#i did this instead of studying and i have nothing to say in my defense... okay maybe just that i was bored

[vicompte-de-latarteaucoing]

Just a few edited vignettes from The Last Swordfish, don't mind me...

[luvether]

STAR-SHAPED BRUISES ✦ he who once felt the cold touch of death before, so why did it matter if he risked it again? Only that it did matter, to you, and your yearnings for him felt so warm it almost made him want to be selfish.

anaxagoras x gn!reader. angst? & fluff! content. hurt with comfort (?) tensions and arguments. yearning and hidden pining. cerces playing matchmaker. might be ooc + anaxa character study. written before 3.2 and spoilers for the 3.1 story! [2.4k wc]

tagging @rainswept @eterjie @kazucee !!

“You seem troubled today, more than usual.”

The thin-layer of soundlessness is quickly replaced by the tamed billow of Anaxa’s tone, one that seems like he’s questioning for the sake of curiosity and not because of empathy. Looking up at how busy he looked, his eyes maintained upon his alembic that bubbled a violent cyan-gold hue, any second and you’re sure it’s gonna fulminate from the vessel.

You shift from your seat, feigning skittish. “Did my morose pique the curiosity of the grand performer? Or are you simply worried?”

“Neither.”

“What a benumbed reaction, Anaxa—“

“—goras.” He finishes for you. Usually, whenever he’d add on your behalf, you’d combat it with a snide but today, he’s left with nothing but silence. This made him look up from his instruments and papers, your lack of reactions made him forgo his current experiment.

It made him almost worry, almost.

He sighs instead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter.”

“You’re quick to lie to me,” Anaxagoras is now facing you, laying a hand on his hip. “That seems like something.”

The way he conducts his questions is making you want to be defensive with your petulant behavior. “Even if something is on my mind, I don’t see why I should be telling you about it.”

“Maybe you should, because if I can find some way to help, your mood would lift, no?”

“Since when have you cared about my moods?”

Silence then.

“Are you aware of what the principle of correspondence is?” Anaxa mutters out and you have the urge to exhale.

“Please spare me a lecture…”

“As above, so below, as within so without.” The professor starts nonetheless. “Everything around us is a mirror that reflects a projection on both our inner and outer manners, think of the relationships as interconnected roots of trees or simply dendrites. It’s the simple work of magic tricks—human behaviors more so than divinity at play.” Anaxagoras approaches you, the chains of his eyepatch filling the slowness of the room.

He levels his face with yours and from your position, you can clearly anatomize the fullness of his eye from here—the hollow of mint with a cut of boysenberry in the center, glowing beneath long lashes.

He continues, “even if I’m half-dead as what that titan said, I can still feel your vibrations and stress, an internal conflict, it’s making shoddy trembles of my glass flasks on that desk.”

“How does that even—“

“Your feet.” Anaxa finally says. “You were unconsciously tapping your feet.”

Oh.

You lay your palms flat on your knees, an unconscious manner.

“I apologize.”

“So you have the decency to apologize and yet not speak your mind further?”

The silence is indefinite yet present. It shallows over at every retort that spills in between both your stubborn tongues.

You shake your head. “You’re difficult.”

His eyes narrow. “You are the one being difficult, actually. I offered help, you refused, I asked about your well-being, you dismissed me.”

“You should consider how your candidness makes it exceptionally hard for me to be open to you, maybe think about that.” You bite back at him, the tension threatening to spill over. “You’re the last person I’d want to go to whenever I have worries, so just simply drop it for today. I’d have to apologize for my lackings, I'll provide you with better companionship and arguments when I’m feeling well.”

“…Truly, I didn’t mean to come off as heartless—“ but you’d already brush past his shoulder before he can fully explain himself like he’d always have, leaving Anaxa to his bubbling vessels, untidy scrolls and a heavy sigh.

Much to his dismay instead of the privacy that he wishes after that argument, Cerces appears just as you vanish from his sight, a liquidy chuckle slipping past their lips. “Sometimes, I even wonder if your heart died along with you, child of humanity.”

“I’d rather you keep silent while I work.” Anaxagoras distastefully returns back to his apparatuses, more quiet and solemn than before.

“You should give chase.” Cerces suggested instead. “That child was simply worried.”

“Worried?” He finds the titan’s words as credulous. “Did you not see the flush of anger directed at me? Besides, I’m preoccupied right now.”

“You say you’re preoccupied and yet it’s you who seem quite distracted. Are you curious about their source of trouble?”

“It’s nothing new, arguments like that. We’ve known each other long before you ever knew me on my deathbed so back off.”

When he’d state his intentions clear, the Titan of Reason—unfazed in their countenance—leaves the professor to his own bearings and he finally has room to breathe.

Your relationship with him has always been rocky. Arguments and walking outs weren’t new, you used to debate about claims and theories a multitude of times back in the Grove, it was part of your dynamic, but every time he realizes belatedly how his string of words had cut you deep beyond the usual shallow jabs thrown on a daily, Anaxagoras cannot help but feel like his hollow chest is being twisted upside down.

In some way, maybe it mattered because despite the clashes and quarrels, you’d stay. You’ve stayed by him for years even after he was ridiculed as a blasphemous fool or a heretic—you’d stay even longer, waiting for him to finish lectern speeches or classes without so much as an ounce of complaint. A simple gesture that he’d been grateful of and even he admits to himself that seeing you being upset with him and his words were the least satisfying things to behold.

It did bother him but admitting that aloud to that titan was the last thing he’d want.

So after an hour or two after he knew you’d calm down, the professor drops his vials and walks down the distasteful and boisterous streets of Okhema in search of you—or more specifically, cruising over to Hyacine and asking for your whereabouts to save him the trouble of turning the Holy City upside down.

It was tempting, for the sake of bringing an irate reaction out of that woman and her golden threads, but his sick body and rational mind stopped him so.

“You are here.”

Anaxagoras has finally found you in some remote corner of the city, you were sitting shiftless above limestone, carving names upon ordinary stones. There was a spare moment in which his dull eyes sought down to you—he’d noticed how your hair is wind-swept and how strands of it stick to your forehead and the skin of your neck. The leaves of your collar are strewn as well, showing the barest hint of collarbones and almost immediately Anaxa shifts his eyes away, he’d asked what you were doing to distract himself from his own keen observations.

