression taunting—as if you knew exactly what you were doing. As if you wanted to drive men insane.

And the comments.

“This is a religious experience.”

“If Maegor won’t handle you, I will.”

“She’s too stunning to be owned by just one man.”

“She belongs to the people now.”

“Maegor is somewhere flipping tables right now.”

His grip tightened around his phone, fingers curling so hard the device nearly cracked. His chest heaved as he breathed through his nose, his jaw locked so tight it ached.

You were his. And yet, here you were, putting yourself on display for every desperate, pathetic fool to see. Did you enjoy this? The attention? The way they lusted after you?

He opened your messages, his anger controlled—for now.

Maegor : The fuck you thinking?

Maegor: Delete it. Now.

Nothing.

His nostrils flared, his patience already threadbare. He refreshed the page—saw the likes climbing, the comments piling up. More eyes on you. More men thinking they had a chance.

Maegor: I won’t ask again.

Still, no response.

His vision darkened at the edges, his rage sinking deep into his bones. He could already see you smirking at your phone, waiting, pushing him.

Fine. You wanted to play this game?

His next message was short.

Maegor: I hope you enjoyed your little show. Because when I get to you, you’re going to learn exactly what happens when you make me jealous.

And when Maegor Targaryen snapped—

There was no escaping him.

Maegor Revenge :

The Internet Was Not Just Broken—It Was Obliterated.

No one was prepared. No one even had time to brace themselves.

Because Maegor Targaryen?

He didn’t just post—he declared war.

A video.

Dim lighting. A massive, gilded mirror reflecting the carnage behind it. Your body—wrecked, ruined, utterly claimed—pressed against the cold glass, your bare skin glistening with sweat.

And then—

Him.

Towering over you, still inside you, his broad hands gripping your hips so tightly there would be bruises—his bruises.

He didn’t even bother hiding his face.

Silver hair wild, lips parted, gaze locked on the mirror, watching himself own you in every way imaginable.

And then—his voice. Low, dark, dangerous.

“Let them watch.”

And the caption?

"You’ll never be me."

The Internet? Dead on Arrival.

The Guys:

“I have never been more jealous of a man in my entire life.”

“Maegor, please, have some HUMAN DECENCY.”

“This wasn’t a flex. This was a public execution.”

“I was happy. I was living my life. And now? I have to deal with this.”

“He’s not even trying to be humble. He’s just taunting us.”

“You know what? I’m logging off. I can’t do this today.”

The Girls:

“I’m actually feral right now.”

“HOW DO I APPLY TO BE HER.”

“The way he’s just holding her there like she’s nothing—I need a moment.”

“THIS COULD HAVE BEEN AN EMAIL, MAEGOR.”

“I can’t even hate. She’s living my dream.”

“This is the hottest thing I have ever seen. And I hate that I will never recover from it.”

Meanwhile, Maegor?

He wasn’t even looking at his phone. He had better things to do.

But when he finally did check?

He smirked. Slowly. Lazily. Completely unapologetic.

And just to make it worse, he dropped a single comment under his own post:

“Stay jealous. She’s not leaving my bed anytime soon.”

With that—

The internet was officially incinerated.

Aegon I :

Aegon wasn’t the jealous type—at least, that’s what he liked to tell himself. He was easygoing, laid-back, the type to laugh things off.

But then he saw your post.

And something inside him snapped.

His phone nearly slipped from his fingers as he stared at the screen. His chest rose and fell, breathing suddenly too shallow as his jaw tightened—so tight it ached.

You.

Barely covered, skin on full display, lips slightly parted like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you wanted people to look.

And the comments—

“This is actually life-changing.”

“No way Aegon lets her get away with this LMAO.”

“She’s unreal. Divine. Untouchable.”

“If Aegon won’t claim her, I will.”

“Bro, she’s for the people now.”

His grip on his phone tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. The people? The fucking people? Did they think this was a game? That they could just—talk about you like that?

He opened your messages, fingers moving with an urgency that wasn’t entirely controlled.

Aegon: Take it down.

No response.

His jaw clenched harder. He refreshed the post. More likes. More thirsty comments from pathetic little nobodies who clearly didn’t understand their place.

Aegon: I’m not asking.

Still nothing.

His tongue swiped over his teeth as a low growl built in his throat. Oh, you thought this was funny, didn’t you? You were playing with him. Pushing him.

Fine.

His next message was short.

Aegon: I hope you got all the attention you wanted, baby. Because when I see you, the only thing you’ll be worrying about is how long I plan to keep you in my bed.

And Aegon Targaryen?

He never made empty threats.

Aegon I Revenge :

The Internet Was Not Ready.

People were barely recovering from the last time you decided to ruin their lives—

And then, he destroyed them.

A video.

Low lighting. The soft rustling of silk sheets. Your body glowing, tangled in his bed, looking like sin incarnate—your breath uneven, lips parted, skin flushed.

And then—

His hand.

Large, firm, resting possessively on your breast, fingers slightly digging in, making it painfully clear that you were his.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was him.

Aegon, half-lidded cocky smirk, his other hand holding the camera, his cock still inside you, his grip lazy, casual—like he had all the time in the world.

And then, his voice—low, smug, devastating:

“Yeah… go ahead. Say something now.”

And the caption?

"Don’t act like you wouldn’t trade places."

The Internet? Absolutely Unhinged.

The Guys:

“Aegon, bro. Please. Have some compassion.”

“This is actually cruel.”

“I hate him so much but I respect it.”

“HE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO BE HUMBLE ABOUT IT.”

“I was having a good day. Now I have to rethink my whole life.”

“This wasn’t necessary. He just wanted to hurt us.”

The Girls:

“She’s so lucky and I hate her.”

"Not even gonna lie, this ruined my entire day.”

“The way he’s just sitting there like a smug little bastard—yeah, I’m sick.”

“Aegon is the biggest menace to ever exist.”

“I have never known true jealousy until this moment.”

“She’s living the dream. I can’t even be mad.”

“HE KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT HE’S DOING AND IT’S DISRESPECTFUL.”

Meanwhile, Aegon?

He was laughing, scrolling through the absolute devastation in his comments, watching men spiral into despair and women descend into chaos.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Keep crying. She’s still moaning my name.”

And with that—

The internet was officially in shambles.

Rhaenyra :

Rhaenyra wasn’t one to obsess over social media, but when her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when people kept tagging her, sending her messages, practically warning her—she knew something was up.

And then she saw it.

Her stomach dropped. Her grip on the phone tightened.

It was you.

Draped in soft lighting, skin bare and glowing, your pose deliberate—calculated to tease, to tempt, to drive people insane. It left just enough to the imagination, while making it clear you knew exactly what you were doing.

And the comments?

“I can’t believe we’re witnessing perfection in real time.”

“This is actually dangerous.”

“If Rhaenyra doesn’t kill someone over this, I’ll be shocked.”

“No way she’s letting this slide.”

“If she won’t claim you, I will.”

Rhaenyra’s nails dug into her palm as she gritted her teeth. A sharp flare of jealousy surged through her—hot and possessive, a burning anger she rarely felt this intensely.

Because who were they to talk about you like this? To look at you like you weren’t hers?

Did you want this attention? Did you enjoy knowing people were drooling over you, imagining things they had no right to even think about?

She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself to breathe before she opened your messages.

Rhaenyra: Take it down. Now.

No response.

Her fingers tightened around her phone as she refreshed your post. More likes. More comments. More pathetic fools thinking they had a chance.

Rhaenyra: I will not ask again.

Still nothing.

She could see you smirking at your phone, relishing in this, testing her.

Fine.

Her next message was short, sharp, final.

Rhaenyra: I’m coming to you.

If you thought she would just sit back, let you taunt her, let you make her jealous like this—

You were gravely mistaken.

Rhaenyra Revenge :

The internet collapsed.

People were barely recovering from your last post—scrolling, coping, trying to move on—when Rhaenyra ended them all with one photo.

A single image that sent the entire world into ruins.

It was you.

In her bed.

Soft lighting, silk sheets tangled around your body. Your head tilted back into the pillow, lips slightly parted, the glow of your skin dangerous in the dim light. And then—her hand. Resting on your thigh, fingers glistening with your release sprawled in a way that left no room for misinterpretation. She wasn’t just touching you. She was claiming you.

And the caption?

“Mine.”

The internet lost its mind.

Guys and girls alike descended into madness:

The Guys:

“I am actually about to throw up.”

“Rhaenyra, PLEASE, LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS.”

“Bro, how am I supposed to recover from this??”

“This isn’t fair. This is violence.”

“We lost. We fucking lost.”

The Girls:

“I’m happy for her but also devastated for me.”

“THIS COULD HAVE BEEN ME IN ANOTHER LIFE.”

“Do I congratulate them or do I cry? Or both?”

“Rhaenyra, what was the reason? WHAT WAS THE REASON??”

“I’m choosing to live in denial.”

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra? She was smirking at her phone, watching the despair unfold. She knew exactly what she was doing—dropping the photo, sitting back, and enjoying the chaos.

