#but that is what most of my writing is about
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Responses on my post about this are all over the map, but it looks like most people who create art do so just out of a need to create art, even though they find the actual steps and process to be totally unfun or even annoying to do.
It appeared from notes to be a bit rarer that people draw or write out of loving the work process itself. Lets find out!
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
Genuinely believe it's the biggest killer of creativity, independence and initiative because what the hell do you mean you can't even write an email without it anymore??? Reading articles? Drafting messages? Essays and homework? What do you mean you need it to write out your story ideas and sentences or give you prompts? And don't even get me started on AI art 🥱
You have a brain. Mans greatest computer - please, I beg of you, please do not use a shitty algorithm that hopelessly mines, steals and scrapes together whatever it can muster to only produce the most mediocre and impersonal response.
I promise you, without a shadow of a doubt, anything that YOU create instead will be infinitely better...because it's unique - it's all yours. Be proud of your creations, because you did that. No-one else and certainly not some computer system that just scanned through copious amounts of data and mushed it together.
Whump community Reblog if you hate AI
it ruins the whole point of art
#not me coming off my hiatus to rant about AI#god I just hate it#its so lazy#I work in a highschool and the amount of kids that whack their homework into chatgpt#or they have a research task so they ask gemini to write it#I take their work off them and ask them to tell me what is on their paper - and they can't tell me a thing. even what some words mean#And I know its like copying and pasting but its just... over reliance. theres no independence with it#anyway - can you tell I despise AI#all my homies hate AI.#and I know too many people that use it for the most mundane tasks
727 notes
·
View notes
Text
Silent Obsession
Pairing: Hwang In-ho (the front man) x Fem!reader
Summary: your husband was missing, and all you did for days was stay at home crying your eyes out...waiting for your dearest husband to come home. this was until inho had decided to come give you a little visit while you were all alone and vulnerable.
Warning: dead dove: do not eat, noncon, degradation, light bdsm, manipulation, In-ho is obsessed with you, rough sex, mentioned age gap (20 years), cheating (not rlly), there might be more but I'm too lazy to write it.
A/N: not proof read. this takes place during s1. (most/all of the beginning contains junho x reader content)
7.2k Words
...
it was 2015, just a few days ago your boyfriend junho had invited you to meet his family on the day of his brothers birthday. his brother was turning 40 and they were hosting a small party, just a few people... and your boyfriend thought this would be a great time to invite you to meet his mom and brother. he was ecstatic at the thought, he really wanted his family to get to know you since last year he had met yours. and he was really serious about you... but it would be an understatement to say you were nervous. hell, you were scared. you wanted to leave a good impression on his family, this was the man you wanted to marry. if his mom didnt approve of you what could you say? she was wrong? that her opinion didn't matter? these thoughts swarmed your head for hours every day....
junho was driving the two of you from your small shared apartment to his moms place. you were sitting in the passenger seat as you stared out the window of the car, you were shaking... not from the cold but from the anxiousness you were brimming with. your fingers tapped against the interior of the car, your nails making a clicking sound every time they touched the material. "are you cold y/n? I told you itd be cold today..you should've worn a bigger jacket" junho glanced at you for a second before staring back at the road and sighing. he hated when this happened, when youd be so insistent in not 'ruining' your outfit that you wouldn't pay attention to whether you'd be cold or not. this always happens! ..but he always wears a jacket for you. because he knows you'll end up shivering from the cold gusts of wind and he cant stand the thought of you suffering from the freezing temperatures. you let out a small chuckle, it was barely over a whisper but junho heard you loud and clear. "why're you laughing.." he frowned a little, not because he's upset or mad at you but just because you werent taking the situation that seriously. "what if you catch a cold? at least think about me when you dress this way..you know I hate when you're in pain.." the last part of his sentence was soft and quiet, as if he was murmuring to himself..making sure you wouldn't hear him. "stop worrying so much babe...I'm not cold or anything.. just a little jittery, its my first time meeting your family after all." you giggled at his genuine worry for you, he was such a drama queen. making these small actions seem so much more serious then they were..but its something that made you love junho. how kind and protecting he was of the people he cared about. "nervous? you don't have to be nervous y/n...I'm sure they'll love you." junho's right hand made its way to your left hand. holding it tight before giving you a soft gentle smile. his ability to sooth you with just his smile had to be studied, he truly was an angel on earth to you, like he had a halo on his head 24/7. you leaned forward a little and left a quick peck on his cheek, quickly leaning back down to your seat and looking away from him. but at the corner of junhos eyes he could see how red you've gotten...he thought it was adorable. how the two of youve been dating for 2 years but you still got flustered over small kisses. you were so innocent and kind, the exact woman he needed in his life...
but little did junho know, he was right. his family did love you..especially his brother.
you had arrived at his mothers house, .. your nerves were spiking, how should you introduce yourself? what if the cake you made was still raw? what if inho doesn't like his present? these thoughts ran through your head as you two waited for someone to open the door. your finger nails tapping against the box the cake you had made was in. the sound deafening you as you just wanted the damn door to open already. you really just hoped youd make a good impression... after what felt like an eternity the door opened, behind to door revealed the birthday boy himself, Hwang In-ho. junho just shook his hand before you bowed at him slightly before shaking his hand and introducing himself briefly. "happy birthday In-ho, my names y/n" In-ho just nodded coldly at you, if the harsh winds outside didn't freeze you his stares did. he stepped aside, allowing the two of you in. he lead the both of you up the apartment complex stairs, your heels making a loud click sound echo though the staircase with every step you took. after only a bit of walking up stairs you had reached the door to where the party was being hosted.. . . when junho had told you itd be a 'party' you expected a family gathering with like 15 people, but upon arrival you quickly realized..it was truly just him, his brother and mom celebrating inho's birthday today. you were pleasantly surprised, you hated large groups of people..it made you skittish and always super nervous. so just 3 other people being there calmed your nerves down, alot. the apartment was small and cozy, very homey and nice. his mother had made a mini feast with delicious foods and decorated the place with a few balloons and banners. it was a seemingly wholesome sight of a mother doing something nice for her sons special day, it made your heart warm up inside your chest as you took a seat at the table. "hi honey, what's your name?" junho's mother grabbed one of your hands, cupping it with the both of hers. you felt yourself blush and smile, you had barely even been inside yet his mother was being so kind already. her soft gentle voice, and kind soft eyes. it was everything that's junho was. "y/n, what about you miss?" you were trying your best to be as polite as possible, you didn't want to tip her off and cause her to hate you.. but you felt kind of uncomfortable.. inho..he was staring at you alot. and it was like he wasnt trying to hide it, his dark eyes piecing into your soul. as if he were looking for the innocence inside of you... to take it away from you. the entire day just led to you getting more and more uncomfortable. you weren't able to stare into his eyes because you felt if you did he would just jump onto you not giving a shit about his mother and brother being there too. "y/n, what would you say if your favorite thing about junho?" inho spoke, his deep voice sent uncomfortable shivers down your spine.. this entire atmosphere..it was odd. but it was like only you caught onto it. you stared at inho before turning to junho...he was blushing. he tried keeping a stoic face but you could tell he was getting flustered before you even spoke. his ears tinted in a light pink an so was his neck. "ah.. well his kindness..I think its the main reason I fell in love...he's very kind and soft spoken to people. at least until they do something wrong..but either way he's an angel." a gentle smile took over your face, you stared at junho and then at inho to continue your sentence..it was obvious you were head over heels for this man.. "he's just a very likable man." inho smiled at you, not speaking a word but it was like his face said them all for you. but they weren't the words you'd expect a caring older brother to say, it was more like a .. 'wow how nice.' but in a sarcastic tone.. his mother on the other hand.. "aww how sweet! young love, its so beautiful." she clasped her hands together before grabbing your forearm and staring up at you with twinkling eyes, it was like she was already envisioning your wedding and family with junho. "promise me you'll take care of my son, okay?"
it was a little past 10pm by now, everyone had eaten a slice of cake and junho's mother adored it. junho was right, his mom did love you. she was already talking about marriage and how she wouldnt be surprised if you made the wedding cake because the one you had brought today was "just too delicious!" you laughed and giggled at her antics, your face flushed in embarrassment. you turned to look at inho, who was staring at you intensely. your happiness almost instantly vanished as you shuffled in your chair. maybe he was upset you hadn't given him his gift yet...that should do it!! maybe he'd stop once you did. "a- inho, I brought you a gift." his eyes widened and it had seemed like he just heard life changing news, maybe he really was just sulking over a present..it was kind of cute. you grabbed your bag from your feet next to you and shuffled around until you found a yellow box, you pushed it towards inho and smiled. your tried your best to give a genuine, heartfelt smile even though you felt uncomfortable with all his glances and stares. he smiled at you, this time it seemed a little less fake...but still not genuine. he opened the box, it was a watch. a very beautiful one. it was shimmering under the dinning room light, a light white silver with simple but detailed engravings on the band of the watch. it was beautiful and it definitely wasn't the cheapest, you don't remember how much it was exactly since you had bought it the same day junho had told you about his brothers birthday..but you knew it was enough to make you wince at the receipt. "I left the receipt folded under the cloth Incase it isn't to your li-" you were cut off by inhos voice, it was calm, not as cold as it was before..it was rather soothing even.. "no. its perfect." he put the watch on, adjusting it so it fit his wrist perfectly. you felt your lips creep into a wide smile, you were so glad this day was going perfectly. "wow, that's such a pretty watch! it must've costed you a lot." their mother interrupted the two of you, staring at the watch that sat on inhos wrist and then at you. "inho, say thank you! be polite." she hit the back of his head harshly, as if she were scolding a little kid... you laughed at the scene, mothers truly see their children as their babies forever. "no- its okay miss don't wo-" it seemed like today was full of interruptions and cut offs as inho did just it again. "thank you y/n, I appreciate it a lot." his face was blank again, no readable expression was there.. but based off his passed reactions..you felt he was being sincere. . . . "thank you miss, thank you inho." you bowed at the both of them while you stood at the front door with junho, showing your gratitude for their kindness and patience with you and your boyfriend. "of course honey, please come back any time you want." junho's mother grabbed your hand one more time, inho nodded along with her. he wasn't a man of many words but it seemed his scary demeanor had vanished. maybe it was never even there and you were just nervous..either way you were glad you didn't leave the house with a weird feeling about your boyfriends brother. juho's mother then shoo'd the two of you away, telling you it was late and you shouldn't stay up so late at such a young age... you felt happy. a warm feeling sat in your heart and stomach, it was like you had just found your second family.
time skip (5 years)
there you sat in the police station, its been days since youve last seen your husband. you were sobbing into the palm of your hands, the salty liquid dripped onto your long dress as you drained ever drop of water from your body. you were terrified. what happened to him?? where was he?? what had he gotten into? you were devastated to say the least, you explained with a shaky and quaky voice that your husband had just told you he was off to investigate his brothers vanishment and would be back by the night..like always! so when you woke up and he wasn't there you just felt dread. you texted him and texted him all day to no response. when he didn't come back for the second day you reported him missing. you reported this story to the police about 9 times already, everyday since you reported him missing you came to the police station for any clues or help..an obviously everyday they told you the same thing...that they had nothing. the only reason they didn't push you off to the side when you came in was well..because your husband worked for them. he was a police officer under them, it'd feel disrespectful to you and junho if they just told you to give up hope on finding your husband. maybe you'd stop after another week or two..you'd realize whatever fate inho had found was the same junho ended to aswell... and not only that but you were pretty, kind and in obvious distress over your husband. they'd feel like they just kicked a sick puppy in the stomach if they told you to go away. so every day, at 8am you come in. usually in a pretty sundress but your state of mind isn't as pretty. your eye bags were prominent and you seemed to constantly be in a state of dissociation.... "you promise there's nothing? please double check! please..I need my husband back. you don't understand" your words were exasperated and rushed, you wanted answers, your husband, closure, anything! your breaths were getting heavy as you reached your delicate hand to the tissue box on the desk infront of you. you felt yourself breaking down, more and more, every. day. the police officer let out a breathy sigh, he was trying his very best to not tell you off. to tell you to go back to your home and cry there or something. to stop wasting his time every single fucking day.. but he couldn't. and he wouldn't. not when your state was some of the worst he's seen in his years of being an officer. "listen ma'am, there seems to be a dead end a-" you slammed your hand onto the table, one still holding the now damp tissue as you started to cry harder. you shook your head violently, indicating a very obvious no...or in this case obvious denial. "no. there..there isn't a dead end. he's alive and he needs your help!! please..please keep searching i-i'll.." you started to dig into your purse, the same one junho had gifted you for your 5th anniversary not long before this whole ordeal. when you felt what you were looking for you snatched it out your bag, like it was grabbing it, stealing it from your grasp. "h-here..d-dont stop searching please. I'll give you this..p-please.." in between words you started to cry more, tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping off your skin. your head was lowered and you were looking at your lap. you didn't want to stop looking for him. you wouldn't stop until you knew he was safe. "ma'am...you don't have to give me money for doing my job." he slid the stack of money that you had taken from your purse back to you and shook his head in disapproval. "listen.. sigh we're trying our best okay? we arent just laying around doing nothing, he was our coworker and we want to find him as much as you do.." he looked away from your depressing state, you were catching your breath and shaking, your fists were curled into balls. it was clear, even though he was an officer that he didn't want to find junho nearly as much as you did..he didn't think it would even be possible to. "just..take a break. you're overwhelming yourself and it isn't good for you. junho is strong and you know this, so just believe in him and his ability to live..."
the officer opened a drawer that was next to his seat, it was a little pile of candies.. he grabbed a handful and handed you a few. with a shaky hand you took the candies, your eyes were red and puffy. it was painfully obvious that you had just broken down in tears. you didnt want to speak but it was obvious by the way you acted, that all you wanted right now was for your husband to come back into your embrace. "if you want I can step out and let you calm down." the officer stares at you, awaiting the answer that would leave your lips. "no..its okay.. i-...whatever. thank you, I will take a break to calm down and compose myself. please have a good day." you mumbled the first few words, like a scared child who had just gotten caught with their hand in the cookie jar and is now making up an excuse. you let out a loud sigh before you stood up from your chair, rubbing your tired, sore eyes before fixing your hair and grabbing your bag. you turned around right as you were in front of the office door, you bowed at the officer to show your gratitude as you proceeded to touch the cold metal handle of the door and creaked it open. with a click of the door closing you were walking away from the room you had just broken down in.
there you were, sitting on the edge of the bed you and your husband shared. it felt cold every time you sunk your body into the soft mattress..cold and empty. you weren't used to this, you were used to your husband coming home from work and giving you a kiss. slipping into the soft blankets together as you worked as heaters for each other's bodies. you didn't like this. you didn't want this. you flopped your upper torso onto the bed, causing it to make a squeaking sound to the sudden pressure. your legs were dangling off the side of the bed as you stared up into the ceiling. the world around you felt hazy, like everything that surrounded your body was just an empty void of nothingness. the world was meaningless without junho. you felt your eyes getting heavier and heavier...until they had finally closed shut.
knock... knock... knock you jolted up from your bed, who was here at this time? it's like 2am... you stared at the closed bedroom door, thinking about if it was a good idea to open the doorm. you're a young woman alone at her house at 2am...what if it was a sex trafficker trying to kidnap and rape you!!?? knock... knock... knock the loud but slow knocks echoed throughout the house, the knocks took a 3 second pause inbetween..it was so creepy.. it made your skin crawl.. bu...what if...what if the police have clues about junho and came to talk to you about it they heard of it!! or..what if junho had finally come home..... these thoughts rand through your head, you were scared of what might be behind of that door. but not scared enough to not open it. you slowly got up from your bed, making it squeak under the pressure of your body. your soft slippers made a swooshing sound against the wooden floors as you shuffled your way to the front door... knock... knock.... knock there it was...the knocking. you couldn't help but feel this dry lump from in your throat, but you had to do it...you needed to make sure... if it was some stranger you'd just slam the door on them and go and hide in a closet or something.. your swallowed the lump in your throat and placed your palm on the cold metal of the handle, unlocking it with a small click and turning it clockwise so that it opened the door.. you didn't open it alot, just enough to see who was on the other side. your eyes stared at the dark soulless eyes In front of you, it was a random man. you had no idea why he was here or what he wanted..but he looked very familiar..maybe he was an off duty cop that just wanted to check up on you..? "h-hello..? how can I help you..." your voice was small and quiet, barely above a whisper as you used the door as some kind of shield from the strange man. "yes. you can." you stared up at the man with confused puppy dog eyes, what did that even mean?? you furrowed your eyebrows and squinted your eyes as you stared at him..you were about to close the door on the strange man until something clicked inside of you. you recognized where he was from.. "inho?! w-what? what are you.." your judgmental facial expression quickly changed into one of shook and worry, was he here to see junho? how would you break the news that his brother was now missing too?? you raised your small hand to your mouth, covering it in shock..you didn't even know what to do....what should you say..? your eyes started to water and tear up, you were reminded of the harsh reality junho was in..he was seriously missing and now the person he went missing looking for was In front of you...it seemed like everyone was just against you. mocking the disappearance of your husband. "what...are you doing here? a-are you here for junho..he's.." you let out choked sighs after every other word, taking your hands from your mouth to your entire face. you were a crying mess In front of a man you barely knew, it was so embarrassing. you were so pathetic and sad. everyone's been telling you to just get over it but here you are, sobbing for what felt like the 6th time today. a loud sigh snapped you out of your saddened state,, but...it wasn't a sigh of disapproval or frustration...it was like a sigh of...desire. like he was getting off to the sight your sobbing, scared and fragile body. "you're doing this on purpose, you have to be." you stared up at inho with confusion. you eyebrow was raised, as if asking him what the fuck he meant by that. before you could even mutter a word he pushed you, really harshly. you went flying back into your home, head hitting the hard wood. you felt yourself getting dizzier and dizzier for a few seconds...you felt like you couldn't move, speak or even see anymore...your head was spinning and alarms were ringing from the inside of your head..until you were passed out.
you woke up... you were sitting in the middle of the dining room, it seemed like someone had moved the table and other chairs out the way as it was literally only you. you and the chair you were sitting on. the room was barely lit up, you could only see some of your surroundings due to the singular light that was on. the ligh that bulb was right on top of you..it felt like you were about to get interrogated for murder,,you were terrified. for you wanted to scream, cry and just run away from what was happening. but you couldn't. your ankles were tied onto the legs of the chair. your arms and torso were bounded to the chair itself with a thick rope., it was digging into your skin hard..it hurt. alot.. you wanted to squirm around and get yourself free but you knew you'd just end up knocking the chair down and you'd be stuck in an awkward position..you tried to start screaming but you couldnt, you were confused..it was like your mouth was glued shut.....your eyes darted around the room, looking for anyone, anything to help you. it took you a second for you to put the pieces together but.. once you did you realized.. your mouth was duck taped shut. you didn't know what to do, you were overwhelmed and you just wanted your husband back to you. you closed your eyes shut as warm salty tears fell from your eyes. your eyes just couldn't catch a break, could they? they were tired and sore. even when you werent sleepy it hurt to open and close the..a result of crying for days.. you just wanted to feel happiness again. but clearly that wasn't going to happen soon. was your fate going to be the same as your husbands? were his kidnappers after you to sew your mouth shut?? you didn't want to die..at least not because you got closure.. "you shouldn't cry Infront of me. its a bad idea. I have a thing for little girls that look pretty when they cry." your head jumped forward, looking at the figure that had stepped out the shadows surrounding you.. your eyes widened, remembering that inho had been the one that knocked you over and caused you to black out. the same man that had gone missing 5 years ago, the same man that your brother went missing looking for.. what was he doing here? was he here to kill you? to keep you silent? to assault you? thoughts rand through your head as he took large, slow steps towards you. as if he was mocking your frightened state. he reached his right hand out towards you, your eyes landed on the silver watch he was wearing. it seemed so similar to the one you had gifted all those years ago..but no way he would still be wearing it, right? before you could even process another thought his hand gripped at your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to literally stare up at him. the roughness of his grip made you wince in pain..he didn't come here with intentions of being nice and if you didn't realize that person you definitely realized that now. you tried to scream and kick your feet, you knew the tape and rope would stop your attempts and make them useless but you still tried. your screams just came out as diluted, muffled noises. the tape had stopped you from making any loud noises... the chair under your only shook a little but it wasn't enough to lighten the grip inho had on your hair. his dark, soulless eyes stared you down. they were like black orbs, nothing behind them. he grinned at you, like he was watching a cartoon and a character had did something funny. he was laughing at you. he thought this was funny. "you look so stupid, you do know that the tape will just silence all your screams, right? or are you too young and dumb to understand that yet." he tilted his head at you and gave you a mockingly confused expression. he was having the time of his fucking life while you were here, scared for your damn life. you glared at him, trying to intimidate him..doing anything to scare him...trying to find the little humanity in him that feels sympathy was clearly never going to happen. so you had to try another approach..even if it wasn't going to work either... and your suspicions were right ..
he just smiled at you, another mockingly fake smile... he released his hand from the grip he had on your hair and pinched your cheeks, just as roughly as he did with your hair. leaving a red mark when he let go... it was like he was treating you like you were a pouting child, stomping your feet because your mom didn't let you buy the comically huge lollipop you really wanted. "youre not scary sweetie." the pet name made you want to throw up in your mouth. he knew well you were his sister in law but here he was, calling you pet names with his disgusting voice. " you know..ive had my eyes on you since i met you...you're just so gorgeous..and delicate." he took a short but slow walk around u and stopped to stand behind you. his cold hands reached to your face and covered your eyes. you couldn't see anything but you knew he was leaned up in your ear...you could feel his hot breath making you unnervingly uncomfortable. "I just wanna ruin you." your breathe hitched in your throat, he was going to rape you. you know it, you had to fight back, you had to. you couldn't let a man that wasn't your husband put his dick inside you. inho took his cold hands away from your face and walked back in front of you. you glanced down at his crotch and...there was a bulge...he was getting off to your scared shape. he truly was an emotionless sadist.. he held up his index finger to your covered lips. "shh. make any noise and I wont think twice about killing you and your husband." your eyes widened as you heard the last part...that meant your husband was alive..and he knew where he was. you nodded slowly, complying with his words. he ripped the piece of tape off your mouth, causing you to let out a yelp in pain. you stared at him with a frightened face, you realized you had just made a loud sound...you didn't want to die you didn't..you didn't want your husband to die! "I said. be quiet." the truth with inho was, he had already killed your husband..at least he thought he did. only a day ago did he shot junho, causing him to fall off the side of the island...he probably drowned and is floating lifeless in the sea right now.. but you didnt need to know that...and it was clear you weren't even aware. your mouth was shut and you tried to silence your heavy rapid breathing....you really did love your husband..he wanted to steal that love from junhos grasp. he leaned down, his face was now perfectly aligned with yours... you wanted to say something, you wanted to scream and cry but if you did he'd kill you...you knew he would... his left hand started to rub your cheek, it was gentle and warm but it just made you hate it even more...his fake kindness. you hated it. his lips connected with yours, at first it seemed like he was trying to be gentle but it was obvious he had quickly gotten bored of it before he got rough. your teeth were clashing with each other as he shoved his tongue into your mouth. exploring every inch of it before he started to nip at your lips...he was aggressive and messy. everything junho wasn't.. this wasn't the kind of kiss you wanted or craved. you felt like your eyes were sewn shut the way you refused to open them, you didn't want to stare at inho. you just wanted this to end..maybe once it did you'd finally have your husband back. after what felt like hours of making out he has finally took his chapped lips off of your soft ones. a string of saliva connected the two of you as he caught his breath. you opened your eyes to stare at him, they were watery..your tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes as you caught your breath. to inho you eyes were like glass marbles...and he wanted to shatter them into pieces. you took deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. if you were calm it wouldn't be as bad. you read this inside your mind over and over and over again. you just prayed he would use you quickly and then leave... "you know, that day..the day where junho has brought you to our mothers house for my birthday.." his eyes wandered away from you, as if he were recalling the day in exact detail, scene by scene...
his eyes snapped back to yours, holding intense eye contact until he continued his sentence... "when I asked you what you loved most about junho you told me you loved his kindness. you said he was a soft person..an angel in your eyes." he crouched down, staring at you with intense eyes. his sharp features were like daggers, stabbing one by one into your heart. "you told me you loved something about him that I lacked. I'm not a kind person. and right now..you probably think I'm the devil instead of an angel like my brother.." he smiled at you, it was a cold, fake smile. if you touched his face right now it'd probably be ice cold.. "thats how I knew someone like you would never willingly be with a man like me.. but it's okay, I'll just force myself onto you." you started to cry, the salty liquid streamed down from your cheeks to your chin. your eyes were red and puffy, you didn't know what to do. you didn't want to be with this man, you didn't want this. inhos left head reached to your face, this time he squeezed the both of your cheeks so that your lips were puckered at him. "got it, princess?" he leaned in to kiss you again, this time he went aggressive right away. forcing his tongue into your mouth, some of your tears dripped onto his mouth. letting him taste the saltiness of your sadness. and it was delicious.
there you sat, he had freed your ankles from the restraints on the chair. nipping and licking at your clit. you hated this, you couldn't stop crying. you felt disgusting, a man that wasn't your husband was licking and eating your pussy out. why would you let this happen? at this point death felt better than breaking your husbands heart. you lets out cries and soft no's as he slurped your juices. you hated that it felt good, you hated that he knew what he was doing. your moans and mewls filled the room, followed with wet sloppy sounds of spit and cum mixed together. he's been eating you out for what felt like hours, you've probably came like 3 times already. you were getting tired..your legs were shaky, trying to close in on themselves but inhos arms kept them wide open for you. "p-please stop. I don't like thi-this...ah...please..let me go already..please.." you were begging with him, your eyes were shaky, your face was flushed and your lips were wet from his aggressive kisses. god. the scene of you begging for him to stop as he abused your clit was one he wanted engraved in his mind forever. he let go of your pussy with a loud pop, your juices and his spit was all over his mouth and chin. he looked like a wild animal that had just eaten his prey alive. with his sleeve he wiped off the liquid on his face. 'ruining' his all black jacket. "you want me to stop but your cum is all over my face and lips. you want me to stop but you keep moaning. just admit you're a slut for me." you close your eyes shut, shaking your head viciously, you don't want him. you don't want this. you just want your husband to be safe. that's all you want... inho scoffs at you, as if you were lying to his face. maybe he truly did believe you wanted this..that you wanted him.. but you knew it wasn't true, you knew that you loved junho and that you werent fighting back back because you just wanted him back.. you'd break down in tears in his arms once he comes home, you'll explain it when he's home. he'd understand..right..? you were lost in your thoughts, but reality snapped you out of them.. 2 long fingers were inside of your core, curling and pumping in and out... it hurt so much. it was nothing like you were used to, slow paced and gentle..no..it was fast and rough. you let out a cry, you were in so much pain it made you want to go insane. the rope that was still tied around your arms and waist dug into your skin, burning you as you struggled under the restraints..trying to find a way out. it felt like inhos was trying to split you in half, the rough skin on his finger pads only made it worse. but ofcoourse it had to feel good, because he knew what he was doing. even if it was messy, even if it was rough, even if you didn't like it..he knew how to make a woman feel good past all the pain. he tilted his head up towards you, his dark almond eyes burned holes into yours. "you gonna cum?" instead of a question, it felt like a demand. demanding you to answer yes, scaring you into saying yes.. but you didn't say yes, you said no. you shook your head and mouthed no to inho, not daring to say it out loud..and it obviously made him upset. he sneered at you before grabbing is free hand and pinching your clit before speeding the pace of his fingers. this was something you've never felt before, the pleasure finally overshadowed the pain and it felt like he had just forced your orgasm out of your body. your cum coated his digits, leaving a slightly milky white color on them.. you were catching your breath, it was hard to breath..the pain, anxiety and fear were catching up to you...you felt your throat slowly closing on you..you felt like you couldn't even breath enough air to supply your lungs are this point.. you were so caught up in your own world that you didn't even realize how he was pressing against the bulge that was begging to be freed from his trousers..he stared at you with bleak eyes, there was nothing behind them...nothing but desire and want..you were scared witless of what he would do to your poor body next. and whatever it was, you didn't want it
the bed was creaking under you, the same bed you and juho slept in everyday... you legs were pressing onto your stomach, the skin rubbing against each other. inho was slamming his cock in and out of you.. touching spots you didn't even know could be reached before this. you felt horrible for feeling so good. but you didn't want this. you were a crying moaning mess. your nails were digging onto his hands, the ones that were pressing you down. you were begging for him to stop, you didn't want this..you felt like you were being forced into this. with the life of your husband on the line.. inho let go of your left thigh and reached to your neck. his freezing hand sending shivers through your body as he started to choke you whilst pounding in and out of you..destroying your gummy insides. he lowered his face to you and scoffed, you looked so pathetic. crying and sobbing acting like you weren't enjoying his fat cock. why wouldn't you just admit you liked it for once? "acting like youre the victim while my cocks deep inside of you. is this all women do? complain about everything..just admit you like it. I wont tell." you felt so degrading. you were getting fucked by a man you barely knew on the bed your missing husband and you slept on every day at somepoint. using his life against you and now he's blaming you? was it really your fault? could you have just turned him away and still gotten junho back? was that an option that you weren't told about? you started crying, your weak arms pushing against his chest with no avail. you just wanted it to stop, you were in pain and now you're being told its your fault you're in this situation. you can never win. you began to sob louder, begging him to let you go, louder and louder until you were wailing like a stupid baby. your hand grasped at the tight grip he had on your neck, then to his chest to push him away again. "shut up." he snarled before taking off his hand from your neck, he had left a bruise from how hard he was gripping...with the same hand he harshly slapped you. shutting your cries up quickly. a red spot started to quickly form, your skin was now irritated in what felt like every place on your body.. "you're such a slut. taking the dick of a man 20 years older than you on the very bed your husband would sleep on. do you not feel ashamed? hmm?" he hummed at you, waiting for your reply. but you didn't even mutter a word, nothing. you decided you'll just take it with no noise, if you stay quiet up maybe it'll end faster?.. it should...shouldn't it..you were trying to comfort yourself in your head.. "you can keep trying to tell yourself otherwise but youre nothing but a dirty cheater. taking dick like a good girl. this probably isn't the first time youve done this huh?" he laughed at your now soulless face, he was right when he said he wanted to ruin you. he was doing that, and it got worse with every second that passed. "ffuck I'm close. you better cum or else I'll js' keep on using you until you do." you started to tear up, your clit twitching and your hole began to clench around his cock. you felt good, but terrible at the same time..you doubted he was cumming because he thought you felt good though, it was a factor but it was probably your shape that made him so horny. you were sad, in pain...tired... he got off to it so bad. you let out quiet pants and moans, indicating to inho that you were close too. he started to get sloppy, his pace getting even faster as the wet slapping sound of skin filled your ears to the brim. you felt your clit pulsating, begging for release...once you came you'd be free..you'd be...you'd be....be.. "a-aa.. fuck fuck fuckfck fuck! ouOUGH~" you let out loud, filthy moans. probably for the first time that night, instead of your cries it was your moans and whimpers that the room was now brimming with. inho loved the sound of your noises, your cries, moans, everything. God it made him so horny...once he felt you cum all over his cock he let his go through as well. fucking his orgasm into you deeper, and deeper with a loud groan..
he kept moving slowly, fucking you through your orgasm as your breathes calmed down.. "I want to ruin every inch of kindness and hope for humanity you have left in you. you're so perfect. perfect to corrupt.." his hand raised to your cheek and started to rub it 'lovingly'. you had a feeling he wasn't going to let you go like he had told you he would.
...
Another not: I FINALLY FINISHED YAY took me like all day again but ....yay!! I hope u guys liked it. I'm pretty proud of it but idk if its ooc or not... but SMASH THE LIKE BUTTON N HIT SUBSCRIBE 4 MORE..!!!!!!!
TAGLIST: @pollys-doublelife @gongyoosgf
#ᡣ𐭩 saymio#squid game smut#squid game fanfic#squid game 2#squid game x y/n#squid game#squid game x you#squid game x reader#yandere x reader#x reader#yandere x you#yandere#in ho x reader#hwang inho#inho x reader#player 001#the front man#the front man x reader#fanfic#smut#young il#young il x reader#oh young il#hwang in ho#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#prob ooc#tw noncon#hwang junho#junho
941 notes
·
View notes
Text
gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]
in holy matriphony ch6. the in-laws
ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)
ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.
ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s
ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!