“Nobody will remember each scholar that perished fighting the Black tide. I’m merely writing companions I remember that I used to do thesis with, those that don’t have families here in Okhema to remember them…”

Anaxa observes you again, then after a long silence you feel him approaching closer, his shadow stretching before you. Your mind stirs in alertness, noticing what he’s up to—but Anaxa is always two steps ahead of you, before you can cease the pen laid by your side, he has already swiped it. You tried your best to wrestle it from him but Anaxa held it out of reach from you, causing you to sneer.

“Give that back. I forbid you to write your own epitaph!”

“And why not? I’ve done it once in the Grove—“

“Well, this isn’t the Grove—!“ You've paused quickly, noticing that you interrupted him. You waited for an ire to come throttling down at you but when you gaze back at him, Anaxagoras merely raises a brow at you, a faint sheet of amusement in his expression.

“Give me a stone.” He’d ask.

“No—“

“Stone.”

Your shoulders deflate at his tight tone, accepting defeat with petulance and a huff.

Stubborn man, you curse in your head. Stubborn and hard-headed and mean…You digress, ending up giving him one, laying the stone harsher onto his open palm than you intended but his expression remained amused.

When a balance of tamed silence settles, Anaxagoras is the first to speak again after writing an elegy onto the stone, changing the subject with ease.

“It's getting late, you should retire for today.”

And in response, you turn away with a quiet huff of breath. “I‘m…still not used to the Holy City's constant daylights, and I should be saying that to you, the moment you were given apparatuses to quell your complaints, you’ve been doing nothing but your experiments since you’ve arrived from your fight in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Well, thanks to your concern this ill-stricken body has been recovering. Besides, I have nothing much to do, especially when that woman’s threads are all over the place.”

“You almost died.” Your statement held more bite than necessary. For you it showed him your true feelings and for Anaxa—the answer to today’s dismay.

A laugh breaks from his lips.

“Is this why you’re upset?” There’s a hint of mirth in his tone. “You’re upset that I got hurt back at the Grove.”

You rise from your seat, meeting him tooth for tooth, jab for jab. “Is it truly hard for you to comprehend that there are people that care whether or not you’re doing well—?”

Despite your anger, Anaxa is distracted for a moment, watching the sneer on your lips shaping vowels and long consonants, almost as if you're baring your teeth at him. The sudden urge to lean down, kiss you quiet and taste those angry syllables on his teeth stirs in his mind.

The Nousporist sage is anything but a romantic, but temptation truly is a humanistic sin, what is he to be shameful for such selfishness?

“It’s not that.” He answers your spite with dullness. “My field of study has made it easy to forget about one's well-being. You of all people know that very well.”

“Anaxagoras, you could’ve died again and—“

He never wanted for you to concern yourself with him like this. Anaxagoras knew he was risking himself, the nuances of alchemy and the splitting of his soul. So how come—observing the way your expression creases with a certain type of pain that makes it seem like you were the one that felt it, not him.

“If you continue like this, I would go through the same grief of losing you like I did the first time around.”

“Don’t say that, as a Chrysos heir it’s bound to—“ Anaxa is surprised when you reach out to touch him, to dare touch him so freely and yet rebuttals fall flat on his heavy tongue. The warmth of your fingertips that brush over the coolness of his own palm, you bring his hand up to cradle your cheek with utter delicacy like you’re holding glass, it makes his mind go numb.

He is aware of the way his skin dances with the plush warmth of your cheek, strands of your hair he wishes to tangle between his long fingers—to give into temptation and drag his hand slowly down your jaw, the expanse of your neck, down your arms…

“You really should start taking care of yourself more.” Your lips murmur onto his open palm. “Maybe not for yourself, but for me and Hyacine.”

He swallows. ”…I cannot keep promises.”

And you’d feel a faint tug on his end—and that fissures the tension. You let go and he quickly lets his own arm fall back to his side immediately. There’s a part of you that was terrified at the thought of offending him, you never got into Anaxagoras’ bubble without permission, your relationship stayed at a mere arm’s length. Only quirked lips with tongues of appraisals and maybe the occasional longing stares from across large rooms were exchanged between the two of you, no shoulder brushing, hand-holding, breaths upon goosebumped necks—this was your first time ever touching him, his numbed, cold skin against your own.

Maybe your sudden approach shocked him from his nonchalance and arrogance, you’d know because for the first time since you’ve known him, Anaxagoras’ frown is an inch too deep and there’s a concerned fold on his brow.

He clears his throat, his eye looking anywhere but at you. “I need to go, I have to meet with the other Chrysos heirs at the baths today.”

Anaxa looked quite adamant to join the meeting, despite his distaste of the baths and Chrysos heir meetings.

He spares you one last look, “after you’re done with your business, you really should try to rest.”

You frown at his dismissive behavior, nodding your head nonetheless. “Alright, best of luck then.”

He’d merely nod stiffly at your reply and quickly turn on his heel. You would have let out a heavy exhale and scold yourself for touching him without prior permission—if it weren't for a certain titan that appeared before you, their brown curls turning gold under Kephale’s dawn.

“He’s quite provocative, that Nousporist sage, don't you think so too?” Cerces spares you conversation, their voice honeyed with light teasing.

“Anaxagoras’ probably born to be spiteful, so I cannot fault him for such a character flaw, we all have one.”

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?” Cerces states and heat furnaces upon your cheek at their bold claim. Before you can find some excuse to defend yourself, they spoke again.

“So is he to you. I’ve noticed that whenever you’re around, he’s reduced to a passive child. His tongue is barely glib when you try to put him in his place and the way those sharp eyes soften, oh it reminds me of my lover all too much. It’s an endearing exchange.”

Cerces spoke their affections and you could do nothing but listen to them with a credulous expression. Anaxagoras being endeared by you? You’d try to wrack your mind of instances where you capture such a manner, but all you can remember of him was his sassiness, his dullness, his casual dismissiveness. There was no softness, endearments, fondness.

Despite being called the Titan of reason, you find their reasoning hard to comprehend.

You wouldn’t have believed them, that is until you gaze back at Anaxagoras’ retreating form in the distance and watch him closely, and closely you watch when you catch him moving his hand that you held so closely,

Observing how he flexes his fingers by his side.

[cloudtransprncy]

Scrap: What's Mine

Get You: Teaser #2 Mina X Male Reader | 1800 words Non-Smut scene. (Full Piece will contain smut)

My first Scrap! These are gonna be deleted scenes and cut content from my full pieces that I couldn't just trash. This one's from my upcoming Get You trilogy, but I had to cut it cuz it didn't fit the overall vibe and themes. Reworked it to stand alone cuz I liked it too much to let go. No smut this time, just a restaurant scene I'm kinda obsessed with. So treating like a teaser :) Hope y'all like it.