And just to truly bury everyone, she left a single comment under her own post:

“You can stop dreaming now.”

And with that—

The internet was officially in shambles.

Alicent :

Alicent never cared much for social media. She found it shallow, a place for desperate attention-seekers, a distraction from real matters. But when her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when messages kept coming in, some filled with concern, others with amusement—she knew something was wrong.

And then she saw it.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened around her phone.

It was you.

Practically naked.

The lighting was soft, intimate—dangerous. The way you posed, the way your bare skin was on display, your confidence radiating off the screen… It was deliberate. It was a taunt.

And the comments—the flood of people thirsting over you, speaking as if they had a right to look at you like this, as if they could ever touch you—

“Mother of the gods, I need a moment.”

“Alicent is somewhere seething right now.”

“You’re actually unreal. Perfection.”

“If she won’t claim you, I will.”

“How does it feel to be the most desired person alive???”

Alicent’s grip on her phone was so tight, her knuckles turned white. A slow, hot wave of jealousy coiled in her chest—sharp, possessive, furious.

Did you enjoy this? The way people devoured you with their eyes? Did you want them to look at you, to desire you?

Her jaw locked as she opened your messages, her fingers moving with icy precision.

Alicent: Take it down. Now.

No response.

She refreshed the page. More likes. More disgusting, pathetic fools thinking they had a chance.

Alicent: I will not repeat myself.

Still nothing.

Her nails dug into her palm, her patience snapping thread by thread. She knew you were doing this on purpose. Testing her. Pushing her.

Fine.

Her next message was short. Final.

Alicent: If you think this little stunt is going to go unpunished, you are gravely mistaken.

If you thought she would sit back and allow you to tease her, to make her jealous, to tempt her patience—

You were about to deeply regret it.

Alicent Revenge :

The internet broke.

People were just recovering from your last post—scrolling, coping, trying to move on—when Alicent ended them all in one swift, merciless stroke.

A single photo.

Dim lighting, silk sheets slightly messy, shadows stretching across warm skin. You—in her bed. Head tilted back, lips slightly parted, hair yanked firmly in Alicent’s grip. The way her fingers curled into your strands—possessive, unrelenting, a silent but undeniable claim.

And the caption?

“Mine. And I don’t share.”

The internet descended into absolute chaos.

The Guys:

“I need a support group. This is actually painful.”

“Bro, I can’t compete with this.”

“Alicent did not have to flex this hard.”

“I swear I was fine five seconds ago.”

“The grip she has—on the hair, on the situation, on my emotions—I can’t take this.”

The Girls:

“Happy for them but also screaming inside.”

“This could have been me in another timeline.”

“Alicent said know your place, and I guess I will.”

“Do I cry? Do I throw my phone? Do I respect it? All of the above?”

“I was coping until she posted this. Now I’m just suffering.”

Meanwhile, Alicent? She was satisfied. Watching the world crumble, notifications exploding with people’s rage, jealousy, and despair.

And to truly finish them off, she left a single comment under her own post:

“Go ahead and cry. It changes nothing.”

And with that—

The internet was officially six feet under.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @ashblooddragons

[alpaca-clouds]

How Media Taught Us a Wrong Image of Fascism

Okay, I have seen during the last two or three weeks a couple of posts of the argument going back and forth: "Is this fascism already? Or isn't it fascism? Isn't fascism when there is like people marching with weapons and what not?"

To which I say: No, the people who says this, what you see in America right now, is fascism. Let me tell you as a German. We have... a bit of history with this topic.

But I also can tell you why you kinda have expected some soldiers marching into your capital. And the reason is simple - but also complicated.

Are you ready?

Am I saying it is because of Star Wars? No. It is because of media in general.

See. Here is the thing: Even us here in Germany, we do not learn the real history of the Nazis and the Third Reich. Because... Well, people kinda have an issue confronting one aspect of it: The aspect of where the Nazis were put into power by democratic election. They won the election. They just then made sure that there would no longer be more elections. Something your parliament is working, too.

But there is another thing that kinda gets lost, because in some way we mythologize the Nazis way too much. And I mean, I get it. They are pretty recent, and what they did was so unambigiously evil, that they just make for really good villains in media. But... See, there is an aspect of this, that also gets lost.

Hitler was actually not that "great" in a lot of aspects. And with that I do not mean that he was an angry, evil goblin, I mean that he was also not a good politician, and not good tactician.

But there was one thing he was good at: Aethetics. I mean, what do you expect? He was an artist. And he loved cinema. Which translated into him having a very good understanding of how to construct propaganda.

When you think of the Third Reich, you will probably think of that Propaganda, and nothing else. Because yes, it looks visually stunning. Which is also the reason, why again and again we see that same visual language used in media to signify the bad guys in it.

But this gives us a problem: Our first thought when we hear "fascism" is this aesthetic, rather than any content.

Yeah, here we are again. My good old enemy: How we humans often hang onto aesthetics over the contents. And it is a big issue in this regard.

At the same time it also paints over one other thing: The fact that the Nazis were a bunch of fucking weird little losers.

You know, in 2019, when Jojo Rabbit came out, a lot of people were outraged about the fact that the movie made light of the Nazis. But the fact is: Yes, you should do that. You should make fun of them. Because they are insecure little losers with delusions of grandure. Especially as the movie did it right: It made fun of the Nazis, but not of the horrors committed. This is the right way to deal with it.

Especially as the movie also makes very correct fun of the propaganda. See, in the movie there are some really weird lines. Both of the anti-semitic propaganda, and the pro-Hitler propaganda. Stuff where Jews are described basically like some sort of DnD monster, while Hitler is described as some sort of superhero. But pretty much every one of those lines is actually taken out of actual propaganda. Yes, they were stupid like that.

If you compare Hitler and the Trump-Musk tag team... It is actually really, really similar. They are about as incompetent. Just as they have sadly about the same amount of flat out luck. (See: surviving assassination attempts.)

It is just that we do not talk about how fucking stupid Hitler was anymore. Because that in turn makes everyone else look even dumber. Both the other contries that have allowed that stuff to happen for so long, and then almost lost - and the people who actually voted for that moron and went along with everything without fighting back.

I will leave you with this good old clip from Horrible Histories.

[messrsrarchives]

Hello! I adore your blog and your yaps so much I’ve been following you for a few months now and I first wanted to tell you that you do so much good! So, a huge thanks to you for using your platform for trans topics/Palestine/as well as fandom etiquette/awareness and for just being amazing!

All things aside though, I do have a question! I was wondering what your opinion on @the-dead-gay-oscars was. I stumbled upon it recently and felt kind of an icky feeling about it, because it just feels like another way of comparing fanfic to mainstream media when fanfic isn’t really meant to be like that? It’s also putting a bunch of fanfic out there for people to vote on/critique publicly, and I cant find whether or not the fanfic writers are asked for permission for their fics to be included in such an event- especially when I know a lot of people have boundaries over that kind of thing. I just wonder if it brings back that almost expectation for fanfiction to be like published modern literature/movies. I doubt anyone had the intention for it to be like that but I just don’t really like it?

Idk, it just left me feeling weird about the whole thing, but maybe I’m being over dramatic and critical over something meant to be fun, which could totally be the case. 😅

Anyways, thank you so much for what you do! Have a nice day!

hiii !! first of all!!! thank youuu 😖😖🫂🫂

and yeah,,, not a fan. idk if this mention tags them and if it does, sorry!!! just some gentle opinions 😖

idk like,, "best" categories in fandom really ick me out. and i think it can be very discouraging to others? like how does the voting work? do they select nominations and then others vote?

oh you've said they do! so yes, then it turns into "oh my work wasnt as good as the one that won" etc etc - i just think there's better ways to show appreciation than creating more pedestals in a fandom that already has a massive issue with idolisation, imposter syndrome, etc etc

and whether the authors are asked permission or not is irrelevant to me (actually,, probably worse if they are and agree in my mind)

idk. good concept, poor execution that i personally think is just discouraging and competitive when this space is for everyyyyyyone to create and enjoy without worrying whether you're better than someone else or the "best" etc etc. and yes, 100% brings expectations.

i get it was for appreciation, but i dislike the notion when really you could just comment on a fic and say you liked it, and then make a post recommending it, or rec it to your friends etc etc. you know??

we don't need awards and competition, we need community and an encouraging space where everyone feels confident to engage and write and draw and edit and do whatever it is that they do without worrying about whether they're the best at it or if they're as good as someone else

unless i get best rant poster. then it's okay. (I'M KIDDING THAT WAS A /J. THAT WAS A JOKE.)

[max1461]

I think something is wrong with me that they don't understand yet. To be honest. Or something is wrong that they do understand but it's causing problems that they don't understand. This post is seeking advice from anyone who can provide it.

Uh @transgenderer tagging you because you've had good thoughts on these things. Let me know if you would like me to stop tagging you in personal matters. Also @cadaversconsumer because I think it's you who was interested in my brain? Feel free to just marvel at my bad brain.