ᰔ chapter. 6/x
ᰔ words. 12.6k
a/n. hiii my ihm lovelies!! hope you all had a great holiday season. i wanted to get this chapter out as a christmas gift but i failed and then i wanted to get it out as a new years post but failed and then i got food poisoning yesterday and while i was rotting in bed i ended up finishing the chapter LOL. it seems i can only write when i'm under duress? but anywho. hope you enjoy haha and see you at the bottom!
nav. masterlist
“Alright, let’s head out,” you hear Gojo say from the bottom of the staircase, followed by the sound of dress shoes on the hardwood floor, and you glance over to see him clad in a navy suit with a white button up shirt that had one singular button undone. He’s messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket as he makes his way over to you. You catch the scent of his cologne, and it’s alarming how familiar it’s become to you.
Days go by shorter lately, mainly because it’s winter, and so the sun has almost fully set by 6pm. The sky outside is a dark hue of purple, seen past the windows of Gojo’s house, and the warm, dim lighting inside makes you feel strangely nostalgic. Like in a way that feels like home.
You tirelessly tousle with your hair at the mirror hanging above the foyer table that was snug up against the wall at the front entrance. Your hair wasn’t cooperating. You attempted to curl it, for the first time in forever given you can’t remember the last time you had enough time to do your hair, so you were out of practice. It was obvious, given the way some strands were curled outwards from your face, some inwards, some straighter than others, some curlier than others, and you were about to have a full blown mental breakdown before you remember your grounding exercises– 1, 2, 3, 4.
You turn to face Gojo, who you saw in the mirror was standing behind you and watching you with amusement, and you breathe in deep. “How do I look?” you ask, petting down the fabric of your dress as you face him. The thought occurs to you–why do you give so much of a fuck how you look right now? It’s just Gojo’s family. It’s not like they’re actually your in-laws. And from what Gojo’s mother had told you, it was just an intimate little get-together with Sana’s family. It’s really not a big deal. Yet the necessity to impress still consumes you.
Gojo threads his hands into the pockets of his pants and tilts his head to assess your appearance, and you watch his gaze trace the frame of you. “Nice,” he says, “you look nice.”
“That’s it? Just nice?”
“Well, I tried to call you hot earlier, but it got me yelled at.”
You roll your eyes and grab your purse off the foyer table, “okay, whatever, I’ll take it.” And then you head towards the front door. You hear the jingle of car keys from behind you as they’re shoved into a pocket.
The outside air is chilly in a way that’s almost sobering. Gojo opens the door for you to get inside his car and the warmth of your peach cobbler in your lap comforts some of the nerves you felt. By the time Gojo clicks his seatbelt into place in the driver seat, you realize you’ve never been in his car before, or driven anywhere by him before.
The interior smells of pine and something more familiar too, with sleek leather seats that are so comfortable they make you feel like you’re floating. You know it’s a Benz, you’re just not sure what year or model, and you’d usually ask most people out of a friendly curiosity, but for some reason your pride always got the best of you when it came to him.
“I seriously can’t wait to eat that thing you made,” Gojo comments after he’s backed out of the driveway, “it looks really nice.”
“Do you have a sweet tooth?” you ask him, glancing over at him, and you try not to stare at the strong one-handed grip he has on the steering wheel as he corrects it.
“Oh yeah,” he answers, “big time.”
“You don’t seem like it,” you mindlessly say, turning your head to glance out into the dim street, passing by houses that idly sit in this neighborhood.
“Why’s that?” he asks.
“You seem to maintain a steady weight,” you politely comment.
You can hear the smile in his voice. “Is that the closest I’ll ever get to a compliment from you?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s just science. Hard to maintain a build if you eat a lot of sugar.”
He turns onto the mainroad, and you keep your gaze plastered to the outside. “I seem to manage.”
“It’s because you're tall. Tall people get to eat whatever they want.”
You see him nod his head once in your periphery, and you take it as some form of dismissal. “Sure.”
It doesn’t take terribly long to get to Gojo’s parents’ house, just a thirty-five minute drive without traffic. He kept surprisingly silent throughout most of it, and the few moments you did glance at his face, you could even say he looked like he was deep in thought. With a creased brow, a grip on the steering wheel that sometimes faltered, sometimes strengthened, but rarely fully eased. It was all so different from his usual impulse to talk. You know that you often wish for Gojo to shut the fuck up sometimes, but the silence seemed unsettling today.
His parents’ house is large, maybe twice the size of the homes in your neighborhood, but it’s tucked away in a slightly remote area, where the next closest house is about a quarter of a mile down the road. The driveway is long and runs downhill, so you stumble a little on the high heel of your shoe when you step down onto the pebbled pavement, but Gojo holds your elbow so you don’t fall onto your face. And also so you don’t drop the peach cobbler he so desperately wants to try. You’re not sure which of the two was the bigger priority for him.
As you two walk up the driveway towards the front entrance, you hear him sigh behind you. “Just so you know, my mom doesn’t really have any sense of boundaries.”
“Ah,” you comment, “nice to know where you get it from.”
He gives you an irritated look, seen in the corner of your eye, and it’s hard to fight the small amused smile that makes its way onto your face.
He sighs again as you two make it to the top of the steps. “Seriously, though. Chances of you wanting to leave me after this dinner are high.”
“Why? You’ve got a hot older brother I don’t know about or something?”
“I am the hot older brother,” he tells you.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and then face him fully. “You’re not the first guy that’s warned me about his parents, okay? I’ll handle my own. What good is life if your in-laws–er, fake in-laws–aren’t at least a little strange?”
He lifts his finger to the doorbell, and just before pressing it, he says, “alright, then.”
It only takes twelve seconds for the door to swing open, the aroma of fresh herbs and something more sultry like vetiver arouse your senses, along with a warmth beckoning you from the inside of the home.
Gojo’s mother stands at the doorway, surrounded by a halo of warm lighting, and her face instantly morphs into one of delightful glee.
“Oh! My dear, you’ve made it!” she exclaims happily, and just when you think she’s about to pull Gojo in for a hug, she pulls you in for one first instead, which startles you. “How lovely!”
“Oh—” you stutter, stumbling slightly as your nose becomes buried in the fluff of her silk pressed hair, but the delicate fragrance of lilac is somehow comforting.
She pulls you away to hold you by your shoulders. “You poor thing, you’re shivering! Come inside.” She hastily ushers you inside and you can feel the heat from Gojo’s body as he follows closely on your tail.
When his mother closes the door behind you, you find yourself surrounded by the kind of warmth only a house could provide.
You take a small look around the foyer, noticing that it’s large with tones of deep wood and a bright white and golden chandelier that hangs daintily above in the cavity of the high ceilings. Leather, wood, velvet, silk, these are the textures that you see as you look around. It’s an old-fashioned taste, with a polished grand piano off to the right in the hall and display cases of vintage dolls and porcelain plates. So very different from modern, but it’s comforting. Like a wave of nostalgia, but from something you’ve never experienced before.
“What’s this?” Mrs. Gojo asks with curiosity lilting her voice as she walks up to you and points at the casserole dish you were holding.
“Oh, it’s peach cobbler,” you say, holding it up slightly with a small smile adorning your face, “for dessert.”
“How sweet! You’re an angel,” she coos, then twists her torso towards the kitchen, “honey! Come here, will you?”
Shuffling down the hallway from the heart of the house is, who you presume to be, Mr. Gojo. He’s tall, with his shoulders slightly curved forward as he approaches you all, and you note that he looks more aged than his missus.
“Ah, this must be my new daughter-in-law,” he says, his voice gruff and crackly from years of use. You smell the faintest hint of smoke from his clothing.
You glance at Gojo, who is watching you interact with his parents, an unreadable expression on his face as his hands remain shoved into the pocket of his suit pants.
Mr. Gojo takes the peach cobbler from you and gives you a curt smile before taking it back towards the kitchen.
“Darling, I must say, you have a lovely figure—” Gojo’s mother begins to say, reaching her hand out to hover it over the curve of your waist, but just at that moment, Gojo comes up to stand in between the two of you.
“Alright, what time’s dinner?” he asks.
Mrs. Gojo glances up at him, her face immediately twisting into a frown. “Nevermind that. I want to take y/n with me back to the kitchen to help braise the chicken,” she says, grabbing a hold of your wrist and tugging you towards her.
“Oh—” you stumble slightly.
“Nope,” you hear Gojo say from beside you, and suddenly there’s a strong arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back to his side, “she stays with me for the night.” You’d remember to blush at the feeling of being pressed flush up against him, but the shock overshadowed.
“Satoru!” Mrs. Gojo exclaims, rather loudly, and she lets out a hmph noise before placing her hands on her hips. “You’re no fun!”
“I’m not gonna let you indoctrinate her into whatever multi-level marketing scheme you’ve fallen victim to this month,” he says, his hold on your waist tightening.
“How petulant!” she says, trying to manage a stern look but Gojo doesn’t seem fazed by it, “quit acting like I’m going to corrupt her! I’m not some witch.”
“Your track record would prove otherwise,” he comments.
“Oh please, the only other time was when you brought—”
She suddenly stops speaking, her eyes going wide, and she glances at you. You cluelessly tilt your head at her.
Ah. The other woman. This mysterious ex-wife. Would you be the other woman in this case? Seeing as to how his entire family seems to walk on eggshells about the subject around you. And they all seem to think that any mention of her would devastate you, when really, you and Gojo aren’t even actually lovers.
But there’s a small part of you,
A teeny tiny part,
Revealed from the way your heart sank at the realization of who his mother was referring to,
That actually does feel some type of way about it.
You want to know who this woman was to him. Does he still think of her? Does he still love her? What happened between them? Was she the one that got away? And how does he feel about the fact that he’s now here with you?
You shake your head vigorously to get those thoughts out of your head.
It was like method acting. You stepped into the role of wife this evening, and now you feel the way that they expect you to feel at the mention of your husband’s ex-lover.
That must be the reason, right?
You slowly push yourself out of Gojo’s hold, and you try not to become hyper aware of his eyes on you as you smooth out the fabric of your dress, then you glance at his mother.
“I’d love to help you braise the chicken,” you say.
There’s a brief silence as you find your voice in this house, and then Mrs. Gojo flashes you a grin.
“Come with me, honey,” she says before wrapping a delicate hand around your wrist and pulling you towards the heart of the house.
There are pictures hung up on the walls as you brush past every hallway, along with peeling wallpaper that is peppered with florals and striped prints, sanded off from years of shoulders brushing against their surfaces in a way that creates an old, dated charm. You learn quickly that Gojo has always been pretty tall, judging from the photo of him standing with, whom you assume are his middle school friends, out on a boat, holding a bass the size of a small child.
There’s photos of the four of them together, like one professionally taken photo where Gojo and Sana are knelt in front of their parents, and your gaze fixates on the strong grip Mr. Gojo has on his son’s shoulder, digging deep in the bone, creasing the fabric, almost desperately. Gojo looks young in the photo, maybe a recent high school graduate, and his smile is bright but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
And, God, the trophies. The trophies that adorned the surfaces of aged cedar wood dressers, seemingly random in the order they are sprawled across the display yet you know there was intention behind it too. Ballet, soccer, tennis, spelling bee, FRC, even dragon boat racing.
“Feel free to take any of those home,” Mrs. Gojo says with a teasing tone, “you eventually get tired of staring at them.”
You wouldn’t know. Your mother never had much extra cash hanging around to take you to tennis lessons, or ballet lessons, or SAT prep, or whatever. You were lucky enough that you got into college with the cards you were dealt, but you sometimes wonder what your potential could’ve been if you had parents like Gojo did. Maybe the house you live in would be your own, and not something that your mother has spent the past forty years of her life trying to pay off. Maybe you’d have a freshly renovated kitchen and a pretty boat out on the street. But throwing a pity party for yourself right now wasn’t exactly going to get you through the evening.
Mrs. Gojo finally leads you into the kitchen, and the aroma of fresh herbs overwhelms your senses.
“Smells wonderful,” you comment.
“I know,” she cheekily comments, “will you turn the meat please?”
You grab a pair of tongs and attempt to sear the cuts that were sizzling on the stove.
“Sooooo,” she coos, wasting no time to playfully bump her hip to yours, “how is married life?”
“Nice,” you respond, your cheeks warming slightly, “it’s nice.”
“It won’t always be that way, you know,” she muses with some underlying sense of sincerity that isn’t lost on you.
When you remain quiet, concentrating on the searing sizzling noises coming from the pan, she decides to keep speaking.
“Eventually, you two will settle in a little too much…start to care less about your bodies…and then, oh gosh, when kids come into the picture, forget about having any time for yourselves,” she continues, “some days you’ll resent him, others you’ll feel like it’s the first time all over again.” She sighs. “Marriage is a funny thing—”
“Mrs. Gojo,” you interrupt her, turning to face her, “I—…I really appreciate you, I do, but, um, I’ve already learned a lot already about marriage from my own parents. Things are fine between Satoru and me.” You look into her widened eyes. “And…if something does happen down the line, and we choose not to be together anymore, then that’s okay too.”
After all, you had to prepare her.
“But that’s the thing!” she chirps, “your generation is too—…too impatient. Unwilling to work anything out! A marriage is supposed to be hard, but also it’s something you aren’t supposed to give up on so easily.”
It’s your turn to meet her with widened eyes in response to her preaching, and her posture immediately deflates before she holds you gently by your arm.
“I’m sorry, honey…I know it’s too early to be saying all these things to you,” she says, managing a small smile, “I always forget that I’m too old to be doting on my children like this anymore.”
Your expression softens and you wrap your palm over her bony knuckles, feeling the thinness of the skin that stretches over them. In a brief glimpse, you see your own mother in Mrs. Gojo’s eyes, something familiar, a universal expression of the love a parent has for their child.
“Well…” you say after clearing your throat, “for what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Gojo.” You try to manage a small smile. “I’m—…I’m really happy with your son.”
It was hard to lie to someone like this, especially from the way there’s relief that floods her irises, a genuine feeling that is so hard to come by in these days of false niceties. You often wonder how far a single white lie can stretch before it shatters against its own resistance.
“That’s a relief,” she says, managing her own prim smile, “I’m so glad.”
The two of you finish up in the kitchen, and when you circle around back into the hall, you see Sana standing in the warmly lit family room with Gojo and their dad.
Sana catches your eye, and you purse your lips together hesitantly before walking up to her.
“Hey,” you say softly and she returns the small smile you give her.
“Hi,” she says back to you.
“Um, where’s Juno?” you ask, looking around.
“Oh, she has a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight,” Sana says, “Jun’s dropping her off, and then he’ll come by here later.”
“Ah, I see,” you comment, itching at your elbow from the awkwardness.
“Well,” Mr. Gojo says, gesturing towards the dining room, “let’s eat, shall we?”
The three of you nod at him.
It’s fascinating to watch how the family falls naturally into their chairs, an assigned seating pattern that stays consistent among all dining halls and rooms and tables in the world, one that every family has. Mr. Gojo sits at the head of the table, his wife to his left, his son to his right. Sana sits quaintly to her mother’s left, and you sit across from her to Gojo’s left. The one empty seat is left for the presence of Jun.
“Food looks wonderful, darling,” Mr. Gojo says before leaning over to place a kiss on her bashful cheek.
Your heart does something weird at the sight. A simultaneous twinge paired with a warmer feeling that follows. You hardly witnessed any affection within your household growing up, not between your parents at least, probably because you were young when they got divorced and so the turmoils and tribulations started long before you had any higher order of cognitive discernment beyond the childish interest in Disney princesses and The Backyardigans. For you, the only memories that last of your parents’ marriage are those that feel like nothing more than the frigidity of a business arrangement. Ironically similar to the one you were currently in with Gojo. Except at least yours hadn’t been initially built on a foundation of love and a promise to be there for one another until death did you two apart.
Death was knocking on your mother’s doorstep now. But your father was nowhere to be found. So much for a vow.
Mr. Gojo pours his son a glass of whiskey, single malt as read on the label. Mrs. Gojo pours you and Sana a glass of red wine, and you try to hide the grimace, because you would’ve much rather had the whiskey.
“To y/n,” Mr. Gojo says, raising his glass up into the air, “for being our newest addition to the family.”
You all clink your glasses together, then in a variety of pairings, the last one being the tap of Gojo’s glass against yours, before you all take a drink.
“So…” Mrs. Gojo speaks up, “exactly how long have the two of you been married?”
You glance at Gojo for help, which isn’t exactly an unsuspecting thing to do.
“Four weeks,” he says.
You watch Mrs. Gojo’s eyes twitch. You can understand. Her own son gets married and doesn’t tell her anything about it for four weeks after the wedding. Well, in your case, a courthouse arrangement.
“Where did you two go for your honeymoon?” she asks, and Mr. Gojo clears his throat.
You look at Gojo for help again, and mentally pinch yourself for not being more discreet about how fake this whole thing is.
But Gojo surprisingly looks at ease. “Greece,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Mrs. Gojo’s body language turns to you, clearly irritated by her son’s short and curt answers. “Did you have a fun time, dear?”
“Oh! Yes, it was a very fun time. Definitely did all the newly wed stuff. Just as normal newlyweds do, you know. Because we are newlyweds,” you say through an awkward cough.
“Like…?” Mrs. Gojo pushes, and you can tell that she’s asking out of a genuine curiosity over the itinerary you two had allegedly carried out, but you crack under the pressure.
“W—…We made love,” you say, “we made lots and lots of love.”
The sound of silverware clanking onto ceramic plates startles you out of the blissful ignorance you had to the words that you had just said. Like you were so caught up in your mind about wanting to seem like an actual real life couple to his parents that you almost forgot about the number one social rule when meeting your (fake) significant other’s parents: no references to copulation.
You glance up to find Mrs. Gojo’s eyes are wide, a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks. The width of Mr. Gojo’s eyes match his wife’s except his expression is also duly accompanied by a furrowed, perplexed brow. Sana looks visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and trying hard to put on a poker face as she pretends like she didn’t just hear what you said.
You finally glance at Gojo, who’s looking at you with the most what the fuck? face you’ve ever seen someone make, and there’s concern on there somewhere too, like he’s not even fully convinced that you’re mentally sane at the moment because why on God’s green Earth would you say something like that at a family dinner table.
Trying your best to laugh it off, you say, “ah…ahaha, d-did I say make love? I meant–I meant that we–”
“Just–” Gojo interrupts you. “Just stop.”
Everyone are still stunned silent and the flush to your cheeks grows warmer. While clearing your throat, you set your lap napkin up on the table and clumsily scootch yourself out of your chair.
“Ex…cuse…me...” you mumble under your breath, knocking the table with your knee on accident, your wine glass almost toppling all over the pretty linen tablecloth but your reflexes catch the stem to steady it. “I need to…use the restroom.” And then you head straight down the hallway without sparing them another glance.
“Use the upstairs one!” Mrs. Gojo calls out to you, “the guest bathroom is under renovation.”
“Of fucking course it is,” you mutter under your breath, but flash them a polite smile before rounding the staircase pillar and then briskly walking up the stairs.
You quickly realize there’s more personality to the house upstairs, with some clutter in the theater loft and mismatching decorations that don’t reveal the careful deliberation of an indoor designer. The master bedroom is directly to the right of the top of the staircase and you glance across the loft at a narrow hallway that leads into the three bedrooms tucked away into the heart of the house.
One foot after the other, you float in that direction as if some force were compelling you towards it. Some trance of curiosity that no human being could ever resist. It’s fine. You didn’t actually need to piss anyways.
The first bedroom you walk past is rather boring, with beige tones all around. Beige bed sheets, beige wall paint, beige lamp shade, beige curtains. But the air smells crisp, and you notice there’s a shelf that has about half a dozen plants lined up in a variety of artistic pots. Similar to the set-up Gojo has in his house at home. You walk inside and brush your fingers across the dresser surface, rubbing fine dust over the pads of your fingers, and with your next inhale, you sneeze.
A guest bedroom, you think to yourself.
The next bedroom you walk past is sweeter, kinder, warmer. There’s pink hues scattered across, the most obvious one being the pillow covers, and there are some shades of a baby blue as well. But the furniture looks modern, sleek, and new. There were two identities at war in the room, like that of a little girl and a grown woman. Neither able to find its voice among the chaos of friendship bracelets sprawled across the desk and the Louis Vuitton purse resting at the foot of the bed.
Sana’s room, you think to yourself.
Childhood bedrooms are like time capsules if left untouched for very long. You’ve lived in your room at home for as long as you can remember, only recently having shifted to the master bedroom. The room grew up with you. It had no chance to become some entity of its own.
The next bedroom you walk by feels familiar, even before you walk inside. There’s a comforting feeling that envelopes just from the lighting alone. You push the door open with a gentle palm.
The culprit of any young man’s room–navy blue sheets. Stretched taut against a made-up bed that has some sort of feminine flair to it, like it wasn’t set by Gojo, but rather his mother passing by his room one day to sit in his absence, only to needlessly mess with the sheets because it gave her a sense of purpose. You go eighteen years pouring blood, sweat, and tears into raising a child, protecting them, nurturing them, being the one they lean on for all of life’s woes, only for them to pack up and leave one day. You suppose that if you were a parent, you would find melancholy in that loss of responsibility too.
His desk is a large expanse of cedar wood with a desktop monitor and some bookshelf speakers set up on it. The PC itself has collected dust over the years but there’s a small mechanical whirring noise you hear somewhere within. The rest of the desk is mostly empty except for some unopened mail tucked away with some books, the spines creased at the last few hundred pages, but never to the end.
You pick one of the books up, flipping the pages open, and see sticky notes on some of them. Like English literature notes one would take in class, with studious words that over exaggerate the significance of the prose just to make a teacher happy. Who cares if the curtains were blue? Maybe the author just wanted them to be blue. Why does everything in life have to have meaning?
Setting the book back down with a sigh, you walk over to the bookshelf. There are some more trophies, some sets of comic books, some strange robotic-looking figurines. Small picture frames of foreign scenery are set up in different corners wherever there is empty space, like an afterthought.
“Hmm…” you hum to yourself, tilting your head to the side to read the vertical spine of a thick black book that was tucked flush up against the shelf's side.
West Valley High School. Class of 2007.
With your index finger hooking the spine, you slowly pull the book out from its comfy corner. It’s heavy in your hands and you notice that there are ink smudges across the tips of your fingers.
When you open the cover, you’re met with a page filled with a variety of colors and handwriting, and you realize they’re signatures. And to no one’s surprise, most of them are feminine. With hearts, some merely outlines, some shaded in with ink, scattered across the page. Bubbly handwriting, neat handwriting, cursive handwriting, a lot of it in pinks and purples and reds. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was like those Valentine’s Day cards all the girls would sign in grade school to pass onto their crush, except imagine if all of them were intended for just one guy.
You roll your eyes as you flip the pages, seeing no end in sight to the signed ink. I mean, come on, how many signature pages does a yearbook even need? This was excessive. And, no, you aren’t bitter simply because your high school yearbook has maybe a max of fifteen signatures (four of which were from your teachers). It’s just frustrating. And confusing. Why does everyone on this planet adore Gojo except you? Is there something wrong with you? Are you the problem?
There are some signatures from boys too, most likely his friends. Otherwise, you’re not sure what random fleeting classmate you’ve only spoken to a couple times would be brazen enough to draw pictures of penises squirting in whatever empty space they could find in your yearbook, if not for his high school friends. These boys are probably in their mid thirties now, just as Gojo is, maybe with wives and kids they’re now responsible for. You wonder if they’d still find the drawings funny all the same today.
You flip the pages more, taking in image after image after image of smiling portraits. ABC…DE…F…ah, G. Hmm, there. There it was.
Gojo Satoru.
Seems like his high school didn’t allow yearbook quotes, but you try to imagine what his would be. Probably something corny and lame, like See kids? I told you I was sexy in high school.
He looks cute though. With his hair fluffy, boyishly ruffled to pair with a charming smile that’s at ease. He just looks a little younger, that’s all. Not that much different. Perhaps a bit more scrawny, a bit more mischievous-looking. As opposed to his adult self, who appears sturdy. More serious. But you realize that cheeky part of him that comes out every now and then when he’s teasing you or pissing you off is that boy within him that looks exactly like the portrait in this yearbook that you trace with the pad of your finger.
You close the book, suddenly a little out of breath, and then slip it back into place. Your eyes catch the shimmer of the trophy at the top of the shelf. It was shaped like a baseball glove mitt, and in the palm cup, there is an actual baseball in there with a black ink signature. You gently pick it up and turn it in your palm to try and read the ink.
Ichiro.
Your dad used to watch baseball. You’re familiar. Seattle Mariners, Ichiro Suzuki. The first Japanese player to ever make it to the Major Leagues. Ten time all-star, and tenth member of the Mariners hall of fame. He retired when you were just a little girl, but you still remember the look of awe in your father’s eyes as he stared at the box TV in the living room of your house when Ichiro took his last stand at the plate.
Gojo was also a boy at that time. Living in this house. Maybe his old man was watching that game at the same time. And maybe Gojo was watching the look on his father’s face, too. It’s the romance of life–you look up at the moon in the sky, and you know that there is someone else out there, someone that you’ll meet some day, maybe even someone that will mean the world to you someday, who’s looking at it too. But you just don’t know it yet.
Lost in endless, rather fruitless thought, you continue to turn the baseball in your hand to pointlessly assess the seams, but it slips out of your hand and onto the carpeted floor with a loud hollow thud that startles you, and when you attempt to bend down and pick it up, you accidentally push it with your toe and it rolls underneath the bed.
“Shit,” you mumble, getting down onto your hands and knees to look underneath the bed.
You see the ball rolled a few feet away, and when you reach for it, it becomes clear that you don’t have the arm span to grab it. You struggle and you struggle, the tips of your fingers barely tickling its seam, and the frustration makes you sweat a little.
“Come…here…you…stupid…thing,” you mutter. You’re sure your hair is a static mess now, too.
You finally manage to roll it towards you a couple inches and then your palm wraps around it before pulling it to your shoulder, but not without something collateral that’s dragged along with it.
A photograph. Printed out, vintage. You pinch the corner between your two fingers and stand back up onto your two feet in order to better assess the image under the light of the floor lamp.
The first person you notice in the photo is Gojo. He looks younger than in the yearbook, but he’s wearing a suit and a tie. It’s a little big on him, ill-fitting as most teenage boys should look in a suit, like a rite of passage. His smile is less warm than the one in the yearbook too, more prim and stretched into a thin line that’s only slightly curved upwards. It’s only then when you notice the slender fingers sprawled across his chest near the collar of his undershirt, black nail polish blending in with the fabric of the suit. Your eyes trail the dainty hand, and your heart skips a beat when you see a girl standing next to him, pressed up against him, her smile much brighter than his. Pink braces line her teeth and her hair is that classic mid-2000s side-swept bang mess, but she’s pretty. Dressed in a pink-ish purple gown that almost looks like a bridesmaids dress, and you finally see the banner stretched across behind the both of them in the picture that reads Homecoming 2005.
It’s hard to explain it, but you can just feel it somehow. That this person is important to him. Not just some last-minute date to Homecoming, or an old high school girlfriend he’s long since lost touch with. It seems larger than that, somehow. Unlike penises drawn on yearbook paper, this feels like something a person never outgrows.
Of course, people have lived fully-fledged lives before you’ve met them. Just as you have as well. But you’re overtaken by the insane curiosity to want to learn every single detail about this past life that Gojo has lived. Where did he and his friends hang out after school? When did he learn how to drive? When was the first time he got shit-faced drunk? When was the first time he snuck out of the house? And who was this girl in the picture?
“Find what you’re lookin’ for yet?” a voice calls out, entirely startling you to where you almost jolt out of your skin, and you swiftly turn on your heel towards the entrance of the room.
You see Gojo standing in the door frame, leaning against it with his arms crossed as he levels his gaze at you. He has a blank expression on his face, although you would say it’s more serious than playful.
“What–...I–” you stutter, shuffling the picture you were holding behind your back so he doesn’t see.
His eyes don’t flit to the movement. “You don’t have to tear the room apart to find my illicit drugs. You could’ve just asked.”
You roll your eyes. “As if you would do drugs.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It is.”
“So, then, if you’re not looking for drugs, what are you looking for?”
Your cheeks are warm. “I don’t know. Petty cash? Human body parts? Playboy?”
He snorts. “Playboy? Who still has a subscription to Playboy?”
“Maybe your teenage self did.”
“I’m not that old,” he says, “I was watching porn like the rest of my peers.”
“Ew, you freak,” you say, and you grab one of his pillows and throw it at him.
He lets out a laugh before catching the pillow with ease, and then walks up to you, placing the pillow on top of your head. You half-glare, half-pout at him.
“C’mon,” he probes, “tell me why you’re hiding away up here.”
“I embarrassed myself,” you confide in him with a sulk of your shoulders. “I mean. Seriously. What the fuck was that? What a humiliating thing to say in front of your parents. I just feel so weird pretending like this.”
His expression softens. “Sorry,” he says, “for dragging you into this dinner.”
“No,” you sigh, “I’m the one that did. I forgot you can’t necessarily fake a marriage without…doing the typical couple things.”
“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” he hums as his gaze flits towards the bed, “doing the typical couple things, you say?”
You roll your eyes. “In your dreams.”
“Oh, in my dreams alright,” he says with a grin.
“And if I strangled you? What then?”
“I like that. It’s kinky.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you don’t have magazines lying around?”
“Brown box underneath the bed. You didn’t look hard enough.”
You give him a disgusted look. He laughs.
“I’m joking,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.
“I’m not convinced,” you say, turning your body away from him slightly to keep the photo hidden behind your back.
He tilts his head at you, gaze flickering down to your other hand. Your heart skips a beat. “I could’ve guessed that.”
His hand reaches out and you flinch ever so slightly, something he thankfully doesn’t notice, and then he’s grabbing the baseball out of your palm.
“I always thought I could sell this thing for major money,” he muses, throwing the ball up into the air to catch it. And then doing so again a couple times.
“It’s authentic?” you ask with genuine curiosity.
“Oh yeah. I caught it. First ball game my old man ever took me to, and it happened to be Ichiro’s last.”
Your eyes widen. Gojo was at that game. He wasn’t just watching it from home on some TV like you did with your dad. He was living in it.
“Wow,” you say, “must’ve been quite the game.”
“Don’t really remember too much about it to be honest, other than how stoked I was to just be there with my dad.”
“Mm,” you hum, “I’ll have to ask Mr. Gojo more about it when we get downstairs.”
His expression falters slightly, his smile dropping in the most subtle way that you wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t been intently staring at his face.
“Yeah,” he says, “maybe.”
Gojo continues to stare at the ball in his palm as he rotates it in inspection. There’s an awkward silence that settles between the two of you, and you feel the burden of conversation has suddenly fallen on you.
“My, um. My dad was a fan too,” you say.
His eyes glance up to meet yours. “How come I’ve never met him?”
The question catches you off guard. “Wh–...I’m sorry, what?”
“Your dad,” he says, as if it was something so casual.
“That–...well, he’s–...I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years,” you admit, “not since…not since my mother was diagnosed with cancer.”
He stares at you earnestly, studying your expression, before he decides on saying nothing else except, “I’m sorry about that.”
You sigh. “Satoru, I–” you start, keen on the way his body stiffens slightly when you say his name, “I really don’t have the capacity for much else tonight. I mean, the questions. And the lies. And walking on eggshells around your mom.”
“Well. I was sent up here to get you,” he says, “and I can’t exactly go downstairs empty handed.”
“Fine. Let’s just get this dinner over with as fast as possible.”
“Sure,” he easily agrees, “I’m with you on that one.”
You take a step forward to head towards the door, but then suck in a sharp gasp when you remember what was being held behind your back.
“Wait,” you say, “look away.”
“...huh?” he huffs, a puzzled look on his face.
“Just look away for a second.”
His eyebrows furrow before he lifts one in a questioning manner. But he acquiesces and turns on his heel to face away from you. “Have I ever told you how strange you are?”
“No,” you say while discretely crouching down, playing along in an attempt to distract him, “you haven’t.” You flinch a little from the sound of your hip popping, but he doesn’t seem to notice and so you bend your wrist in preparation of flinging the photo back to the abyss underneath his bed.
But you stop.
And you take one more glance at the photo.
And your stomach flips the same way it did the first time you saw it.
If you asked, would he tell you?
But the more pressing question is,
Why are you so scared to find out?
You shake your head vigorously to get rid of all your pestering intrusive thoughts. It was the stress, you played it off. A hyperactive mind leads to hyperactive ruminations. And besides, it’s just silly. Sure, there’s your gut feeling that suggests otherwise. But this girl in the photo could really just be an old friend or girlfriend that had no significant impact on the trajectory of his life. Why be the crazy one and lose sleep over this? You’ve lost sleep over plenty of other things in your life, but not stuff like this. It’s just not like you.