P.S I LOVE MINA.

"Don't move."

Mina freezes, suspended in place right in front of you. One eyebrow arches upward—that perfect, devastating arch that does something catastrophic to your internal organs. The restaurant's string lights catch in her silky black hair, leaving a light shine.

"What?" Her voice carries the practiced dryness of someone who's perfected the art of sounding bored. But her eyes—God, her eyes betray her. There's that millisecond of softness, the kind she reserves exclusively for moments when she finds your absurdity secretly charming.

"You look so good right now. Just—" You swallow, suddenly aware of how the request sounds. "Stay still for a second."

You fumble for your phone with the grace of someone trying to catch a fish barehanded. Almost send your water glass toppling.

Perfect. Very smooth. Extremely cool.

She doesn't pose. Mina would rather walk naked through traffic than pose for a photo. Instead, she glances sideways as if mentally calculating the distance to every exit (a habit you find worrying on Tuesdays and endearing on Fridays). The almost imperceptible downturn of her chin. The way her hair falls in a perfect curtain against her jaw. That impossibly delicate flower pendant resting against her collarbones like it's found its home.

Click.

"Did you get what you needed?" she asks, turning back to you.

What you needed. Not what you wanted. The distinction feels important, like all Mina's careful word choices. She slices through pretense with surgical precision. Like she's been secretly training as a verbal assassin all this time instead of just perfecting the world's most symmetrical winged eyeliner.

"Perfect," you say, stealing another glance at the image before tucking your phone away. "You're perfect."

Her eyes roll skyward, but there it is—that micro-smile. Just the right corner of her mouth lifting approximately half a millimeter. To the untrained observer: nothing. To you: fireworks, symphonies, religious experiences.

She reaches across the table, adjusts your collar with the measured precision of someone diffusing a bomb. Her fingertips brush against your neck, and your pulse immediately surrenders all your secrets. A year into this thing between you, and still your body can't play it cool.

"You look tired," she says, withdrawing her hand but somehow leaving warmth behind, like a ghost print.

You suddenly realize the fatigue that's been hanging on you like wet clothing. You hadn't mentioned the late studio session—wouldn't have mentioned it—but of course she noticed. Mina notices everything. If the world ended tomorrow, she'd be the one reminding everyone to pack sunscreen and charge their phones.

"You push yourself too hard." Not an accusation. A statement of fact, delivered with the calm certainty of someone reading from a teleprompter.

But before you can mount a defense, the first course arrives—sashimi arranged so artfully it belongs behind velvet ropes, not about to be devoured by your unworthy mouth.

Mina studies the spread with the concentration of an art restorer (another career she could excel at without trying). Then, instead of serving herself, she selects a piece of toro with marbling so perfect it should have its own Instagram—the fish equivalent of winning a cosmic lottery—and places it on your plate.

"Eat."

Just one word. But somehow it sounds like a poem.

You obey because your body responds to her directives before your brain can form an argument. And also because you're starving. The toro melts against your tongue, and you make a sound that would embarrass you if you weren't too busy having a religious experience with fish.

"Good?"

She already knows the answer—can read it in your face—but she asks anyway, watching you with that focused attention usually reserved for neurosurgery and videos of baby animals falling asleep.

"It's like eating butter made from ocean dreams," you say, which makes absolutely no sense, but your brain short-circuits when exposed simultaneously to incredible food and Mina's undivided attention.

Amusement flickers across her face. "Eloquent as always."

"You know words aren't my strong suit."

"That's not true at all." Her voice shifts, suddenly serious. "The words in your music speak volumes."

The compliment lands directly in your chest cavity. People praise your lyrics all the time, but when Mina does it—when she's actually listened and found something worthy—it's different. Like praise from God, if God were a five-foot-four Japanese-American woman with impeccable taste in outerwear.

You stare at your plate, suddenly shy.

"Different parts of the brain," you mumble, having absolutely no idea if that's true.

She doesn't press the point, just nudges your tea closer with one perfect fingertip. "Drink. It's the perfect temperature now."

You sip. And of course, she's right. Not scalding, not tepid—exactly right, as if she's been monitoring it with scientific precision while you talked. Knowing Mina, she probably has been.

This is how she says "I love you"—not with actual words (God forbid), but with perfectly timed tea and carefully selected fish. With slight adjustments to your hair and reminders to hydrate. A barrage of tiny caretaking gestures that accumulate into something overwhelming.

You watch her take a small bite of her own food. The careful way she chews. The slight dip of her lashes. Being allowed to witness Mina like this—her drawbridge lowered just enough to grant you a glimpse inside the fortress—is sacred.

"You're staring again," she murmurs without looking up.

"Can't help it."

Now she does look up, dark eyes meeting yours. "Why?"

It's not a trick question. Mina doesn't do tricks. She asks because she wants answers—not the bullshit kind you give everyone else. With Mina, it feels like she's collecting the scattered pieces of you that don't make sense, turning them over in her hands, trying to see how they fit together.

"Because you're..." You search for the right words, something that won't make her retreat behind her walls. "You're just... you. And I still can't believe you're mine."

Something cracks open in her face for half a second—a flash of something raw before she locks it down again. There, then gone so fast you might have imagined it. She reaches for her teacup, and you recognize the move for what it is—a reset button, a moment to compose herself.

"Drink your water," she says instead of acknowledging your words. "You're always dehydrated after recording."

You smile but do as instructed, because you've learned that this is Mina-speak for "that meant something to me, and I don't know how to process it out loud."

The restaurant moves around you—waiters gliding between tables, the sushi chef behind the counter performing his elegant knife work. Outside, the Vancouver summer evening puts on a show—cotton candy skies fading into indigo. But here, in this bubble between you, time feels suspended.

She pushes another piece of fish toward you. "This one next. The flavors will build properly."

You take it, letting her orchestrate your meal like she orchestrates so many things in your life. "You're not eating much."

"I'm enjoying watching you enjoy it," she says with a rare simplicity that catches you off guard.

When the main course arrives—a rainbow array of nigiri and rolls—she rearranges your plate with quick, confident movements. "Start here," she instructs, pointing to a simple piece of salmon. "Then work your way clockwise. Trust me on this."