Ok, so, there is context to my current brain problems that I haven't fully explained. But it requires(?) some backstory. Basically, upon the advent of the pandemic in 2020, I got very depressed and anxious for life reasons. For about three years I was in a very weird, poor mental state. Bad OCD, very depressed, very anxious. Not able to leave the house or work due to how bad the OCD was. During this time I kind of... hunkered down, tried to put everything out of my mind, and just focus on getting through each day. Even listening to music was too emotionally overwhelming, and would trigger an anxiety/OCD fit. All I could do was try to eat, try to sleep, and think "somehow, this will get better eventually". Oh, and post. I was posting constantly (often nonsense, this is the origin of my shitposts), that's when my blog got popular. Posting was the only thing external to my mind that I could think about without sort of freaking out.

Although this was brought on by life events, it was all so intense that I can't discount a neurological component. I felt... like my brain was constantly full of electricity, that I was constantly hyper-activated in some deep way. Like even deeper than fight-or-flight. Well, as I said, like I was full of electricity. At the worst of it, I would pace around and do OCD compulsions (various movements and stuff) for 8-12 hours a day; I would only stop when I got so tired I fell asleep, sleep for 2 or 3 hours, I would start doing the OCD compulsions again in my dreams and wake up already doing them. Then go for another 8-12 hour stint and fall asleep again. Sometimes I would get it under control for half an hour or something, which I would use for eating. When it was less bad, it was more like 4-6 hours dispersed throughout the day, and I was still hyper anxious even when it wasn't actively happening. This lasted from early 2020 through the end of 2022, about 3 years.

Right, during this time of never leaving the house or doing anything, I kind of felt like I forgot how to... be a person. My mind was so wrapped up in "surviving" that I uh just, yeah, forgot how to be a person. I remember when I made my grad school attempt (which did not go well), at the end of 2022 when things were starting to clear up, I still felt so fatigued that I would lay in made for hours TOTALLY MOTIONLESS, I mean, still like a corpse. Even the idea of moving my arms a little felt exhausting. It took me another roughly two years to slowly start to feel like a person again.

After all this happened, my memories of uh, anything other than the weird life I had been living were very faint. I could hardly recall what life was like before. I knew all the factual stuff but it felt like a dream. I often found myself, in 2023 and 2024, straining to remember. And I do mean straining, it was like I was exerting myself to uh, push a faint memory into my vision again. It worked, and I started to remember what life was like before, but the more I did it the more exertion it took, until I was literally straining my whole body and squeezing in order to remember pre-pandemic memories. I would often get this feeling of pressure behind my eyes, that had actually started to hurt. At a certain point, maybe mid 2024, it had started to actively make my eyes tired. I made a post about it on here. It had given me eye strain, and even passively remembering these things (which would now happen, because I had sufficiently jogged my memory) would give me pain between/behind my eyes and generally feel kind of weird. The memories became harder to "look directly at" in my mind, even when I wasn't straining, because they would just give me automatic eye pain. I figured "I should stop straining like that, the memories will still be there, but this is kinda hurting me".

One way or another, I then found myself at the dentist. Uh. The whole deal is I was super anxious, and for reasons I won't go into, almost reflexively started straining in the manner described above. This is when they were giving me the anesthetic. I tried to stop straining, but it's like I couldn't, something was numb and I was stuck in the "pressure behind eyes" mode. Then I felt a... pop? A very gentle pop, and, hey, that's how I ended up in my current state. Mind running, uh, hyper emotionally, like all my memories are playing out vividly all the time and I can't stop them, but I also can't look straight at them. And my friends and so on from pre-pandemic don't feel like real people, it feels like their mental "profile pictures" have been deleted from my mind, and all this shit I've been posting about.

Oh! And for a few days after the dentist, I had these huge, HUGE dark circles under my eyes, like fucking purple. For almost a week.

Anyway, I was diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy and trigeminal nerve damage (cause parts of my face are numb), and that's where I am today. But forgive me if I think maybe something else is going on? I've explained all this shit to doctors and parents but they kind of dismiss it; I think it's kind of important though.

Uh, I guess the main piece of advice I'm curious if anyone can give me is: what type of doctor would I go to to look into the eye shit? It really feels like the eye shit is central. Mental experiences were already coupled to weird eye shit before my bad dentist trip. Uh. Nobody takes me seriously but I think the eye shit is central. But also just uh... anyone heard of anything like this before? Anyone have a reference point I can turn to?

[revvethasmythh]

sorry, i'm new to the fandom but i instantly fell in love with widobrave….. is the ship really that unpopular?

well first, hello, and welcome to the fandom!! (both cr and widobrave!)

second, i think it's actually difficult for me to track how popular/unpopular widobrave is right now in the fandom, and i only started shipping it in 2020 so I can't give a full historical perspective on what the shipping scene looked like at the beginning besides what i've heard (people thought nott was a child at the very beginning of the show, then it turned into "nott is caleb's mom!" after that, and i'll exempt some further details in case you don't want any potential spoilers since you're new and I don't know how much you know, but those two things did a lot to make the ship....undesirable to the masses, shall we say). from my own perspective, I remember going into the ship and feeling like it was fairly fringe back in 2020 (and it was). small group of people, usually exclusively nott stans, were like the only people you'd see shipping it and a lot of people reacted negatively to the idea of the ship. there was an undercurrent that it was bad because some found it "incestuous" due to feeling like nott was caleb's mother (a thing that it not true in either the literal or metaphorical capacity!) and this has been the most persistent pushback against the ship that i am aware of. generally, back in the day, there was a sense that nott couldn't seriously be shipped with anyone, but especially not someone she thought of as "her kid," much as that's simply a popularly proliferated misunderstanding of ONE scene in the entire show.

the current state of widobrave affairs? i honestly don't know. it's certainly still a very small ship, but there's been a LOT of lightening up about it in the years since the campaign ended. i've seen a lot more neutral-positive opinions toward it, whereas in years past...i mean, i've been blocked just for shipping it. i've seen more than one "do NOT tag this as widobrave" statement on art pieces, like...it was considered FRINGE once upon a time. but i feel like it's stopped being fringe and is now just...small? again, it's usually exclusively nott stans that ship it, so already not a big pool of people just based on that. it's certainly not mainsteam or anything, but i certainly feel more comfortable maintagging my widobrave posts these days than i used to. i think a lot of people just don't want to look at the relationship in a romantic light, despite the fact that in most circumstances their initial setup would have been a HUGE jumping off point for shipping (just look at the immediacy of imogen/laudna shipping, who share practically the same backstory/relationship setup), and generally prefer the other, bigger ships in the fandom. it would probably take a dissertation's worth of explanation to dig into all the reasons why that is, but that is generally where the ship sits in the fandom.

if anyone has more insight on the history of the ship's fandom reception/current reception, i'd love to hear it since it missed out on those founding years! and again, a hearty to welcome to the fandom! it's always nice to see an new widobraver around

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Girl Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Whenever your world has fallen, your neighbor has been there to save you, but now it's your turn to do the same for him.

Words: 6k (I get crazier with each chapter).

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of murder, injuries, violence, alzheimer, daddy issues, death. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I know it takes me a long time to publish the chapters but they all have a lot of emotional charge (in this one IS A LOT) and to get it 100% right I have to rewrite them little by little, it is complex because I am a perfectionist😞 BUT thank you all for the support, patience and love you have given me.

I'm also planning to upload an extra of this poor babies for Valentine's Day💕 It'll be a prequel to the series and is mostly fluff yum.

You still remembered the first time you climbed the stairs to your apartment.

At the time, it hadn’t been a choice but a necessity. The elevator had been out of order in the middle of moving week, and the building management had shrugged off your complaints with little more than an apologetic glance, a vague promise, and a string of excuses that never quite panned out. The idea of waiting for them to fix it seemed absurd, especially when you were already overwhelmed with boxes, tape, and the dull ache of exhaustion that settled in your bones after hours of unpacking. So, with your arms full of the fragile, mundane objects that made up your life—books, plates, electronics, and furniture—you had trudged up the stairs, one step at a time. Sweat slicked your back, dampening your clothes as each heavy step took its toll. The weight of your belongings had felt far less heavy than the weight of the exhaustion, the impatience, and the frustration that boiled just beneath the surface.

And yet, after all of that, you made a promise to yourself: as soon as the elevator was fixed, you would never do this again. You’d never climb these endless stairs in such a haphazard rush, sweat dripping down your face, your legs aching with every painful movement.

But as the days passed, the promise began to feel less like a statement of intent and more like a fleeting thought. The elevator was still out of order, and each time you ascended those stairs, something strange happened. The ache in your muscles, the deep, satisfied burn that had originally seemed like an unbearable weight, started to feel different. It wasn’t just the physical strain of moving boxes. It was something else, something subtle but undeniable. You were becoming accustomed to it. The repetitive rhythm of your steps, the quiet solitude of the stairwell, the knowing sense that this space, though public, was somehow yours. No one else was down there, nobody was watching, and nobody expected anything of you except that you climb. You weren’t running into awkward neighbors. No one was talking about the weather or the laundry room door that wouldn’t close properly. The stairwell became something more than just a space to get from one floor to the next; it became a moment of stillness, of pause, a small sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside.