You fling the photo across underneath the bed and then stand up just in time for when Gojo turns around to look at you out of curiosity.
“Alright,” you say, dusting your hands off, “let’s go.”
You walk over to where he stands by the doorframe, a slight warmth to your cheeks when he doesn’t move out of your way like he usually does, but instead he leans towards you slightly as you brush past him, and your heart jumps a beat in your chest when you feel his hand gently fall to the small of your back, softly urging you forward ahead of him. A feather of a touch, yet intentional, almost naturally so, like a curious test of the boundary between you two that he’s been dying to understand a bit better. And the fact you don’t turn on your heel to face him with that same undeserved and petty rage that you always do, and instead slightly shudder at the feel of his touch, means that somewhere along the way, you’ve moved the line a little closer.
He’s hot on your trail as you walk down the stairs slowly and when you turn around the post at the bottom then make your way back to the dining room, you see his family staring at you with wide eyes.
His mother stands up. “y/n! Come sit back down, dear.”
You nod meekly, and Gojo pulls your chair out for you to take a seat before he resumes his seat next to you.
The food is slightly cold by the time you finally get to pick at it. It’s not very seasoned, either. Not enough salt for your taste. But somehow Mrs. Gojo having a phobia of sodium is a study of character that makes perfect sense in your head.
Eventually, the awkward silence is too much for you to bear, and you set your fork and knife down on your napkin with a slight bit more force than you probably should’ve.
Everyone looks at you.
You sigh. “I’m sorry for earlier,” you say, “I’m…uh, I’m just not really used to these sorts of dinners…I don’t have much family here in this town, and it’s always just sort of been my mom and me. And I—…I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
Wide eyes blink at you. Mr. Gojo shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat while Mrs. Gojo blinks her long lashes at you. Sana tilts her head, and you have no interest in seeing what Gojo’s expression looks like. You fear it’s the one you’d remember the most.
You were just being honest with how you felt. And it doesn’t take you long to realize something you probably should’ve realized earlier walking into a home like this where everything was perfect and on display with no evidence of the way a true family can crumble on the inside—a house like this does not value honesty. Your mother couldn’t afford you many luxuries in life, but you never felt like you couldn’t be honest in front of her.
You glimpse up at Sana, and there is some knowing expression on her face. It’s almost sympathetic. As if you two were on the same page about something right now. When you glance at Gojo, you see him staring down at his plate with his brow slightly furrowed.
“It…it’s quite alright, dear,” his mother says through a prim voice, and in an attempt to change the subject, she says, “I do hope you are enjoying the chicken.”
“Ah,” you exhale, “yes. I am.”
“So!” Mrs. Gojo chimes in again as she dabs her mouth to a linen napkin. “Tell me about what you do for fun.”
You blink at her. “Oh, umm…binge watch TV? Occasionally I’ll go for a walk.”
“Ahh interesting! What about reading? Do you enjoy reading?”
“Well, the last book I purchased was a picture book about North Korean missiles…so.”
She lets out a laugh. “And where do you see yourself in five years?”
You hear Gojo sigh beside you before he reluctantly sets down his silverware and then he turns to Mrs. Gojo. “Mom. C’mon. This isn’t a job interview. Just let her eat.”
There’s a slight tinge of pink to the tips of her ears from the interrogation interruption as she glances between the two of you. She looks over at Sana for help but finds nothing other than a gaze tipped down towards a plate full of picked-at food. Mr. Gojo folds a hand over her frail knuckles as if to silently communicate, but Mrs. Gojo retreats her hands to fold in her lap underneath the table.
Feeling somewhat bad for the two of them, you turn the face Gojo’s dad. “Um…Mr. Gojo, Satoru was telling me about how you were a big baseball fan and a big Ichiro fan…do you still keep up with the Mariners?”
The man’s eyes grow wide with a visible confusion and you swear you hear Gojo clear his throat beside you.
“Ah…that’s–” he starts before the sound of the doorbell ringing startles you.
Sana immediately stands up without a word of excusal or a glance in anyone’s direction and she heads straight for the door.
You all look around at one another before Mrs. Gojo says, “must be Jun.”
You were at least glad to find you would not be the only “in-law” at the table full of a tension-laced family dinner, especially given the fact that in most of the cases where you’ve met Jun, his penchant to talk overshadows any other energy.
“What’s up, y/n!” Jun shouts when he waltzes into the dining hall, a few steps ahead of Sana. He throws his jacket over the first surface he finds, body language matching that of someone twenty years younger than he actually is. You can’t tell if it’s overcompensation for something, or if he just genuinely believes he’s still in his twenties.
To your surprise, he opens his arms out for you to greet him with a hug, and you hesitate before standing up slightly to give him a well-meaning wrap of your arms around him, but it lacks any warmth of familiarity.
“Welcome to the fam!” he jovially exclaims before patting your arm. He then hugs Mr. Gojo, then Mrs. Gojo (paired with those cheek kisses that the French do in greeting), then daps up Gojo (to which you notice Gojo is less than enthusiastic about) before he finally kisses Sana on the cheek and then takes his seat at the other end of the table. Your eyes are keen on Sana now, watching her intently, but she remains staring at the food on her plate. You had a feeling there was someone in this room that didn’t want to be at this dinner even more than you did.
“How was traffic, Jun?” Mr. Gojo asks.
“Oh it was nothing. Took a shortcut. Backroute off of Lake City Way. Full of pot holes though.”
Sana turns to him and scowls. “While you were taking Juno to her sleepover?!”
He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Yeah? We were running late.”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to take that route to get into the city! Those pot holes are so dangerous.”
“Honey. Chill. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Just last week I saw news of three plot holes on the Mercer Street intersection opened up. Three people were injured, including a young boy.”
“Okay well if I also believed everything I saw on the news was going to personally happen to me too then we’d have never gotten this far in life.”
“Jun,” Sana deadpans.
“W-Why don’t I fix you a plate, Jun? You must be tired.” Mrs. Gojo chimes in.
Sana breathes in deep and exhales slowly before slumping down into her chair.
“Thanks,” Jun says, easing his brow as he sits back in his chair nonchalantly, before he turns to Gojo and starts to talk about mundane things like the stock market, the recent election, something about a new bowling record, and this one Thai restaurant he really wants to try on the other end of town, all within the span of time it takes Mrs. Gojo to set a plate down in front of him.
Mr. Gojo jumps in on conversation from time to time. Mrs. Gojo listens idly, sometimes placing a laugh where she feels appropriate. Jun gets particularly animated about this incident he ran into earlier last week when he was dropping Juno off at school, a story that you notice everyone at the table is for some reason entirely intrigued by, but you suppose it’s the most interesting topic of conversation you’ve all had tonight thus far. At certain critical points of the story, Sana jumps in with a that’s not what happened, Jun and you find yourself finally settling in somewhat to the evening.
Just as Jun’s story is ending, you glance up to Mrs. Gojo and find that she’s staring at you with a smile on her face. It makes you jump in your seat a little, luckily unnoticed by the rest of the table because of Jun’s engaging theatrical hand gestures as he attempts to keep his wife, his brother-in-law and his father-in-law engaged. You would’ve expected Mrs. Gojo to avert her gaze the second yours locked with hers, but she doesn’t. She just continues to look at you with a soft smile on her face and a slight tilt to her head, like she’s getting used to the sight of seeing you at this table.
Her gaze flits downwards slightly and you follow her line of gaze, tracing it to the ring that was adorning your left hand.
Your eyes widen slightly.
“Oh–” you stutter, the words already getting caught in your throat, “I–...I forgot to say, it’s an honor to wear your ring, Mrs. Gojo.” The table suddenly goes quiet, and you can’t tell if it’s because of you, or if it’s because there was no more story left to tell. “It’s beautiful.”
It truly felt like for every two steps you took forward, it was ten steps backwards. Because you watch the way that soft smile of hers entirely drops, her expression replaced with one of confusion, brows knitted together as she looks at you like you’ve just spoken in a language no one on Earth can speak.
She glances at Gojo, and you don’t have to look at him to tell that he’s stiff in his seat. You could’ve felt the tension from a mile away.
Mrs. Gojo looks at you again. “Oh honey, that–” She glances between you and Gojo. “That’s not my ring…”
Your eyes widen, cheeks already flush from whatever’s to come.
But suddenly, and to your surprise, Sana speaks up. “It was our mother’s ring.”
You look at her with confusion. And then you glance at Gojo. And then you glance back at Sana. And then at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo.
“But…” you trail off.
“Sumiko and Daichi are our aunt and uncle,” Sana says with a strained voice, “our real parents died in a house fire when we were younger.”
You blink at her in shock.
“He didn’t tell you?” Mr. Gojo asks.
“I–” You glance at Gojo and see that he’s poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the glass of scotch he was twirling around in his hand.
“Of course he didn’t,” Sana interrupts, the bitterness in her voice matching the attitude she’s since displayed this entire evening. Her gaze is locked onto her brother’s face, and when his gaze flickers up to meet her eye contact, his expression is set with a tense jaw. “He never wants to mention them. He never wants to acknowledge their life. He never wants to honor them. He just wants to pretend like they never existed.”
“Sana,” he cuts her off, and a chill gets sent down your spine from the seriousness and rigidity in his voice. “Now’s not the time for this.”
“When is the fucking time?!” she spats at him, the simmering tension brewing over. Ah. Yes. The moment you had been expecting. After all, what family does not have its baggage? Sana abruptly stands up from the table, startling everyone with the clanking of silverware and ceramic from the motion. “When is the fucking time for you to admit that you never gave a shit about mom and dad dying? When is the fucking time for you to admit that we moved on to live with these people so fast? When is the fucking time for you to admit how wrong it was for you to force me to call the people here my mom and dad my whole life when they aren’t?” Her voice cracks near the end.
You glance at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo, who both look shocked, hurt, even embarrassed as they gaze down at their food. Your heart stalls in your chest for them.
When you glance back at Gojo, you see that his gaze is hardened even further now. “You’re being rude,” he says, in as steady of a voice as he can manage from the way his brow is creased with disappointment.
“Yeah, whatever,” Sana says as she wipes at the tears with her sleeves, and you notice that she looks young like this. Younger than the usual prim and proper self that she portrays. Too young to be a mom, too young to be a wife, too young to be an adult. Like someone propelled into a life that she never wanted. “That’s always what you say, isn’t it? No answers, you just claim that I’m being childish and rude.” Jun tries to reach out to hold her hand but she snatches it away from him. Under her breath she says, “I didn’t want to come here. I should’ve just stayed home.” And with a rough swipe of her sleeve across both of her cheeks, she suddenly storms off somewhere deep into the house. Jun immediately stands up to follow her, leaving the four of you here with stale, cold food.
The timer in the oven goes off, the sound heard in the distance like a lifeline, and Mrs. Gojo immediately stands up. “Ah, must be…the roasted potatoes. I’ll be right back,” she fusses, and you avert your gaze from her face so she doesn’t feel embarrassed over the streak of a tear you saw streaming down her face.
“Let me help you,” Mr. Gojo says in a small sheepish mumble before following his wife into the kitchen.
And then there were two.
You only have a moment to process the dramatic outburst and subsequent fall-through before you turn in your chair to face Gojo, your face narrowing in contempt. You see him running a hand through his hair, entirely ruffling out any sort of neatness he had combed it into earlier, and he undoes the top button of his shirt with an impatient thumb like he was letting go of whatever image he had been trying to keep up for tonight, because after what just happened, there was no use.
“So when were you going to tell me that they aren’t actually your real parents???” you hiss at him.
He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “They’ve raised us since Sana was just three years old. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Okay well if I had known then I wouldn’t have mentioned the ring??? Now everyone’s left the table because of me.”
“It’s not because of you,” he quickly corrects you, “it’s because of years of unnecessary drama of which I’ve still got no fucking clue why it still gets brough up at every. family. dinner. If you didn’t bring it up, then they would’ve figured out a way to bring it up somehow anyways.”
You blink at him, a little taken aback by how dejected he was by this entire conversation.
“Are you going to go check on Sana?” you ask him.
“No,” he says without hesitation, “she’ll calm down soon enough.”
You press your lips into a thin line, contemplating his dismissal, before you let out a huff of disappointment and disapproval. You pull your napkin off of your lap, setting it up on the table, and slip out of your chair to head into the house in the direction you saw Sana storm off into, leaving Gojo to himself at the table.
As you walk down the hallway, all those pictures you saw hung up on the walls, those photos of illusion that painted this pretty picture of a nuclear family fall apart in the narrow space, those firm smiles and hesitant postures making much more sense to you now. They aren’t even his real parents. Baseball and wedding rings. Those details belonged to a life he never intended on sharing with you.
You walk past the kitchen, stopping briefly just beyond the entrance before backtracking and you find Sana standing near the sink with her arm across her chest as her other hand wipes at her cheeks. The soft sound of a sniffle echoes in the room and you’re surprised to see that Jun left her alone.
Tentatively, you shuffle your feet across the wooden floor. She seems to make note of you in her periphery but refuses to glance up.
“Hey…” you start when you finally make it to the space in front of her, your hip leaning against the edge of the sink counter in parallel with hers as you face her.
“I—” she starts, shuffling her palms across her cheeks again. “I am so severely embarrassed.”
Your eyes widen slightly at the honesty. “Don’t be. It’s just family.”
“No but that’s the point,” she says through a crack in her voice, “I’m thirty-one, I’m married, I’m a mom, but they’ll always just see me as some immature little brat because I always behave like this.”
You don’t know what to say. You suppose if you were a therapist, or a priest, or a mentor, or a mom yourself, or any other person with an emotional IQ higher than yourself, you would know the right thing to say to her right now. But you don’t. So silence is all that you can offer her, and you hope that it’s enough.
It seems to work in it’s own magical way, as she slowly opens herself up to you within the next passing sixty seconds. A fleeting glance up to your face. The halt of pointless fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. The way she stands up straighter, her hip no longer leaning against the kitchen counter, and you find that you mirror the same movement.
She clears her throat, rubbing her nose with the knuckle of her index finger, her eyes no longer glistening with tears but the corners of them look puffy.
You glance down at your feet for a moment before inhaling deep and making eye contact with her. “Hey, listen…” you say, “I’m—…I’m really sorry…about earlier today. For overstepping about the bullying. Juno’s your daughter, and I really shouldn’t have given her advice before at least running it by you beforehand. Especially for something so sensitive.”
The delicate muscles of her brow lift in surprise at your words, lids fluttering slowly as she processes your words, and the wave of melancholy is contagious as it washes through you as well.
“I’m sorry too,” she says, “for how angry I got with you. It’s just—” she hesitates, and you see that semblance of her that you’re more familiar with. Strict, stern, rough around the edges but for a noble reason. “Y’know, with kids…we tend to get overprotective over them.” Her gaze drops to somewhere beneath yourselves as if she suddenly lost confidence in her train of thought. “I’m just trying to do the right thing for her.”
A silence settles between the two of you before you realize you ought to respond to her.
“I get it,” you finally say. “I mean—…I don’t. Because I’m not a mom. But…I’m sure that when I am one some day, I’d understand.”
She finally offers you a smile in return to your words, polite but genuine nonetheless. And a soft remnant sniffle makes her ruffle her nose.
Her expression softens, and she stares straight ahead to your collarbone rather than your eyes. “She really likes you, you know?” Sana glances up at you now. “Hasn’t stopped talking about your ‘blubbery’ pancakes since last week.”
“Aww.”
There’s a sad glint in her eyes when she turns her torso away from you slightly in resignation before some hint of optimism flashes by in her face and she turns to you again.
“Do you…think you could give me the recipe?”
You want to ask her if everything is okay. But instead, you say, “sure.”
The sound of footsteps approaching is heard near the kitchen entrance and the two of you glance in that direction to see Jun walking in. He offers you a fleeting glance before taking his place beside Sana, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling him towards her before placing a kiss on her temple and saying, “hey honey.”
You watch as she averts her gaze down to the tips of her toes.
“Feeling better?” he asks her but there’s this lack of warmth you cannot quite discern.
“Yes,” she responds, scratching at her cheek as a discreet way of getting rid of the last remaining wetness that had streamed down her face earlier.
He rubs her arm soothingly and then looks at you with a smile pressed into a firm line. “Doing alright?”
You blink at him. “Wh—…yes.”
“Say, y/n, how’s your mom doing by the way?” he asks.
“She’s…better. She’s in hospice now.”
“Palliative?”
“Well—” you say, “I guess. It’s just temporary.”
He shuffles inside the pocket of his coat and takes out something. A small card with finely printed black ink on it. He hands it to you.
“I can’t imagine how expensive that all must be,” he says, and you glance down at the card.
Carevest Capital est. 2016
Invest in a healthier you!
You glance up at Jun. Sana’s gaze has now shifted to the inside of the sink.
“I started this business,” he says, “where we’re revolutionizing the way healthcare costs are managed. In our platform, we basically invest our clients’ money into the stock market, leveraging our high-reward algorithm to maximize returns. But here’s the unique part: we partner with leading healthcare CEOs who match a portion of the profits as an incentive for stock purchases. Together, these funds go directly toward paying off hospital bills and easing related financial burdens.”
Your eyes widen at his words. The speech was practiced, one you can only assume he has pitched to many potential clientele. But there’s a hint of personable grace to it as well.
“I’m telling you, y/n, we’ve had clients who have overcome six figures of medical debt in just six months,” he says, “and you’ll only need a couple thousand dollars to start yourself up.”
You purse your lips together, your finger pinching the corner of the card. “That’s amazing, Jun.”
He smiles at you, releasing Sana’s waist. “Sorry if this kinda came out of nowhere, but I heard through the grapevine that things have been rough.”
Oh, like how your card has declined publicly at the grocery store multiple times, or how you haven’t been able to afford your insurance deductible to get that chipped off part of your bumper fixed, or the fact you haven’t paid your landscapers in over three months so your lawn now looks like a swamp? It was a small town. And people’s finances were always a topic of interest for most.
“I just wanted to offer any help I can,” Jun says.
“Thanks,” you say, returning his smile, “I’ll, um, I’ll look into it.” You push the card into your pocket.
He offers you that same firm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he pulls Sana to him again, placing another kiss along her hairline and the PDA seems like overcompensation on some front from the way Sana is entirely frigid to his touch.
Maybe it was a woman’s intuition,
But you felt like something was wrong.
“Kids,” you hear Mr. Gojo’s crackly voice say as he stands leaning against the doorframe near the kitchen entrance, “let’s finish dinner?”
The three of you exchange glances before nodding and heading back towards the hall.
Your peach cobbler was apparently very good, the only thing that seemed to cut through the tension of the night. But that was the thing with family, right? You can yell and scream and cry and lecture and mope and roll your eyes at each other all you want but at the end of the day, they’re still family. Sana still seems slightly dejected though, and you can see Gojo in the corner of your eye at the table glancing up at her every other minute or so. His own way of making sure she’s doing okay, you think to yourself. Sana refuses to meet anyone’s line of sight except yours, however, which makes you feel some slight burdensome responsibility of sisterhood you had never signed up for. Nonetheless, you try to offer her a soothing smile whenever she looks up at you, and it seems to put her at ease.
The news of Sana and Jun moving seemed slightly anticlimactic, as Mrs. Gojo mentioned that they had already had an inkling that Jun and Sana would be moving closer to the city. You briefly wonder if Mrs. Gojo knew all along, but decided to make the announcement into some big affair just so that she could see her niece and nephew over a meal.
You make no more embarrassing comments. Conversation dulls into anything and everything unpersonal to you all, such as the news and weather and gossip of other people. And somewhere along the night, you relax your knee, the ball of it pressing into Gojo’s thigh underneath the table. It was wordless, innocent contact that occurs when two people become more comfortable with one another. Only excusable due to the slight buzz you felt in your veins from the wine. He’s kissed you before, yet somehow the press of his thigh against yours feels even more searing. There’s a point along the night where you tip your head to the right slightly, daringly close to resting your head on his shoulder due to the tipsy dizziness weighing in your head, and it would certainly put on a convincing show of newlywed affection for his aunt and uncle, but you manage to catch yourself. And subsequently refuse any more glasses of wine.
“Thanks for having me,” you say to Mrs. Gojo at the front entrance before she pulls you in for a hug.
“Oh, anytime dear,” she says as she gently pats your back, “please.”
When she pulls away from the hug, she holds you by your shoulders before her eyes glance down towards your left hand and the shimmering diamond that sat on the ring finger. She holds your hand in hers and lifts it to examine the twinkle underneath the lights of the chandelier.
“It really is a pretty ring,” she says, her eyes glossing over. “It looked beautiful on my sister, and it looks beautiful on you too.”
Your breath hitches slightly in your throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Gojo.”
“Please,” she says in response to the title, “Sumiko is fine.” But in less of a way in which she’s relaxing formalities, but rather in a way that acknowledges she never had the sovereignty to be called that in the first place.
You hear masculine voices approaching down the hallway as the three men make their way towards the front entrance as well. Gojo glances at you in the midst of their conversation, and he leaves the two of them to make his way over to you.
“Alright,” Gojo says, turning to face the rest of them as he stands beside you. “We’ll head out now.”
Sumiko pulls him in for a hug, then his uncle, and then obnoxiously by Jun as well. Sana fidgets with her fingers as she remains at the end of the line, and you catch a glimpse of surprise on her face when Gojo pulls her in for a hug too. You see him whisper something to her, and it’s only after she hears what he said that she returns the hug and wraps her arms around him as well.
You’re jolted out of your people-watching trance when Gojo walks up to you and takes your hand in his, shoving his other in his pocket. You glance down at the sight, the way his large hand engulfs your own. It’s warm in a firm hold, delicately squeezing your hand once right before you feel the cold air behind you when his uncle opens the door.
Well, you survived. That’s what you think to yourself as you sit in the passenger seat of Gojo’s car, watching the city lights twinkle as you two drive by. You don’t know what you were expecting. Drama? Ease? Tension? For a piece of the sky to fall and land on the roof? There was a part of you that wanted to impress. You want to be one of those daughter-in-laws that the in-laws just adore. You know, where they’re like, god am I so happy that she’s a part of the family now! The one that the mother-in-law is just so ecstatic to know that her son managed to hold down such a catch.
But any expectations and pressure dissolve with the reminder that this is all fake. Fake, fake, fake. And you’d do really well to remind yourself of that reality whenever you spent time with Gojo. Whenever you find yourself acclimating into his life for even a moment, just remember that it’s fake. Can you have a little fun here and there? Sure. Will you probably find yourself in even stranger situations going forward? Yes, because, well, that’s how life is. But it’s just fake. No obligations, no responsibility, nothing. Nada. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
But as you walk through the front door, staring straight ahead into the dark house at Gojo’s back as he sets down the keys by the foyer table, and even as you follow him further into the house towards the kitchen, that feeling inside you surges.
A woman's intuition.
That something between Jun and Sana was wrong.
Not just routine marital issues,
Or the occasional argument,
Something worse. Something dangerous.
And it’s not something you would ever expect a man to pick up on, even Gojo.
Because it was from the way Sana’s eyes silently communicated with you from across the table,
Something so subtle, a silent plea across a shared dimension,
That she needed help.
“Hey…” you speak up softly, standing in front of the fridge.
Gojo glances over his shoulder at you from the other side of the kitchen island, barely illuminated by the moonlight through the windows. He turns to face you. “What’s up?”
You blink at him.
“Um, I really don’t want to overstep again, but—”
There’s a sobering thought that flashes through your mind when you recall that you have never seen yourself as the hero in anyone’s story.
Simply because you could never, ever, ever trust yourself.
You could never trust your feelings or your decisions.
Because you cosigned on hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical loans. Because you stuck around for five years with a man that didn’t love you anymore. Because you still feel naive enough to believe that your best friend who betrayed you still misses you somehow. Because you still foolishly believe your mother will be around to hold her grandchildren someday.
Because you thought that your best bet in order to pull yourself out of hell was to fake marry a man,
And then act as if it’s all real when his aunt looks you in the eye with bittersweet tears as you now wear her bereaved sister’s ring in honor, entirely unaware it was actually being worn in vain.
How could you ever trust your judgement when you behave this way?
Never the hero. If anything, the villain.
“What is it?” Gojo repeats when he sees that you’ve been silent for too long. He tilts his head at you, his hair falling over his forehead haphazardly and he runs a hand through it to try to get it out of his face. Even in the dim light, his eyes shine a breathtaking blue.
You swallow hard.
“Um,” you say, and then glance down at the wetness you find at your heel. “The, um, the fridge is leaking again.”
He blinks at you for a solid ten seconds, and then the tension in his shoulders drops when he sulks and closes his eyes with exhaustion and defeat.
“Fuck. Okay.”
.
.
.
[end of chapter 5]
a/n. looool i really keep thinking i can post shorter chapters and them bam they be 10k+ words. but i swearrr it's just cuz i be yapping :(( anywho hope you enjoyed this chapter!! a lot of characters were kinda introduced and mm given a bit more depth in this chapter. sorry there wasn't as much romance or anything in this one though haha there will be more in the next one :0 big big thank you to my lovely ihm beta readers ayelin, jules, leni & mirl for helping me out w this chapter!! i believe i may have mentioned this before but i STRUGGLLEEEE with multi-character scenes (i'm much more comfy writing scenes that just have back n forth between two characters) so this chapter was challenginggg esp the whole dinner sequences and there were also a lot of complicated feelings at play, descriptions, stuff i wasn't sure if it was coming off the right way (and tbh am still not sure haha) but they really helped me work my thoughts out n gave wonderful suggestions too so tysm :'') much loveee!! hope to see you all in the next one <3 - ellie
➸ you're all caught up!
🏷️: @joemama-2 @sashisuslover @satorugirlie @slut-4-gojo @pickuptruck01
@gojodickbig @ayelindraws @ducky1232 @suguruslovedoll @bloopsstuff
@electrckchild @thegreatandlvable @anujah9 @lavender-hvze @cactisjuice
@crematedstar @yoongiboonhi @sxnkuna @allebazy @um-no-ok
@tofumiao @strawberrygirl0 @chiyokoemilia @xd3pr3ss3dx @ackermendick
@blueberry19000 @toffeebrat @mtsyik @sleepydumbassworld @4y3sh4
@crustykuki @celestialforce @mrswanggae @coolwitchtree @samistars
@imasexy-buffalo @erencvlt @satorubluu @fangirlingtod3ath @readerg77
@fiftyfeetstrawberryparfait @thegreatandlvable @ssetsuka @sexys-archives @astrokenny
@crustykuki @kristinering-actress @jaegersity @bbyxxm @zelzablues
note. i'd recommend subscribing to the fic on my ao3 so you can get email notifs :) tumblr taglist is based on interacts; please do not ask me/pressure me for updates or ask me when i am going to next update (read rules)
taglist is closed
#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo smut#gojo x reader smut#gojo x reader fluff#gojo x reader angst#jjk gojo#gojo satoru smut#gojo satoru angst#gojo satoru fluff#smut#fluff#angst#gojo satoru fanfiction#gojo x you#long fic#jjk fanfiction#jjk series#romance#fake dating#fake marriage#neighbors au#ongoing series#humor#slow burn#mutual pining#enemies to lovers#gojo x reader series
703 notes
·
View notes
Note
i would not survive wayne manor if i had to stare into dick's y/n blue orbs everyday
stop looking at me with those eyes! (again &. again mini drabble)
ft. post-kidnapped reader w/ yandere batfam shitpost
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
— masterlist ! ; related post !
thank u for sending this oh my god, i need to write about this!!! i absolutely love your art style for the reader, they're so handsome i'm crying and laughing 😭😭😭 and it's true!!! i will also die if i look at the entire family's eyes as a filipino who has never once stared at a foreigner's eyes because it's just so bright huhu.
unfortunately for your case though, your refusal to look straight at them just translates to extra unwanted counseling sessions with the family in one of the large expanses of the living rooms housing the available members for a meeting. it's a whole gathering where you're the center of attention.
and it's not only dick involved, it's also all the other blue-eyed bastards and an additional glowering, pair of green ones which shines the brightest of them all— and if not for cass and duke's dark colored peepers, you might've truly passed away because it's no joke that their eyes glint under the light passing through locked windows, especially when the sun is at its highest peak and hits at just the right angles to glisten.
not only have you no physical escape, but their obsessed stares never leave your form too, devouring and locking you whole in your place and claustrophobic to the chains of their bright-orbed gaze.
"(name), dear, as much as you don't wish for me to address the issue; it's becoming an unhealthy habit that you refuse to maintain eye contact with the family. it doesn't help that your heart palpitates, you perspire more often, and you make excuses to run to a different room when you do. what's wrong?"
you don't even have to look up from staring at your lap (as if you want to, hah!) to know it's your father's voice directed at you. it's a unique tremor that reverberates across the room and commands attention from all corners; yet when he speaks to you, it's coated with an unhealthily sweet reverence that seems completely foreign to someone who has never once spoken to him until now.
"u-uhm..." stuttering, you bite your lip, drowning in your own self-preservation that had you ignoring dick's stealthy steps to your seated body on the couch, only for his fingers to carefully graze on your chin, snapping you out of your attention yet being too late as he lifts your head up, forcing to stare at his wide-blown eyes.
they're unnaturally bright today, shining more than the beaches in those private islands bruce owns, it's even more terrifying that he's staring at you.
"it's unfair too... baby bird, that it's me you avoid the most," he groans, it grates at your ears but it was better to focus on your other senses if you wish to control the ever-living fear of miley cyrus' blue eyes burned right into your retina, now associated with dick's emboldened ones. his palms find its way to either side of your head, cradling it side to side, the contact forced you to continue staring ahead of him. and no matter how much you resort to blanking out, the intensity of his baby blue eyes forfeits you to focus on anything else.
yet it's the gentle graze on your side that encourages you to speak your mind, you really hate how infantilizing this entire scene feels, and comical that they're - dick - is taking your excuses too seriously.
"ah... well—" how do you explain that you're shit at eye-contact because, first, and can't deal with their luminescent stares pinning you down to your spot, brighter than diamonds and emerald crystals, second?
"everyone's just too... you know. i- i really can't explain without it sounding... uhm..."
"too overwhelming? too what? akhi/akhti? it has been years since we last took you in, and you've been perfectly communicating with us until now. what has changed? has that rebel, todd, dare to make another deal with you again which involves refusing to properly communicate with us? with me? because if he did—"
damian's voice slithers with conviction, condemnation and possessive threats that strike fear into your heart with every venom-laced word. if not for his head nuzzling into the shadows of your neck, the dichotomy of dialogue and action, you would've been convinced he's out to kill you instead.
yet the same gremlin muttering insults is your little brother who takes the entire space beside you on the velvety couch, rendering you completely cornered by his expecting glare. except now, unlike the mental torment he subjected to you, his green-eye gaze glimmers with concealed adoration you've learned to discern, he's always been a heckler for your attention; the tan hands wrapped around your waist in a snuggle tightens, not too tight that it deprives you of oxygen, but demands your answers instead.
like father, like son. as the saying goes. always finding solutions with unwanted affection. couldn't even push them away without them interpreting your actions as rebellion which only results in more uncomfortable competitions on who gets to cuddle you for longer.
and wait, no, they didn't take you in, bullshit! they basically kidnapped you. it's only that you've grown accustomed to dealing with them individually and as a group, but because they've been more lenient with technology, providing you access to wifi with supervised search results, you stumbled across one of , which not-so faintly reminds you of them.
your past traumas of them replaced with jaded motivation to survive and tolerate the ever living plague in your life you call your family.
bruce did advise you to associate them with positive things instead as a first step to your adjusting phase, and miley cyrus' anthropoidal, not-quite human stare isn't negative in any way, yet it's also by no means negative, if not unsettling— which leads you to a common ground, a common affiliation which helps you cope with the fear that they might harm you and isolate you with loneliness even further; forgetting your presence once again.
learning to love them was hard, so relating them to anything comical was way easier on the still-heavy burden in your heart which yearns for freedom burned off through countless of escape attempts, the grief of your mother's death now decades worth, and just the shock of it all that they're still interested in you until now that hasn't worn off still, despite the years passing by quicker than blowing off a candle-light.
still, everyone retains their gaze on you, never once breaking contact with your form as if you're capable of escaping their grasp. you try to look down, but to no avail, dick was too invested in hogging your head all to himself and nuzzling it in his toned stomach, whilst damian refuses to separate from his ever tightening hold which renders you unable to full grasp your thoughts and speak.
god-damned hypocrites.