You follow her culinary roadmap without question. Each piece builds on the last until your taste buds are having what can only be described as a spiritual awakening.

"Good?" she asks, watching your face with that singular focus.

"You should be a food critic," you say between bites. "Or maybe a general. You've got the strategic mind for both."

The tiniest smile appears on her face. "Eat your vegetables," she says, pointing to the sliced cucumber.

While you eat, she reaches across the table. Brushes imaginary lint from your shoulder. Straightens your necklace where it's twisted slightly.

"You don't have to keep fixing me," you say, though secretly you live for these adjustments.

"I'm not fixing you," she replies, voice matter-of-fact. "I'm taking care of what's mine."

Your heart performs a complicated gymnastics routine that should win Olympic medals. Coming from Mina, who weighs each word like it costs her something physical, it's everything.

You notice she's still barely touched her food, too busy ensuring your experience is perfect. Without overthinking it, you pick up a piece of salmon nigiri and hold it out to her.

She blinks. Genuinely surprised. "What are you doing?"

"Your turn," you say simply. "You've been so busy mothering me, you've barely eaten."

For a second, you think you've crossed some invisible line. Mina gives care like breathing, but accepting it? That's complicated territory.

But then.

She hesitates. Takes a breath that's slightly too deep.

Then leans forward and takes the bite from between your fingers.

Her lips brush your skin. The contact lasts maybe half a second.

Your nerve endings don't care about the timeframe.

You feel it everywhere.

She chews with the focus of someone solving a complex equation. Her eyes stay on yours, unblinking, like she's waiting for your reaction to her reaction.

A single grain of rice sticks to the corner of her mouth after she swallows.

Your thumb moves before your brain catches up. Reaching across. Brushing it away.

Instead of flinching back (which would be the expected Mina response to unexpected contact), she does the unthinkable—turns her face toward your hand. Like she's seeking more. A muscle-memory movement so tiny you'd doubt it happened if you weren't paying such obsessive attention to every micro-adjustment of her body language.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

Two words. Not about the rice.

The overhead lights catch something in her eyes that makes your ribcage feel too small suddenly. She never looks at you like this in public. Almost never looks at you like this, period.

Hurts to see it. Hurts worse to think about how rarely you do. These unguarded moments are so rare—Mina letting you actually see her, not the version she presents to everyone else.

Her hand finds yours across the table, fingers intertwining like they were designed as matching pieces.

"You take such good care of me," you say, voice embarrassingly thick.

"Someone should." Simple words that somehow contain worlds.

Your fingers squeeze hers while your brain does the math it's been doing for a year. The calculation never makes sense—how someone who approaches the world with such precise skepticism decided you were an acceptable risk.

She watches you from across the table. Reading whatever's written all over your face.

The smile happens in stages. First the eyes—softening at the corners. Then the slight movement at her lips, fighting it for a moment before surrendering. When Mina actually smiles—really smiles—it's like watching someone become an entirely different person. The cool, composed woman who terrifies your producer transforms into someone whose whole face comes alive.

"Good boy," she says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear.

That's it. You're a gone.

[neon-kazoo]

Bluff

Villain faced Hero in a darkened back room, stocked shelves and open boxes between them. Dim light crept in from the half open door behind him, but hardly any of it reached the hero that stood farther back. The hero glared and the villain watched them in turn, silent face off broken first by the former.

“I’d suggest you leave,” they called, with a tone of easy confidence that Villain generally regarded as nothing but heroic hubris.

“No,” the villain drawled as he stalked his way closer through the maze of shelving. "I don't think I will."

“Your funeral,” the hero replied, but they didn’t smirk as the villain would have. They followed his movements closely with narrowed eyes—defensive, as they often were. There was subtlety in the details, though. The way they were half hidden behind the shelf, unable to maintain the grandiose presence often expected of the heroes by standing out in the open.

Too defensive.

Villain took a step forward. Hero stood their ground. Their feet remained planted, their face and posture unchanged.

Too still.

The hero Villain knew would have met him halfway.

Still, he approached slowly. Just because he knew something was off, doesn’t mean he knew what. Hero made no noticeable move other than to turn their body to meet the angle of his approach.

When Villain navigated themselves to just a few feet in front of the hero, he stopped. Hero’s posture was all wrong, hands hidden and shoulders hunched. Their weapons should have been on display, pointed directly at the villain. A sharp remark should have been at the tip of their tongue.

It was odd, but there was one normal detail the villain found as he studied his enemy. Their face fell in shadow, but Villain could still make out that it held all the disdain he would expect from the hero.

Experimentally, he moved into range, meeting the hero right where they were at, holding his own weapons at bay for the moment. Hero kicked and landed one square in the chest, but strangely they didn’t follow through. They just watched with fierce eyes as Villain stumbled back before regaining his footing.

“Oh.” Villain smiled. “I see.” He stepped closer and the hero shrunk back, just as expected.

He advanced once again, and when Hero went for another kick he grabbed the outstretched leg before it could land. He came to stand in front of them, thigh to thigh so there was no room to utilize their knees. The villain chuckled lightly as they pressed against the hero, reaching around them to find the cold metal of the cuffs that chained them to the shelf.

“You can’t,” he confirmed lowly, far too close to their ear for comfort.

Metal scraped as Hero thrashed hard once against their bonds.

“Get off me,” they growled and he did, taking a long step back. Amusement danced in his eyes as he took in the scene in front of him.

“My my, how did this happen?” He mockingly inquired, tilting his head to watch the hero's nearly crumbling facade.

“Why don’t you come closer again and find out?” The hero spat, but the cracks in their features were leaking fear. Villain raised an eyebrow, but mercifully didn’t take the bait. Instead, he rounded around the shelf. Hero shifted uncomfortably on their feet, unable to turn completely and keep their enemy within sight.

Villain ran their thumb over the imprinted inscription they knew they'd find in the darkened metal. They were Hero's cuffs, though they were linked with a pair he didn't recognize.

How embarrassing.

He slid a nail between the metal and the skin of the hero's wrist, testing to see how tight they had been placed. Hero flinched, and from the way they stiffened up immediately afterwards, it had been completely involuntary.

This was no trick. If Hero could have slipped the restraints, they would have.

"Well isn't this amusing," he taunted while sliding up the hero's sleeves to check for any hidden tools of weapons.

"What can I say, I aim to entertain," the hero quipped, though it came out as more of a half-hearted mumble. "Care to stop staring at my back?"