Then your favorite neighbor noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not until one evening, when you reached the bottom of the stairwell, your legs trembling from the exertion. You were trying to stretch your calves and soothe the burning in your thighs, cursing yourself for the lack of grace you were showing. You were already preparing yourself to leave when a voice, warm yet casual, interrupted your thoughts.

“You know, taking the stairs regularly can improve cardiovascular health, increase muscle endurance, and even help with cognitive function. There have been studies.”

You froze mid-stretch, eyes widening. Slowly, you turned to find him leaning against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, work bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he had been standing there for a while, watching you struggle up the stairs far longer than you had realized.

“Spencer,” you panted, still catching your breath, “I just like avoiding awkward elevator conversations.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his face, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, knowing smile. But he didn’t argue. Not that day. Not yet.

“Oh…that’s a good idea, I guess.”

But after that, it became a habit of his.

He started slipping little facts into conversation, always casually, always carefully, like he wasn’t trying to impose, just…offering something. He mentioned the importance of pacing yourself, of stretching, and of drinking water. He spoke of breath control, the way inhaling through your nose and exhaling with each push off the step could help regulate energy and heart rate. He never said it like a lecture, never demanded that you listen. He simply planted ideas, little seeds of knowledge, and let them take root on their own.

Then, he started timing his arrivals. You’d reach the bottom of the stairs, exhausted from your climb, only to find him standing there. He’d walk with you down the flights, his stride long and effortless, as though gravity didn’t pull on him the same way it did you. With each step you took, you found yourself straining to match his pace, to keep up.

One day, after you had finally reached the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing to catch your breath, he spoke again, voice low but insistent.

“You know,” he mused, watching you with that quiet, observant gaze of his, “you’d get even more benefits if you focused on your breathing pattern. Inhale through your nose as you step up, exhale when you push off. It helps with energy flow and helps regulate your heart rate.”

Another time, he raised an eyebrow as you finished stretching, his lips curling into a small frown. “Your posture could use some work. If you lean too far forward, you’ll strain your lower back.”

You had paused, mid-stretch, and shot him a look. “Are you coaching me?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer, not even winded, just smiled that small, knowing smile of his. “I prefer to think of it as…guiding you toward better habits. So you live longer.”

There was something in the way he said it, something so utterly genuine, that you had no response. You just rolled your eyes, pretending his words didn’t settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Because he really did want you to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always next door.

Even if you didn’t realize it. Even if you just saw his words as a harmless nuisance, a quirk of his endlessly curious mind.

And somehow, the strangest thing? It worked.

You found yourself drinking more water throughout the day, stretching before and after walking, and adjusting the way you climbed to avoid unnecessary pressure on your joints. The things he told you weren’t drastic changes, just subtle shifts, quiet reminders. But somehow, they made a difference. And what had started as a mindless habit became something else. You noticed the difference, not just physically, but mentally. The clarity of thought after a climb, the way your body felt lighter, more in tune. And somewhere along the way, it became yours and his.

It wasn’t something you spoke about outright. There was no label for it, no need to analyze it. But it was there, woven into the fabric of your days. The quiet companionship. The unspoken rhythm of two people walking in sync. The way he filled the silences with facts, you pretended to roll your eyes at, even as you secretly liked how much he enjoyed your reactions.

It became normal.

Until, of course—

He disappeared.

No explanations. No warnings. No final conversation that you knew was final, no understanding of why. Just an empty, silent absence where he used to be. No more random nutrition facts, no more health tips disguised as casual conversation. Just gone.

Still, you did it anyway. Every day, without fail. Because habits don’t break just because people do.

And now, walking up those stairs alone felt heavier than it ever had before. The silence that had once been a comfort now suffocated you. And the idea of living a long, healthy life when no one seemed to care whether you did or not? Well. That was kind of a bummer.

But this morning, the stairs felt different. Lonelier. Less like a ritual, more like a weight dragging behind you, pulling you under. Your mind was stuck on last night. The chaotic blur of it looped in fragments, like a dream you couldn’t shake. A nightmare too sharp to be fiction, but too unreal to fully believe. And yet the bruise on your cheek wasn’t a dream. It greeted you in the mirror as soon as you woke, a dark, swollen reminder of everything you wanted to forget. Pain settled deep in your bones, not just from the stairs but from what had happened. What you saw. What you heard. What you couldn't avoid.

And now, as you reached the bottom step, everything felt wrong. Your chest was too tight. Your limbs were too heavy. The door to your apartment, just a few paces away, felt miles out of reach.

You stopped. Just stood there. The peeling paint on the wooden steps seemed to hold all the time that had passed, all the moments you wished you could undo. You stared at them, at the cracks, the faded edges, as if they might offer answers. As if they might take some of the weight away.

Then, you saw her.

At first, she was just a figure, an unfamiliar silhouette standing at the threshold of your door, her back turned toward you. She scanned the apartment numbers, her hand hovering uncertainly. Her movements were slow, tentative, almost fragile, and it wasn’t until you took a few cautious steps forward that something clicked in your mind. There was a faint spark in her eyes, something familiar.

Spencer’s mother. You were sure of it.

Although you had never seen her face-to-face, you had seen enough photos to recognize her without hesitation. He had told you about her often enough for you to know as much as you could. But it was her eyes that confirmed her identity to you; they mirrored those of her son in a way that made your heart ache. The same sharpness in her gaze, the same small, thoughtful movements, the same undercurrent of quiet intensity that seemed to follow every action.

But you can see something else in her, something that wasn’t him.

A weariness, a loss. You could feel it in the air, thick and heavy around her, almost like an invisible fog clouding her mind. She was lost in more ways than one, and her presence was a reminder of everything he had tried so hard to shield himself from.

Swallowing, you kept your voice gentle.

“Hi,” you said, careful not to startle her. “Are you looking for someone? Can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, she finally turned.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze met yours, and you saw the confusion settle in, subtle but unmistakable. Her brows knitted together, her lips parting as if forming a question she couldn’t quite grasp.

“You…you’re…no. You’re not…No, I thought…” Diana’s voice trailed off, barely more than a breath, lost and small, as she sighed, a sound heavy with defeat.

Your heart clenched.

“I think I know who you’re looking for.” You softened your tone, offering her a small, steadying smile. “Spencer, right?”

Her eyes flickered at the name, the briefest flash of recognition breaking through the fog. A tether, however fragile. She nodded slowly, her hand falling to her side in a motion that seemed more instinct than intention. Her eyes then drifted back to the door, and for a long moment, she seemed lost again, looking at the numbers as if they held the answers she was searching for, her thoughts adrift somewhere far away.

“I just want to see him,” she murmured. “I can’t miss his birthday again.”

Oh no.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Spencer’s birthday wasn’t for another couple of months. You knew that with certainty, but hearing it from Diana, the way she said it, with such unwavering certainty, made your chest tighten. She wasn’t just lost in space. She was lost in time itself. And the realization, sharp and painful, settled in your stomach, a stone that refused to be dislodged.

You glanced at her again, her fingers twitching at her sides, lips pressed together as though trying to hold on to a thought, a memory, something that kept slipping away from her. The confusion was thick, almost palpable, and it filled the space between you, leaving you with the distinct sense that you were intruding, stepping into a moment too fragile, too fleeting to hold on to.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

You weren’t supposed to meet her yet.

Not like this. Not without him.

You exhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in your voice. “He’s not home right now, but I can call him for you. Maybe we can wait inside?”

Diana’s gaze darted back to the door once more. For a moment, she seemed suspended in two realities: the one in her mind and the one in front of her. The world she remembered and the one she now stood in.

“No…I—I should go.” Her fingers curled at her sides, her voice fragile, distant. “I just wanted to see him. I just…”

You felt a lump in your throat. Spencer had told you about those moments, but he never went into a lot of detail because he was afraid of scaring you. But he'd given you enough to understand how much they hurt and how much they terrified him. He never said it directly, but you could tell when he talked about her. You could hear the tension in his voice, the way his hands started to shake every time he got a call and thought it might be from the nursing home she was in, how he spent his time reading huge books and researching ways to help her with her illness, and most of all, in how he had delayed letting you meet her for fear that you would be frightened to see his possible future.

But now, here you were, standing before her anyway, facing the woman who had given the world someone as brilliant and kind as Spencer, yet who now stood stranded in fragments of a past that no longer fit.

“Diana,” you said, your voice firmer now, gentle but insistent. “It’s okay. Spencer would want to see you. Let me call him. He’ll come.”

She hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly. Searching.

“You know my son?” she asked softly.

“I do. He’s—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. What were you to him? A friend? A neighbor? Something else? The definition had never been clear, but it didn’t matter now. “He’s important to me.”

Something in her expression shifted, though the confusion never fully left her eyes.

“I have a key to his apartment,” you added carefully. “He gave it to me in case he wasn’t here.”

Diana’s gaze dropped to your hand, where the key glinted under the dim hallway light. She studied it for a long moment, her thoughts drifting somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Then, finally, she whispered, “Okay.”