"holy shit..." it's tim who broke off the silence, muttering under his breath in disbelief whilst his hand fiddles with the modded tablet bruce had given you as a christmas gift. his lanky finfers continue scrolling eyes fixated on the scene before him, every expression illuminated by the faint glow of your tablet's screen. the most visible feature, gazing at him through whichever was left of your vision unobstructed by dick's body; was of course, his widening blue eyes, as it seems like he'd hit jackpot with his appalled reactions.
it seems like he found the exact same picture.
would it be a bad thing now if you'd run away from the room once they all collectively hone in on the image before them? or is it too risky of a task?
honestly, with just how routine your life must be right now, you'd prefer to run, to feel the air run through your hair, to bask in the sun washing your body in its warmth.
maybe to find unbidden joy in another game of cat and mouse, or it may be another one of your excuses to avoid those piercing eyes once more if even by just a mere fraction.
or maybe you could stay for now, because is it just you, or did you actually succeed in traumatizing them for once instead of you?
#🌷... yael's works#🧁... yael's misc.#series: again & again#yandere#yandere dc#yandere dc comics#yandere batfam#yandere dick grayson#yandere bruce wayne#yandere batman#yandere nightwing#yandere damian wayne#yandere tim drake#yandere robin#platonic yandere#male yandere#soft yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere x y/n#yandere x gn reader#yandere x male reader#yandere x darling#yandere imagines#yandere batfamily#yandere batfam x reader#yandere batboys#yandere batfam x neglected reader#neglected reader#yandere scenarios
539 notes
·
View notes
Text
HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33
summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”
wc : 5k
an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))
Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.
It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.
When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.
But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.
Monaco isn’t a city, not really.
It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.
Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.
The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.
It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.
Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.
There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.
Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.
Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.
Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.
He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.
That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.
He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.
A voice.
Your voice.
It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.
Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.
The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.
He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.
He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.
You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.
The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.
And God, you look good.
For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.
You look different.
Not in a drastic way, just… grown.
Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.
And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.
To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.
You were his best friend.
No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.
He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.
People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.
Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.
Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.
But Max has never been great at logic.
For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”
But then you glance over your shoulder.
And your eyes lock.
He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt
You see him.
And Max realizes he’s fucked.
For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.
He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.
It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.
But this? This disarms him completely.
You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.
“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”
Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.
No one except you.
“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.
Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.
“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”
Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”
You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.
He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.
It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.
Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.
“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”
“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.
“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”
Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.
The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.
Maybe months.
It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.
You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.
“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”
“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.
You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”
Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”
“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”
Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”
“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.
Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”
You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.
“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.
“He is,” Max agrees.
When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.
“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.
“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.
“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”
“WHAT?”
You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.
So you double down.
“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.
“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.
“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”
“WHAT?”
This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.
He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.
“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.
“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.
“UPSTAIRS!”
“WHY?”
“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.
“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.
The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.
The second you step into the VIP area, the relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.
“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”
“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.
“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”
“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”
“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”
“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.
He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”
You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”
You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”
Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”
You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”
“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”
“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”
Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”
“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”
“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.
“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”
“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”
“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.
“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.
“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”
“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”
He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”
You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”
“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”
You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”
He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”
“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.
“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.
“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.
“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.
“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”
The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.
Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.
Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.
The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.
Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”
“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.
“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.
“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.
“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.
His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.
“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”
“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”
You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”
Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”
“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.
Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”
“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.
Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”
“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”
Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”
“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”
“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.
“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”
“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”
“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.
“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”
You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”
“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”
“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.
Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”
You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.
“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”
“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”
“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”
“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.
“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.
“Am not,” you huff, pouting.
“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.
When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.
It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.
“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.
Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.
His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.
He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.
Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.
You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”
He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.
Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.
By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.
It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.
The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.
As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.
Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.
You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.
“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.
The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.
Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.
You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.
The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.
Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.
Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”
You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.
“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.
You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”
When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.
The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.
Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.
“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.
At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.
The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.
“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”
“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.
He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”
You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.
With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.
“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.
Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.
“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.
“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”
For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.
“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.
The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.
—-
Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.
Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.
He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.
A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.
He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.
He’s still in his room. So far, so good.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.
For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.
But then—
There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.
Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.
It’s... a person.
A person in his bed.
What the actual hell?
His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.
Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?
Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.
The person is you.
You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.
“I need to call Daniel..”
For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.
How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.
This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.
#x reader#formula one#formula one x reader#formula 1#formula 1 x female reader#formula 1 x reader#max verstappen#mv33#mv1#mv1 x reader#mv33 x reader#mv1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen x you#f1 fanfic#f1#f1 fic#f1 x you
429 notes
·
View notes
Note
helloo!! can you please write about ‘arcane characters when you get in an argument’? i absolutely love ur writing btw!! 🫶🏻
arguments with arcane characters x fem reader
characters: viktor, jinx, vi, caitlyn, jayce, ekko, silco, mel and sevika.
writer's note: i love when you guys request this kind of interesting dynamics, it's so fun to write about it! also my favorite this time was sevika's, I meannn it was kinda hot and spicy. requests are open ;)
Viktor
The sound of the keys under his hands seems to fill the air, but what resonates most is the silence between the two of you. The room is steeped in an unsettling calm, while he keeps working as if nothing else exists. It’s been days since he last rested, and you know it. His skin is paler than usual, his eyes glassy, as if all the world's exhaustion is about to devour him. The scent of machine oil and metal permeates the room, but what hurts you most is the fragility of his being, the one he insists on ignoring.
Slowly, frustration begins to simmer within you. You love him more than anything in the world, but watching him so neglected, so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t even stop to eat, burns you.
You approach him, and suddenly, you can't take it anymore. Your tone isn't raised, but the fury is felt in every word. "Viktor, stop," you murmur, almost pleading. "You’re killing yourself. You haven’t eaten in days, not even slept. Do you know what you're doing? You're letting yourself go. Your body is crying out for help, and you're ignoring it."
He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t react. He keeps working as if your words don't reach him. Frustrated, you step closer. "You can't keep going like this, Viktor! What are you expecting? For someone to come and save you from yourself? This isn't just about your work, it’s about you!"
Finally, he looks up, but his eyes don’t seem to truly see you. Only a shadow of exhaustion. "I do it for them... for the people. The work... my research, it’s all that matters now."
"And you? Don’t you matter?" The anger mixes with something much deeper. Something that has to do with fear. "Your lack of self-love is so evident, Viktor, even I can see it. You're losing yourself in this obsession."
The words come out harsher than you intended. But seeing the flash of pain in his eyes, you realize what you've just said. A lump forms in your throat.
You fall silent, feeling the air grow thick. Guilt quickly invades you, and before you can think, you kneel in front of him. "Forgive me," you whisper, the anger already dissipated, replaced by sincere pain. "I didn't mean to be so harsh. It’s just... I don't want to see you like this, so lost. I don’t want you to hurt yourself because you are what I love most, Viktor."
Your hands tremble as you take his face in yours. "Please, take care of yourself. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to see you like this anymore, fighting alone against everything. Because, to me, you are everything."
Viktor says nothing at first. He just watches you, the conflict in his gaze. Then, as if releasing a sigh he had been holding for too long, he responds softly, "I’ll try... I promise I’ll try."
You look at him with a mix of relief and sadness. Finally, you stand up and take his hand firmly. "Now come with me. I’m going to make your favorite dinner. You need it."
The change in his expression is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Something in his face softens, and for the first time in a long while, he gives you a faint smile. "You know, that sounds wonderful," he says with a tone that mixes surprise and gratitude.
As you prepare dinner, the atmosphere changes. The tension slowly dissolves, but there’s something else in the air, a silent understanding between you two. After dinner, you look at him with a mischievous smile.
"Viktor," you say, your voice full of complicity. "How many days have you gone without bathing? Because, honestly, I think it’s time you do."
He visibly shifts in discomfort, his face taking on a pink hue. "Honestly... I don’t know," he replies, as if trying to evade the question, looking down. "The truth is, I haven’t had time to think about those things."
Your laugh is soft but teasing. "I think you’ve forgotten a bit about yourself. So, what do you think if after dinner, we take a bath together?"
Viktor blushes even more, but before he can say anything, he has already conceded, and with an exaggerated formality only he can pull off, he responds, "Well... that... that would be very pleasant. If you don’t mind, of course."
The tension from before has transformed into something softer, lighter. You, amused by his so formal response, take his hand and lead him to the bathroom, feeling that, in that moment, all that really matters is that he’s finally willing to take care of himself.
Jinx
The sound of the spark igniting the fuse fills the room. Jinx has a playful smile on her face, but something isn't right. The bomb is making strange noises, as if it's about to fail. The sparkle in her eyes fades for a second, but it's accompanied by a nervous chuckle.
"What's wrong, Jinx?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. The moment feels out of place, and for a moment, you sense that something is very wrong, very out of control. "That... doesn't sound right."
But she just stands there, watching the bomb intently. She doesn't move. The air grows heavy, and suddenly, the bomb makes a terrifying click.
Your eyes widen as you see the timer on the bomb speeding up. A chill grips you, and in an instant, you act on instinct. You leap toward the table, your breath quickening, and deactivate the bomb just before it fully triggers. The explosion is seconds away from ringing in your ears, but you manage to stop it.
A sigh of relief escapes your lips, and you quickly turn to face Jinx. She’s still there, motionless, her eyes fixed on the deactivated bomb, as if hypnotized. She doesn't look scared or relieved, just... empty.
"Why didn't you do anything?" you confront her, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. "Why did you just stand there? You could have died, Jinx! We could have both died!"
Jinx stares at the floor, her demeanor shifting in a second. The mockery dissolves, the mask falls, and in its place appears the scared girl she so often hides. "I... just wanted to see what would happen." Her response is soft, trembling, as if she doesn't know how to process what just happened.
Those few seconds of silence feel eternal. The air around you grows heavy, as if the whole world is waiting for something else to explode. And it does. You can't take it anymore. Fury takes over, and you lash out at her.
"What did you want to see, Jinx?" Your voice is harsh, filled with frustration. "Did you want to see us both die because of your stupid curiosity? Is that what you wanted?"
Jinx shrinks, her expression transforming into something so fragile it burns your heart. Her face is filled with regret, but her eyes can't meet yours. Tears begin to well up in her eyes, but she keeps staring at the floor, feeling small and scolded.
"I didn't mean to... I swear..." she murmurs, almost in a whisper, her words choked by the pain of having gone too far.
Your rage starts to dissipate, replaced by something deeper. An irrational fear, the anguish of watching Jinx destroy herself. You walk toward her, kneel to her level, and gently take her chin, lifting it so she looks at you.
What you see stops you cold. Jinx's nails are deeply embedded in her palms, red marks that have hurt her, as if she wants to punish herself for something. You stare at her intently, the pain reflected in her eyes and her gesture.
Quickly, you take her hands, without saying a word, and kiss them softly, your lips touching the small wounds on her skin. The blood from her hands stains your lips, but you don't care. "You know I hate seeing you destroy yourself," you murmur, your voice broken by the fear you still feel. "Please, Sweets, don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to us."
You stay still, waiting for her reaction. Finally, the door that had closed in her heart opens, and Jinx lets out a deep sob. Tears fall down her face, like an unexpected rain, and her body trembles.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." Jinx sobs, clutching you tightly. There are no more laughs, no more jokes. Just pure pain. And you hold her with equal intensity, rocking her in your arms, trying to soothe her, to erase the suffering she always carries inside.
"Pain isn't the solution," you whisper, stroking her braided hair, trying to convey all the love you feel for her. "I'll always be here for you, Sweets. You don't have to carry all this alone."
She remains silent for a moment, her sobs calming, but her embrace is still desperate. Finally, after a few seconds, her eyes lift, and with a small smile, she says:
"So... want to make bombs, but in a fun way? With less blood this time!"
The laughter that follows fills the room, and even though you know the battle isn't won, this small step in her recovery gives you renewed hope. Taking her hand, you lead her back to the table with the tools, ready for another night filled with madness... but this time, with a little more care.
Vi
The air in the Undercity feels heavy tonight, a cold that seems to seep into your bones. The sound of metal echoing through the structures, the distant murmurs of shouts and laughter, mix with the echo of your footsteps on the iron bridge that crosses the dark, grimy avenue. You walk in silence, but the tension in the air is palpable.
Suddenly, a drunk, staggering with a vacant stare, approaches you. The stench of alcohol wafts from his breath, and his eyes settle on you in a not-so-friendly way. His rough, hollow laughter resonates in the air, as if nothing he was about to do mattered.
Before you can react, his hands touch your backside without warning, sending a wave of revulsion through you and a shiver down your spine.
A choked scream escapes you, but before you can push him away, you feel Vi’s furious gaze, like a storm about to break loose. The anger on her face is palpable, and not a second later, the drunk is on the ground, receiving blows that thunder like hammers. His face is soon covered in blood, and the sound of fists pounding against his body leaves a disturbing feeling in the air.
Vi doesn’t stop; each punch is more brutal than the last. People in the distance quickly disperse, leaving only the echo of the hits. Your heart races, worry consumes you as you watch Vi unleash her uncontrollable fury.
"Vi, stop!" You lunge toward her, but in the process, one of her fury-fueled punches lands directly on your lip. The immediate pain stuns you, and when you touch your face, your hand is filled with blood. The split lip burns. Vi stops abruptly, looking at her bloodstained knuckles—her own, the drunk’s, and now yours.
She stands frozen, her face, once filled with rage, now shows a look of horror. “Oh, God…” she murmurs, seeing what she has done.
You tremble, not just from the pain in your lip but from the brutality of her actions. You’re not used to violence, not on this magnitude. Fear knots in your chest, and you let out a shaky sigh as you watch Vi, her face now wrecked with guilt.
"I didn’t mean to!" Her voice is broken, as if the guilt is overwhelming her.
“Let’s go home,” you respond coldly, more out of fear than anger, "and when we get there, we’ll talk."
The walk home is silent, the tension hanging between you like a taut string about to snap. When you arrive, you enter the kitchen and quickly tend to your lip, while Vi watches silently, unable to articulate a word.
Once you finish, you turn to her. The air is thick with the weight of what’s unsaid. “Vi…” you begin, your voice soft but firm. “You need to learn to control your anger. This time, you just didn’t hurt someone else. This time, it was me too. Me, the person you love the most. Do you realize that? Do you realize how I felt when your blows landed on me?”
Her eyes fill with tears, and her throat tightens as if she wants to say something, but the words are stuck in her chest. “I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
You continue, your words coming out with more pain than you expected. “Sometimes… I’m afraid of you, Vi. Not because of what you might do to others, but because of what you might do to me. I don’t want to live in fear of your rage hurting me. It hurts so much. It hurt so much.”
Vi collapses in front of you, breaking down. Her tears fall one after another, and she throws herself into your arms, holding you in a desperate embrace. “I don’t know why I’m like this… I don’t know how… how to control it. I always have this rage inside, and sometimes I don’t know how to stop it. When it explodes, everything goes to hell, I know…” Her voice cracks as she clings to you. "I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you."
The softness in her tone hits you harder than any punch, and in that moment, you know she understands. "Vi, I… I don’t want you to hurt anymore," you murmur, caressing her back. "I don’t want that rage to control you."
She pulls back slightly, looking into your eyes, her face soaked in tears. “I’m so sorry. I swear it wasn’t my intention… but sometimes…” her words trail off in a sigh.
A small, sad smile forms on your face. “Have you thought about boxing? Maybe it’ll help you release all that. And I’ll go with you! But promise me you won’t use me as a punching bag, okay?" you joke with a smile, trying to lighten the moment.
Vi finally laughs, a laugh that feels like relief. “I promise. Just, please, don’t leave me, okay?”
You approach her, tenderly kissing her, careful to avoid the wound on your lip, and you feel the softness of her lips, the calm that finally settles between you. “I would never leave you, babe,” you whisper as you both embrace, knowing that, even though everything is complicated and painful, there is something between you that always keeps you together.
Caitlyn
The door bursts open, and Caitlyn enters the room with a face marked by a fury that seems to burn inside her. Your eyes lift from where you're sitting, a little surprised by her abrupt entrance, but you quickly see what has been happening.
"I can't believe what I had to hear today," Caitlyn throws out, her voice cold and cutting as she drops her jacket on a chair. "All because of your... damn ideas of justice. Do you have any idea what that means in this place?"
You stand up slowly, the tone of her voice making the air grow denser, heavier. "What happened, Cait?" you ask, though part of you already knows it has something to do with her ideals.
"It's not just what happened, it's what's happening. All the damn time," she responds, walking toward you with contained rage. "You go on and on about doing what's right, without understanding that ‘right’ isn’t always what people in high places think. You think you can change something, but all you're doing is making it worse."
Your heart races, and a spark of frustration rises in your chest. "Make it worse?" you repeat, feeling indignation begin to spill out of you. "Is that what you think? That my actions aren't worth it? You're so blinded by your perfect view of the world that you can't see what's really going on in the streets! Evil isn't just in the ‘high society,’ Caitlyn. It's everywhere."
Caitlyn looks at you with an intensity that almost seems defiant, but also wounded. "I'm not blind, the problem is that I can't understand why you keep going against the whole system. Every time you do, you just feed more chaos. You have to think about the consequences, about the people who can't afford those ideals you're defending like you're some fairy-tale hero. Not everyone can afford that luxury."
"A luxury?" Your voice rises slightly, now stronger. "What you call 'luxury' should be a right. Do you really not understand that people are suffering? That your 'system' is letting all of this crumble just to maintain power? I can't just stand by because you think it's fine because it looks neat from your tower."
Caitlyn steps back, as if your words hit some deep place inside her. "Not everything is as simple as ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ Sometimes things aren’t black or white. Sometimes you have to make concessions to move forward. What you’re doing is just putting yourself in the center, without understanding that there’s more at stake."
The words hang in the air between you two, and the intensity of the argument seems to rise with every exchange. Caitlyn is so convinced of her point of view that you can't help but feel frustrated by the barrier between you.
"What I understand, Caitlyn," you finally say, with a tense calm, "is that sometimes you do more harm by trying to follow the rules than by breaking them. And I know your intentions are good, but I can't stay silent watching you justify the unjustifiable."
Caitlyn closes her eyes for a moment, as if taking a breath to calm herself. When she opens them again, something has changed. It’s not that her anger has disappeared, but she seems more exhausted, as if all this is wearing her down. "I’m not asking you to agree with me. I'm just asking you to understand that sometimes, even if it hurts, decisions aren’t as easy as you see them."
There's a long silence between you, the air thick with discomfort and tension. You both know you're not going to come to an agreement this time, but you also know that won't change what lies between you.
Finally, Caitlyn sighs and sits on the edge of the table, letting the exhaustion take over her. "Sometimes I feel like I can't do anything right, no matter what I try," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. "And you... you make me see everything that's wrong with me."
You move a little closer, calmer but still hurt. "Cait, that's not what I want. What I want is for you to realize you don’t have to carry all of this on your own. You don’t have to keep walking down this path if it doesn't make you happy. I’m here for you, even when we don’t agree."
Caitlyn looks at you, her eyes reflecting some vulnerability, something she doesn't usually show. "I know. I just… I’m scared that I could lose everything I’ve built because... because I don't know when to stop."
You sit next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You’re not going to lose it, Cait. No matter how much we fight, what matters is that we’re in this together. But you also have to learn to take care of yourself, not just the world."
Caitlyn nods slowly, and for the first time in a long while, a small smile appears on her face, though it’s sad. "I guess sometimes I forget that."
The tension begins to dissipate, although the brush of differences is still there. Deep down, you both know that these kinds of discussions won’t end anytime soon, but you also know that you're both moving forward for something bigger than the disagreement.
Jayce
There was something heavy in the air that night. An uncomfortable silence that hadn't been able to break for the past few days. Despite being in the same house, in the same room, you felt farther away from Jayce than ever. It wasn't just the lack of physical contact, it wasn't just the absence of the small gestures that usually made everything work between you. It was something deeper, something that had been growing inside you without him realizing it.
Finally, you couldn’t hold it any longer. You sat on the bed, staring into the emptiness in front of you, and when he walked in, that feeling of discouragement completely overwhelmed you. Without looking at him, you started.
“Jayce, I don’t know what to think anymore,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “It’s been days since… since we’ve had anything. And I’m not just talking about sex, I’m talking about everything. I don’t even feel like you desire me anymore.”
Jayce, who had been in his own world as usual, looked up at you, confused by your words. “What are you saying, honey?” Surprise was evident in his voice, but it wasn’t enough to calm the torrent that had been unleashed inside you.
“You don’t get it, do you?” You stood up from the bed, walking towards him, words pouring out like a torrent. “Every day, I feel like I’m just here, fitting into your perfect life. Everything we do, everything we plan, it feels like you’re doing it because you have to. What about what I want, Jayce? What about us?”
Jayce took a step towards you, opening his arms as if he wanted to get closer, but something in your gaze made him stop. “No… I don’t understand. What do you mean by fitting into my perfect life?”
Your breathing quickened. “What I mean is that sometimes, I feel like I’m just an accessory, another piece in the puzzle you’ve been putting together. Like what matters most to you is making everything look right, fitting, but not us. I don’t feel desired, Jayce. I feel empty, like I don’t matter, like I’m just here because I fit into your life, not because you actually want to be with me.”
The pain in your voice was palpable, and although Jayce tried to step closer, you moved away from him. “I’m so tired of feeling like we’re nothing more than two people sharing a space. There’s no passion, no connection… Just the idea of what’s expected of us.”
Jayce looked completely lost, like he never imagined you felt this way. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. You know how important you are to me. But I… I’ve been so focused on work, on everything we need to achieve, that…”
“That what?” you interrupted, unable to keep bearing what felt like a pile of excuses. “That you’re too busy to see what’s right in front of you? I have my own problems too, Jayce. Not everything revolves around your projects, your perfect image. I’m a person too, and my feelings matter too.”
The words hung in the air, between rage and pain. Jayce didn’t say anything, and that only increased the feeling of abandonment you were experiencing. Frustration and sadness took over you more and more. Finally, the silence was broken, but not in the way you expected.
“Honey…” Jayce started, his voice softer now, but still full of confusion. “I didn’t want to make you feel this way. I didn’t realize I was leaving you out. I didn’t want you to feel… unwanted.”
Your eyes filled with tears, the emotional pressure of being unheard for so long finally bursting. “I don’t want to be just another option in your life. I want to be loved, I want to feel desired, I want you to look at me like you’re afraid of losing me. And I don’t feel that from you. I feel like everything we do is a routine, just fulfilling what’s supposed to be.”
Jayce slowly approached, now understanding the gravity of your words. “I… I don’t know how I didn’t see all this. I’m sorry, honey. I really am. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve been so focused on everything else that… I’ve failed you.”
A heavy silence fell between you. You didn’t know what to think, just felt a knot in your stomach, but when Jayce took a step towards you, taking your hands, you couldn’t help but look him in the eyes, searching for some sign that he truly understood how you felt.
“Please don’t leave me,” he whispered, his tone full of sincerity. “I promise I’ll change, I won’t take you for granted. You’re the most important thing to me, and if I made you feel like you weren’t, it hurts me deeply.”
You looked at him intently, seeing in his eyes the truth of his regret. “I know… but I need you to act instead of just saying it.”
Jayce nodded, a glimpse of a smile appearing on his face as his hands caressed yours. “I will. From now on, you and I… we’re a priority.”
Your heart lightened hearing those words, and when he hugged you, you held him tightly, knowing that the road to healing that disconnection wouldn’t be easy, but at least, finally, there was a beginning. And that promise to rebuild what had been lost was all you needed to start healing.
Ekko
That afternoon, it felt like the tension between you and Ekko was thicker than ever. You had been working together on a project, and the small jokes and dismissive attitudes from Ekko, which you usually let slide, began to affect you more than you expected.
"Wow, did you really think that was a good idea?" Ekko said, his biting tone making the sarcasm leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
Your breath became heavier, and although you tried to ignore it, something inside you snapped. You looked at him, furious, and without thinking twice, dropped the tool you had in your hands. "You know what? I'm leaving."
Ekko looked at you, somewhat surprised by your reaction, but before you could walk away any further, he let out a light laugh, as if nothing was happening. "What's up, got your period or something?"
That was the breaking point.
You stopped in your tracks, feeling a lump form in your throat. You turned to him with eyes shining with frustration. "You know what, Ekko? It's because of you. Because sometimes you don't seem to think about what you say, and you don't care how I feel."
Ekko furrowed his brow, trying to understand what you were saying, but before he could speak, you continued venting.
"You make me feel like my problems don't matter, like everything I do isn't up to your standards. Always so... so carefree, like you never have to think about how your words affect me. Have you ever thought about that?" Rage and pain built up in your voice as you spoke, but the words kept pouring out like an avalanche.
And then, without warning, what you hadn’t been able to say before came flooding out. "You know what's the worst? That I feel insecure, Ekko. I feel like I'm not good enough for you, like I'm not smart enough, not attractive enough... Because you never show jealousy, you never show anything. Like you never care. And that makes me doubt myself."
Ekko went silent, looking at your face in surprise, an expression that showed he finally understood what you had just said. The mockery from his previous joke faded, and his face shifted from confusion to deep seriousness.
"I... I didn't know you felt that way," he said finally, his words soft and filled with guilt. "I never meant to make you feel that way. I'm sorry, really. I'm not good at showing what I feel, I've never been."
He slowly approached you, not trying to interrupt the flow of your emotions. "You know, I grew up in a world where showing emotions was seen as weakness. Life never gave me time to process them. Since I was a kid, I was always at war, always on the move, always worried about surviving. But I never wanted that to affect you."
Your eyes softened a little as you listened to his words, and for a moment, the weight of frustration lifted slightly. "I... I didn't want you to think I cared less. It's just that sometimes, I get so caught up in my own stuff that I forget that the people close to me also have feelings. And I don't want you to feel belittled, I don't want you to feel like you're not enough."
There was a tense silence between you both, but something in his tone softened the atmosphere. "I'm sorry, really. It was never my intention to hurt you. You're incredible just as you are, and you make me feel like I can be more, like I can improve."
For a moment, everything seemed to calm down, but Ekko, with a mischievous smile, added, "And if it helps, yeah, I do worry a little when others look at you. But I'm not so good at showing jealousy."
You couldn't help but smile a little, even though you still felt the open wounds. Ekko, seeing this, moved a bit closer and gave you a gentle hug, as if it were a small gesture of comfort you so needed.
"I really care about you. I don't want you to feel insecure. I don't care if you're smarter or not, because what really matters to me is that you're you."
And before you could respond, Ekko joked with his usual playful attitude. "Although, if I ever catch you with someone else, you'd better be ready, because I’m not going to sit still."
You laughed despite everything, feeling the tension slowly disappearing, as if everything you had kept inside had finally found a way out.
"I love you too," you replied, as you hugged him again, knowing that, although the path wouldn’t always be easy, at least you both understood each other a little more.
Silco
Silco's office was shrouded in shadows, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a lamp on his desk. The phone conversation he was having was filled with frustration. "No, that won't work. We need something more decisive, something more substantial," he growled before hanging up with a sharp click that echoed through the wood.
From your position at the door, you could hear every word, feeling the tension in the air. You couldn’t help but intervene. "Maybe you could try..." you began, suggesting a plan you had come up with after hearing his problem.
Silco looked up at you, his cold, calculating eyes locking onto yours. "Shut up. You don't know anything about this," he snapped with disdain, his words cutting through you like a knife.
The coldness in his voice felt like a blow to the chest. Without saying another word, you turned around and stormed out of the office, slamming the door with a force that resonated down the hallway. Frustration burned in your chest as you climbed the stairs to your room.
Surprised by your reaction, Silco followed. Reaching the closed door, he knocked forcefully. "Open the door immediately!" he shouted, his tone a mix of anger and confusion.
"I won't! Go away!" you replied from inside, your voice trembling with both rage and pain. A sound from inside made his heart race. Fearing the worst, he broke down the door without thinking twice.
Inside, he found you packing your things with trembling hands. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his eyes fixed on you, trying to understand the magnitude of your decision.
"I'm done, Silco. Done with you not seeing me as someone capable of helping you, done with you constantly underestimating me," you declared, your voice trembling but resolute. "I’m a human being, just like you, and I can handle matters and plans. I’m not just a decoration in your world."
Silco scoffed, crossing his arms in impatience. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Do you want me to buy you something? You look hysterical."
That was the breaking point. You turned to face him, your eyes fiery and filled with tears. "Silco, remember where you found me. I was a worker in that horrible brothel, sold by my parents at eleven. I thought that by freeing myself, I would have a voice, that finally someone would see me as an equal. But it’s not like that. You don’t even listen to me."
Silco looked at you, his eyes softening as the weight of your words sank in. He approached you cautiously, his fingers touching your cheek with an unusual tenderness. "It's not personal," he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. "I’ve always been like this, I prefer to work alone. I’ve been through so much to earn respect in the Undercity that sometimes I minimize the opinions of others. But I never meant for you to feel this way, not you."
The wall of pain you had built began to crack under the weight of his words. "I’ll change. From now on, I’ll listen to what you have to say. In fact, tell me that plan you were going to propose earlier."
A pause lingered, but then, with a sigh, he added: "But before that, there’s something more important."
His words echoed in the silence before Silco took you by the waist, pulling you toward him. He kissed you with a passion that overflowed with unspoken apologies, a fire that spoke of promises of change and a renewed understanding between you both.
Mel
The luxurious bedroom was bathed in soft lights that enhanced the golden and ivory tones of the walls. You turned in front of the mirror, admiring how the dress flowed around your body, highlighting your curves and cascading elegantly in a fabric waterfall. The excitement of the night reflected in your eyes, waiting for Mel's approval.
When you stepped out of the dressing room, the smile on your lips quickly faded as you noticed the disapproving expression on her face. Mel looked you up and down, her gaze critical and stern. "Take it off," she ordered in a cold, distant tone. "Put on the one I chose for you."
You frowned, surprised. "Why? What's wrong with this one?"
"It’s not that there's anything wrong with it," she replied, crossing her arms with an air of authority. "It’s just not what I want for you tonight. Change your makeup and hairstyle as well. Something more sophisticated would be better."
The heat rushed to your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger. "Nothing I do is good enough for you, right?" you exclaimed, your eyes sparking with indignation. "It feels like you always have to correct me."
Mel raised an eyebrow, her voice firm and unapologetic. "You should be grateful. I'm helping you make the most of your appearance. I need us to be perfect tonight."
"You mean you need to be perfect," you corrected, unbuckling your heels and throwing them to the floor with a sharp sound. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
Without waiting for a response, you made your way to the terrace, needing fresh air to calm the whirlwind of emotions stirring inside you. The cool breeze caressed your face as you leaned on the railing, trying to hold back tears.
It wasn’t long before Mel appeared behind you, her elegant silhouette illuminated by the moonlight. "Why are you acting like this?" she asked, her voice softer now, but still tinged with confusion.
"Seriously, Mel?" you turned to face her, your voice shaking with frustration. "Nothing I do seems right to you. You always correct me—the way I walk, the way I talk, and now even the color of my lipstick. It’s extreme and stupid."
Mel looked at you with a mix of surprise and reflection, as if your words had struck her for the first time. "I hadn’t thought of it that way," she finally admitted, her voice quieter. "I guess... I’m really hard on myself, and I project it onto others."
You took a deep breath, your eyes still shining with contained emotion. "I don’t want you to be like that with me. I’m not an extension of your standards, Mel."
Silence stretched between you for a moment before Mel took a step forward, enveloping you in a firm, comforting hug. "I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. You’re fine just as you are, and I apologize for projecting my insecurities onto you."
You leaned into her, feeling the tension slowly fade. "I understand," you replied softly. "I know you were raised to be perfect. But please, when you feel those things, communicate them in a different way. Don’t impose them."
Mel nodded, her gaze meeting yours with a mix of regret and affection. "I will," she promised. "Please, come with me to the party. Without you, I won’t have the strength to go."
You hesitated for a moment, looking at yourself with insecurity. Mel noticed and gently cupped your face in her hands. "That dress looks amazing on you," she said with a warm smile. "It highlights everything I love about you."
Her words and the kiss that followed dispelled any doubt, filling you with renewed confidence as you agreed to accompany her, knowing this time, you would go as yourself, not as a perfected version to satisfy Mel's standards.
Sevika
The apartment door opened slowly, revealing Sevika's figure in the dim light. She walked in with tired steps, the weight of the night reflecting on her shoulders. You, who had been waiting patiently for her return, stood up from the couch with relief, but as you approached to embrace her, something stopped you. A strange scent, sweet and foreign, emanated from her skin, a fragrance that didn’t belong to any perfume you knew her to wear.
Your heart raced as you took a slight step back, your eyes fixed on her. "Who were you with?" you asked, trying to keep your voice calm, although a mix of anxiety and distrust began to rise within you.