Villain obliged, if only to get another read on their enemy. They stood face to face once again, the villain poised to deflect a flying foot at a moments notice, but otherwise relaxed. The screwed up look of the hero's face suggested they were trying to appear the same.

They weren't nearly as effective at it as the villain.

"Well, what should we do with you, then?" Villain questioned and Hero's breaths subtly picked up pace.

"We should pry me loose and start running before I arrest you-"

"Woah there," Villain placated, holding up his hands palms towards the hero. "That's big talk coming from someone shackled to a shelf."

Reflexively, Villain caught the shoe swinging towards him and aiming for a more vulnerable area than before. This time, he kept hold of it, forcing the hero into a sort of awkward hop to keep their balance and stay upright.

"Now, now. There's no need for that," he scolded.

Hero jerked but the villain didn't relent, tucking the foot close to his side and continuing the mostly one-sided conversation.

"Let's start simple. Where's the key at?" He questioned.

Hero scowled.

"They threw it. Somewhere over there."

A nod of their head indicated deeper into dark, somewhere in the sea of boxes and labrinth of cobwebs.

"Right. Not gonna bother myself with that," Villain replied brightly, earning himself a deeper scowl.

"You can't just leave me here," Hero protested.

"I could, actually," the villain noted, before adding before the hero's face could fall all the way into the basement, "But I won't."

Their relief was almost palpable.

For a second.

"What a waste of an opportunity that would be," the villain continued, dropping the hero's leg so he could step back and gesture largely with his arms.

"I mean, truly. A hero, fallen right into my lap." A smile with teeth so bright they almost shined lit up as he finished.

"What could be sweeter than that?"

Part two

[mapsthewanderer]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb XIII

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 3000 words (amalard I’m sorry but the fluff got me). Non-MC!Reader as the law student. Listen, this is my magnum opus of fluff. I giggled the entire time writing it, and I truly hope you’ll enjoy this fluff bonanza as much as I did. Expect: newbie energy, a bit of retrospection, exam vibes, cuteness overload (in my humble opinion), and Caleb being an absolute dumbass snack from start to finish.

Parts: initial, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil @zaynessdarling @gojosballsack69 @moon-cakei

Post-it precedents | Pt. 13

You don’t even get your shoes off.

The door clicks shut behind you, and before your coat has hit the hook, you’re powering up your laptop like it holds the answers to life, love, and whatever the hell tonight was supposed to be.

Browser. Blank search bar. Cursor blinking like it’s judging you.

You type:

can you be in love with someone who gives you emotional whiplash

Backspace.

feelings vs. fact

Backspace.

how to get over someone you maybe kissed but who also maybe called you his girlfriend in front of witnesses but also had the audacity to be sweet and confusing and a little bit perfect

Too long. You erase that one too.

You settle on:

emotional clarity post-situationship

Google doesn’t help. Obviously.

You pace the room once before collapsing in front of your laptop again, cracking your knuckles like this is just another research session. Just another case file.

Spoiler: it’s not.

You open a blank document. Title it:

——————————————————————————

Exhibit A — Reasons to Move On

He is emotionally irresponsible.

You were not informed of the terms and conditions before agreeing to this emotional rollercoaster.

Friend-date sandwich.

Said friend used to live with him. That’s not nothing.

Emotional chaos is not a love language.

——————————————————————————

You stare at the list.

Then open a new document.

——————————————————————————

Exhibit B — Reasons to Stay in It Anyway

He held your hand.

He called you his girlfriend.

He looked sad when you tried to give the necklace back.

He put a Sour Patch Kid between his teeth and looked at you like you hung the moon.

You might actually like him. A lot.

He said he wanted to get it right.

You kissed him. You. Because somehow, against your better judgment and legal training, you bought his defense. Full emotional acquittal.

——————————————————————————

You close your laptop.

Bury your face in your hands.

And say—into the quiet of your room—

“Oh no.”

——————————————————————————

Four days later, and you still haven’t fully recovered.

Not from the horror movie. Not from the post-horror hallway. And definitely not from the moment Caleb—resident menace and human Sour Patch conspiracy—called you his girlfriend in public, while still being the most confusingly sweet person to ever exist on two legs and a caffeine addiction.

You told yourself you needed a bit of distance. Emotional clarity. Instead, you let him make you coffee the very next morning.

To be fair, he texted first.

Dumb Barista: Morning, Counselor. Black w/ oat milk? Or do I need to bring you emotional recovery foam art too?

Dumb Barista: Also: sorry again for the cinematic trauma. Hope you’re sleeping off the gore

You’d stared at your phone for a full minute before replying:

You: Emotional foam art required. Extra cinnamon. No ghosts.

And so it went.

Four days of coffee drops, texts that made your breath hitch, and study sessions that somehow weren’t sessions at all—just moments. Quiet. Warm. Laced with something new. Something soft.

You’d been back at the café once—just once—when Caleb was off doing something probably aviation-adjacent. It wasn’t your first time grabbing coffee there, but it was the first time you lingered. Stayed. Let the cup warm your hands instead of rushing off.

Newbie had taken the stool across from you with the gravity of a therapist and the caffeine levels of a cryptid. And then came the dissection. Of Caleb. Of this. Of your stress-cracked brain and the mess you might’ve walked into with both eyes wide open.

They listened. They sipped. They judged. Softly.

“Okay,” they’d said, eyes narrowed. “Emotionally speaking, he’s a golden retriever with abandonment issues, a hero complex, and the social calibration of a vintage iPod.”

You blinked. “That’s your analysis?”

“It’s clinical.”

You told them about the necklace. About the movie. About the friend sandwich.

Newbie shook their head slowly. “You’re not supposed to date someone with main character energy if you’re also the main character. It creates a feedback loop.”

You stirred your drink. “So you’re saying… I should walk?”

“I’m saying…” they paused, face softening. “You should do whatever makes you feel safe. Not whatever makes you feel impressive. Or interesting. Or like you’re trying to prove something.”

That had stuck with you.

Because the truth was—despite everything, despite the chaos and the awkwardness and the mortifying sandwich of it all—being near Caleb had started to feel… safer. Not like a free fall. Not like some shiny thing you’d have to keep chasing.

But like a maybe. A real one.

And maybe that was enough to keep trying.

But the final exam of the semester loomed like a final boss. Caleb, for all his distractive tendencies, had offered to help.

Dumb Barista: Final prep tomorrow, right? I’ll bring snacks. You bring that scary legal brain. Deal?