You guided her inside, the familiar scent of his apartment wrapping around you both like something solid, something safe. She sank onto the couch with a weary sigh, looking small, fragile, as if the very act of being here took more effort than she could afford.

“I’ll make some tea,” you said softly, trying to fill the silence with something tangible, something grounding.

Moving toward the kitchen, you kept her in your sights, watching as her gaze flitted around the apartment. Her eyes were looking around, at the walls that had seen Spencer's life in all its quiet moments over the past few years. After watching her for a moment, you noticed that she seemed to be especially focused on the various pictures hanging on the walls. You had painted some of them, and he had bought the rest in his attempts to discreetly help you monetarily. Most of the paintings were landscapes, one or two inspired by the books he always told you about and how you imagined them, plus even a portrait of Mittens playing on the balcony.

Until that moment, you hadn’t realized just how much of yourself had become part of his home.

Something in your chest tightened, but you pushed the thought aside, stepping away to dial his number.

The line rang once.

Then twice.

Then—

“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer’s voice, quiet and concerned, almost as if he had been waiting for your call. “I wanted to talk, but—”

You exhaled, relief and uncertainty tangling together at the sound of his voice. “Hi. I’m fine. Um…your mom is here.”

Silence.

Then, the shift, something you had come to recognize when he was processing information at a speed faster than most people could follow. “She’s—wait, she’s where?” His voice was sharper now, alert.

“She’s safe,” you reassured him quickly. “We’re in your apartment. But…” Your voice softened. “She thinks it’s your birthday.”

Another pause. A breath.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost a whisper. “I’m coming. Please don’t let her be alone.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I won’t.”

“And…” His voice faltered, then steadied. “Thank you.”

The call ended.

You turned back to Diana, whose hands were wrapped around a cup of tea. The liquid swirled gently as she lifted the mug to her lips, the warm steam rising in a delicate plume. She looked at the tea, but her eyes weren’t focused. They were far away, somewhere beyond the moment, distant as though she had left this room a long time ago.

“Spencer’s coming,” you said softly, as if the quiet of the moment demanded it. You knew how much she hated noise. “He’ll be here soon.”

Her eyes flickered for a brief moment, a slight shift in the dullness that had clouded them. She blinked, and for a split second, it felt like she was with you again, her gaze a little clearer. But then, just as quickly, the fog returned, and she glanced up at you with a faint smile, one that was both familiar and distant, like a stranger trying to be someone you once knew. She took another sip, the sound of it like a small exhale in the room.

Carefully, you lowered yourself onto the couch across from her, keeping your movements slow, deliberate, as if any sudden shift might shatter the fragile tether that kept her here in this moment with you.

“You painted these,” she murmured, more statement than question after her eyes drifted back to the paintings on the walls, lingering for longer this time.

Your breath caught for a second. How did she know?

“Some of them,” you admitted, glancing at the familiar brushstrokes, at the colors you had chosen, the emotions you had poured into each piece. “Spencer liked them. He, uh…kept buying them even when I told him he didn’t have to.”

Diana’s lips twitched, just the faintest hint of a smile.

“He’s always been like that,” she said softly, her gaze distant but warm. “Always finding ways to help without saying it outright. As a boy, he would leave little notes in my books. Facts about things he thought I would like, little reminders of things I would forget. He never wanted me to feel like I was slipping away.”

For the first time since you had met her in the hallway, she didn’t seem frightened. She wasn’t lost, drifting between past and present. She was here. Grounded. Aware of the space around her.

It felt like magic.

But then, just as quickly as it came, something in her shifted again. Her brow knit together slightly, and her fingers smoothed absently over the fabric of her sleeve.

“But I still did, didn’t I?” Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I slipped away.”

There was no easy answer to that. No a good one.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “He loves you,” you said simply.

Diana’s hands, which had been moving idly over the fabric of her sleeve, stilled. Slowly, she turned her head toward you. And for the first time, she really looked at you, not in passing, not through the haze of misplaced time, but deeply, as if seeing you for exactly who you were.

Something shivered through you under the weight of her gaze. You wondered what she saw. The faint smudges of paint still clinging to your sleeves? The way your makeup, carefully applied, hid the faint traces of a bruise in your cheek? The cup in your hands, her son favorite, still bearing the faded imprint of your lipstick, because Spencer always refused to wipe it completely away?

Something unreadable passed beneath the surface of her expression, something quiet but powerful. Then, after a moment, her features softened.

“He talks about you,” she murmured.

Your pulse jumped.

“He does?”

“Not in long speeches. Not in obvious ways. But I know my son.” She exhaled, her gaze flicking back to the paintings, the bookshelf, the little details scattered around the apartment. “I know the way he holds on to things that matter.”

Her eyes found yours again, gentle but knowing.

“And you…you’re in the details.”

The words settled in your chest, warm and heavy all at once.

Your breath caught as her gaze flickered around the apartment. Not just at the paintings now, but at the bookshelf, where your art books sat nestled beside his. At the little traces of you woven so seamlessly into this space. The familiar hoodie draped over the armrest, too big to be yours but still carrying your scent. The unopened package of your favorite tea sitting on the counter, bought without a second thought.

Everywhere.

You were everywhere.

The realization pressed against your ribs, something warm, something steady, something undeniable that made you nostalgic.

Before you could find the right words to respond, the sound of the front door opening cut through the stillness.

Spencer stepped inside in a rush, his eyes immediately locking onto his mother, scanning her with that same mix of relief and worry you had come to recognize. His bag hung off his shoulder, his coat still half-buttoned as if he hadn’t even stopped to fix it in his hurry to get here.

“You?” Diana asked suddenly, her voice small, uncertain. “What are you doing here? You are not invited to his birthday.”

He froze, and so did you.

His mother was looking at him, but she wasn't really seeing him. She was seeing someone else, someone from her past. Someone whose hair and eye color he had inherited. Someone he had accused of being a murderer years ago. Someone who was the first to leave him and say goodbye with a letter. Someone who forced him to be the one to take care of the rest since he was a kid. She was seeing his father.

You saw it in his face, the way something inside Spencer broke into a thousand pieces. And only then did you realize the pain he carried every day. Because just when you thought you had Diana anchored in the present, she slipped into the past and dragged an unwanted memory with her. That was the worst part, going from having everything to having nothing. To go from having your mother to having a stranger.

The silence hung heavy between you, and then Spencer did something you hadn’t expected. Slowly, carefully, he sank to his knees in front of her. It was a gesture of both humility and desperate tenderness. You could see it in his body language, the way he made himself small, as though trying to reach the part of his mother that still remembered him.

“It’s me, mom,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, breaking the stillness with the weight of everything unsaid.

Diana’s gaze flickered, her fingers tightening slightly around her sleeves.

“I’m here,” he said again, his voice soft but firm. “I’m Spencer…your son.”

You stayed quiet, watching as something in Diana’s expression shifted. She blinked once. Then twice. Her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing.

And then, finally her gaze cleared just enough.

“Spencer,” she whispered.

The weight in his shoulders lifted, just barely, just enough for you to see the breath he had been holding.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Her fingers twitched in his grasp before settling. A long, slow exhale left her lips, and she leaned forward, just slightly.

Your heart ached at the intimacy of it, at the sheer relief in his expression, at the way his mother finally saw him.

You didn’t move.

You just let them have this moment.

Your heart still carried the weight of everything you had witnessed earlier that day. The ache in your cheek from where you had pressed your hand to your face was almost unbearable, but it seemed so insignificant now. The pain felt almost like a distant echo compared to the one you could see in his eyes, the raw, and unspoken hurt that had been etched into his life for so long. Every time you thought about him, about what he’d endured, it was as if your chest tightened, the reality of his struggles pressing in on you from every side. What had you seen today? A broken cycle of love, loss, and confusion. And Spencer…he had lived it over and over again.

After his mother had finally recognized him, there hadn’t been many words exchanged. The silence between them felt like the weight of a thousand unsaid things, thick with all that had been left unspoken for years. He had explained gently that it wasn’t his birthday today, that it was still months away, but they’d celebrate together when the time came. The sadness in his eyes even as he reassured her, and the tenderness with which he helped her back into the present, spoke volumes. You had stood there, a silent observer, an outsider in their fragile moment. You had smiled at Diana, said your goodbyes softly to her, and watch they two left, knowing there was nothing more you could say.

And when the tossing and turning in your apartment began to make you and your cat dizzy, you retreated to the couch on the first floor, right in front of the front door, and watched every person who entered. Your mind was filled with a million thoughts, but none of them seemed to make sense. You waited for Spencer, not knowing how much longer you could sit there, but not wanting to be anywhere else.

The minutes stretched, thick and heavy, suffocating in their silence. What could you say to him when he came back? Was there anything you could say that would make even the smallest difference?

Then, at the seventh sound of the door opening, the cold air rushed in, followed by that unmistakable, familiar scent of him. Spencer. Your heart lurched in your chest at the sight of him, the weight of his exhaustion and sadness hanging from his shoulders like a heavy cloak. His face was drawn, his eyes tired in a way that made it feel as if he’d aged ten years in just a few hours. He looked so broken.