Sevika looked at you in surprise, not understanding the reason for your unease. "I was at the bar, drinking. My ex joined me, we talked a bit, had a good time." She said it with such casualness that every word pierced you like a poisoned dart.
Anger began to bubble up inside you. "Why are you talking about it so casually?" you spat, feeling your voice start to tremble.
She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
"You shouldn’t have gone out with your ex!" you exclaimed, frustration coloring your words. "You owe me respect."
Sevika crossed her arms, her gaze hardening. "I do what I want," she replied coldly. "If you don’t trust me, maybe you should leave."
Your eyes widened at her comment. The idea of walking out that door tempted you, but sadness and rage kept you rooted to the ground. "Is that what you want?" you whispered, your voice shaking. "For me to leave?"
Sevika seemed to realize the weight of her words. She took a step toward you, extending her hand as if trying to stop you. "Wait, I didn’t mean that," she murmured, her tone softer, almost pleading. "You know I’m impulsive."
"Of course, impulsive... and nostalgic too," you replied bitterly, your eyes burning with contained pain. "You miss your ex, don’t you? You want to get back together with her?"
She frowned, stepping closer until her hands rested on your shoulders. "What’s your problem?" she asked, her voice low but firm. "Why are you saying all these things?"
The emotions you had kept under control for so long finally exploded. "Because I’ve been cheated on before!" you confessed, tears beginning to well up in your eyes. "I know the patterns when I see them. I don’t want to feel stupid and used again."
The hardness in Sevika’s expression melted away, replaced by deep understanding. Her hands, once firm, slid down your arms in a gesture of comfort. "I’m not those people, you shouldn’t compare me to anyone," she said, her voice firm but full of empathy. "If I didn’t want to be with you, I would tell you. I don’t need to lie to anyone. I love you, only you."
Her sincerity pierced your insecurities, breaking down the wall of fear you had built. Still, doubts lingered. "Then why did you go out with her?" you asked, still needing an explanation.
"Because it was a coincidence," Sevika explained, her gaze sincere. "We ran into each other by chance, and I thought there was nothing wrong with sharing a couple of drinks. But now I see it bothers you, and I don’t want to do anything that makes you feel this way."
Her words resonated within you, slowly calming the internal storm. You nodded, allowing the warmth of her promise to envelop you. "I want to believe in you," you whispered.
Sevika stepped closer, her lips finding yours in a deep kiss, full of promises and silent regrets. When she pulled away, her soft voice broke the trance. "Are you better?" she asked, gently caressing your cheek.
"I'll be better when you take a shower and get that cheap perfume off," you joked, your tone still slightly irritated but with a hint of humor.
Sevika laughed, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the space between you. She pulled you by the waist, drawing you even closer. "Then I’m going to need your help," she whispered in your ear, her voice laden with seduction. "Tonight, I feel especially incapable."
Your smile widened, a spark of mischief lighting your eyes. "I guess I can help with that," you murmured, letting the intimacy of the moment take over, knowing that despite everything, you were in the place you wanted to be: by her side.
#arcane x reader#arcane fanfic#arcane imagine#arcane x female reader#arcane#arcane fluff#arcane x you#ekko arcane#viktor x you#viktor imagine#viktor x y/n#viktor arcane#jinx arcane#jinx x reader#viktor x reader#vi arcane#vi x you#vi x reader#arcane caitlyn#caitlyn x reader#jayce arcane#jayce x reader#ekko x reader#silco x reader#arcane silco#mel x reader#mel arcane#sevika arcane#sevika x reader#sevika x you
461 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chuck Tingle interview
OK, here is the FINAL 2024 Tingles My Butt post, which I've been pretty hyped for. I still kind of can't believe this. While I was figuring out how I'd move on from 2024, @drchucktingle generously offered to answer some questions of mine to commemorate the end of my tingler project! Here they are!
-Considering that your process for tinglers is just to write it out and not stress about proofreading and editing, was it weird for you to see someone decide to go back, examine, and contemplate every single tingler published in the past decade?
the whole dang project was really wonderful for me, for exactly the reason you have just said. tinglers are very STREAM OF CONSCIOUS and only edited with one quick pass so while i think this adds to their honesty and rawness it also means that my time with them is limited. really watching someone go back through them at this depth was like reading a diary that i have not opened for many years, and it jumps around through time in a very beautiful way. it was very moving
-I love tingler character names. I personally admire how many great ones you come up with. (I never know what to name my ttrpg characters.) You just come up with all these great names that seemingly spring from nowhere, how do you do it?
DANG great question cant believe i have not been asked this before but yes there is a type of name that shows up in the tingleverse that is unusual and has a certain feeling and cadence that is very specific. if i am trotting along with sweet barbara and there is a name of a product or a place or something that has this tone we will say ‘oh thats a tingleverse name.’ the reason i wanted to do this in the books was as a very subtle way of saying these stories exist on a timeline that is RIGHT next to ours, so in some ways it is exactly the same as our world but there are these little cultural differences with things like chocolate milk and spaghetti and then with the names. you will have buckaroos like justin and sarah trotting along next to buckaroos named corb torbins-quill or borto lart.
-So, as a reader, reading from 2014 to now, old tinglers and new tinglers feel different to me. I believe you when you say tinglers have always been sincere, but they feel MORE sincere than they used to be. Like, I feel like there was some self-consciousness and irony in some of the early tinglers that you've since let go of and embraced the Chuck Tingle voice more. I don't know, am I imagining this, or does this square with your tingler writing journey? If it does, what has that process been like for you?
i think you are absolutely correct. the intention with tinglers was always to be a place for me to express myself with complete sincerity, but the practical way of HOW to trot like this took a bit of an evolution to arrive at. in other words i knew the basics, but actually refining the best way to express yourself and perform your art takes time. maybe in the same way goin back and watching season one of a tv show can feel very different from season three, even though they are part of the same expression.
similar thing happened with in my chuck PRESENTATION as well, where my main focus was to stay anonymous so the metaphors i used to talk about my life were still true but laid on much thicker. even my attire was a large gi so that you would not even be able to see my shape, which has obviously changed now because i wear suits these days. all of this was a process of starting in a place i knew was important to me and then peeling off the parts that were not helping the message or expression over time
-Is there anything you could tell us about the significance of Borson Reems? I feel like he's more than just another Buck Trungle/Chuck Tangle/etc but I'm not sure what exactly...
yes borson reems is god. not that i believe in GOD in the way that most buckaroos talk about god (i am agnostic) but within the tingleverse, borson reems is an avatar for the creator of that world. technically i am borson reems, because i am writing the books. the question is: are we all the gods of our own little worlds that we create? i do not know, but when i look around at my buds and the joy and love they bring to various timelines they sure seem like gods to me
-A lot of no-sex tinglers (especially ones that aren't romance-focused) vary in terms of plot and structure a lot more than erotic tinglers. Is your writing process for these stories any different?
same process actually, but the sex scenes in tinglers are about 1500 to 2000 words long, and total tingler length is 4000 words which means if you are not including that portion you are going to have to come up with some creative way to fill that space in the story and a new axis for story to turn on. so the variety comes from me getting creative and trying out different axis points
-In "Not Pounded By My Book "Pounded In The Butt By My Non-Fungible Tingler That Is Literally This NFT" Because Of The Current Catastrophic Environmental And Ethical Impact" there are references to an earlier draft of the story that was never released because you ended up disagreeing with the message. Are there any other tinglers that never got finished and/or published, if you'd be willing to talk about any of them?
oh this is a VERY good question. the story of the NFT tingler is that when buckaroos were first talkin on nfts online and nobody really knew what they were, my first thoughts were just ‘oh this is interesting what the heck is this?’ this is my way with most CURRENT EVENTS. and i thought ‘this would be an interesting tingler, i suppose maybe i should make the tingler an ACTUAL nft’. this was in VERY early days so i did not really even understand what an nft was (neither did 99 percent of buckaroos yet honestly). so i looked into it just enough to actually MAKE a nft tingler that was a real nft and put it out. lasted for about thirty seconds before buckaroos were messaging saying ‘oh this is bad chuck you should look into what this is’ and i DID look into it and thought’ oh yeah this is terrible nevermind’. i took down the original and thought ‘well THIS is what art is all about. this is where i thrive in a world of moving living art that is in communication with itself’. so i dove into the research and actually started to understand NFTS and then i repurposed the story into a strongly anti-nft tingler and put that on out instead.
as far as OTHER tinglers that kind of move and breathe and live like this, in communication with the audience, GAY T-REX LAW FIRM is another very good example. that one i wrote early on and i think it was kind of in the model of something like fifty shade of grey, where issues of kink and consent and communication are not really handled well. i think at the time it came out the story was okay, but as time went on it always kind of bothered me and finally i thought ‘i love art that exists in the REAL WORLD and changes and evolves, so lets rewrite that story and fix some of these mistakes.’ honestly it is something i wish more artists would be open to. its okay to let something hold strong against a changing timeline, but it is also okay to explore what its like to take the notes that time gives us
-This one is about Chuck Tingle that exists in deeper layers of the Tingleverse that operate on tingler logic: what does the location inside his/your butt look like?
probably a nice mid-century modern home up in laurel canyon neighborhood of los angeles. kind of quiet and small like a cabin but also very cozy, like the kind of place where you would put on a crosby stills nash and young record on vinyl and gaze out into the woods for a while then walk down the hill for dinner at a little cafe where you spot some actor from a 60s tv show also having dinner in the corner booth. this basically sounds like the start of a tingler and in that tingler i will say the actor would be a bigfoot.
-OK this one is very self-indulgent but if you could help settle this frequent point of discussion I have with my wife- where do the following fit in the Tingleverse bigfoot/dinosaur/unicorn/living object(/human/does not apply?) taxonomy?
-a ghost of a regular human
-a regular human vampire
-a human/fish mermaid
-a sentient winged horse
-a sentient centipede large enough to wrap around a mountain several times (she is handsome)
alright lets trot through these. a GHOST is not one of the four tingle types so you can have a ghost racecar or a ghost unicorn or a ghost bigfoot. ghosts are outside of the four types and do not have a classification
a VAMPIRE is also outside of the four types. so you can have a vampire bigfoot or, of course, a vampire night bus. does not strictly fall into any of the four main categories
MERMAIDS are technically a long lost species of unicorn I DONT MAKE THE RULES I JUST EXPLAIN THEM. this makes the MERMOPED tingler a little confusing but i had to pick a category and that one went into living object. now that i mention it possibly the only tingler that is technically a double category of unicorn/living object.
WINGED HORSE is easy, thats a pegasus which is a species of unicorn just like a mermaid
a SENTIENT CENTIPEDE LARGE ENOUGH TO WRAP AROUND A MOUNTAIN is an ancient creature, therefore dinosaur tingler
-My other self-indulgent question: do you have a favorite bug? (Or second-favorite if you count Mothman as a bug)
i love finding spiders in the house and giving them a pet because they are doing a good job livin their lives doin their thing. close second would be a pretty ladybug
-Any thoughts on what tinglers will be like in 2025? Do you expect to be writing a lot of political tinglers again, like post-2016?
honestly i really do not like writing specifically political tinglers anymore, and the amount that i write has gradually dropped over time (i think ALL tinglers are political but in a different way). so honestly i think i will write a few political tinglers but not many. my hypothesis on this is that my HORROR NOVELS are very very political and so maybe i get a lot of these ideas out of my system that way now. when it comes to tinglers i just wanna explore my OWN mind and heart and butt more
THANK YOU for these wonderful questions and thank you for your tingler-a-day project it was so moving and powerful. what a treat it was an honor to be a part of something so beautiful. THIS PROVES LOVE IS REAL
444 notes
·
View notes
Text
When I was a kid our tv antenna was not the greatest and we often had to endure shaky signals when watching tv. Most of the time it was not too bad, but I remember at times lying on the floor with my legs stretched up along the wall so I could touch the antenna with my toe. Whenever I lost contact with the antenna, the tv would lack so badly that you struggled to keep up with what you were watching, so I did my best to stay very still. I don't remember anything about the problem or how long it lasted, but it's actually nice to think back to watching tv with my family from the floor in the living room (the rest of them weren't in the floor obviously)
I don't know why I feel the need to write this, but this post just brought back a memory I haven't thought of in a long time
I think... this is inherently homoerotic
31K notes
·
View notes
Text
run for the hills – lh44 (+18)
masterlist ||
Summary: The one where fate decides to bring you back into Lewis’ life, making him question his belief in fate.
Pairing: lewis hamilton x rosberg!reader
Word Count: 9.3k
Warnings: cursing, crying, drinking and mentions of alcohol, mentions of brocedes (rip), kissing, unprotected sex (you shouldn’t be surprised at this point), oral (m receiving), hand kink, praise kink, minors dni!!
Request: “hey, Merry Christmas 🫶🏽 I was hoping I could request a Lewis smut fic where the reader is Nico Rosberg's sister (with a age gap of around 6-8 years with him and Lewis) and before 2016 they were just really close friends who just kissed once but chose to pretend it didn't happen. after years, they run into each other at a club or a party and they're pretty snappy at each other but there's a lot of tension too and they end up having sex where Lewis is really cocky and also the reader has a hand kink and praise kink? I'm so sorry if I made it too long, i love your writing <33” + “oooo please could i request something w lewis?! something gut wrenchingly angsty? sorry i don’t really have a plot in mind hhhh thank you heheh”
Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! HAPPY NEW YEAR, i started this fic last week and i honestly didn't think I'd finish it this quickly but here we are. don't let my words fool you, i got the request last christmas but if you know me then you know that i am not quick when it comes to working on requests (i'm working on this i promise), not that this fic is even remotely christmassy, but let’s just appreciate that it is supposed to be set during the holiday period lol. this was supposed to be a shorter one but here we are, lol, i'm not even surprised at my inability to keep things short at this point. i posted this fic and realised i forgot to copy and paste a big chunk of it so oh well. as always, feedback is appreciated, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee
Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.
Lewis decided he doesn’t like cold a long time ago. That’s why, being the ever-decisive person he is, he chooses to spend his winter vacationing in places like the Maldives or Bali. His decisiveness is an important part of him, given what he does for a living. When he is on the track, in his car, there is no room for hesitation – he needs to be able to make split-second decisions under intense pressure, what’s not to love about that? So, once he decided he’d rather spend his time off basking in the sun rather than freezing to death somewhere else, he never looked back. He enjoys spending his time off in someplace tropical with his family, or without his family; most of the times away from the prying eyes and camera lenses of the media.
But this time, it’s different – he's alone.
Or rather, he thought he would be alone. The villa he rented out for the duration of the month is isolated, just how he likes it. He wakes up to the sound of waves crashing against the shore right outside his windows, and the distant chirping of tropical birds to accompany him as he lounges on the large deck, overlooking the infinite expanse of blue. There are no spectators around to gauge his reaction, try to get him to speak out about his plans for the next year when he moves to Ferrari, or what he’s going to do when he eventually retires one day. He hasn’t seen anyone from the racing world for weeks, and it’s been a much-needed break. He’d usually love to spend Christmas with his family, the only time he would ever tolerate the cold being when he is with his family, but this year he just wanted to get away on his own.
There is no one around that expect anything from him. Just peace.
He’s not a hermit, of course, but he enjoys spending his time by himself mostly isolated from all the other guests of the touristic area he’s staying in. The chef that works at the villa is on call for when Lewis decides that he wants to stay in for the night, the housekeeping staff come every morning to clean up around the house, then promptly leave, providing Lewis with the privacy he so desperately needs. But other than that, and a few nights spent outside in a restaurant or a club? He is all alone, and he is not complaining about it. Another thing about Lewis Hamilton is that he doesn’t believe in fate. He believes in setting and achieving goals; after all, that’s what he’s done all his life. His success isn’t some cosmic coincidence. It’s years of sacrifice by his parents, relentless effort, and unwavering determination. So, when things happen that feel serendipitous, like running into someone from his past, he doesn’t chalk it up to destiny. He chalks it up to the sheer unpredictability of life.
And yet, as he steps out of the villa to head to a nearby beach club after dinner, he doesn’t expect to run into you, especially not after how the things ended last time, but there you are. His eyes find you at the bar with some guy next to you – he has to do a double take. Just to make sure, he tells himself. But no matter how many times his attention reverts to you, he knows it’s you. Of course, it’s you. Though he’s not a believer in fate or destiny, or whatever you might want to call it, there you are – dressed in a flowy linen dress. His first instinct is to ask the server to seat him somewhere else so that he wouldn’t have stare at you and your ‘date’ for the night. His grip on the glass in his hand tightens momentarily, and he exhales slowly, forcing himself to look away. This is not the moment, he tells himself. It’s not his business, not anymore. But still, his gaze drifts back to you. You’re laughing at something the guy says, your head tilted slightly as you sip from your drink. He can’t hear your laughter, no – but what a sound that would be to hear, he thinks for a moment.
He knows he shouldn’t care who you’re with or what you’re doing; it’s been years since the two of you shared anything beyond... well anything, really. But something about seeing you here, in this place he thought was his private retreat from the world, feels like a twist of fate – or the kind of cosmic joke he claims not to believe in. But his eyes watch you as you throw you head back in a laugh and he can practically hear the sound in his head, his mind taking him to years ago when he used to be one of the people who got to hear it first hand; when he joined your family on karting days, or when you celebrated with him when he won a race, or even back to that one time when him and Nico were trying to drive those unicycles and you kept doubling over in laughter when they fell down – something your brother did not appreciate, but Lewis couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face as he watched you from the ground.
Somethings never change, he thinks, as he notices the smallest of smiles that has crept its way onto his face, quickly disappearing the moment he catches himself. He knows it shouldn’t matter to him – let alone bother him. But old habits die hard, and the sight of your smile, that easy laugh, stirs something in him that feels like both longing and a pang of annoyance. You’ve always had a way of getting under his skin. Back then, it was teasing remarks that somehow felt more genuine than any praise he received elsewhere. He catches himself glancing your way again, his jaw tightening when the guy beside you leans in a little too close. It’s irrational, this surge of jealousy that claws at his chest. He knows he has no right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop it from burning through him. He looks down at his drink, willing himself to focus on anything but you. But memories have a way of sneaking up on him, unbidden. The days spent at karting tracks, the shared dinners with your family, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, talking about everything and nothing at all. Back then, it was easy. Natural. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, until you didn’t.
Just then, you glance over, your eyes scanning the room before they land on him. For a moment, everything stills. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something unreadable. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. His breath catches in his throat, and he curses himself for the way his chest tightens under your gaze. He watches as you excuse yourself, heading towards the restrooms, and he swears he has never gotten up so fast and walked so fast in his life. He doesn’t think, he just moves until he spots you in the hallway, queued behind some people waiting for the bathroom line. What kind of a club only has one bathroom? He thinks, but that’s not the point.
He clears his throat.
You turn, eyes widening in that familiar, guarded way. “Lewis.” Your lips open in shock as you glance behind him and then focus on him again, “Did- did you follow me here?”
“Were you on a date with that guy?” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself, his voice colder than he expects.
You blink, taken aback by the question. “Excuse me?”
He stands there, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping up his spine. His gaze flickers to the bar behind him, where the guy you were with is still talking to the bartender, oblivious to what’s going on. “I asked if you were on a date,” he repeats, a little sharper this time as he emphasises the last word.
You raise an eyebrow, the surprise on your face melting into something more guarded, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “What if I was?” You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just out enjoying my night. Ever think of that?”
He feels a rush of heat in his chest. “It’s not like I care,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the edge in his voice that he does. “Just curious.”
You scoff, your lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “Sure, Lewis.”
“So?” He inquires, “Are you? On a date with that guy, I mean.”
You raise an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “Are you serious right now?” you snap, your arms tightening across your chest. “You’re standing here, in the middle of a hallway, asking me about my love life? What is this, high school?”
Lewis feels the heat rise in his neck, irritation mixing with a sense of frustration he doesn’t quite understand. “I’m not asking for your life story, just... just an answer. Is it that hard?” His voice is tight, but he doesn’t back down.
You scoff again, your lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You really think you can just waltz back in and start demanding answers like we’re still... You know what? Yes, Lewis, I’m on a date.” You throw a glance over your shoulder at the guy still sitting at the bar. “We met on the beach at the hotel I’m staying at, and I thought I’d let him treat me to a dinner and a couple of drinks before I’d let him fuck me six ways to Sunday.” You roll your eyes at someone on the queue gasping at your choice of words. “Not that it’s any of your business. Are you happy now?”
Lewis’s hand grips your wrist, a little too tight, and without warning, he’s tugging you away from the bar, his jaw clenched. “Come on,” he mutters, his tone low and urgent, as he steers you towards the back exit. You’re caught off guard, stumbling to keep up with his forceful pace, your heart hammering in your chest.
“What the hell, Lewis? Let go of me!” you snap, yanking your arm free once you're outside in the chill night air. The chill hits you like a slap, the heat of the club’s atmosphere fading behind you as the door slams shut.
“Seriously?” he spits, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. “You’re gonna play it like that?”
You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t know what game you're playing at, but I’m not interested. What the hell was that back there? Dragging me out like I’m some kind of... of property?”
He glares at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice rises, sharp and cutting. “I ask you a simple question, and you throw that crap at me? What the hell did you think I was supposed to do? Just stand there and pretend like I didn’t care?”
You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Pretend like you don’t care? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to just waltz in, after all this time, and act like you can demand answers, Lewis. Like you have any right to know what’s going on in my life.”
“Your brother would be so disappointed in you right now.” His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the air between you two freezes. The breeze picks up, but the sudden silence makes the world feel too loud.
“You don’t get to talk about my brother,” you seethe, as Lewis's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but it’s the look in his eyes that hits hardest — it’s a mixture of hurt and fury, both so raw, you almost feel sorry for what you’ve just unleashed.
“What did you just say?” His voice is low, almost dangerously so, the words slipping through clenched teeth.
You swallow, but it doesn’t help the sharp edge in your voice. “You heard me. You don’t get to talk about him, you don’t get to fuck up my life and you don’t get to come back here acting like you still have any claim on me or my life.” You’re breathing heavily now, the anger and hurt mixing into a bitter cocktail that you can’t quite swallow – funnily enough, Lewis can smell the cocktail you had earlier. “You left. You made your choice, Lewis. And now you don’t get to barge back in and pretend like I owe you anything.”
Lewis stands in front of you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight as he processes your words. He doesn’t know when the two of you got closer together, he can practically feel the anger radiating off you, “You think I don’t know that?” he spits, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t know what I did?” His voice cracks slightly, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. “I fucked up, alright? I fucked up more than you’ll ever understand. We all did – me, Nico, you.”
“You don’t get to make me feel guilty about this, Lewis. You don’t get to act like I’m the one who fucked everything up.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going, the words coming faster, more bitter. “You kissed me and called it an ‘accident’, a fluke. You fought with Nico every chance you got. I had to pick up the pieces on my own.”
Lewis flinches at your words, but his anger doesn’t dissipate—if anything, it only sharpens. His hands remain balled into fists at his sides, but there’s something else behind his eyes now, something raw, something almost desperate. “We wouldn’t have worked out,” he mutters, it’s something that he said to himself time and time again to convince himself of it, “I am– was your brother’s friend, you–”
“You were my friend, too!” You exclaim, your hands swatting at his arms, chest – anywhere you can reach. “You left me, as if I meant nothing to you! You stole my first kiss and shattered my life to pieces on the same day!” You manage to get in some good hits despite Lewis’ attempts to calm you down, and the lump in your throat makes it harder for you to continue talking, “Do you know how many times I wondered if you kissed me just to piss Nico off? Do you know how that feels?”
“What?” He asks, his voice low. Each hit, each accusation, it stings. But nothing hits harder than the raw emotion in your eyes – hurt, betrayal, and the weight of everything he left behind. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. “You think I kissed you to get at Nico?” he says finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense. There’s an edge of disbelief, of hurt, as if the idea itself cuts deeper than your accusations. “Do you really think so little of me?”
You cross your arms tightly over your chest, holding yourself together in the face of his raw honesty. “I don’t know what to think, Lewis. What was I supposed to think back then? You shut me out. You made me feel like it never happened – like I never happened.”
“You were twenty-three years old,” he points out, “our age difference–”
“Oh please,” you scoff, pushing at his chest one last time, “you’ve fucked girls younger than that.”
Lewis flinches at your words, as if they’ve struck a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t get to throw that in my face,” he finally says, his voice low and clipped, tinged with a kind of frustration that feels different from before.
“Why?” You ask, head cocked to the side. “I can’t comment on you fucking other people, but you can question my actions because I want to fuck–”
“Say ‘fuck’ one more time and I swear I’ll–”
“—what, Lewis?” you snap, cutting him off before he can finish his threat. “You’ll what? Walk away again? Pretend this conversation never happened, just like you did last time?”
His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he tries to rein in his emotions. “Don’t push me,” he warns, his voice low and taut, but there’s no real menace in it—only desperation.
“Oh, I’m pushing?” You laugh bitterly, throwing your hands up. “I’m the one pushing? You’re the one who showed up here, dredging up every memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Don’t you dare put this on me, Lewis.”
“You think this is easy for me?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I did? For what I didn’t do? I’ve lived with this every single day, and you—”
“Fuck you!” you shout, stepping closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck–”
His hands shoot up, grabbing your wrists – not harshly, but firmly enough to stop your movements. You don’t even fully register how quickly he pushes you against the wall, “You think I ran off and lived some perfect life?” he hisses, his face inches from yours as he inhales deeply. “You think I didn’t miss you every goddamn day? You think I didn’t lie awake at night, wishing I’d had the guts to ask you to stay?”
His words hit you like a tidal wave, the rawness in his voice leaving you momentarily speechless. For a moment, the anger in his eyes softens, replaced by something else – something that feels far too close to the hope you’ve been trying to suppress. “Well... yeah.” You inwardly cringe how your voice sounds so weak, but Lewis tilts your chin back to make you look at him.
“Is that so?” He mumbles, thumb caressing your chin as his eyes hungrily take in how your chest moves with each deep breath your inhale and exhale.
Your breath hitches as his thumb lingers, his gaze dropping to your lips like he’s fighting every instinct to close the distance between you. “Lewis...” you start, but his name comes out softer than you intend, more of a plea than the warning you meant it to be.
“What?” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a softness to it, an undercurrent of vulnerability that sends your heart racing. “What do you want me to do, huh? Walk away again? Because I can’t. Not this time.”
You shake your head slightly, but his grip on your chin keeps you from fully looking away. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t even know how to feel about you anymore.”
His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, his forehead almost brushing yours. “Then let me remind you,” he says, his voice a low rasp.
Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body screaming at you to push him away – or pull him closer and he tension between you is suffocating. “Don’t,” you whisper, but your voice wavers, betraying the battle waging inside you.
“Don’t what?” he asks, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Don’t do this?” You don’t answer, your throat too tight, your mind too clouded with memories, anger, and something else you’re not ready to name. He waits, his breath mingling with yours, his patience stretching thin. “Say the word,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I will let you go back and take him back to your room and do whatever you want.”
But you don’t say it. You can’t. Because as much as you hate him, as much as you want to scream at him, cry, and push him away... you also want this. Want him.
And Lewis knows it.
His hand releases your wrist, sliding down to your waist as his other hand stays on your chin, tilting your face toward him. The kiss that follows isn’t soft, isn’t sweet – it’s desperate, raw, and filled with years of unspoken words. It’s anger and longing, heartbreak, and desire, all crashing together in a way that steals your breath and sends your heart into overdrive. A softer kiss might have been what you wanted, but Lewis knows this is what you need. His body presses against yours, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders, clinging to him as if letting go would leave you falling apart. His lips are warm and insistent, the taste of him intoxicating. Every move, every touch, feels like he’s trying to make up for everything he never said, everything he left behind.
The kiss deepens, each second unravelling more of the carefully constructed armour you’ve built around your heart. His fingers grip your waist tighter, grounding you even as everything else feels like it’s spinning. You can feel the heat radiating off him with every press of his body against yours. Your mind screams at you to stop, to think, to pull away before you lose yourself completely – but your body betrays you. The years of hurt, anger, and confusion dissolve into the fire burning between you, ignited by a kiss that’s as much a battle as it is a surrender.
Lewis pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still hovering close, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks. “You still want to go back and fuck your little lover boy?”
“Who?” You mumble, breathless as a result of the kiss as your eyes become heavy with something you can’t quite describe.
Lewis smirks, a glint of triumph flashing in his dark eyes. "Exactly," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your waist in slow, deliberate circles. His confidence is maddening, but the heat between you makes it impossible to summon the indignation you’d usually feel.
You try to muster a response, something sharp and cutting to put him back in his place, but the way his gaze drops to your lips again makes the words dissolve before they even form. “Don’t do that,” you manage, though your voice lacks the conviction you intended.
“Do what?” he asks innocently, though the rasp in his tone betrays his intent.
“Act like this changes everything.”
His smirk falters, replaced by a seriousness that roots you in place. “It doesn’t change everything,” he admits, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But it changes something. Doesn’t it?”
Your heart pounds against your ribs as his words sink in. You hate how easily he disarms you, how effortlessly he pulls you back into his orbit no matter how much you’ve tried to escape it. But deep down, you know he’s right. “I hate you,” you whisper, though even you can hear the weakness in your words.
“I know,” he replies, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And I hate myself for making you feel that way.”
The sincerity in his voice cuts through the haze, making your chest tighten. But before you can think about it, you find yourself tugging on the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer to yourself as you mumble, “Kiss me again.”
Your hands, which moments ago were pushing him away, now find their way into his hair, pulling him closer, as if to anchor yourself in the storm he’s unleashed within you. Lewis doesn’t hold back. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, the wall at your back the only thing keeping you steady. The kiss deepens, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that borders on desperation, as though he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. When the need for air becomes undeniable, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you are breathing heavily, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. “Tell me you didn’t feel that,” he says, his voice hoarse, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
You can’t answer right away, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest it drowns out any coherent thought. But eventually, you manage to find your voice. “I hate you,” you whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words. They sound hollow, even to your own ears.
He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “No, you don’t.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap, but the edge in your voice falters.
“I’m not,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “I’m telling you what I see. And I see you... still here. Still looking at me like that.” His hand trails down to your hip, his touch light but grounding. “If you hated me, you would’ve walked away by now.”
You close your eyes, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control, but it’s impossible with him standing this close, his presence overwhelming. “This doesn’t change anything,” you say, though it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him.
“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice softer now. “But it’s a start.” You don’t say anything to agree or refute his statement, and after a brief pause, he straightens, fixies your dress and tries to fix your hair as well. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll take you back.”
“But, my bag,” you mutter, pushing out your lower lip in a pout when you realise your bag is on the floor. Lewis has to restrain himself when he sees your lips all puffed up because of him. Your voice is whiny, and he realises you’re slurring your words a little bit when you tug on his shirt, “I don’t wanna leave my bag here.”
Lewis looks at you for a moment, his expression softening as he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin with the same tenderness he’s shown all night despite all your fighting. With a soft exhale, Lewis bends down to pick up your bag, holding it out to you with the same quiet care. “Don’t make that face,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but laced with something tender. “You really wanna go back to that room, after everything that just happened?”
You look at him, a mix of confusion and desire swirling inside you. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. The words feel raw, vulnerable, but there’s something about his presence, the way he’s here, still so close, that makes you feel safe enough to say it.
Lewis doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his eyes soften, his thumb grazing the strap of your bag as he watches you closely, as though he’s searching for something in your expression. Finally, he steps closer again, the space between you narrowing once more. “I get it,” he says quietly. “But I’m not letting you go home alone tonight.”
The words send a shiver down your spine. You want to protest, to push him away, but there’s something in his gaze, the way he’s looking at you now, that makes you second-guess everything you thought you wanted. You hesitate for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts heavy in the air, but the pull between you is undeniable. It’s the kind of pull that’s magnetic, that doesn’t let you escape even when you try to resist.
Finally, you nod, the decision feeling both like a surrender and a choice you can’t take back. “Okay,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “Take me back, then.”
You don’t even remember getting into his car, but you do remember the smug look he shot at your date – Carl, you think – when he helped you through the club with a firm hand on your back. The villa Lewis rented for his little getaway is entirely what you expect it to be – modern, grand, and secluded enough so no one uninvited would know he is there and bother him. The couch in the living room looks way too inviting and you make a mental note to avoid it for now. Sitting on it might make this whole situation feel too real, too comfortable, and you’re not ready for that. You glance around the space instead, taking in the clean lines of the modern furniture, the polished wood floors, and the sprawling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the moonlit ocean. You walk towards the windows, eyes taking in the view from inside the villa. The ocean stretches out endlessly before you, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. The soft sound of the waves crashing against the shore is faintly audible even through the glass, a gentle hum that seems to echo the turmoil in your chest.