Dumb Barista: Also I’m making flashcards. You will respect my pedagogical craft.

You’d laughed when you read them—partly because you were too tired to cry, partly because it helped. And luckily for Caleb, you still lived by your mom’s golden principle: Whatever you haven’t learned the night before the exam, you were never meant to know anyway.

It had gotten you through high school and hellish semesters of law school. Why stop now?

It was the rule that made you close your books, even when panic begged you to keep reading. The one that got you to make a real dinner instead of inhaling dry cereal over a textbook. The reason you went for a walk, let yourself breathe, let yourself sleep.

Because whatever you hadn’t learned by the night before the exam—you were never meant to know.

And somehow, that belief had carried you this far.

You repeated it like a mantra as you closed your casebook and let yourself trust—just a little—that flashcards, snacks, and a dangerously charming barista might not boost your GPA, but at least your serotonin.

And now?

Now his head is in your lap, and somehow, the world hasn’t ended.

In fact, it’s never felt quieter. Or better.

You’re trying to stay passingly focused while surrounded by a battlefield of empty coffee cups, law textbooks, and a half-eaten cookie you both gave up on hours ago. The café is technically closed—sign flipped, lights low, chairs stacked—except for your table. Your island of academic chaos. Equal parts study session, procrastination ritual, and excuse to be near each other.

His weight is warm and solid against you, like he belongs there. One arm draped lazily across his chest, his bangs slightly mussed from the hood he shoved off earlier. He shifts now and then, cheek brushing your thigh as he peers up to read the next question, eyes half-lidded and infuriatingly pretty

You try not to think about how nice it feels. About how your hand keeps drifting toward his hair. About how he looks so relaxed, like being tangled up with you is just another Thursday. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

And it’s not just the way he fits against you.

Because somehow—over the time you’ve known him—he’s managed to pick up enough law to make makeshift flashcards for you. Just from glancing at your notes, asking casual questions, stealing your textbook when you weren’t paying attention during longer stops at the café.

Like when he quoted Cicero back at you out of nowhere and you had to pretend your jaw hadn’t dropped a little.

You never asked him to. He just… did.

You hadn’t asked for any of it.

He just… wanted to help.

You try not to melt. Fail miserably.

‘Cause post-it notes cover his hoodie like armor. His chest. His sleeves. One’s stuck halfway up his cheek. Another stuck on your braid. A few flutter on the table between you. They’re all labeled: contract law terms, obscure Latin phrases, doctrine names.

Caleb’s system is simple: for every right answer, you get to stick a post-it wherever you want on him. For every wrong one? He gets to stick it on you. Somewhere inconvenient. Somewhere you’ll notice. He claims it’s to “help you reflect on your legal blind spots.” You claim it’s harassment. Neither of you stops.

It’s not an objectively fair reward structure, but Caleb is wearing it like a badge of honor.

Because you have the advantage here—being the actual law student.

He may have charm, snacks, and that annoyingly good memory on his side, but you’ve got years of outlines, caffeine-induced anxiety, and a terrifying grasp of Latin maxims. This is your turf.

Still, the fact that he’s even trying—offering up his hoodie as a post-it battlefield like it’s a group project he volunteered for—makes something warm and stupid bloom in your chest.

So. You’re sitting there with a human study guide sprawled across your lap, feeling like your bones are made of soft light. Like you never knew law could feel this good.

He mumbles “wrong answer” and reaches for your braid, and you almost let him—just to see if he’ll do it gently.

Because somehow, impossibly, this is real.

And it feels like peace.

“Alright,” he hums now, voice lazy from the comfort of your lap. “Final question. High stakes. If you flub this, I will declare moral victory forever.”

You squint. “Define ‘moral.’”

He grins, doesn’t answer. Just lifts a hand, one last neon post-it between his fingers.

An inhale.

He asks: “What is the difference between a unilateral and a bilateral contract?”

Your mouth opens. “Easy. Bilateral is when both parties—wait. No. Uh… One party—”

He raises an eyebrow.

You point at his forehead. “Don’t you dare smug-post-it me.”

“I’m ready,” he sing-songs.

You glare. Think. Close your eyes, shake it off, regroup. Then say, crisp and clear: “Unilateral contracts involve one party making a promise in exchange for performance. Bilateral contracts involve mutual promises from both parties. Boom.”

Caleb blinks. “Well well.”

You pluck the post-it from his hand and gently stick it to his lips.

“There,” you say, smug now. “Legal silence.”

He narrows his eyes, lips curved beneath the sticky. Then—because of course—he nudges up slightly, chin tilting. Waiting.

You roll your eyes. “This wasn’t in the terms.”

He just raises his brows. Makes a muffled sound that’s either a plea or a flirt.

You cave. Lean down. Kiss him gently over the paper.

He beams. Victorious.

And you?

You’re smiling into it.

——————————————————————————

The street is quiet when you leave the café. Lights low, air crisp, your heart beating with the steady rhythm of pre-exam delirium and possibly-in-love denial.

Caleb walks you home. He’s warm beside you, close but not overbearing, one hand gently tucked into yours. Every few steps he bumps your shoulder like he can’t help it. At your building, he doesn’t let go right away. Just pulls you into the kind of hug that feels like a bookmark—like he’s saving his place in your story.

“Thanks for letting me help,” he mumbles, voice tucked near your ear. “Even if I turned into a human flashcard stand.”

You laugh, tired. “You volunteered.”

“I volunteered,” he repeats with mock solemnity. “Because I’m trying. I want to be better at this… thing. So—” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“So trust me tomorrow,” he says. “After the exam. I want to celebrate with you. Just us. No distractions.”

You arch a skeptical brow. “You’ve planned a post-exam celebration?”

“Calling it ‘planned’ might be generous,” he admits, sheepish. “But I want this... Want you. So… say yes?”

You sigh like it’s a burden, but you’re smiling. “Fine. I trust you.”

“Text me when you’re done?”

You nod. “If I survive eight hours of brain-death in an overheated room with zero windows and the collective stench of anxiety.”

He chuckles. “There will be air where we’re going.”

“You’re very confident about that.”

“I promise,” he says. “Lots of it. Just for you and me.”

He winks, then starts to turn. You linger at the door, watching him go.

——————————————————————————

Later, you brush your teeth and stare at yourself in the mirror, toothbrush dangling from your mouth like a white flag of exhaustion. You think about the exhibit list you wrote. The reasons to stay, the reasons to bolt. Maybe your sunk cost analysis wasn’t entirely off. Maybe Exhibit B is starting to look more like evidence… and less like a mistake.