“You’re here,” he said, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when his eyes landed on you, as though he hadn’t expected to see you standing there, waiting.

You gave him a small, automatic smile, trying to make it light, but it felt flimsy, like a mask that wasn’t quite right. “I was…looking for my correspondence,” you said, the lie slipping out with the ease of a long-forgotten habit, but it tasted hollow in your mouth, as if the words themselves were trying to escape. It felt like a flimsy excuse, a weak justification for why you hadn’t been somewhere else, anywhere else, but here, with him.

As you walked beside him into the hallway, you did your best to keep the air light, to make your steps unhurried, as though everything were fine, even though the very air felt heavy, full with things unspoken. You glanced at him, trying to break the silence with something simple, something safe. “How’s your mom?”

The words hit him like a blow. His entire body seemed to stiffen, the tension rolling through him like an electric current. You immediately regretted asking, wishing you could take the question back.

“She’s better now,” he said, his voice tight with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. “I stayed until she fell asleep.”

You nodded quietly, taking in the weight of his words. His world, and his life, was full of unpredictable chaos, of moments like this, moments that no one should have to endure. You didn’t need to hear the details to know how much it hurt him. You stepped into the elevator as he held the door open, the tension between you thick and suffocating. The doors closed slowly, the sound of them closing almost felt like the world itself was pressing in, leaving you both suspended in a silence that was heavy, too full.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” you whispered after a long moment, the words tasting like something too small for the weight of the situation.

“Thanks to you,” he replied softly, and there was so much unspoken in those four words that it hit you like a punch to the chest. The sincerity in his voice, the gratitude mixed with something more, something raw, caught you off guard.

It was as if the Spencer who had come back a few weeks ago, the one who didn’t want you around, had disappeared. The man standing before you was something else entirely, and for a moment, you weren’t sure which version of him was the real one.

And then you noticed. He wasn’t wearing his coat. His shirt barely covered his arms, and despite the warmth of the building, his body was shaking from the cold, his lips a pale shade of purple. The tremors were unmistakable, the way his body quivered with each movement. It wasn’t just the chill of the air; it was something deeper, something that made your heart clench with an instinctual need to protect him.

“You’re shivering,” you said, the concern in your voice rising, louder than you’d intended, but you couldn’t help it.

He shrugged, his eyes quickly falling to the floor as though he were ashamed of his vulnerability, trying to hide it away. “Oh, I gave my jacket to my mom,” he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips, as though he didn’t want them to matter, but they did. They mattered more than anything.

Without thinking, you took off the cardigan he had lent you so long ago, the one that had quietly become a part of you because it carried his essence. You draped it over his shoulders with a tenderness that startled you, instinctively wanting to offer him something, anything, to ease the shivers and make him feel good. But when you saw the look in his eyes, you froze. He didn't seem to be used to being taken care of anymore, not like this, not after being on the defensive for so long.

It was strange to you that after only three months away, he seemed to have forgotten the way you were always willing to take care of him.

“Don’t,” he said softly, his voice apologetic, as though he were making a quiet plea for something you didn’t fully understand. He didn’t move to take the cardigan off, but his words had a weight, and for a moment, you felt a strange, painful distance between you. “It’s yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, an unspoken question in your expression, and he continued.

“Technically, it’s yours,” he added, his voice quieter now. “I haven’t worn any of this stuff in a while.”

And then you understood. The clothes in his closet had changed. Gone were the soft, earth-toned cardigans and slacks you used to love, replaced by sharp, black suits and ties, clothes that looked like they belonged to someone else, someone trying to appear more sophisticated, more put-together, more respectable. It was as though he was trying to transform himself into someone else, someone who had moved on from the things he used to love, the things that reminded him of you.

“I know,” you replied, your voice quiet, carrying more meaning than just those two words. A sad smile curled on your lips. “I miss it…I miss you in it.”

The words hung between you for a moment, heavier than the silence. He didn’t respond, his gaze flickering away, but you could see something shift in him, a softness, something vulnerable. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand brushing against his. His fingers were ice-cold, and you instinctively cupped them in yours, the warmth of your touch contrasting sharply with the coldness of his skin.

“I remember you once said something about the power of human warmth,” you said softly, your voice breaking the weight of the silence, a fragile smile on your lips. “Let’s try.”

The elevator was still, suspended in a moment that felt endless. Neither of you had pressed a button, and for a heartbeat, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. You were trapped between two floors, between the weight of the past and the uncertainty of what might come next. The world was still, but your hearts, your thoughts, they were swirling, caught in the same limbo.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice a little rough, a little uncertain. His breath caught as your warm fingertips brushed his, and for a second, the world felt smaller, softer.

“I don’t want you to freeze or get sick,” you whispered, the words soft but steady, even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I want you to live longer.”

Because you really did want he to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always this close to you.

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t speak, the tension between you palpable, thick with everything unspoken. You almost apologized, the words tumbling from your lips, but before you could finish, his touch stopped you.

He grabbed your waist, pulling you close with a force that took you by surprise, pressing your bodies together in a way that was intimate, urgent. His arms wrapped around you tightly, and you didn’t pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your cheek resting against his chest, your hands sliding around his back. You could hear the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your ear, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside seemed to disappear. Everything else fell away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

The silence grew between you, and then, without warning, the tears came.

Hot, silent, as though they had been held back for far too long, breaking free from the calm of his chest. They soaked into the fabric of your shirt, but you didn’t care. You held him tighter, your arms wrapped around him, offering him what little strength you had left. The weight of his sorrow pressed against you, and you could feel the deep, guttural pain that had been locked away inside him. It spilled out of him in waves, raw and unfiltered, and you didn’t say anything. You simply held him.

His body shook with the force of his grief, his fingers clutching at your shirt as the tears kept coming. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice a steady murmur in the chaos of his pain. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You gently stroked his back, your touch slow and grounding, the rhythm of your movements steady and soft. As he clung to you, you could feel the tension slowly begin to ease, just a little. His sobs quieted, the sharpness in his breath softened, and the storm inside him started to calm, just a fraction. In your arms, he found the space to grieve, to release everything he had held in for so long.

Everything shifted. The elevator, once a place of uncomfortable silence, became a sanctuary. A place where Spencer could let down the walls he had built around himself. A place where, for the first time in what felt like forever, he was free to feel, free to cry, free to just be. And you were there, holding him, never letting go.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt like you were exactly where you needed to be: he was yours, and you were his.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[dearweirdme]

Lmao about the ‘don’t want to share them with your followers to shake their beliefs and yours’ as if I am the only source of information around here 😂😂. As if there’s something like secret Jkk stuff only I saw and try to keep burried 😂😂. Half of the time my anons know stuff before I do, anon.

Yeah, I’m sure it makes you feel good to think I’m not posting your asks because I haven’t got a reply.

Please go and actually read my blog. It’s really not my fault that you are new and haven’t spend time to actually dig through my posts. I’ve been here for 2 years, I’ve blogged through Taennie, through the Jk stuff, I’ve posted literally hundreds of Jkk asks in which I elaborate extensively on everything. You can already find everything you’ve mentioned in your asks on my blog. I don’t shy away from the hard stuff at all, I just find it useless to keep doing it over and over again every time someone new finds me.

I’ll make it easy on you. The tags you are looking for are

You are lazy. If you want my thoughts, they’re all right there. There’s nothing I haven’t talked about. There’s nothing I am not able to reply to. There’s more than 7000 posts on my blog.. enjoy!

My read on you.. you are bored (on top of being lazy) and you have found a tkk blog that poses a challenge and will at times reply and it makes you feel good to think that you are able to outsmart me. You are peanuts to me though and I don’t reply because to me you are not a challenge at all and I don’t feel the need to prove that.

[sombra-conlangs]

Conlang year 2025 · Day 1 - 4

I decided to try out @quothalinguist's conlang year, it is basically a series of daily prompts that guide you through the process of creating a new language, by the end of the year you will end up with a conlang that is developed enough to participate in relays and lexember, you can find it on quothalinguist.com

It looks like conlang year is mostly geared towards creating languages that are naturalistic and evolved from a proto-language, and the concept I have for this is not going to really fit into that, you'll see why once I start describing it, but I don't imagine that'll be too much of an issue, it's still useful to have a guide for the different aspects of the language I should focus on. I'll try to adapt the prompts to work with my idea and I guess I'll skip the ones that I can't figure out how to adapt.

I'll be combining many prompts together into single posts for convenience, I'll tag these posts as both #Conlang year and #Conlang year 2025 so you can search those in my blog to see them all if you want (once I name the language I will also add it to the tags, but the language doesn't have a name yet).

If you want to see all of the information from these posts compiled into one place I will be adding all of the information about the conlang I create on my website: tekseni.bearblog.dev

Day 1: Set an intention for your language

(warning: this gets a bit heavy, but I try not to make it too dour)

I haven't been feeling great lately, I won't go into details, I'll just say that it can be difficult to manage your emotions when the world seems to be in such a terrible state, living through historical events is not easy.