You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to steady your nerves and partly to shield yourself from the vulnerability creeping up on you. The view is breathtaking, but it does little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You faintly hear Lewis calling out your name, but as if you are in a trance, you can’t take your eyes off the view in front of you. His voice calls out to you again, softer this time, closer. “Hey,” he says, and you feel the warmth of his presence before you even see him. Lewis’s reflection appears in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on you as he stands just behind you.
You finally tear your gaze away from the ocean and turn to face him, your arms still wrapped protectively around yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment.
Lewis nods, his expression unreadable as he follows your gaze back to the window. “It is,” he agrees, but there’s a weight to his tone, as if he’s not just talking about the view. His eyes flicker back to you, searching your face. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s helping much.”
You let out a shaky laugh, more to fill the silence than anything else. “It’s not that simple, Lewis.”
“Nothing ever is,” he replies, stepping closer until there’s only a breath of space between you. “But I’m here. You don’t have to deal with whatever this is alone.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. “I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “With... us.”
He exhales deeply, his hand lifting as though he wants to touch you but hesitates. “You don’t have to figure that out right now,” he says, his voice steady. “I just want to make sure you’re okay tonight. That’s all that matters to me.”
Something about his words, his presence, eases the knot in your chest, if only slightly. “I don’t even know where to start,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.
“Then don’t,” he says simply, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Just be here. With me.”
You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign of pretense or ulterior motives, but all you see is the same man who’s managed to undo you with a single glance. “Show me your room.”
“We don’t have to do that.” His eyebrows furrow as he reaches for your cheek, “That not why I brought you here.”
“Isn’t it?” You try to joke, but his deep sigh is a sign of his disapproval. “I know that’s not why you brought me here, but it can be one of the reasons you brought me here.”
“Can it?” He drawls, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“For God’s sake, Lewis.” You sigh, turning your body towards the man standing next to you. “Do I need to beg you for you to fuck me?”
Lewis’s smirk falters, his expression shifting into something deeper, darker, but undeniably tender. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with restraint as he steps closer. His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You don’t need to beg me for anything. Not now, not ever.”
The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, and for a moment, the air between you feels electric. “Then fuck me,” you whisper, your voice trembling with equal parts frustration and desire. “If you want me, show me.”
He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steadying himself, and when he opens them again, the resolve in his expression takes your breath away. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, his tone low but firm. “You don’t know how hard it is to hold back, to stop myself from–” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as if even admitting it is too much. He reaches for one of your hands, freeing from your hold and places it on his crotch. “See what you do to me?”
The crude act manages to steal a gasp from you, your eyes widening at how hard he already is. “Lewis,” you mutter, he responds with an affirmative hum, “show me your bedroom.”
He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and leads you down a sleek hallway. The sound of your heels clicking against the polished wood floor echoes softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of your heart. When he pushes open the door to his bedroom, you’re momentarily distracted by how much the space reflects him. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft, ethereal light. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft light.
You walk towards the centre of the room, the corner of your lip trapped between your teeth as you glance at Lewis over your shoulder before you run towards the bed and throw yourself onto the soft bedding. Lewis watches you with an amused smirk as you sprawl across the bed, your carefree motion starkly contrasting the simmering tension in the air. “Comfortable, baby?” he asks, his tone teasing, but the heat in his eyes betrays his calm façade.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, giving him a challenging look. “Very.” Then you narrow your eyes at him, “But don’t call me baby, I am not your baby.”
He chuckles, low and throaty, as he steps closer, loosening the top button of his shirt with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver down your spine. “No?” he muses, stopping at the edge of the bed. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every detail as if committing you to memory.
Your breath hitches when he leans over, placing a hand on either side of your body, effectively caging you in. His face is so close to yours now that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “I like seeing you like this,” he admits, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Relaxed, it suits you.”
A flush creeps up your neck at his words, but you refuse to let him have the upper hand completely. Your fingers trail up his chest, over the defined planes of his torso, and then slide beneath the open collar of his shirt. “I could say the same about you,” you reply, your voice soft but loaded with meaning.
His response is immediate. His lips crash against yours with a fervour that steals your breath, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. The kiss is raw and consuming, years of tension and unspoken words pouring into the connection. When he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
You smile, your hands slipping down to the waistband of his pants. “Why don’t you show me?”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, he lifts you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the centre of the bed. He chuckles at the sound of your giggling, as he carefully lays you back down on the soft bed. His fingers work diligently to get you out of your dress, pulling the linen garment over your head as Lewis lets his eyes hungrily take you in. When your dress finally falls away, leaving you in nothing but lace and skin, Lewis takes a slow breath, his eyes scanning over your body with a mixture of awe and hunger. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch sending shivers of desire through your body.
You arch slightly into his touch, your breath coming faster, and you meet his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Are you going to just gawk at me, or are you going to actually do something?”
He smirks, a flash of cockiness in his eyes. “Patience,” he teases, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his voice as he lowers himself over you. With one hand bracing himself above you, his other hand slides down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His touch is slow, almost teasing, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as his fingers inch closer to where you need him most. “You like this?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, his lips just inches from yours. His fingers find the lace of your underwear, his touch deliberate as he pulls it aside and slips a finger inside you, making you gasp. “You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips crashing against yours as he deepens the kiss, his finger working inside you with a slow, steady rhythm. You can feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second.
“Don- don’t say ‘fuck’, Lewis,” you tease him with a small smirk as your breathing becomes deeper, “it’s unbecoming.”
“You’ll see who will be coming in a few minutes, baby.” He chuckles at the way your expression changes at the mention of the word, his fingers moving in deeper as your let out a disapproving moan, “What? You don’t like it when I call you that?”
With another dissenting hum and a raise of your hips to meet his hand, you let out a long exhale. “I’m not your baby Lewis, stop calling me that.” With the patience that only he can tolerate, he continues the leisurely movements of his fingers. “I want more, please.”
Lewis tuts at your words softly, chuckling as he takes in your reactions. “I think you have a very important decision to make here,” he murmurs, his eyes suddenly painted with something more serious, “because once I fuck you, I’m not letting you go.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The words come out choppy as your breathing gets more erratic, his fingers stubbornly keeping to the slow rhythm he’s set.
Lewis's gaze sharpens, the challenge in your tone sparking a flame in his dark eyes. “Oh, you’ll see it, alright,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety promise as his hand withdraws briefly, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you can protest, he moves with deliberate precision, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing the expanse of his chest – sculpted, strong, and utterly captivating. “Get on your hands and knees.”
The command leaves no room for debate, his voice firm but laden with heat. Your heart skips a beat as you meet his gaze, a mixture of defiance and curiosity flickering in your expression. “Bold of you to assume I'll listen,” you quip, though the slight tremor in your voice betrays your anticipation.
Lewis smirks, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Oh, you'll listen,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Because you know exactly how patient I can be, but the same can’t be said for you.”
A shiver runs through you at his words, and before you realize it, you’ve complied, shifting onto your hands and knees in the centre of the bed. You can practically feel his gaze on you, then all of a sudden, you can actually feel him behind you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he moves closer. “Good girl,” he says softly, his voice rich with approval, and the way your body reacts to the praise is almost embarrassing. “Oh, my beautiful darling.” His hands skim over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hips. The grip is firm, possessive, sending a thrill through you.
The sounds of him taking himself out of his trousers and pumping cock in his hand is pure debauchery, yet you find yourself pushing your hips back against his thighs. Lewis's low chuckle reverberates through you, a sound full of confidence and desire. His hand tightens on your hips, steadying you as he leans in, his chest brushing against your back. The heat of his skin against yours makes you arch into him instinctively, earning another throaty laugh from him. “You're eager,” he teases, his voice dark and dripping with amusement. “I like you like this.”
You bite your lip to suppress the needy sound threatening to escape, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe you're just slow,” you retort breathlessly, glancing back at him over your shoulder, a challenging look in your eyes.
Lewis growls low in his throat, his hands sliding across your back. “Careful,” he warns, though there's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Push me too far, and I won't be nice.” Your breath catches at his words, but before you can form a response, you feel him guiding himself to your entrance, teasingly dragging against you. The deliberate slowness makes your frustration peak, and you push your hips back, a wordless plea for him to stop teasing.
“Patience, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a husky promise. But even as he says it, he shifts forward, entering you with a deliberate motion that steals the breath from your lungs.
The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve in your body alight as he holds still for a moment, letting you adjust. “Lewis,” you breathe, your voice shaky with need.
His hands gently caress over the skin of your back and hips, soothing over the sharp feeling of Lewis easing himself into you in small movements of his hips. “You’re doing so well,” he shushes your whiny moans, his hands tracing your sides, grounding you. “You feel perfect, we’re almost there, darling.”
“A-almost?” Your voice cuts his words off, voice shaky with need, “It’s not going to fit, Lewis, I can’t-”
He leans over you, his lips pressing tender kisses along your spine, each one sending a ripple of warmth through you. His voice is a soothing murmur in your ear. “Relax for me, darling. Let me take care of you.” Your breathing steadies under his touch, the initial sting giving way to a fullness that leaves you breathless as he pushes himself fully into you. You arch your back slightly, pressing into him as his hands continue their gentle exploration of your body. The tenderness in his actions contrasts with the raw desire in his voice, creating a heady mix that leaves you yearning for more. “That's it,” he praises, his tone soft but laced with heat. “You’re incredible. See? We made it fit.”
“I feel so full.” You manage to let out, voice whiny as the moan is ripped from the back of your throat. “It feels so good, Lewis.”
He begins to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds gradually, allowing you to feel every inch of him. The friction ignites a fire within you, and you can’t help the soft moans that escape your lips, each sound spurring him on. His grip on your hips tightens, his pace increasing as he finds the perfect rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You feel so good,” he groans, his voice low and thick with desire. His hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair as he pulls you back slightly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re mine, you know that? Only mine.”
The moan that comes from you is dissenting, causing Lewis to slide his hand down your throat to use the leverage to pull you up on your knees, pressed against his chest. “No,” you say, hands extending backwards to keep holding onto him in an attempt to keep up with the rhythm in which he is fucking you now.
His words send a shiver down your spine, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something primal within you. “Say it,” he commands, his voice rough as his movements grow more urgent. “Say you're mine.”
Your breaths are shallow, punctuated by soft whimpers as you cling to him, trying to keep pace with his movements. The way he pulls you against him, his hand firm on your throat, sends a jolt of heat through your core. His hand is firm around your throat, but not uncomfortable to the point that you can’t breathe.
“I’m not yours,” you gasp defiantly, your voice trembling with every move he makes.
Lewis growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as his hand tightens slightly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you in place. “We’ll see about that,” he says darkly.
His hips snap against you harder now, his rhythm relentless as if determined to prove you wrong. The overwhelming sensation leaves you gasping, your fingers clutching at his forearm for balance. His free hand slides down your body, gripping your waist to hold you steady as he drives deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.
“Still not mine?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His tone is equal parts teasing and commanding, daring you to resist him. “Still think someone else can fuck you better than I can?” You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans spilling from you, but the way he moves, the way he claims you, has you crumbling. “Say it,” he repeats, his voice a low growl that echoes through your very core.
Torn between defiance and surrender, you meet his challenge with a shaky breath. “I’m-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out his name instead.
“Hmm?” Lewis chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying your struggle. His grip on your neck softens slightly as his fingers trace the column of your throat in a soothing gesture. “Come on, baby, just say it.”
“I’m-” The word catches in your throat as he shifts slightly, the angle of his hips hitting a spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. A broken moan escapes your lips instead, and Lewis smirks against your ear, clearly revelling in your unravelling.
“Say it,” he demands again, his voice low and demanding. His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, turning your face just enough that his lips can brush against the corner of your mouth. The gentleness of the gesture is at odds with the raw intensity of his movements, leaving you breathless.
“I’m yours,” you finally gasp, the words tumbling out in a mix of desperation and surrender.
Lewis freezes for a heartbeat, his chest heaving against your back as the admission settles between you. Then, with a triumphant growl, he resumes his pace, his grip on you tightening as if he intends to imprint himself into every fibber of your being.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His lips trail along your shoulder, leaving a path of heat in their wake. “Say it again.”
“Yours,” you whisper, the word coming easier this time, though the weight of it still sends a shiver through you.
His rhythm grows more urgent, his body moving with a single-minded purpose as he pushes you both toward the edge. “Never forget it,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, “now come for me.” You blame the singular cocktail you had three or so hours ago for your compliance to his words, as you feel the wave of pleasure crash over you, obliterating any coherent thought. Your body trembles uncontrollably in his arms, your cries of release echoing in the room as he whispers sweet words of praise in your ear.
There are a million other things Lewis expects you to say, but you surprise him with a, “I wanna taste you.”
Lewis's movements still, his breath catching at your unexpected words. He pulls back slightly, his dark eyes locking with yours, filled with surprise and a flicker of intrigue. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is that so?” he murmurs, his voice tinged with amusement and undeniable heat.
You nod, your cheeks flushing under his intense gaze, but there’s a spark of confidence in your eyes. “I really do,” you say softly, the tremble in your voice betraying both your boldness and your eagerness.
He studies you for a moment longer, his expression shifting to one of reverence laced with desire. "Well," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "who am I to deny you, darling?" With a gentleness that contrasts the fervour of moments ago, Lewis guides you to sit up, his hands warm and steady as they support you. He shifts to the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly, giving you room and letting you take control. His gaze never leaves you, his dark eyes glinting with anticipation. You settle between his thighs, your hands skimming over his skin, marvelling at the way his muscles tense under your touch. There's a sense of power in the way his body responds to you, in the way his breathing hitches when your lips brush against him. You look up at him, meeting his gaze with a small smile before leaning in. The moment your mouth closes around him, Lewis groans low in his throat, his head falling back as his control begins to slip. His hands find their way to your hair, his touch gentle but firm as he guides you, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Just like that,” he praises, his voice rough with pleasure. “You’re perfect, baby.”
The sound of his voice, the way he says your name like it’s the only thing that matters, spurs you on, and you lose yourself in the moment, intent on unravelling him the way he did you. Your lips move with deliberate intent, your tongue tracing teasing paths that have him groaning your name like a prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, a gentle tug that makes you glance up at him through your lashes. The sight of him – head tilted back, his lips parted as he struggles for breath, sends a thrill through you.
“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and filled with awe. His eyes find yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself. The sound he makes is primal, his control slipping further as his hips jerk involuntarily. He tries to hold himself back, but you can tell he’s close to losing himself completely. “Baby,” Lewis rasps, his voice thick with need, “you keep that up, and I won’t last.” You hum around him in response, the vibration pulling another groan from his lips. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender contrast to the raw passion between you. “Look at me,” he whispers, his tone almost pleading.
You meet his gaze, and the connection between you feels electric. His chest heaves as his breaths come in quick, shallow bursts, his control hanging by a thread. “I’m so close,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “Do you want me to stop?” The shake of your head is all the answer he needs. With a curse under his breath, he lets go, his body shuddering as he gives himself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through him. He holds your gaze the entire time, his grip on you tightening as if anchoring himself to the moment.
When he calms down, he collapses back against the bed, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. You sit back after swallowing, a triumphant smile playing on your lips as you take in the sight of him, utterly undone. “That was fun,” you rasp as you take in the sight in front of you.
Lewis chuckles softly, the sound low and breathless, as he drapes an arm over his face, trying to regain his composure. “Fun?” he repeats, his voice laced with amusement and lingering satisfaction. He peeks at you from under his arm, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of adoration and disbelief. “You’ve got no idea what you just did to me.”
You tilt your head, feigning innocence as you crawl up the bed to lie beside him. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you tease, your voice light but with a hint of pride.
He turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand reaching out to trace lazy circles along your arm. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet filled with a reverence that makes your cheeks flush. “And I’m completely at your mercy.”
You laugh, the sound light and genuine, as you nuzzle into his touch. “I think you like it that way,” you reply, your fingers grazing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch.
“More than you know,” he admits, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The tender gesture contrasts with the raw intensity you’d just shared, and it sends a warm flutter through your chest.
For a moment, silence falls between you, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets and the slowing rhythm of his breathing. Then Lewis shifts, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you closer. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
The weight of his words settles over you, and you glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his gaze. “Good,” you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He smiles back, a look of pure contentment spreading across his face as he tightens his hold on you. “That’s all I get?”
“We’ll see how you feel after we get home,” you mumble as you run a finger along the curve of his jaw, “you might be bored of me by then.”
“Home,” Lewis muses quietly, breaking the silence and ignoring your words. His voice is softer now, contemplative. “I like the sound of that.”
You glance up at him, his face so close that you can see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression. It stirs something deep within you – a mix of tenderness and longing that takes you by surprise.
“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Me too.”
#monzabee#requests open#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 smut#formula 1#fanfic#f1 x reader#f1 x you#f1 x y/n#lewis hamilton#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton imagine#imagine#fluff#angst#smut#lewis hamilton smut#lewis hamilton fluff
369 notes
·
View notes
Note
imagine isha doing that thing that mute kids sometimes do, where they suddenly say a word/sentence or two out loud n then go back to being completely mute for a few years. imagine you’re tucking her in like “ily isha, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite” and she goes “ok. goodnight. mac & cheese.” and you never hear her talk again
also i love your writing 🩷🩷
this is so fucking funny god
men and minors dni
jinx has always claimed that isha speaks to her on occasion. you and sevika are always skeptical. a lot of isha's squeaks can sound like words-- and jinx tends to hear voices that aren't really there more than most people.
it takes a year of living together before one of you catches it in person.
sevika runs into the kitchen so fast she almost knocks over a chair. "babe, babe!" she says with a giddy smile. you giggle.
"what?"
"isha-- she just talked!" sevika laughs. "she doesn't know i heard her-- she was puttin' her socks on and her toe popped out of a hole, and she went; 'awe fuck!'" sevika imitates.
you burst into laughter. "are you sure?! you didn't just mishear one of her little grunts?"
"babe, i know what i heard. i read about this, y'know. sometimes, mute kids just randomly talk. and jinx said she's heard it before! i guess... i guess she really liked those socks!" sevika cackles. "you shoulda heard her little voice cursin' baby, oh my god!" sevika can't stop laughing.
for a long time, you don't quite believe her story. you're sure your wife thought she heard your kid curse, but you aren't convinced that isha can talk at all.
until she talks to you.
almost two years after sevika claims she hears isha talk, you're tucking her into bed like any other night. isha's pointing out various poisonous frog species to you in her favorite 'dangerous animals' book, and you're playing with her hair, kissing her head occasionally.
"if i was a poision dart frog, i think i'd be pink and purple. what about you?"
isha taps her chin while she considers your question, then signs with a smile. blue and yellow! you laugh. of course she'd pick her favorite colors.
"nice. what do you think jinx and big mama would be?"
jinxie is blue and purple and big mama is green!
"you've got it all figured out, huh?"
isha nods with a yawn. you chuckle.
"alright-- i think it's bedtime. c'mon, get comfy." isha hands her book to you and crawls under her covers. when she settles, she scrunches her face just a bit and lets out a fart. you giggle. "got your dutch oven going, huh?" you ask. she laughs.
"do frogs fart?" isha asks.
you freeze, staring at isha as she blinks up at you with big eyes, waiting for an answer. "wh-- did you--"
do they? she signs.
you burst into laughter and pull isha into your arms. "i have no idea!" you laugh. "oh my god!" isha giggles in your arms, confused by your reaction but enjoying the barrage of kisses you're giving her regardless. "i love you so much you silly little girl."
isha gets sick of your cuddles, elbowing you and signing. look it up on your phone! she whines. you cackle.
"okay, okay!" you laugh as you pull out your phone to google isha's question.
sevika and jinx are never going to believe this.
or... maybe they will.
taglist!
@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner
@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther
@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart
@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette
@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp
@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner
@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke
@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25
@sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite @biblicalcrybaby
@blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion @dancingqu33n17 @losernb
366 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 11 - The Empress
summary : Eris comes over to spend the holidays with you, and drags jayce and viktor in tarot readings. Some bad news linger in the air, but nez beginnings are blooming.
content warnings : lots of dialogue. like a lot. and an enourmous amount of tarot yapping, some angst, and some fluff to close it all
word count : 12,4k
author's note : i hate having like zero perception of my own writing ARGH i hope this is good. gosh this is so long. but hey first writing post of 2025 yey!!!
NOT proofread for now
masterlist : here
Piltover under the snow had a profoundly different atmosphere to its usual gilt. The domes and roofs covered in thick snow gave the impression that all the clouds in the sky had fallen on the town, covering it in a smooth white mantle. It seemed silent, as if frozen in time.
As you emerged from the dormitory building, wrapped in your scarf up to your nose, you were greeted by the incessant waltz of snowflakes falling from the sky, tumbling like white feathers like all the angels in the skies had removed their leaves like the trees, simply guided by the wind towards an unknown destination. But it didn't matter, they were flying, simply free.
Your boots crunched in the snow as you set off towards the bridge to find Eris. The day had come for you to pick her up, and as agreed you were going to meet her at the usual bridge linking the two cities.
The town was all decked out with garlands and lights criss-crossing from buildings to buildings, apparently firmly preventing any colour other than gold from running through its streets. The carcasses of trees stripped of their foliage were lit up again, the majority of passers-by had their gloved hands around a cup of hot chocolate, and children were running after each other with snowballs in their hands ready to fire at their friends.
Still, there were fewer people than usual, the majority staying at home in the comfort and warmth of a well-insulated fireplace. You didn't need to wonder what it was like in Zaun, you had spent enough winters there that you didn't miss it.
The lack of heat in the promenade level wasn't too bad, although it would have been useful to have good chimneys or radiators that didn't break every other day. Some of the holes in the roofs led to leaks, but despite a few power cuts, it was possible to live normally.
Surprisingly, the sump level was the least worst. The constant heat from the machines brought a little warmth back to the bowels of the city, and this time the most hard-pressed workers found themselves in a new level of comfort.
As for the entresol level, it was a terrible in-between. Too far away from the big energy machines, and receiving the freezing snows in certain crevices falling from the top, the entresol level was poorly housed, at least in your memories. Who knows, perhaps public heaters filled with flammable resources had been introduced to prevent anyone from being absent from the streets.
When you reached the bridge, it was almost deserted, apart from the unfortunate enforcers chosen on this day to ensure customs and passage between each town. With your hands shoved into your pockets, you waited for your friend to appear in the distance.
It was always preferable for you to be present and to set up a meeting point like this, just in case the enforcers wanted to cause problems for nothing when looking for papers and for you to confirm that she was with you.
Sky would no doubt have liked to come and meet your friend. You had already spoken to her about your soul sister, and she would have greatly appreciated seeing her. But Sky was already on the other side, spending her holidays with her family on the Promenade level. You hoped she wouldn't have any problems, no leaks, no power cuts.
At last you saw your friend's face, wearing a cap almost as black as her hair, as she made her way painfully towards the enforcers. Mechanically, she took out her papers, her fingertips peeking out of her mittens as she passed them to the officer before quickly stuffing them back into her pocket to keep out the cold. She exchanged an annoyed glance with you as the man made sure everything was in order, earning you a chuckle as she puffed out her cheeks before sighing heavily. He finally handed her her papers, and she gave him a polite but cold smile before moving towards you.
"It's like they take their time on purpose," she breathed, before taking you in her arms.
You hugged her back, despite the thickness of the coats that separated you with difficulty. "You're too pretty for the Piltover standards, they have to double-check if you're real."
With a tired laugh, she backed away from you, squeezing your shoulders and examining you for a moment. "Have you been doing something to your skin or is it just the perfect air of the city that does that?"
You brought your gloved hands to your cheeks, not really having changed your routine. "I'll have to look at what was in that champagne they served at the masquerade."
She raised her eyebrows, then frowned. "Masquerade?"
"Let's walk home," you said as you started to move forward, "I'll tell you one the way."
"You seem to be having a whole lot of fun without me around, young lady. I envy you," sighed Eris. "I don't get many highlights in my days."
"Am I not the highlight of your day?’"
"As long as we aren't in a warm place, you're not."
"Ouch!" you say falsely offended, bringing your hand to your chest. "This vexes me."
"I'm sure you'll overcome this affront." She pressed her shoulder against yours. "Tell me about what I missed. Since when do you go to masquerades?"
You sighed, a wisp of steam rising into the sky as you finally reached the end of the bridge. "After the exams, our dear Jayce Talis asked us to come with him to a masquerade because he was terrified of it."
"Us? Did Sky come with you?" Eris repeated, arching an eyebrow.
You shook your head, as if it was really ridiculous. "If only it had been Sky," you turned to her. "The Emperor himself has honoured us with his presence."
"Are things always this thorny with him?" She questioned.
You shrugged. "I don't know."
"You? Not knowing? That's a first," Eris chuckled.
"It's just... I don't know." You sighed, taking a turn with Eris. "There's change everywhere and I still have to get used to it, change in my relationships, in my mind." You let your shoulders drop. "Maybe I also need a change of scenery."
"Buy a plant." sighed Eris at the sight of the stairs you were about to climb.
"Won't be needed," you sneered. "Turns out we're going to Demacia once the holidays are over, apparently."
"Demacia?" Eris exclaimed, "I'll need to make you a list of things to bring me back."
"Do I need to take a second suitcase if I'm going to bring everything back?" You asked.
"You'll need to pack a second suitcase so I can sneak in and come with you."
"How should I explain this to security?"
She shrugged, pressing her lips forward in a pout. "They'll just pass me off as a national treasure."
You chuckled, Eris smiling back before resuming.
"But weren't your exams supposed to be after the holidays?"
"That's the thing, I've already taken them."
She looked at you deeply confused.
"I know," you confirmed by the look on her face, "had a near death experience. Overworked myself."
"Nobody's surprised so far," Eris confirmed.
"Underslept," you went on.
"As always."
"Under ate."
Eris turned to you. "This is actually starting to border on dangerous."
"So I ended up very ill, passed out and spent a feverish night during which..."
You thought back to that morning, remembering the sunlight streaming through Viktor's hair, his fingers resting on your forehead before returning to his temple, his insistence that you get some rest.
"Which?" asked Eris awaiting the end of your sentence.
You swallowed, sniffling as your nose began to get damp from the cold. "During which Viktor stayed by my side to make sure I was okay."
She arched an eyebrow, a naughty little smile playing on her lips.
"And..." she said, her tone a little playful as you sensed what she was about to say, "are you sure the dislike is mutual?"
You sighed almost brutally. "Not you too."
"Who else theorises my way?"
"Who else but Selene?"
"Ah, the wisest woman alive," she exhaled. "Is he here during the holidays, Vik-tor?"
She deliberately lengthened the pronunciation of his name, making you roll your eyes. "Apparently, yes. Jayce and him are staying over in their apartment."
"Great, sounds like plan for us to meet them."
"You want to meet the number one cause that got me to almost shake hands with death?"
"He is also the number one cause that pulled you out of this situation which I suppose you got yourself into all on your own." She had a point, and you half-closed your mouth, but she just took the wind out of your sails. "Your clit has millions of nerve endings but it's still less sensitive than your ego."
Shocked by the stupidity of her sentence, you laughed nervously, her joining you in a fit of laughter.
"I'll know what to write in my presentation on Zaun's slang."
"I hope you'll give me proper credit."
"Of course I do. I just hope the teacher marking us doesn't put ‘verbal drip’ in the margin. I'd risk 15 years of psychotherapy just to be able to cherish the hope of recovering from that."
"The famous paper you're sharing with the charming Viktor."
"You call him charming when you haven't even seen him."
"What, isn't he charming?"
You thought back to the masquerade, his dark hair with strands falling lightly over his mask, his amber eyes highlighted with kohl piercing you as he sketched a smile that raised the mole on his cheek.
"I suppose by most standards he's not bad."
"Not bad. I suppose I'll see for myself."
"I will use your vocal cords as floss," you breathed once more as you continued on your way.
"Use one of Talis' hair instead, I'm sure it'll be cleaner than anything from Zaun."
"Leave Jayce out of this, poor guy has had enough of our constant bickering with Viktor for his entire life."
"You're already acting like an old couple," quipped Eris.
"I wish you the mumps," you grumbled, "but speaking of couples, Jayce is apparently dating none other than Mel Medarda."
She turned to you. "The counsellor?" She asked in confirmation.
"Yup, met her at the masquerade."
"How is she? Apart from breathtakingly gorgeous and perfect?" Questioned Eris.
"I don't like saying bad things about people, but she's actually nice," you replied.
"Hmm," she hummed. "Did you know that If given access to it, butterflies will happily drink blood?"
You turned to her, the change in conversation seeming strange. "Really."
"Yes," she continued, "they won't bite or harm other creatures to get it though. They are solely taking advantage of whatever foods are available in their environment. So most of those up above aren't too far off. Their beauty and supposed simplicity isn't everything, especially in a world as gilded and polished as Piltover's." Her eyes went to the golden tower of the council. "Do you think she's a butterfly?"
You now understood her reasoning. Sometimes you didn't always understand what she was trying to get across, unpredictable as she was. "I don't think she's much of a butterfly, I see her more like a dove in a golden cage."
"I don't have the material to be one of these birds, but if I was a bird..." began Eris, and you felt a déjà vu of conversation emerge following the end of your masquerade evening.
"What, you wish you could fly?"
"I know who I'd shit on."
You huffed. "Got a target in mind?"
"Not for now, but I guess you got yours?" She kept teasing you, and you knew you'd never get to the bottom of it.
"Apparently not any more, we're currently on a truce."
"A truce," she nodded once, dramatically.
"What does it consist of?"
"Fewer problems, more help, more opportunities, and..." you thought for a moment about Viktor's coat still lying in your dressing room, "less cold."
"Less cold?" She repeated.
"Mhm," you hummed as you finally reached the dormitory area.
"I think I'm going to like this Viktor," she confirmed.
"What, are you going to fall for his charms?"
"I'll leave this task to you, dearest trouble."
Eris had put her things in the bedroom, occupying Sky's bed, which would be free until the last weekend of the holidays. She knew the flat. During the times you'd had it to yourself when you weren't sharing it with anyone, she'd come and sleep there whenever she had the chance.
You couldn't count the number of times you'd both laughed there, the stupid things you'd done, or the number of heart-to-heart chats you'd had at three in the morning.
Despite Eris's many complaints, you took her to see Emmeline, who took her in her arms and, like a distant relative who talks about having changed our nappies when we were babies, kept telling her that she had changed.
With a few sweets offered, you returned to the dormitories, enjoying them while chatting about everything and anything. Her eyes inevitably fell on your tarot cards.
"Did you draw one every day?" She asked, stuffing another marzipan sweet into her mouth.
You swallowed your own mouthful, sucking the excess sugar off your fingers. "Apart from the few days I was too busy to study to do so, yeah."
She grabbed another sweet. "Did you do your reading this morning?"
"I thought that with you here we could get a better and proper reading, to see what I learned?"
"Oh you're a master of the art now?"
"I wouldn't go that far."
She wiped her fingers in a final gesture. "Let's go into the hall by the fireplace. Not that I don't like the flat, but being by a nice fire in a big armchair is much nicer."
And so, taking with you your own card deck, you headed down the hall.
Most of the students had left to return to their families, leaving the building virtually deserted for your own delight. All the armchairs and sofas were free, and it was only natural that you should sit down on the two sofas facing each other by the fire.
Eris placed the box and the small booklet of your deck on the varnished wooden coffee table separating the both of you, keeping the cards in her bare fingers covered with a few tattoos along their length. They weren't her only tattoos, of course. She had a few on her arms, ink under the skin being almost unavoidable in Zaun. They were covered, though, by the long sleeves of the jumper you'd lent her when she arrived.
It felt good to abandon the academy uniform for a moment and dress without restraint. Oversized shirts, oversized hoodies and oversized pants were the watchwords for your holiday clothes, in contrast to the Academy vest that clung to your body all the time.
"A general reading?" She questioned, kocking on the back and front of the deck.
"I guess," you breathed as you leaned over, elbow on your knees, "I just hope I don't end up with another tower again."
"Wasn't it for the best though?"
You thought back over the last few months, the constant torment hadn't been pleasant at all, but the achievements you'd made were undoubtedly a real step forward.
"Yeah," you half admitted.
Eris huffed, knowing full well that you wouldn't fully concede this fact even if it were scientifically proven. In a perfect, expert gesture, she spread out the line of cards.
"Just three cards right?"
"Just three cards, for now at least."
Just like two months ago, you repeated your gestures, letting your hand float over the cards like a storm cloud looking for the highest point to strike with its thunderbolt. Once the three cards had been drawn, Eris folded the clean cards back into a perfectly straight deck.