You pad back to bed, already halfway cocooned in the comforter when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Dumb Barista: Good luck tomorrow. I believe in you, Golden Girl.

You stare at the screen, heart tipping sideways in your chest.

Then you smile. Just a little.

And tug the comforter tighter around you like it might hold the words in place.

——————————————————————————

It’s hell.

Hours of fluorescent lights, recycled air, and every law student in a five-mile radius typing like their lives depend on it. Your chair squeaks. Your neighbor coughs. Someone behind you is definitely crying through a question about promissory estoppel.

You are five questions in and sinking.

It’s not that you didn’t study. You did. You practically ingested your notes. But now everything is blurring—contract clauses and legal principles swimming in a haze of exhaustion and Caleb’s stupid grin.

You start spiraling.

Maybe if you hadn’t wasted so much time flirting. Maybe if you hadn’t spent your final study night turning Caleb into a human post-it board. Maybe—

And then you remember.

His head in your lap. The post-it notes. The lips.

A question you couldn’t answer yesterday… is the one right in front of you.

The one you’d argued (fondly, and with great dramatic flair) over for ten minutes—half of which were spent debating whether the post-it should go on your wrist or his forehead. You’d gotten it eventually, sort of. But only because Caleb had slowed everything down. Had walked you through the precedent like it was a story, not a ruling. Had said, “You’re overthinking it—just think like a person, not a professor.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Called him infuriating.

But now—now, with your pulse still buzzing and your mind clawing for anything that makes sense—you see it. The same structure. The same ruling. The same exception buried inside that outdated case, now the star of your exam’s final curveball.

And just like that, you solve it.

Because of Caleb.

Because of that dumb argument.

Because of that one post-it you ended up sticking to his hoodie in triumph.

You almost laugh out loud.

Instead, you write.

Like you’ve never written before.

You write like you have a closing argument to win and a future to reclaim. Your fingers fly across the keyboard—citing precedent, building logic, painting your way out of hours of legal hell. Around you, the exam hall is a battlefield of stress: Harv is hunched two rows over, blinking like he’s forgotten what words are; someone coughs like they’re about to expire; the AC is definitely not working.

And still, you write. You finish.

“Dumbass,” you murmur under your breath, “beautiful, helpful, post-it-lipped dumbass.”

The words barely leave your mouth before another thought sneaks in—uninvited but annoyingly true:

Your mom always said that anything you hadn’t learned the day before an exam, you were never meant to learn. That last-minute cramming was for the weak-willed. And yet—

A single post-it note—and another, kissed onto lips you probably shouldn’t still be thinking about—just saved your GPA.

So, sorry Mom. Apparently, one barista with decent penmanship and devastating timing can prove a whole philosophy wrong.

Then, one final period. A breath. A click.

Done. Wrapped in 7.5. Miracles happen.

You nod toward Harv as you gather your things—he’s still sweating, chewing his pen like it might give him answers. You smile, quiet and almost smug, and slip out into the light.

It’s afternoon now. The sun hits like forgiveness. You blink into it, half-dazed, and the world feels… okay. Maybe even good. You should be headed to beers or a party or some post-exam brain-wipe. That’s what past-you would’ve done. Let the trauma of legalese drain out through overpriced IPAs and shitty dance floors.

But not this time.

This time, you have different plans.

This time, you trusted Caleb—just a little.

So you pull out your phone and text him:

You: done. barely survived. brain is mush.

His reply comes immediately.

Dumb Barista: i know. i can see you.

You stop walking, heart skipping. You glance around the parking lot—scanning.

Nothing.

You: ???

And before you can type another word, your phone rings. You answer with your shoulder, rummaging in your bag with one hand and trying to reapply lip gloss with the other.

He laughs. That familiar, low sound that hits you right in the spine.

“Is that the shiny one? The one that tastes like candy?” You can hear the smirk. “You’re cruel, Golden girl.”

The applicator freezes mid-swipe. “How do you even know I’m—?”

“Ouch,” he says, mock-wounded. You can practically hear him clutching his chest. “Do I really look that different without the espresso machine in front of me?”

You shift the phone against your ear, tiptoeing slightly to look over the lot.

“I’m hurt,” he deadpans. “Deeply. Is it the car? Is the car too cool for me?”

“You—wait, what?”

And oh.

You walked right past him.

Because apparently, your favorite barista-slash-bad-idea just completed a full evolution.

There he is—leaning against a Lamborghini. Actual. Lamborghini. Black bomber jacket. White t-shirt. Cool jeans that should not fit that well but absolutely do. Sunglasses. Iced coffee in hand. The kind of vision that makes you feel like you accidentally walked onto the set of a cologne commercial.

You nearly drop your phone.

Your law-student-on-the-verge outfit suddenly feels like a crime against fashion. Your sneakers feel like clown shoes. You approach, trying to salvage your dignity. “Let me guess,” you call out. “Couldn’t land the jet from aviation school, so you rented a four-wheeled spacecraft instead?”

He grins.

“I’ve always wanted to drive one,” he says, not even pretending to play it cool. “So yeah, I rented it. Bucket list vibes. Also, figured you deserved a proper post-exam getaway vehicle.”

Caleb kicks off the sleek black Lambo like it’s no big deal—like this isn’t a wildly impractical flex for someone who still owes you a coffee punch card. White t-shirt stretched perfectly over his chest like the universe aligned just to test your willpower.

Then he holds out the massive takeaway cup. “Made this before I left work. Triple shot, splash of sweet cream, caramel drizzle. The ice hasn’t melted yet. Thought I’d reward the future top-of-the-class. You’re welcome.”

You blink down at it.

“This is a trap.”

“Trap or love letter,” he says, tugging open the passenger door, “depends on your interpretation.”

You climb in—still stunned, still short-circuiting. The interior smells like new leather and impending bad decisions. You take a sip. It tastes like heaven and pure irresponsibility.

Honestly? He could’ve skipped the emotional sandwich labyrinth and just done this from the start.

But then again… Maybe this version of him, this date, this moment—only exists because of that chaos. So you lean back in the seat and smile. It’s summer break. And this? This is what investment in emotionally confusing men apparently yields.

Your sunk cost analysis? Not bad. Not bad at all.

Caleb pulls on his seatbelt—then pauses. Glances over at you.