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

I know there's some people who say you have to be constantly staying informed on every bit of news because if you don't you're a bad person, but that's not a sustainable way to live. It's important for us to keep ourselves sane, if you're going to help others through turbulent times you have to make sure you have your own feet on firm ground. I won't be of much help if I'm having a crisis, so taking care of my own mental health is important, and for many of us that can include a bit of escapism and using art as an outlet, using art as motivation to keep going and enjoy life despite the circumstances. This conlang is my escapism.

With all of that being said, here's my 2 main goals for this conlang:

1: I want this language to make me smile

I want to create something that helps me to find some beauty and hope in the world, I want the choices I make with the language to make me smile, and I want to be able to have fun while working on it, without having to worry too much about how naturalistic it is or anything like that, so ideally I'd also avoid comparing this to other conlangs.

If we compare this to visual art, I'd say this is less like trying to create an awesome painting with perfect perspective, colors and composition, and it's more like me doodling in a sketchbook that is meant primarily for me, but I also want to share it with others in case they find it to be at least mildly interesting or it helps inspire them in some way.

It's not like my other conlangs don't bring me joy, I guess what I'm trying to say is that this time I will try to design the language without worrying about things like naturalism or trying too hard to make my worldbuilding interesting or deep, it's just a canvas where I can throw paint and let myself go wild, trying out things I normally wouldn't, and making choices based on my personal preferences instead of what I think I "should" do, so I guess that makes this is a personal language.

2: This is going to be a surrealistic conlang

I have already decided who the speakers of my language will be, I'll elaborate more in the following prompts but I currently call them "dream angels" because they're basically benevolent beings that exist in the world of dreams, and because of this I want to try my hand at making a surrealistic conlang, @dedalvs wrote an essay on fiat lingua about what such a language might look like, and I keep coming back to it every now and then because I love the concept.

Even before that essay was posted I remember thinking of what conlangs might look like if they were inspired by different art movements, and a surrealistic one fits particularly well into the dream world idea, it will also allow me to fulfill my first goal fairly easily; making something that makes me smile without having to worry about naturalism and letting myself experiment. I've always been drawn to surrealism for one reason or another, not entirely sure why but I know this is something I'm excited to work on.

I'm not expecting this to be the best surrealistic conlang out there, but it doesn't have to be, it just has to be fun for me, and it will work as a learning experience regardless, so if I want to try again at some point I will have a better idea of how to approach it. I'm sure someone out there will make an amazing surrealistic conlang one day and I'll be excited to see it when it happens.

Day 2: Set an intention for sharing your language

Basically the main audience is me, I hope that future me will be able to look at all the different translations, grammar choices and vocabulary I made and feel like it's a fun language that still brings me some joy in some way or another, even if I don't keep working on it for much longer after the conlang year has ended at least I hope it was a positive experience.

I also want to share the language online (on this blog and on my conlang website) mostly because I'm hoping that at least one person is going to look at my conlang and feel inspired, or maybe it will make them smile too, so I'm going to try to describe all the features in a way that is understandable for other conlangers.

Day 3: Determine your speakers and conworld

The basic idea is that there is another plane of existence, one we can't see when we're awake, and the world where dreams exist is connected to this other realm, so when we dream we sometimes come into contact with the ethereal beings that speak this language, and they are kind and loving.

The dream angels usually don't interfere with human affairs too much, but they sometimes help us by making nightmares go away and soothing the people they see, at least while the people are asleep (since they can't interact with us outside of dreams).

They also shift the way they speak to be a bit more familiar to the person they're encountering, so I imagine the phonology of their language might shift a bit from its default form depending on what your native language is, the language would still be unintelligible to you but it would sound a bit like someone speaking your L1 in a weird way (which also means that it will be easier for you to pronounce the language if you are able to speak back at them because you will at least get to use sounds you already know how to pronounce, though you're welcome to pronounce it in its original form).

These beings are very surreal in their appearance, there's probably different types of dream angels but the ones I'll be working with are kind of like a mix of various sea creatures, drifting through space peacefully, building all sorts of things and admiring the nature that exists in their world.

I imagine their settlements are built on floating islands full of all sorts of critters and nature, and their world as a whole is probably a bit weird and doesn't always seem to follow logical rules, in keeping with the kind of things you see in dreams, so they might look a bit like something you'd see in an M.C. Escher artwork, where you're not exactly sure what you're looking at, but it has a certain beauty to it.

Day 4: Describe (or design) your speakers

And finally here's a picture I drew of a prototypical dream angel:

They might look a bit intimidating or scary to you, but I chose to take inspiration mostly from various sea creatures because they help to convey this kind of ethereal and weirdly beautiful aesthetic, when I look at jellyfish I often wonder how those are living beings that exist in our world, they look more like they're inanimate objects drifting in the water and yet they're alive, and they're so mesmerizing and fascinating, like a living nebula.

I imagine different dream angels would have different characteristics, but in general they're basically like some sort of jellyfish with 3 main tentacle-like appendages, many thin tendrils, 6 insect-like arms, 6 little wings (because it makes them look a bit more angelic lol) and they have one eye, but no human has ever seen their eyes because it is always covered by something, in this case it's a butterfly, but whatever is covering their eye it does not prevent them from seeing, this is the dream world after all.

I think there might be other types of dream angels, and they're all able to speak a human-like language because they don't need a mouth to speak, they just telepathically send sounds to other beings, so the speakers of my language will be characterized by being similar to sea creatures, perhaps there's other dream angels that are more similar to other types of animals, or inanimate objects, maybe some are just completely out there and don't even look like anything we're familiar with as humans. By the way if you feel inspired to design your own dream angels go ahead! I think it'd be nice if I was able to inspire creativity in others with my work.

I'm also choosing to use a human-pronounceable phonology because I enjoy pronouncing the words and sentences of my conlangs, but perhaps at some other point I will make a different register of the language that uses different noises as phonemes, maybe sounds of water and nature, or maybe something like one of those really peaceful synths, after all their phonology is not limited by their physiology or even things like logic.

But anyway that's it for now, I feel a bit vulnerable putting myself out there so much, this feels a bit more personal than my other conlangs I've shared, it's not like a regular fantasy worldbuilding project or a fanlang or an a posteriori language, this one is very out there and weird, but again I want to share it in case other people find it interesting, and hey, we need more examples of surrealistic conlangs, so I'm more than happy to contribute to that.

[bowsers-keep]

So because I haven't seen any aus that swap which Protagonist is from which chapter yet I'M DOING IT MYSELF FOLKS! There are so many combinations we can mess with for 8 characters but I'm probably going to be sticking with the one that's funniest to me.

Prehistory - Cube

Imperial China - Oboromaru

Twilight of Edo Japan - Oersted

Wild West - Masaru

Present Day - Lei

Near Future - Sundown

Distant Future - Akira

Middle Ages - Pogo

Sticking Cube into Prehistory is just objectively funny because they go from robot to caveman which is incredibly entertaining. Probably on the smarter side and helps Beru more cause they're nice rather then anything else.

Imperial China was a MIND FUCK to try and commit a swap with, so the prisoner and goemon are also taking the place of the other two disciples here and per suggestion of the discord server (not too sure about this myself but it's OUR BEST OPTION!). As for this Disciple Oboromaru himself, probably has similar origins to lei but his thing is more about learning how to loosen up since he's still a wee bit serious.

Oersted does NOT become an edgy little man in need of therapy, instead he gets his Shinobi arc. Very quiet because I like his stereotypical silent protag schtick and pretty good at his job! Still bit formal as well but a good person at the end of the day so probably pacifist or normal route.

So Masaru gets a gun now, he still punches people! He just also has a gun now! I've given this man too much power that he's been slapped with currently unidentified trauma to balance him out! Still cheerful and helpful because this is Masaru but uhhh he's certainly not at his best. Have fun with the homosexual tension buddy.

Lei/just any of the disciples being present day was probably the cleanest swap here. Lei is just my default for any and all Live a Live stuff. Not much to say about this one in general because of how easy the swap was, just yeah they're now a martial arts savant. Maybe any given one wouldn't actually kill Odie but not sure.

Now this one is the main reason this swap set exists, because it would be unfair of me to only let Sundown have the privilege of seeing what would happen if he were in the other's shoes. For the sake of this I will be using my fanon real name for this man of Austin Garrett although it is not Sundown Kid without the alias and since he's a teenage boy here he probably got the idea from Matsu with the whole Lawless thing. Just dumb stupid teen boy with powers and who may or may not have a death wish. I'm trying to keep backstory details mostly the same where I can so there's still some things I need to work out with this particular swap.

Akira is a little guy robot now, he's still a bastard, but he also dislikes OD-10 for what it's doing to the people that Kato likes (and Kato himself). So he's going to fuck that super computer up. The dynamic between tiny bot Akira and Cooperate Darthe is definitely going to be something that starts off with the two not liking eachother, turned into tentative allyship, before ending in mutal respect and trust. He would also try and take on the Behemoth head on at LEAST once.