"Let's see what we're working with."
She turned over the first card. Four of Swords. The card was covered in grey, a surprise considering the rest of her deck's twins always sported a variety of colours.
"Good start." commented Eris before moving on to the second card.
Two of Wands, a man in a carmine cloak, was looking into the distance.
"Adds up," she confirmed before finally reaching the last card.
The Lovers.
Your eyes met Eris's, pressing her lips and eyes hard as she tried to stop herself from laughing.
"Whatever you're about to say, don't," you decided.
She had to take a deep breath to refocus and stop herself from giggling.
"I'm not the one who pulled the cards," she almost coughed as she grabbed the deck and looked at the shadow card. "Interesting."
"How interesting?"
She turned the deck towards you. "Interesting."
The Empress reigned under it.
You swallowed, thinking back to the Emperor card drawn for Viktor, your eyes drifting inevitably to the lovers card.
"Much more positive than our last draw, if I may say so."
You say nothing, simply sighing as you place one of your hands in the palm of the other. "Just start it."
She cleared her throat, putting the deck down again and letting the Empress reign over the top of the deck. She picked up the Four of Swords card.
"That's pretty much in line with what's been going on lately, and by that I mean relaxing."
"So I'm just... resting?"
"Not just resting, you're resting like a hero. Not everyone has their recumbent in a church. I take it the exams went well all things considered?"
"First place," you replied.
She pressed her lips into an inverted smile and shook her head. "So mediocre, I expected better than you."
You smiled at her sarcasm, you missed her teasing.
"In any case, you left a part of yourself there that was no longer useful, because to have a recumbent on your grave you have to be dead."
You thought back to the death card you'd drawn and Sky had read to you. The reaper had done his work so that with his sickle the weeds were cut down and new healthy plants grew there.
"In the stained glass window," she continued, "you can see two figures, one kneeling before the other. It's easy to see from this card that, through stability, it's peace that we're looking for - especially after experiencing pain - as opposed to the anguish of not being sure, of not even knowing if tomorrow there won't have been something that will have made us see everything differently."
The champagne hadn't betrayed you by making you agree to things you would otherwise have thought you'd never have said yes to.
"It was a situation of stagnation that you cut out," Eris pointed out, "values inculcated by parents or other authority figures that you had no use in following any longer, that you took on yourself without questioning them."
"So basically I was stupid?"
"Why are you saying this in the past tense?"
You giggled, "Shut up."
She smiled, continuing her explanation. "It was mostly a refusal to reconsider things; resentment or refusal to give a second chance. You stayed in that place that didn't suit you because you were already there, it was something you knew and there's nothing more reassuring than things you know - even if they hurt you." She reassured following your question. "It's a card that represents retirement, isolation, sleep and illness. An excellent moment of respite during which you can contemplate the past, learn from it and make peace with what you've been through."
‘’Right, enough about my past.‘’ You sighed, realising that the cards were obviously well aware of what had happened. "What about my future?"
"You're skipping a step here," she said as she put the card back down, taking the Two of Wands, "because before your future, there's your present."
"It's just a transition between past and future, present doesn't exist, there are only 2 times."
"There are four times," Eris pointed out. "Past," her fingers pointed at the Four of Swords as if she had a pistol, "present," she pressed them against the Two of Wands, "future," her fingers reached for the title of the Lovers, and just as you thought she'd be pointing at the Empress, she pointed one hand at the it while the other aimed her fingers at you, "and forever. It's a time too often forgotten since it's the only time we live entirely, but it truly exists."
You sighed, nodding at her lesson as she picked up the Two of Wands card.
"After the four, whose monotonous stability has taken us out of repetitive circles, the two is an encounter, but not just any encounter."
"Am I going to meet someone again?" You huffed, the prospect not thrilling you any more than that.
"Not necessarily. As you probably know from the tarot's classification of colours, the wands represent desire, the swords rule the realm of the mind, the cups are the emotions, and since there's nothing left in us after those three, what's left is the material, which is governed by the pentacles. What can desire encounter? Nothing but the world, against which it will have to measure itself if it wants to achieve."
"So I'm going to conquer Demacia, am I?" You leaned back, looking at the card. "That's still in the future, not the present."
"That's because Meeting plus Desire equals evaluation. You're evaluating in the present what's going to happen."
You understood the intriguing twists and turns of the multi-card tarot reading more and more. It was completely different from the simple one-card readings you used to do for yourself.
"The first thing desire does as it develops is confront reality." She brought both hands towards her, all her fingers together as she pointed at her shoulders. "I have my desire, I realise there's the world, so I wonder how I'm going to combine the two. It's evaluation time."
It was when Eris was working on the cards that you realised just how professional and educational she was. She was patient in spite of your useless remarks and knotted the lines of the cards together to make a clear and precise explanation.
"Behind the battlements," she continued, pointing to the symbols, "the man dominates the landscape: planning requires height and perspective. The globe in his hand," she pointed to the drawings one by one, "reminds us that the world belongs to him if he manages to combine his desire with reality. The village facing the ocean gives the idea of openness; the strategy in place allows us to open up our horizons. The blooming blasin that appears in the niche recalls the roses and lilies of the fool. Where the latter is in the thick of the action, the man on the Two of Wands is still observing. But in both cases, it's the same thing - which is it?"
You looked at the card, going over what Eris had explained to you. "Apply your will to the world."
She snapped her finger, pointing it at you. "Exactly. The whole point of these cards is that," she took the two cards in each of her hands to show them to you so that they faced each other, "where we've abandoned patterns that no longer interest us and that we followed blindly with the Four of Swords, the Two of Wands reminds us that now that a new world is open to us, it would be a good idea to evaluate it before you can forge your true will and apply it to the world around you."
She put the cards back down straight as she crossed her legs. "It's the evaluation of a project, a partner, an opportunity - gathering information, studying feasibility, a skills assessment or whatever to observe and ask ourselves if it's really what we want, and if it really corresponds to the expression of the need."
"Do the cards tell you all that?"
"I'm the card whisperer, haven't you confirmed that?" She designated her body, sweeping the air from her shoulders to her thigh.
"You do your readings to all your customers like this?"
"You're a very special client, I have to adapt to my audience," she said as she straightened, her eyes returning to the card. "It's also all about planning and preparing for a big trip, I hope Demacia will have a stoic enough stomach to digest you. In any case, you're asking yourself a lot of questions. Is it really what I want? Is it really possible to get what I want, given the circumstances and the means at my disposal?"
Were you ready to accept Viktor as a friend in your life? The last few months had worn you down so much that you were sincerely wondering how things were going to go. Would it be the same bickering every day? Would it be different? You still didn't know where you stood on the question, the map was right.
"Now," she rubbed her hands excitedly, "the future." She took the card in her hand, raising it to your eyes. "What do you see?"
You bent down, looking at the illustration. An angel filling the sky, a crown of leaves encircling its head, its carmine wings reaching down to a woman on the left and a man on the right, both naked. Your eyes returned to Eris', a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"Please don't tell me it's about me and Viktor getting naked." You asked, your tone almost plaintive and asking for pity. Why did it always have to be about him?
She stretched her lips. "I'm not saying you and Viktor are going to get naked, but I definitely wanted to hear you say it."
You rolled your eyes, resting your chin on your palm.
"The lovers' card isn't necessarily to be taken literally, I thought with your immense sense of deduction you'd have come to that conclusion." She turned the card towards her. "The Lovers card is a card of choice. In the Original Tarot, it represents a, arrowed angel over a man hesitating between two women, one young and seductive and the other older and rather severe. It sometimes shows the crossroads between vice and virtue, with the idea that one should obviously choose virtue." She shrugged, rolling her eyes. "Only, if you had to have virtue, it would be by discipline, so the Cupid on the old card would have no place there. The Tarot should help to better understand who we are; therefore, the card of choice should teach me how to make the right choice for myself, not for moral teachers."
She turned the card back to you. "The central character in the old cards hesitates because he has as many reasons to go one way as the other. It's easy to imagine that the older woman is wiser than the younger one, but the younger one is kinder than the older one..." she swung the card between her fingers like a pendulum. "But the older one is more experienced... and so on. So the message is clear: when it comes to making the right choice for me, reason isn't going to help me. Choosing your career on purely objective criteria is the best way to make yourself unhappy, because it's choosing what anyone should do, when you're not just anyone."
She held the card out to you like a mirror, the varnish on the thick glazed paper gleaming in the firelight.
"How do I make the right choice for me?" You asked, your eyes moving from the card to find hers.
“By turning to the only thing at your disposal that isn't commonplace, your sensibility.” She smiled. "When it comes to the choices that matter, reason can only lose us. So you have an essential tool for the journey ahead of you," she says, her free fingers resting on the Two of Wands. "To make the right choice, your reason knows it's useless on its own, so it turns to your sensibility, because it's connected to something higher, something that's never wrong."
Your eyes drifted over the silhouette of the man and woman.
"This is the path to harmony. We mustn't forget that it's just as valuable as the path to glory, although we're only bombarded with examples of the latter, because to be known, you have to surpass the others."
Your first place seemed more bitter than the sweetness it had brought you when you learned of your victory. Your cheeks warmed as you thought of all the comments your little family Eris and Selene made had suggested.
"And the lovers' card has no sentimental connection?"
She offered you a benevolent smile. "It's the card of love as the most obvious cry of affection. The card of mutual attraction, of the sentimental relationship, of the soul mate - becoming one. A balanced love relationship where one matchs the other, where the partners are complementary and in tune with each other as opposed to love at first sight which can leave us in shock like a certain arcane number sixteen you know all too well, burning sexuality like that of the wands and their insatiable desire, or illusory relationships."
The man and woman on the lovers' card weren't necessarily just opposites, they were mirrors of each other.
"It's a bit scary," you admitted.
"The veracity of the cards?"
"That, and..." you pointed quickly at the card, "them."
"Love is either sought after as the solution to all problems, or shunned like the plague. It's neither. There's nothing to be afraid of."
"Yeah well," you sighed, "can't help but be scared of something I never experienced."
You hadn't really had time to dwell on love affairs, so much so that until today you didn't have a single ex to your name. You had been so determined to achieve academic perfection that you had pushed any potential distraction out of your way. And now, with the possibility of a breakthrough on the horizon, you were terrified.
If love struck, would you be able to fight back?
"Let's not close any doors to the future," pointed Eris, laying down the lovers' card, “especially with a card like the one we have for the globality of this reading.”
She picked up the Empress card, presenting it to you again as if you were the artist's inspiration for this illustration.
"The Empress is the card of creation and fertility."
You recoiled slightly in surprise. "Please don't tell me that by some misfortune I'm going to get pregnant."
"It's not necessarily fertility in the literal sense, although that's part of it in certain specific cases," she cackled as her attention returned to the card. "It's the card of generation from within yourself. You have to have depth if you want to create, because to create is to bring something out of yourself. If the creative process is so mysterious, it's because it takes place in our deepest recesses. She is depicted in a sensual pose, creation being a matter of love and pleasure, as much in the flesh as in the intellect, because ideas germinate in the mind that conceives them."
You looked at the cards again, frowning.
"I see you're beginning to understand."
"So," you tried to summarise, "taking a step back from the situation and creating my own convictions is going to lead me to... fuck my way up to the top?"
Eris bobbed her head like one of those spring-loaded dolls, rolling her eyes at the sky. "Among other things." She put the card down, pointing as she had before at each symbol. "Three is a creation number, given that if you put 1+1 and turn off the light, it's through their power of generation, sexual, that they will become 3 by creating a child." She moved her finger. "The ball-shaped sceptre represents the total domination of the Empress of the Earth. Her crown extends her reign over the entire cycle of the year. The stars are six-pointed, the triangle forwards and backwards: her power is both material, nature, and spiritual, intelligence," she explained, her hands weighing the words our like a balance.
Your eyes drifted back to the Two of Wands, resting on the globe that man held.
"The eagle on the shield of the Original Tarot represents intelligence; this bird flies high and has a piercing gaze. However, its wing is still in its infancy. Its creativity has no other purpose than itself, so it can fly off in all directions without producing anything usable. The Emperor's eagle, on the other hand, will be complete because it will have added what the Empress lacks in order to master the whole process of the material world."
She exchanged a look with you. "She represents the creation of harmony from disordered elements so that the matter develops freely, like building a system or a plan. It's also femininity in full bloom, sensual, self-confident, seductive," she winked at you in an exaggerated way that made you smile. "It's about building a relationship with for mutual development, but not only that." She moistened her lips. "It's what you create out of yourself, the protector, the one who cares, who develops, who accompanies. The one who helps a company, a group or a project to grow."
She straightened up after this listing. "Something is born, brought into being, cultivated or made to believe: a vocation, possibilities. It's Abundance, and being ready to share its wealth with others, out of pleasure and love." She turned her eyes for a moment to the fire in the fireplace. "A simple ‘want’ is not enough to move the fixtures that business creation requires, nor is a desire rooted in selfishness or hatred, like doing something only to break someone else."
She described a loose, descriptive movement over the cards with her arm. "So the Empress represents the power of generation, naked creativity, cool. But there's something missing," she smiled, "someone who's very creative can give birth to a whole bunch of great ideas... without ever achieving anything, because they go off in all directions." She turned to the deck and the card the Empress was covering. "You need structure and discipline for that."
She grabbed the card, bringing it close to the Empress's, and your lips parted in shock.
“The Emperor will bring them both to us.”
The Emperor's card was there, its presence unchanged, its meaning weighing on your warming heart. She placed the last two cards on the table with an air of satisfaction. You looked at the deck for a moment, the cards interlocking. You took the Empress's card in your hand, hovering over every detail of ink and colour on it.
Was it really you? This charismatic, strong-willed being? Could you really become this, this abundant being?
"Wow," you breathed, setting the card down on the table as Eris picked up her sisters to put them away again and you slumped back on the sofa. "That's something."
"Yup," Eris confirmed.
You bit the inside of your cheek for a moment as your eyes drifted towards the fire, thinking about the huge bag of information and truths that Eris had just dumped on your thoughts and that you were probably going to be thinking about for a very long time. And yet one name kept lingering in your mind.
"Say," you asked, your eyes returning to her, "why do you all think that Viktor and I could be... something?"
She giggled, leaving the deck on the table before resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa and resting her cheek on her fist. "You're asking me that as my first question after this reading?"
You sighed, your knee jerking repeatedly as you lowered your eyes to the floor. "Just... answer the question."
She knew there were certain limits to bickering. "Well," she began, "from what I've been hearing from you, you truly respect him, as in the name at the top of your 'list of respect'. He practically saved your life when you were fighting against your own stubbornness, and..." she seemed to search for words for a moment. "I get the impression that he's the person you make the most effort to be accepted by in your entourage."
"And... on a deeper level?"
"On a deeper level, in my humble opinion as the heart sister and friend you've known the longest in your life, I get the impression that, subconsciously, you're seeking his approval. Because now that he's given you a taste of what it was like to lose on your own ground and made you realise how much it was destroying you, you're grateful to him even if you refuse to admit it, to others and to yourself." She watched you for a moment, circling you under her skilful, sharp gaze. "I think he's the first one who's reached your level, and managed to keep up with you without ever tiring, always trying to bring out the parts of you that you don't show to others. And that scares you," she shook her head, "but I honestly think the fact that he's come into your life is the best thing that's happened to you in a long time."
That's what you liked about Eris, her honesty. She didn't care about hurting people's feelings or exposing them raw to the eyes of all, time was too short for pointless little lies, and she realised the truth of that very early on.
And you weren't offended, but you felt stripped bare by her words. That was probably what frightened you, finding yourself and the truth shining through for everyone to see. That was probably why the lovers were undressed. They saw each other stripped of all lies, hearts open as they created harmony.
Only two people knew you completely, the two members of your family. But that you could find someone who wasn't part of this circle and who saw all these things in you and accepted them no matter what, to lead you towards the best? It was new, and there's nothing more terrifying than the new. But surely, that was the lesson of the cards.
Yet your train of thought was interrupted when two figures you recognised all too well entered the hall.
"I think " you croaked, Eris following your gaze and turning towards them.
Jayce and Viktor, in casual clothes, were approaching you.
Eris turned back to you, shocked and shaking her head. "Is that what you call not bad?!" she almost shouted in her whisper.
You shrugged your shoulders and shook your hands. "I said by most standards!"
"I'm going to end up having heart attacks if your judgement's this poor."
"Hey there!" called Jayce as he approached. "Didn't think I'd find you here."
He wore a charming smile, dressed in a chunky cream hoodie and brown jogging bottoms. You'd already described to Eris what Jayce looked like, bringing back one of the class photos from your year so she could really see him.
Viktor, on the other hand, was wearing a brown turtleneck covered by a black cardigan, as were his wide pleated plaid trousers. He was frowning, his eyes shifting from you to Eris in confusion.
Eris turned to you, waiting for you to make the introductions.
"Jayce, Viktor," you pointed at Eris, "this is Eris. My sister."
"Pleased to meet you, Jayce," the latter smiled, extending his hand to shake hers as Eris stood up.
"Eris," she replied as Jayce gave way to his sidekick.
"Viktor," he said, squeezing her hand.
"I know," Eris smiled proudly as she turned her gaze back to you, "I've heard a lot about you."
You pressed your tongue lightly against the inside of your mouth as you laughed tiredly. Of course, now that he was here, she was going to be as playful as could be.
"Really?" Said Viktor, surprised as he turned to you.
"Absolutely," Eris replied.
"You never mentioned Eris was your sister," Jayce remarked.
"Best friend, sister, it's the same thing to me," you ranswered simply.
"Is that a Tarot deck I see here?" remarked Viktor.
Jayce riveted his eyes on the object. "You guys were playing?" he asked curiously.
"Eris was giving me a reading for the times ahead and other advice," you corrected.
"I'm a professional reader," she confirmed, "that's my job."
"How does that work?" asked Jayce, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of discovering something new.
"I can do a reading for you if it's okay with your schedule?" she suggested.
"Oh, we're just here to read and chat by the fire, nothing will be disturbed." Viktor assured her, resting his eyes on yours.
"All right then, let's go," she said, grabbing the deck.
Without missing a beat, Jayce took his place on the sofa where Eris was sitting. Viktor exchanged a glance with you, and you shrugged your shoulders and pointed to the seat next to you. Eris's words echoed as the leather slumped not far from you and Viktor placed his cane against the table.
"Alright, let me explain," began Eris as she rolled up her sleeves to reveal her tattoos.
Jayce seemed blown away by them, and you could feel his lips burning with the famous ‘did these hurt?’ which he never dared to say.
"I'm going to shuffle the cards so they're well mixed, then I'm going to...’’
But the conversation slowly faded into the background when Viktor spoke to you.
"I didn't think you'd dress like this on the daily," his voice was low, obviously not wishing to disturb the explanation to Jayce who seemed far too excited for this activity.
"What, you thought I slept in my uniform or something?" you questioned back.
He shrugged. "A bit."
You couldn't help but crack a smile before redirecting your gaze to Eris, looking at you both with a knowing glance.
Your smile faded as you straightened up, curious to see what Jayce would come up with.
"So all I have to do is take three cards?" He asked again.
"Yes," confirmed Eris.
"And can I show them or not?"
"Jayce, it's not a magic trick," informed Viktor.
Jayce turned to you, apparently waiting for your opinion too.
"Just pick three cards Jayce, the ones that call to you the most," you replied, resting your cheek on your fist.
"How do I know if they're calling me?" He questioned.
Viktor was already bringing his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose as Eris explained again. "Just take the cards you wish to take."
He straightened. "There are no traps are there?"
You and Viktor sighed in unison as you just urged him to take his damned cards.
"Alright alright fine," sighed the latter, raising his hands in the air, "left hand, right?" He asked to Eris.
"Yes," confirmed the witch.
"Right, off I go."
You exchanged glances with Viktor, both of you rolling your eyes as Jayce finally picked up his first card.
"Where do you want me to put it?"
"Anywhere," laughed Eris. "Jayce, you can't make any mistakes with tarot, you know that, right?"
‘’Right,‘’ he nodded, placing the first card in front of him above the card line.
The ace of Pentacle arrived on the table.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Jayce asked immediately.
"That depends on what you draw next," laughed Eris, ‘just keep pulling.’’
Jayce then drew the eight of pentacles, immediately turning to Eris to gauge her reaction as she looked at him with eyes that said ‘you know what I'm going to say’.
He then drew his last card, the nine of cups.
"Okay," smiled Eris as she picked up the rest of the cards and gathered them into a compact pile, turning it over and smiling at Jayce.
"Is it good?" He asked, turning to you and Viktor.
"It's horrible," you breathed.
His face decomposed. "Is it?"
"No, I just said that to tease you, you've got a good game," you turned to Eris, ‘’right?"
She giggled, uncovering the sun like shadow card.
"It's splendid, my dears."
Joy returned to Jayce's face like a dog presented with a bone. Viktor propped his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers as he watched the set.
"Well," began Eris, clearing her throat, "I'm going to proceed as I usually do with my dear inexterminable microbe here and make a simple reading. One card for the past," she rested her fingers on the Ace of Pentacles, “one for the present,” on the Eight of Pentacles, “one for the future,” on the Nine of Cups, “and one card that will give the overall colour to the spread and potentially give us some advice.”
"Okay," Jayce replied, eager to hear what she had to say.
"First of all, we have the Ace of Pentacles. The Ace is used to place us in the field we're going to work in; for this one it's the material field, and this one is fraught with possibilities."
She took the card in her hand and turned to an angle where you could all see the card.
"The divine hand emerging from the clouds reminds us that the material realm, like the others, is a given; it's up to us to do something with it. A garden of lilies is traversed by an alley that passes under an arch, flowered with roses and leading to the mountains. Thought is born of matter and, in any case, you can't rise without the necessary material foundations. As for the pentacle, it's a sign of protection - upright, it's a representation of man with his head, or spirituality and consciousness, at the top and his two feet at the bottom, anchored in the earth. That's the attitude you need if you want to prosper in and with the world."
"Am I in the right inclination?" Asked Jayce.
"Absolutely," reassured Eris. "Now that we know all these elements, how can this help us? Well, the Ace of Pentacles represents a material opportunity, something to be developed in the concrete domain. It's the birth of a new interest or a new energy in the material and financial spheres. Didn't you have a career change last summer or something like that?"
‘’Yes,‘’ Jayce exclaimed, ‘’how do you know?" He turned to you. "Did you talk to her about it?"
"Talked about what?" You said with a shrug. "I'd only told her about the explosion in your flat and my concerns about your trial, that's all."
He seemed to soften at the word "concern".
"In any case," continued Eris, "the Ace of Pentacles often represents a job offer and the possibility of professional advancement. It's synonymous with a new project, and sometimes an influx of money from an unforeseen or unexpected source.’
You thought back to the few bills he had given you without any difficulty so that you could purchase a dress.
"That's incredible," he mumbled, all surprised, "don't you think Vik?"
"Yes," he admitted, "but I'm waiting to see the whole result.’
"Let's move on to the present, the Eight of Pentacles." She put down the Ace to take the next card. "We remain in the realm of the material and following the financial influx that the Ace of Pentacles was able to bring, there is the expression of the free with the eight and the lemniscate for its infinity. We have the talent, the materials, the knowledge and the ability to concentrate, so we can produce without hindrance."
Jayce seemed to be hanging on her every word, while Viktor seemed increasingly interested and methodically observant.
Eris's slender finger traced along the card. ‘The Pentacles are neatly lined up on the fully-covered beam and spill out onto the floor, and the craftsman has so many of them that he doesn't know where to put them. The bench can be seen as a representation of the skills he can rely on. The small village behind could mean that the craftsman can devote himself freely to his work because he knows that the other members of society will provide for his other needs." So she turned to Jayce. "I suppose living here in such a small flat can't be very practical for carrying out your projects, is your apartment still being refurbished?"
Jayce looked at her with wide eyes, turning to Viktor who maintained an inflexible phlegm, but you knew him well enough by now to recognise that he was intrigued by this discussion.
"How do you know that-"
"I don't know anything," smiled Eris, "I just read the cards and follow my intuition which, luckily, is rarely wrong."
"Well, that's just it," Jayce breathed, turning to you, "I got the go-ahead yesterday to move back into the flat."
You straightened. "You're moving out?"
"We're moving out," Viktor corrected.
The news, strangely enough, fell on you like a weight. Your eyes darted back and forth between Viktor and Jayce.
"When are you leaving?" you asked.
"Tomorrow morning," Jayce replied. "We finished packing up a few things today. We were going to come and see you later to tell you the news but," he smiled, "you were already here."
You turned to Viktor, who lowered his eyes. 'Just here to read and chat by the fire,' as he'd said. Why hadn't he just said they wanted to talk to you? Why did he change the subject?
You should have been relieved, to finally be rid of him on a daily basis, but you couldn't.
"What about the future?" asked Jayce as he turned back to the deck. "What's announced?"
You tried to digest the information as quickly as he had, but it was simply impossible. You forced yourself to, letting Eris resume her explanation as your heart seemed to weigh its weight down your throat.
"The Nine of Cups is pure and simple satisfaction. The Nine is the very last single-digit number, so it's an achievement. But the Nine is still an accomplishment in the weakest sense of the word, because it shows us what it's like when you see something through to the end - you don't go beyond anything, you just achieve it and that's all there is to it. For cups, it's 'filling the feeling of lack to the end, to the point of satisfaction’." She pinched the card between her two fingers, twisting it back and forth. "It's wish fulfillment, getting what you want. It's not having to ask anymore, it's one partner always there for the other no matter what, and the other counting on it."
Eris's eyes moved from Viktor to Jayce with a gentle glance.
"And the sun assures us of this with its warm presence. It brings self-confidence, the ability to assert oneself with kindness and to share happiness and the joy of life." She put the card down again, bringing the reading to a close. ‘I don't know what you're working on, but I hope it's something good for the world.’
Jayce exchanged a knowing smile with Viktor, who always returned it with mischief in his eyes.
"Well, that's really surprising!" Jayce exclaimed. "It's so right... I didn't know you could deduce all those things from cards."
"There's nothing random about arcane blades," asserted Eris. She turned to Viktor. "Would you like one too?"
He seemed taken by surprise, parting his lips and lifting his chin with his hands as his eyes moved from Jayce, to Eris, to you.
"I," he cleared his throat, "I don't know if this thing is really for me."
Viktor? Hesitating? that was definitely new.
"What," you chuckled as you turned to him, "scared the cards are going to be bad?"
"I'm not particularly fond of the idea that they could be right and doom me to think that i am doomed." Viktor explained. "What if they are bad?"
"What if they're not?" You suggested with a shrugged smile.
He considered you for a moment. "Haven't you ever regretted one of the readings Miss Eris here made for you?"
You sighed heavily. "It's sometimes painful," you returned Eris's gaze for a moment, she wore an infectious smirk that wasted no time in stretching your own lips to the side, "I have a very distinct one in mind that I deeply disliked. But..." you looked back at Viktor, "the cards were right, and for the better. Believe me."
He remained motionless for a moment, finally nodding.
"Alright," he nodded, turning to Eris who was already shuffling the cards.
She made a perfect line of cards, and Viktor moved his left hand forward to take his first card.
The Ace of Swords.
Viktor drew a second, and you frowned.
The Knight of Pentacles. Your tarot was a real player when it came to pulling out cards apparently.
"Him again," you breathed.
"What do you mean again?" questioned Eris.
"I'll explain some other time."
"And the last one?" Asked Eris as Viktor picked up another card.
Page of Cups.
Having two aces as first cards for both acolytes was interesting.
"Intriguing," admitted Eris as she collected the cards into a single deck to observe the shadow card.
Her eyes landed on you, stunned. You could feel what was about to happen.
"No," you breathed, "not him."
"Yes," confirmed Eris, "him."
Eris then held up the Emperor's card, and you brought your fingers up to pinch the bridge of your nose.
"That bad?" Inquired Viktor, surprised.
"No, it's not bad." You laughed to yourself for a moment, turning your gaze to his. "The cards are just very playful, that's all."
Eris set the deck down on the table, the Emperor facing Viktor.
"I suppose you met this Emperor in another reading?" he suggested.
You moistened your lips, tilting your head to the side. "Not just that."
Eris laughed with her nose, catching herself as she straightened up.
"One day," you said to Viktor, "I'll explain the whys and wherefores, don't worry."
He nodded weakly, turning to Eris. He seemed a little nervous, and you were discovering this phenomenon in him. He could be tense, but nervous?
"To begin with, then, the Ace of Swords, like the Ace of Pentacles, is a possibility, a spark that hasn't yet produced anything, but which puts us in the right field. The crown indicates that intelligence is the queen faculty. The palm on the right and the laurel branch on the left are symbols of victory."
Viktor like victory, of course.
"Intelligence is the highest of our faculties, enabling us to rise to the highest heights; it is what makes us a thinking creature. As for the mountains, they represent elevation, the sometimes arid and cold summits of thought. It's a card that represents intelligence and the fact that you can count on it in any situation."
Viktor turned to you, smiling. "You'd rather have that card for yourself than for me, wouldn't you?"
You chuckled. "Maybe once, but now I'm leaving it to you."
He seemed surprised by your answer for a moment, pressing his lips together for a second as he turned back to Eris who was changing cards.
"Now it's the Knight of Pentacles' turn. He represents reliability. He's down to earth, he does what needs to be done without question. This is the card of routine. In terms of symbols, on his helmet and in the horse's ears, there are oak leaves to remind us of what is rooted, powerful and takes time. The soil has furrows in it, so it's about being rooted to the earth, about regular, long, cyclical work like farming, where you have to show stamina and well-applied physical strength.’
"My perfect picture, I am the very definition of athleticism while my colleague Jayce Talis the skinny watches me do my thing in my corner," Viktor joked as he retrieved his cane in hand.
"Don't put the blame on me," interjected Jayce, "I offered to train at least your upper body when you sometimes come with me to the forge."
Viktor rolled his eyes, waiting for the rest of what Eris had to say.
"In any case, the Knight of Pentacles is the definition of moving slowly but surely, with methods that may not be original, but are tried and tested. It's a knight slow to anger who won't take the first step without being reassured of the other's intentions. If there is to be a meeting, it must take time to develop into a solid friendship before it is possible to move on to something more."
Viktor seemed to be playing with his cane, but was listening carefully to what Eris had to say. You remembered the day you read the information on the Knight of Pentacles' card. Physical and sensual. You began to blame the fire in the fireplace for the heat that was rising in your cheeks.
"Now let's move on to our last blade, the Page of Cups." She picked up the card in question. "The Page of Cups discovers, so in the emotional frame of the Cups, he discovers an idea. We welcome new information; we examine a way of thinking or a way of relating facts, of news that affects us."
Again she began to point to the various symbols one by one as you bent to see them better.
"The little fish swimming in the cup, to which the Page gives a sympathetic ear, represents the little voice of intuition, that elusive mystery that lives in our depths and sometimes comes to speak to us. The water lily flowers on his shirt can refer to sleep and the messages of dreams, as well as to the sacred nature of sensitivity that takes root in the depths. On all the cut figures, the water represents the changing and fluid nature of emotions, as well as their depth."
She placed the card on the table. "This is the card of announcement, of wonder, of joy, of something that touches. I should point out that it's still a card that's recognised as being very romantic, but not only that. It's the card of love, but it's also the card of a new friendship, the one that makes you discover that you really care about someone."
You bit the inside of your lips, the heat spreading from your cheeks to the nape of your neck, which you covered with your hand, a ghostly memory of Viktor's breath washing over you.
"At last," Eris grasped the Emperor's card, "the card of stability and anchoring that is the Emperor represents you here."
"Me? The Emperor?" Repeated Viktor, pointing his finger at himself.
"Yes," you said under your breath.
He turned to you for a moment, and you knew full well that when he found the time to discuss it with you, he wouldn't miss the opportunity.
"The Emperor completes the Empress's teaching by introducing the idea of rule, law and structure. Discipline doesn't mean giving in to the first distraction. He is a man who teaches us to take responsibility without deviating, to defend our principles without failing, to be obedient without letting ourselves be influenced. That's where his authority comes from - this lucid examination, it's the foundation that makes us sure, and allows us to act without wavering." She then placed the card back on the deck, closing the reading.
You had a feeling that Viktor wouldn't be the only one thinking about this reading. The cards reflected each other so perfectly it was impressive.
"Any questions?" Eris asked simply as she gathered up the cards and put them back in the box.
"How long have you been practising," Jayce asked, turning to her.
"I'd say... seven years?" She said, turning to you to make sure she was right.
"And a half," you added as she handed you the box of your tarot.
"Is this yours?" Asked Viktor.