Middle Ages Pogo, I quite like this one for the reason Pogo does last longer then Oersted in the not becoming evil field. Unlike Oersted however he's much more akin to a barbarian rather then a knight because I need to keep the unga bunga somewhere in. Very cheerful and no thoughts hear empty, and cares about people very much. Very heart on his sleeve. Eventually however, the tradegy of the middle ages sets in, and a different Odio is born.

Still figuring out the details for the Dominion of Hate in this AU but that may just be in the reblogs or a follow up post.

[corviiids]

i found a bad post i made months ago in the privacy of my own home and now i need to air it out in public because it's getting mildewy and moths are eating it

[dykedvonte]

You ever just see a Mouthwashing take that makes you want to bang your head into a wall? I literally just saw someone claim Curly couldn't have been emotionally abused by Jimmy before the crash because he was in a higher position of power than Jimmy.

-Shrimp Anon

The mouthwashing fandom has shown me that people genuinely do believe that certain types of abuse are not as detrimental as other types especially when they deem those immune/resistant, ergo, believing one is objectively worse no matter how it affects the person nor the intersections of power, history and dynamics at play.

Get ready cause this is a yap session:

Cause like it's heavily implied that Curly and Jimmy's friendship was toxic and abusive, pointedly in the direction of how Jimmy uses Curly's belief/comfort in him. Curly wasn't forced to enable Jimmy but he was emotional and mentally on edge around him in almost every scene in some way. Mental and emotional abuse are not contingent on what positions you have at work. Yeah, he's Jimmy's boss but he was Jimmy's friend first and it's like getting into Psych discussion to talk about how social power tends to overshadow any perceived organizational power in the human mind. People are concerned about their jobs ofc but they tend to hang onto and put more value/investment into their personal relationships, hence why there tends to be laws and restrictions around mixing the two.

I always see the sentiments that "Curly is a grown ass man", "Curly is bigger than Jimmy", "Curly is Jimmy's boss", "He just needed a backbone" as criticisms of Curly and while I do agree that on the surface level all of these to be true and viable ways Curly could've taken more control of the situation, I often look at the parallels of Anya and Curly as victims of Jimmy pre/post crash.

The way Jimmy talks to Anya post crash is how he talked to Curly in the pre-crash segments. It's hard to pin-point mainly because we know he hates and wants nothing to do with Anya compared to his contrary but similarly handled obsessions with Curly. It's a weird sort of "honey-moon" effect of abuse Jimmy does in terms of emotional and mental victimization. He is always horrid to Anya, always talking down or questioning her abilities and thoughts in a situation, this of course includes the harassment and assault. However, he has a moment of attempted gentleness/conditioning when he question her about the mouthwash when she's contemplating drinking it at the table. The key difference is he has no personal investment in Jimmy outside wanting nothing to do with him, meaning there is no sort of romanticized version of him that he can condition her off of. He knows this, hence, why he always reverts to trying to make her to scared to oppose him.

This sort of give and take of "kindness" doesn't work on her because she knows he is just doing it to take more from her than whatever he could possibly give but it reflects even the "softer" scenes between him and Curly where he always rewords or rephrases Curly's sentiments and concerns to sound more shallow. He is feigning a deeper understanding by reworking Curly's emotions into something bad and needing to be hidden. Everything is laced with envy and resentment, an outburst just around the corner, I mean he even slams the table in the birthday party scene, a tactic in emotional manipulation to set the victim on edge and cloud their ability to respond. Even if Curly knows Jimmy won't get physical in that moment, the physical actions is intended to make him back down in the confrontation in case it does. This is something that is just not person specific. It ingrains itself into how you interact with the world and life and it shows in major and minor ways with Curly.

Post-crash, the abusive nature is more in tandem to the physical victimization Anya went through and the stripping of voice and autonomy we see take place. Like the parasite in HFIM, Jimmy speaks for Curly most of the time and puts words in his mouth, similarly to how he takes Anya's plans as his own. He very commonly, with the both of them mind you, supplements the worst aspects of himself into them; pettiness, selfishness, lack of understanding... And tries to cover himself with their best qualities; kindness, planning, initiative, etc...

These parallel are just to say that positional power has little to do with if a person can be abused and how it can even be flipped to further the abuse. There is no doubt that Curly could've picked up on Jimmy's envy of his position hence another reason he never confronted him as a Captain but as a friend as doing so would immediately put Jimmy in a space to be confrontational/combative.

I think the disdain some people have when they talk about the heavily implied if not implicitly stated emotional/mental abuse Curly experienced being Jimmy's friend is when treating it as an excuse to why he didn't do more. I can understand that completely because it is not an excuse to why he didn't do more but is a very real reason people in his position in these scenarios can experience whether in the context of a work or social environment. However, I also think the way people talk about it really does demonstrate a bigger problem when talking about abuse when somehow who is/was abused is either part of the issue or enabled it.

Harkening back to the sentiments about Curly's inaction regarding Jimmy, I think the exact phrases I used/have seen show how there is an inherent belief that it is easier to overpower the effects of emotional/mental abuse that go in tandem with the perception of Curly as someone who should be able to. There is not an age you suddenly stop being susceptible to abuse nor a set point or low where you realize how it has affected you. You don't suddenly know to stand up or put a face on to face your abuser nor admit that you inadvertently enabled them to subjugate someone else to the same treatment. Maybe it's my psych brain but their is this growing belief that direct action is somehow easy or always the best method with the game shows you instances where it is not always the case. In real life that rings true too. He should have done more, but it's not impossible to see why he struggled to find a way or didn't even if it makes us mad.

It's not easy to suddenly gain a "back-bone". You don't immediately want to resort to aggression, especially if it mirrors the type you were a victim to. You don't want to believe you allowed yourself to be treated this bad, let it get that bad or allowed something bad to happen to someone else. It is easy to be in denial, to retreat to your thoughts or make excuses to avoid the painful truth. It's frustrating but in a way we know is relatable. It why we both hate and love Curly for it. We know we'd be better, we think we'd be better, we like to think we wouldn't falter in the same ways but it's always easier to say that from the outside looking in. It's easy to see what he was doing wrong because we are seeing it, not him, but the game really does make you picture what you would do if this was your raw reality and it's why this debate about Curly seems so never ending/contradictory. We can all say what we'd do but bottom line is that's much different when you're in the moment with all the emotions and human feelings attached.

I personally think Mouthwashing tackles the themes of rape culture, enabling, toxic masculinity, types of abuse and patriarchy in ways that are meant to deconstruct the typical straightforward views we mostly have of these concepts and how little subtilities of them are just as, if not more, detrimental than the overt/obvious parts. The game deals with the idea of little details and bigger picture in a way to show that sometimes the bigger picture is not the issue but the little details that make it up. It's why I have a personal dislike of depictions of Jimmy as the typical horrible person who would of course do something like this because the game is about noticing the little warning signs, the foreshadowing and foresight.

It's why I dislike the typical discussion of "bro code" and "boys will be boys" for the game because the game makes a point to avoid the standard depictions of such. It is about the type of men who still enable despite not condoning, agreeing or even perpetuating harmful beliefs because they can't see the little details or the ways it seeps into their everyday. The severity is not obvious to them as it was not obvious to Curly, Swansea or even Daisuke the way it was to a woman like Anya. There are little details about Jimmy that should ring alarms but if you are too naive like Daisuke, too distant like Swansea or too conditioned like Curly, they are just off markers.

There is 100% more constructive/concise ways to say "Curly was a victim of Jimmy's abuse on an emotional and mental aspect that clouded his judgements and perceptions in the scenario" while also critiquing on the side of "Curly still had a responsibility to protect Anya as a crew mate and Captain that he failed to do due to biases and stigma's he failed to surpass" without the weird condemnation people give him about should've knowing better than to let himself be manipulated by a person he considered a close, if not family/best-friend and had his own reasons to trust initially. Also stop being weird about victims of abuse in general with this fandom, like sorry not everyone has a like social epiphany the moment someone's nasty to them. People are treating it like you immediately know when you are in a toxic relationship immediately or comprehend when a person is actively dangerous and either it's your fault for not knowing how to leave/cut them off or you deserve it. Like the hypocrisy of people believing how certain fans treat the story reflect their irl views but not their own is crazy.

End statement is: I honestly don't even know man, I've been writing this too long and just like no man on that ship was perfect or really helped Anya when it mattered and I feel like pitting them against each other in discussion on who did the least or most or how it was justified sucks cause in the end Anya always did the most and best thing for herself.

[committingcrimes-2047]

I'm thinking about Vander x reader- im thinking about a story where they are maybe childhood friends and then they end up fighting on the bridge together but get separated and no one knows where Reader is so they assume theyre dead only for them to show up a year later.

Imagine Reader showing up at the last drop as its closing and Vander has his back to them and tells them that hes about to close up shop and they just sit down and maybe ask for a super specific thing that they always used to order and he like turns around and realises its them and it goes from there.

I know people are in agony with the new season so I thought I might as well throw some silly little ideas out into the wild. Please tag me if anyone writes this- not because its my idea but because im desperate for more Vander please and thank you.