"Yes, I draw one every morning to see what the day has in store or for advice," you explained.
Viktor turned to Eris and said, "Where do you practise?"
"In one of the streets on the entresol level."
"Could I have the address?"
She seemed as surprised as you, glancing at you then back to Viktor. "An interest in spirituality?"
He exchanged a look with you. "Now yes."
After giving her shop address to Viktor, he and Jayce excused themselves and left to make sure all the boxes and other luggage were ready for the next day's departure.
You and Eris were back upstairs, you preparing the evening meal while she rushed to the shower to warm up from the absence of the fire she already missed so much.
You couldn't stop thinking about Viktor, about the changes, the ideas swarming around in your mind without ever finding respite or giving you any. You felt that the fact that he would no longer be in the building tomorrow gave you the impression that his absence would force you to think only of him.
But another subject was about to hit you, bitter, fearsome.
Eris stepped out of the shower, droplets of water beading from her hair and running down her tattooed arms. She crossed her arms seriously, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe as she crossed her leg.
"Do you remember my letter, when I mentioned there was something I needed to talk to you about?"
You stirred the forest pan over the stove, not looking away from the task as you expected mere gossip in the rising streets of Zaun. "Mhm?"
She sighed, watching you sternly.
"The child disappearances have started up again."
You froze in your tracks, the sound of the hood and the oil cooking the vegetables fading into a distant blur of sound.
You turned to Eris, almost trying to get her to repeat what she'd just said, as if she'd just resurrected an entire graveyard. "What?"
"Not just in Zaun," she continued, just as austerely, "I've had customers from Piltover. It's starting here too. It's very small and tiny as a disappearance compared to Zaun, but it's still there."
"Are you absolutely sure?" you asked, registering this information almost robotically.
She nodded. "When Renata Glasc came into my shop and I made her reader, she said his name."
You huffed, as if someone had just punched you in the stomach and expelled all the air your lungs held.
"Is the situation under hand?"
"Glasc is on it from what I know."
You huffed with difficulty. "Could you um..." you felt your throat tighten, "could you continue cooking? I'm think I need a shower.
She smiled at you, a thin, empathetic one. "Take all the time you need."
"Thank you," you barely managed to say before moving towards the bathroom and carefully closing the door behind you.
Silently, with hasty movements as if all your clothes were ten times too hot on your skin, you got rid of each layer at record speed and turned on the water.
Your whole body was shaking like a leaf, your breath coming fast as you passed under the hot spray. Your eyes clouded over in a blur of tears, your whole face tensing, your brow furrowing as your nose scrunched up and your lips curled. You drew a huge, rapid, jerky breath, anger and despair contorting every feature of your face until your forehead ached as your hands ran over them as if trying to erase it, to dilute it under the shower water until everything was smooth and clean and you were pure again.
Your back jolted despite the warmth of the water running down your spine, the sobs attacking you as you placed one hand on the wall to keep yourself upright while the second pressed against your mouth to prevent any sound escaping from the prison bars of your fingers.
You only gave yourself a few moments to cry before letting the salt on your cheeks be washed away by the clear water of Piltover and turning off the shower. You didn't want to abuse it, even if all the drops it could have spilled down your body would never have been enough to bring the rain that would wash away the past!
Today had been too full changes, of emotions, of movements and unpredictable things that weighed on your mind like an elephant.
When you got out of the shower, Eris had already prepared the table and served your two plates.
"You know," she said with her mouth full, raising her fork in the air, "it's a bit hard to tell how you and Viktor stand."
You were still relieved at Eris's understanding. She had seen you cry very little over the years, the habit of choosing the excuse of the shower to have a moment when your sensitivity could take over and go beyond the limit of your eyes having come early in your friendship. And when you came back, she always had a different subject to discuss to take your mind off things.
With a tired smile, you took the chair opposite her and sat down.
"What do you mean?"
She took care to chew her mouthful to the end, winding her index finger in the air to ask you to wait. "Well," she finally swallowed, "I saw you staring at each other. I just can't be certain if it was sexual tension or murderous rage."
You let out a small laugh, your eyes still stinging from your tears and wrinkling with admiration for her.
The evening continued on a variety of topics, with countless teases about Viktor, who seemed to be burning a hole in her lip.
And when you both went to bed to find respite, the walk in the cold having knocked Eris out with sleep, yours didn't come. The cards all came back into your head like emblematic figures from a distant story, a fairy tale with final lessons for little children.
You thought of the Empress and the Emperor. You thought of yourself, of Viktor.
The same warm palpitations in your heart and stomach returned as you thought of him. You brought one to the one, the second to the other, like a stethoscope trying to discern any worries or disturbances.
It was warm, sweet, it was a hope that sprang up in your soul and filled you completely.
Did the Empress have a metaphorical womb pregnant with a budding love, ready to grow?
You thought back to Eris's words.
I think he's the first one who's reached your level, and managed to keep up with you without ever tiring, always trying to bring out the parts of you that you don't show to others.
Was it the warmth that sprang up deep inside you, like a candle in the darkness of a cavern containing thousands of crystals ready to sparkle, that he brought out?
When morning came, you had given up on the idea of sleeping and sat on your windowsill to watch the sun emerge in the distance.
You had thought for so long in the silence of this room that the inside of your body was a constant echo of thoughts reverberating against the walls of your skin and every corner of your mind. The sun was the first to say hello, and you smiled at it as it caressed your cheek with its warmth.
You'd fought with it so much that it had made your cheeks red. And you wanted to catch him, to hold him close to your chest so that he could feel the warmth of your heart, so much so that the night fell away. And now that you'd got to know the moon thanks to him, you told yourself that you'd just put everything out like a poor cigarette. But we're talking about the moon, and the sun, that's not nothing.
His reality had made the wheat grow, and the truth had made men eat, but reality was coming towards you little by little with a flag, staggering.
Down below, approaching the building in the soft silence of the morning and the waking city, a van pulled up.
The day was here, and you wanted to bury it in a suitcase to let the night stay a little longer, to keep the moonlight on your skin and in the glow of your eyes.
Your gaze turned away from the truck for a moment, back to the dressing room. The coat.
In the greatest of hasty silences, you pulled on a heavy jumper, trotting on tiptoe to the dressing room to pick up the coat that still had his smell on it. You gently turned the key to the apartment, moving from the silence of the bedroom to that of the corridor bathed in half-light.
You hurried down the stairs, praying that the van hadn't left, that they hadn't left, and that you'd be able to say ‘see you soon’.
When you got downstairs, Viktor was standing in front of the entrance, just beyond the door, outside, with his back to you.
You inhaled, trying to hide your miserable gasping breath deep in your chest.
You were moving forward, feeling cold. The coat could have given you that warmth, but you didn't put it on. Your hand came to rest on the handle of the golden door, and you pushed it open despite the trembling you presumed to be due to the fatigue of a sleepless night.
Viktor turned and his eyes fell on you. His expression wasn't wide with surprise, and his eyebrows weren't furrowed, but you could feel a flicker of regret on his face that was swept away as soon as he realised it was you.
The two of you stood in silence for a moment, the stillness of the morning making you both feel as if the whole town would wake up at once if you spoke.
"Hey," you managed to say softly.
He gave a surprised little smile. "Hey."
You breathed in, swallowing as you tried to work out if all the ideas you'd been fed about him wanted to come back through your throat.
"So uh," you jerked your chin towards the van, "you're all set to go ?
Miserable small talk.
Viktor looked at you calmly. ‘The removal man is still inside picking up the rest of the boxes."
"Oh," you nodded, "Jayce isn't with you?"
"He's gone to the flat to settle the last few things that needed his attention."
His eyes never left you, his face a peaceful, unchanged emotion. It feels like a dream, you thought, but it's not, and that's probably the most reassuring thing about it.
You tightened your grip on the coat slightly, and finally let the breath you'd been holding expel itself from your lungs.
"You're fierce as my rival," you admitted, "but I think I prefer you better when you're not."
Viktor remained motionless for a moment, the light breeze in the air combing a few strands of his hair. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, barely rising.
"What good is a truce if we're not rivals anymore, then?" he asked.
"The truce can just turn into a deal," you suggested almost hastily, "a friends' deal."
He smiled at last, and your stomach warmed in the dead of winter.
"Friends," he repeated as if testing the taste the word had in his mouth, "I like the sound of that."
You smiled back, and relief washed over you.
He changed the grip on his cane, straightening up. "Any clauses you want to add to the truce, Miss?"
You couldn't help asking. "Why do you call me Miss all the time?"
His eyes remained serenely in yours, silently letting a moment pass.
"I can't say yet. Someday, maybe," he replied as if he'd just come back from somewhere else.
You nodded. "Alright." You straightened your back and cleared your throat before raising your eyebrows. "I just have one clause then."
"Go on," he nodded, curious.
A satisfied smirk spread across your face. "All your coffees are free if you come by the Brown Bitt, so you better come often with such an offer."
He laughed softly, his eyes dropping to his shoes for a moment before returning to yours.
"I'd be a fool to refuse such a discount."
"Well," you shrugged, "there is some kind of dignity being the first fool of the academy."
"Last time I checked," he said, raising an eyebrow, "you're the first of the Academy."
"Last time I checked with Eris, one and two together make the three of creativity." You smiled. "What did Heimerdinger say again? About us joining our forces for the presentation."
Viktor sighed, starting to recite. "There's no need to point out that you two are the sharpest elements of this class - you're well enough aware of that, as is the rest of the school certainly. None of the fellow teachers in this establishment seem to have brought to the table, however, a possibility which seems to me to be the most interesting for both of you."
"Teamwork," you both pronounced, nodding and smiling.
"You remember it so vividly," you grinned, impressed.
He nodded. "Eh, better have a sharp memory and wit to follow with Heimerdinger, if you can't race."
Your lips parted, remembering a little too well the first day we worked together. "Please tell me Jayce never heard of this."
"I recite your words to him every night before sleeping like a prayer," he sneered.
Another moment of silence passed, both your breaths billowing in the air.
"When we'll all be settled," he finally said, "come to the flat."
You clasped your hands together. "Is that a challenge?"
"No," he chuckled, "just an invitation."
‘"As long as you don't organise masquerades in Jayce's apartment every other night, I will."
"Nah," he admitted as the wrinkles in his nose crinkled for a moment, "we keep that outside our explosive apartment."
It was refreshing to be able to listen to Viktor's comments and not find annoyance in them, just laughter.
"Speaking of masquerades," you realised as you handed him his perfectly smooth coat, "I took care of it."
His leather-gloved fingers closed over the dark fabric.
"I'm sure you did," he said, his eyes moving from the fabric to yours.
Behind you, you heard the distinct sound of castors on the floor of the hall, and turned towards the man dragging a trolley with a few boxes piled on it.
"All clean," he warned as he passed you both and began to stack the boxes in the back of the vehicle.
He quickly closed the boot and climbed into the front seat next to the steering wheel.
"See you to the demacia boarding airship?" asked Viktor.
You smiled. "Don't be late."
He gave you one last smile.
"No chance."
✦﹒ previous chapter ✦﹒ next chapter
taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr @potatointhedirt @atrocioushaircut @ren-ni @schrodingersraven @urmommt @enoojnij @stilinskisensation @emlovesya @soupsaurus @luvreadingfics @the-valars-sapphire @solbringer @adorabluesposts @pxszels @nerolovesseongjiyuk @cyberwears @cryptidcut @seohaepeachyun @danielsbackupglasses @2hiigh2cry @16novvs @cicadastoner @patchs-cuiosity-corner @w41k3r-94290 @minniiv @roku907 @lumilarity @peachy-writings @disturbyn
#a crown of ink#acoi#viktor x reader#arcane#arcane viktor#viktor arcane#viktor#arcane x reader#viktor arcane x reader#arcane viktor x reader#viktor fanfic#viktor fic#arcane fanfic#viktor x you#arcane viktor x you#viktor arcane x you
265 notes
·
View notes
Text
As someone who is relatively new to fanfics, I have to say I don’t really understand some of these interactive processes. To me, a fic is like a home cooked meal. I may taste something and decide it’s not for me or I may go back for thirds — but my ability to consume or enjoy it at all is due to the person who created it. As I would never sit down and eat a meal someone cooked without saying thanks (and gushing about what I loved most), I can’t really fathom reading and just walking away without saying thanks. In all but a very few instances I hit the kudos button because it cost me $0.00. Even if I didn’t think it was the greatest thing I’ve ever read, I’m at least saying “thanks, you did the damn thing and kudos to you for putting it out there.”
It seems like a level of rudeness I can’t fathom to not say how much I enjoyed a story if I did (to the point that I’ve been mulling over a fic I read last night all and it’s bothered me I didn’t leave a comment and only a kudo - I will be fixing that when I log in tonight because even if the fic is “old” or other people already said it, the author deserves to know the story haunted me all day and that I enjoyed it.) You’re privileged enough to enjoy someone’s art (which sometimes is a huge investment of their time and efforts) for free. It feels like the least I can do is acknowledge (again, for free!) that I enjoyed it or that I want to show the author support to keep writing.
As a writer, I admit that I spend a lot of time squinting at hits vs. kudos and trying to extrapolate if people enjoyed. I assume that if my work has hits but not kudos that someone read (or attempted it) and decided they didn’t like it/it wasn’t for them and that it was so bad they didn’t want to even give me a thumbs up for making an effort. I assume this, because I assume other people consume fic like I do. Reading OP’s story really makes me scratch my head… like people may pull up a chair to my table where I’ve spent weeks “cooking up” something, enjoy it, and walk off without even saying thanks…and then go tell other people how great it was? No disrespect to people who don’t kudo/comment on everything they enjoy, but I guess I’m just stunned people wouldn’t even bother to click a button to say thanks if they thought it was a worthwhile effort.
Idk, I gotta go log in and tell someone how much I enjoyed something I read yesterday and keep being an outlier, I guess, lol.
A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.
My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.
My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.
This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.
Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.
I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.
So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.
#fanfiction#fanfic#ao3 writer#ao3 fanfic#fanfic writing#writer stuff#ao3#comments are the currency of the realm#thank you for every story you have written and shared#writing is hard#writing is fun#comments are life#archive of our own
30K notes
·
View notes
Text
ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- disco pang pang
━━━ ↳ ❝ [ se-mi x f! reader ] ¡! ❞
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which you try out the infamous disco pang pang ride with your friends in incheon, south korea, and end up having the ride moderator attempt to set you up with the stoic, pretty woman sitting next to you┊2.1k words
contains: potential ooc se-mi (we don't really know too much about her but my hyperfixation has deluded me to believe my own headcanons that were created by the bit we saw her in s2), fluff, some minor hints of sexual content, wlw, teaser x teased, & non-canonical nonsense, au!! the games never took place & se-mi is lowkey loaded (which i may write more about in another fic idea i have oops), i also am not very sure of any korean customs (im a white american) so please please please let me know if any of the manners of this are wrong so i can correct it, also this has not been proofread yet so enjoy any spelling or grammar errors <3
After much debate with your close girl friends, that you were on a trip into the big city with, they had practically dragged you to the long line of awaiting people to try out this silly ride. Each of their hands clasped tightly around your sweaty palms, forcing your feet to shuffle into your spot at the back of the line. It was a warm spring day, the sun beating down only to be combated by a pleasant breeze. So, of course, most would find themselves spending the day at the Wolmi Theme Park in South Korea. The three of you had already spent the majority of the day entertaining yourselves with other rides, though with yourself often choosing to opt out of riding many--given rollercoasters had a habit of making you queasy. Yet, after much convincing and deliberation, you had allowed them to take you on this ride. They had claimed that it wasn't that scary, and was oftentimes quite fun. But as you got into line and saw the ever-moving ride your stomach dropped and your face paled. Laughter and screams echoed around as the current set of riders were being bounced up and down whilst the ride spun everyone in round in differing speeds. As you watched this, you couldn't help but feel the corn dogs you just had thirty-minutes prior rising their way through your innards.
While you stood there, mouth agape, your friends had busied themselves with calling their boyfriends back home in the countryside. Snapping you out of your scared daze, was a smooth laugh from beside--even smoother words following in pursuit.
"You look like you've just seen a ghost," a woman laughed from beside you, your eyes narrowing as they traveled up the body beside you in line. Taking notice of her skinny ripped black jeans, the loose tank top that had a bit of the side tucked into the waistband of her jeans, and a black leather jacket over her shoulders. Her face was adorned in few piercings: just one silver ring on her lip, the other a silver ring on her left nostril (a gem-incrusted sun on where the ring met the visible skin). Her hair was short, some strands of her black hair covering the right side of her head slightly. Her narrow features complimented her stylistic choices. And by all means: the woman was completely, and utterly gorgeous.
After a few minutes of silence, your eyes only widening upon seeing the pretty woman, she spoke up again. "Are you alright? Surely you haven't actually seen a ghost," she replied, her thin brows furrowing slightly as she stared at you--her head cocked to the side just a hair. She was concerned for your wellbeing. How cute.
"Y-yeah, I'm fine," you blinked, snapping out of your haze and returning your gaze to the still-moving ride--swallowing hard. "I just don't like rides like this," you added and nodded awkwardly. "Not really my thing."
The woman beside you nodded, letting out a quiet hum as her gaze follows yours up to the ride. "It's not that bad," she commented, letting out a quiet laugh. "Just make sure to hold on tight."
"What?" You asked, misunderstanding her words and her eyes widening slightly.
The woman laughed harder, shaking her head. "The bars, hold on tight to the bars," she corrected, tilting her head. "Or your friends."
You suddenly felt the presence of your two friends who had gotten off facetime with their partners, and were now standing beside you once more--staring at the taller woman with slightly furrowed brows. The woman just nodded once, before turning back around and facing the front of the line. Leaving you to suffer the teasing looks and questions from your friends for the remainder of the wait in line.
Eventually, after growing slightly impatient from standing still for so long, it was finally your group's turn to file onto the circular ride. The eager group of riders all excitedly piled on, sounds of annoyed groans coming from the people who were cut off and had to wait another round.
Your friends rushed to a spot, sitting on the seats and giggling excitedly. Their hands reached behind themselves to grab the plastic and metal bars--wrapping their arms around the slick material in hopes to stay (mostly) still throughout the ride.
You sat there awkwardly, trying to mimic your friend's actions but you found yourself struggling to keep yourself comfortable. You didn't realize the woman who was in front of you in line was sitting beside you until you felt her hands gently guiding your arms to wrap around the bars--her hand resting there for a moment and looking over you.
"Comfy?" She asked you, raising a brow slightly.
Your face, now red, moved up to meet her gaze--nodding awkwardly. "Yeah, thanks," you said, voice quiet, and pressing a small smile up as another bout of gratitude. Her dark eyes traveled over you for a second, smiling and giving a nod back. She moved to sit beside you, leaving the width of a person and a half between you two.
Unfortunately for your humility, the ride moderator had noticed the small interaction and so once the ride started slowly spinning--your face all but heated when you heard the moderator's loud voice call out your descriptor over the speakers. Little did you know the running internet joke that if the moderator called you out, you were done for.
"Are you two together?" The male moderator's voice called out, "you, tweed skirt and the h/c hair. And you, short black hair and the leather jacket," he described. Your heart all but dropped. Before you could reply, the woman next to you beat you to it:
"No, we aren't," she yelled, her voice loud over the mechanics of the machine and the loud sounds from around the theme park.
"Do you want to be?" The moderator called out, a hint over amusement carrying over in his voice.
You shook your head, laughing awkwardly. "No, no it's okay. I came here with my friends," you replied, brows furrowing in embarrassment--trying to ignore the giggles from your friends beside you.
"Ah, no, no, let me fix that," the moderator said, laughing, and your heart dropped from his mischievous tone.
Suddenly, the ride was tilted all the way to the left side and began bouncing slightly. Lifting you up and down from your seat, your sweaty hands barely holding onto the plastic bars as gravity tried to pull you to where the woman beside you was sitting. She seemed to keep her body planted firmly--hardly moving. The ups and downs got harsher, and before you knew it, one of your arms slipped from the bar and you fell slightly down to your left. You felt another leg wrap around yours--realizing it was the woman's, who was trying to keep you steady so you didn't fall.
You grunted as you moved to steady yourself back onto the seat, pulling your leg from hers and attempting to grab back onto the bars. Before you could succeed, another unexpected bump made your other arm slip--letting out a yelp as you stumbled off the seat and about to start rolling on the metal floor of the ride. You didn't go very far before you found your body ensnared by both the woman's legs--holding your torso tightly as to make sure you didn't fall anymore.
As the bumps continued, you felt one of her hands grab your arm and pull you up--setting you on her lap. Your face burned with embarrassment and awkwardness at the entire situation--wishing you hadn't even let your friends convince you to get on this stupid ride to begin with. Her legs entangled with yours, an arm wrapping around your waist and pressing your back tight against her front. Her fingers found purchase on your hip, pressing into the part tightly.
"Are you okay?" She asked, tilting her head so her mouth was right next to your ear, her voice quiet. God was her voice attractive.
You nodded, the consistent bumps making the two of you rise up from your seats occasionally--but your landings were cushioned by the woman's body beneath you. It was almost strangely nice. No. You shouldn't think like that. She was an entire stranger. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks," you replied, turning your head slightly--though not realizing how close your faces would be. You quickly turned your head back around forward--your cheeks the color of a tomato.
As the ride continued on, the moderator still continued to pick on the two of you, moving you two around. Even with the woman's firm grip on your body, you had somehow ended up turned around--your legs straddling her hips. Her jacket had been moved to wrap around your waist so no one could see how your skirt rid up, allowing some form of modesty. There were some other instances of other people flailing around and landing on others, however you could hardly pay any mind to the others on this ride given your situation. This continued on throughout the ride's duration, before eventually the machine came to a stop--the moderator thanking everyone, though still finding a way to insert a tease about the two women's interactions throughout the ride.
You shakily got off of the woman--pulling your skirt down and untying the jacket around your waist, holding it back out to her. "Um, thanks for this. And for making sure I don't fall," you muttered, looking down at your feet. When she took the jacket, you quickly took off and found your friends at the exit of the ride--trying to ignore the burning throughout your body as their incessant teases fueled your embarrassment.
Before you could get far, a female voice called out and you turned around--your eyes widening as the woman before approached, slightly out of breath from the small jog. Your friends looked at each other with raised brows, both backing away to leave you two to yourselves.
"Oh-- um, hi," you said, brows furrowing slightly. "Did you need something?"
"How long are you in Incheon for? Or do you live here?" She asked, her chest still rising up and down with rapid breaths. She almost sounded hopeful, and a bubbly filling filled your stomach. As if someone had opened a cage of butterflies between your ribcages.
You blinked, looking away from her for a moment. "No, I don't live here. Just visiting with my friends... but I'm not sure. A couple more days, at least. We didn't really have an end date. Why?" You asked, licking your lips slightly--and you watched as her eyes flickered to your slightly damp, pink lips for a moment before she looked back up at your eyes.
"Let me take you sight-seeing around the city, yeah?" She asked, despite her cool demeanor, she almost seemed nervous. "You don't have to, but it'd--"
"Sure," you cut her off, flashing an almost-nervous smile of your own. "I'd like that, my friends and I aren't really super knowledgeable around anyway. I'm sure they'd like it too."
Her face flickered with some unknown expression and she shook her head. "No, not them. Just you... and I," she said, sucking in a long breath.
"Oh," you breathed, your brows raising. "Yeah, my answer is still the same. I would like that," you answered, emphasizing the 'I' in your sentence. The woman nodded, any nervousness or tension immediately lifted from her demeanor.
"Good," she said, grinning. "Let me get your number," she said--pulling out her phone from her back pocket, opening it, and shoving it in your direction with the screen showing an empty contact form to fill out. You nodded, and took the phone to begin typing in some things in each slot. "I'm Se-mi, by the way," she added, her eyes watching you intently--studying every and all aspect of your face.
Once you finished, you looked back up at Se-mi and handed her phone. "Well... just give me a message, Se-mi. I should be free, well, if I can ever escape those two for a moment," she laughed, tilting her head back to where her friends stood--watching the two of you interact with large grins.
Se-mi nodded, watching your form retreat as you handed her phone back and went back to your friends who immediately began pestering you for information on your new 'hot date', as they called it. She looked back down at her phone, studying your name on the contact--trying to burn it into her memory.
"Y/n...," she said slowly, nodding as she enjoyed the feel of it on her tongue. Knowing full well she was going to be saying that name for a long time. Or, well, at least she hoped.
Who knew your friends dragging you onto a silly ride could lead to any of this.
#squid game#squid game s2#squid game season 2#se mi x reader#se mi squid game#player 380#won ji an#female reader#imagine#squid game imagine#lesbian#wlw#fxf#squid game fanfic
213 notes
·
View notes
Text
the question is who taught lucanis to knit. was it something he already knew how to do or is he picking it up over the course of the game as part of his 'if I manage to cram enough hobbies in there I won't have to sleep again ever. easy' experiment. did he learn it out of a book (as a sometime knitter, a horrifying thought but I wouldn't put it past him). as hilarious as I find the mental image of caterina with knitting needles I do not believe in it, did he pick it up from someone in the household staff growing up the same way he did cooking. is the sweater he wears with his introductory armour his own work (very funny if so it's just so. incredibly neutral toned and sensible.) I understand why he never does it on screen because animating knitting is the devil's own work and bioware were right to dodge right past it no one should wish themselves that kind of pain, but do you think off-screen he's using it the same way davrin does whittling during team meetings and book club nights (for real the grandmas were so right for this: knitting during social group situations is a neurodivergent life hack like you wouldn't believe if doodling isn't your thing/isn't doing it for you). it's that or sharpening his knives and some people seem to get a bit nervous about that so he mostly sticks to the knit one purl one of it all. does he make things for the team. for romanced rook perhaps. boring but useful things like socks and scarves, to be clear. I think mr. 'I made you a cake (cautiously marital intent)' would not mean to impress just make sure your feet weren't cold jogging around the heights of athim killing darkspawn. knitting more socks for harding so she won't get cold walking around everywhere in her fereldan *checks notes written on palm* clogs. some of taash' outfits... you think rook and lucanis are letting them walk around the anderfels like that without at least a token sensible scarf on even tho adaari are built different in terms of body temperature. I say no not in my lighthouse they would team up and mother hen them to shathann levels before they'd let that happen. (the scarf has dragons on it taash thinks it's kind of cool actually.) a bobble hat for manfred not because he really needs it but because he wanted to feel included. assan indignantly tries to steal it and fly away with it so he gets his own scarf to promote peace between the lighthouse little guys and it works. help.
#lucanis sitting there with his scariest coldest most focused eyes and people going 'hey are you... are you alright there?'#and him looking up like 'hm?🥺🧶oh yes I'm just counting'. it's canon in my heart.#he's just like me frfr in a variety of ways that are really funny fhdskja. I paused on knitting a sock to write this out#dragon age#dragon age: the veilguard#dragon age: the veilguard spoilers#dragon age spoilers#lucanis dellamorte#he overtakes my neurons in such a unique way from time to time I don't even write these things The Truth is just channeled through me#*head in my hands* I love all these characters so much. especially him but all of them. imagining what each of them might like to get#like would bellara want something for an experiment and not so much to wear. do the wisps playfully unfurl anything neve leaves around#for inscrutable reasons of their own. does lucanis make a sweater with something rude on it for davrin. like 'asshole' in antivan#'it's our word for 'warden' :)' 'uh-huh' (davrin still wears it all the time as a pure powermove to be clear)#(im crying 'cover them up warden we're going to lavendel. also happy birthday or whatever' as he tosses the sweater#directly into davrin's cleavage)#I spent most of this day quite unhappy. and then i thought about this for a while and now I feel a lot better#maybe there is joy for me in the world after all. I'll leave the possibility open another day
82 notes
·
View notes
Text
ON THE RUN, cho hyunju. 【 CHAPTER 01 】
⤑ pairing, cho hyunju x fem!reader
⤑ synopsis, where secret-not so secret lovers, hyunju and yn find each other in the unlikely of places.
⤑ series masterlist, on the run.
⤑ chapter two, coming soon!
⤑ notes, hi welcome to my first fic on here! i haven’t written anything in years but i couldn’t not write something for my girl bcos she deserves all the love. anyways enjoy, i hope it isn’t too bad!! 🫶🏻
⤑ taglist, @etta-huracan (if you would like to be added let me know)
The day seemed to pass slowly. You spent most of it watching the hours tick by. Midnight at Hangang Bridge the robotic voice had said when calling the unknown number two days ago, a number from a card you'd received from a well dressed man in Sinchon station. Your face was still slightly bruised from that interaction, you had never been the best at playing ddakji. It was 30 minutes until 12 and you knew if you didn't leave now, you wouldn't make it on time. As risky as it was you weren't missing out on the opportunity to potentially win life changing money.
You unplugged your phone from the charger and switched off the broken lamp that did nothing to light your room. The apartment was small, all contained in one room minus the bathroom but it was the best you could get with what you have. You slipped on your shoes, eyes scanning the place one last time and eventually landing on the fridge. The note she had left was still there, her messy handwriting followed by little hearts in the corner, you could picture her folded over the kitchen island, a little smile on her face as she doodled her love onto the page. You missed her more than anything.
You quickly pulled yourself together closing the door behind you. A noise to the left startled you, keys almost falling from your hands. The sweet lady who owned the building with her son was hiding herself from view of the streets, the curtains slightly moving from the wind. "Hi, Ajumma" You called.
She turned with a smile on her face, backing away from the window. "Oh hello Y/N love" She replied.
"Are you okay?" You questioned. It wasn't like her to be roaming around the halls so late in the night especially at her age.
"I don't want to worry you" She said hesitantly. You froze, mind instantly going to Hyunju. Did she finally come by? "Those same men where outside again, no good for nothing they are" She seethed.
Your heart sank. "Oh"
"I've been keeping an eye on them just in case but looks like they're gone now" She said, walking alongside you towards the exit. "You're leaving late? Everything okay?" She asked.
You nodded. "Going to visit a friend for a while, i'll be back in time for rent payments" You assured her, the last thing you needed was to be evicted.
She patted your shoulder affectionately. "Don't worry about that, you go have a nice time" She smiled. "You deserve it"
You paused for a second, words caught in your throat. "If-" You started. "If you see Hyunju can you tell her i'll be back soon? Tell her not to go anywhere, please" You practically begged. It would be just your luck, the moment you leave she would appear again.
Her eyes softened, a look of sympathy flashed across her face. She nodded, caressing your shoulder again. "Of course I will sweetheart. You still haven't heard from her?" She questioned.
You shook your head. It had been 30 days, an entire month since you last seen the one good thing in your life. You were left with a text message, one you'd read more times than you could count, one you could recite by heart if asked. She was leaving but she'd be back soon. At first you were angry, how dare she leave you after everything you'd been through together, with just a message through a screen. Then the days turned to weeks and your anger became worry. Where was she? Why wasn't she returning your calls or texts? You didn't want to expect the worst but in the country you lived as the people you both are, being alone wasn't a good idea. You lost sleep, your headaches not that you thought they could, somehow became worse. Your medication bottles became empty and your pockets just the same. You only hope she'll be back by the time you return and this time you'll have a bank balance enough to get you out of this place.
You finally left the building when another resident entered, distracting the older woman and making your exit, but of course not forgetting to say goodbye. The rain was heavy, bouncing against the cracked pavements. The silence is eerie. The broken street lamps flicker casting shadows on the wet pavements, your jacket doesn't have a hood leaving your hair to get drenched by the midnight drizzle. You scan the roads, no cars or people in sight. An overwhelming feeling of anxiety washes over you, a familiar sensation that mostly greets you in the night.
You don't have time to dwell on it as a beam of headlights approach you. A silver car pulls up beside you, the passenger side window rolls down. You're taken back at the person sat in the driver seat, face concealed by a black mask. They're also wearing a pink suit, their entire body hidden.
"Name?" The masked person questions.
"Y/N L/N" You reply, droplets of rain falling against your open lips.
They don't reply instead the back door clicks open. You quickly slide into the empty seat shielding yourself from the rain. You push the wet hair from your eyes only then noticing other people sat in the seats around you, seemingly asleep.
"Uh, excuse me?" You ask the masked driver. "What's-" You stop mid sentence, suddenly it becomes harder to breathe and a mysterious mist fogs your eyesight. You struggle to move your mouth, your entire body feels heavy. You feel the jolt of the car starting again and before you know it you're being sent into a slumber completely unaware of the hell that awaits you.
#cho hyun ju x reader#player 120 x reader#squid game x reader#cho hyunju#player 120#squid game x fem reader#cho hyunju x fem reader#player 120 x fem reader
223 notes
·
View notes