One arm crosses over your body as his hand finds the seatbelt. His fingers brush your side—just barely—but it’s enough to steal your breath. You freeze, hyper-aware of everything: his closeness, his calm, the way his brow furrows in quiet focus as he pulls the strap across your lap.

The nylon drags over your skin. The metal buckle clicks into place like a gavel. But he doesn’t move. His face is still there. You could count every freckle. Every eyelash.

And then the scent hits.

Clean metal. Cedar. Something darker—his cologne, probably—but it’s softened by what’s unmistakably him: espresso, cinnamon, the ghost of caramel. The smell of all the coffees he’s made you. The smell of the café, your table, every moment that led to this.

His fingers rest lightly on the strap for a beat too long. Then he leans back, like he’s peeling himself out of orbit. And when he finally glances at you?

“There,” he hums, voice low. “Safety first, Golden Girl.”

Familiar. Infuriating. Unfairly good.

“Sooo,” he says, casual, breezy, entirely too cool for someone who just rented a Lambo on a Friday.

“You like the beach?”

——————————————————————————

Well, are you gonna dance on the line with me?

You know it's not a game or a fantasy

And I don't even know who I used to be

But nothing is the same and some things have to change now

——————————————————————————

Part 14 tbc…?

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: IIIIIIHHH AAAAA we’re so back, aren’t we?! I’m seriously so excited for golden girl right now. Yes, yes, I know Caleb was a total dummy, but LISTEN!!! I’m having way too much fun mending their relationship, and suddenly my original plan of dddducking it all up is making perfect sense again. I really hope it clicks for you too, dear reader, because I absolutely love the dynamic of two people trying, failing, and choosing to be better for each other. Anyway! Let me know if you want more, I’m already sketching out the next arc huhuhu. I think I’ll be dabbling a little into possessive/protective territory with our dear fictional man, hehe. Have a lovely weekend, and I’ll shut up now 🫶🏻 this arc was fueled by fall for me and past self by ST. You’re welcome lol.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Actions Speak

"Be Silent."

Those were the first words commanded to me by the High Dragon Prince of the South. He did not want to hear me. Did not want to see me. To even be forced to endure, my obnoxious, insignificant, human presence. Any more then he absolutely had too. If it weren't for the fact that I had magic? He likely would have preferred to have me killed.

Just like the others.

I was a prisoner of war. One, which? I had no choice but to take part in. Had been drafted, by the humans. Only to be captured, by the dragons. All I had wanted? From my second chance at life? Was to live quietly. Study magic. Enjoy what I could not, before. Instead? I got warfare. Fear. The constant threat of death.

They needed me to open confidential human intelligence. Reverse engineer defenses and weapons. My safety and quality of life? Depended entirely on my compliance. And? If those reports and devices happened to be trapped to hell 'n back? By Mages FAR more skilled then myself?

Do it anyway. You are replaceable. Either you succeed... or you die.

You... hah... y-you really...

Really can say, I guess, n-now I know...? That...

That you really DO learn faster, under fire. Enduring pain curses. Fighting lethal curses, for your very life. Fire and drowning attacks. Lightning. Wind spells meant to choke the life of out of me, by sucking out all the air from my lungs. They... they really were creative, weren't they? My old colleagues.

Yes, sadistic, in ways I had never imagined. But also? Very, very creative.

I had the scars to prove it now.

All the while, as commanded, I did not talk. Did not DARE. Still do not. Even as I am shoved around. Dragged from tent to tent, building to building. Hurried along, like an inconvenience. A faulty, inefficient, piece of machinery, that dares eat their food and breathe their air. Slow and lagging, but sadly? Oh, sadly. They could not find better.

But I endure. Survive. I do not talk, so I can not offer. I give them nothing more then they demand. Malicious compliance. Nothing more, nothing less, then EXACTLY as you commanded, oh Wardens mine. My Keepers, foul and wretched. The holders of my chains. Someday... someday, this war will end. Or I will die, my luck running out, at long, long last.

And I?

I Will Be Free.

Once, long before this all, I had heard rumors. They say that talented humans, magically gifted humans, tended to be kept as glorified, pampered little pets, in the Vampiric lands. It... it sounds nice, now. To worry for nothing. To be protected. Adored and provided for, like some exquisite house cat, lounging in the sun. I could study again. Find someone nice.

....I worry.

You see, I... I think...

I may be breaking, around the edges of myself. Hairline fractures, born of stress. It's the isolation. Surrounded as I am. None of them are human, none of them will talk to me, at me. Anything at all. They follow the lead of their Prince. And he? Oh, he has made his distain for humanity clear.

Which begs the question. Why is he here?

Or rather, why am I? Dragged, from the ratty little cloth hovel they call "my tent", by the worn and patched to incoherence cloak I now wear, straight to the central command tent. Where the Prince is. The generals. The beating heart of the army itself. Dumped on the ground at his feet, I was fully expecting that to be it. That this would be the day.

They had found a better, less worn down, mage. A stronger one. A more obedient one. My services would no longer be... required.

I sat there. In the dirt. Eyes locked on his feet and waited. Palms splayed against the floor. Why bother fight? If I did THAT, they'd use me as "an example" for the NEXT mage. No. No, better to go quick. I had been reborn once. T-there was a possibility... however small... it... it might? Happen again?

Please, Gods. Please Gods, let it happen again.

But no. I was told, with judgment in his voice, by some general, to "get up". Ha! As though they were not directly responsible for my beaten down state. How dare. How DARE he judge me? I owed them nothing. Refused to die, in some short sighted tantrum of honor or pride.

I would LIVE, damn it. I MUST live. For how ever long I could. I wanted to be free again. To read and travel, do magic for magics sake. Never... NEVER see another dragon again.

Perhaps that was hateful. But damn it... I... I was so tired.

Nonetheless, I stood. Looked at no one and said nothing. Just an empty, ragged cloak with flesh inside. I am not here. I do not suffer. Unfocus your eyes and be far away. Yes, that's right, I tell myself, far... far away. It's like meditation. Just... ride the flow of magic. Do not call it. Merely observe. Let the colors drag you in. Be washed away. Far, far away.

I hear and do not hear, there. See and do not see. They can not touch me, can not hurt me, there is nothing and everything, in the Magics. It is... so... so BeAuTiFuL.

No wonder so many are lost. Drift and never come back.

I play a dangerous game, here.

But they can not hurt me.

No one can.

In here.

No answer comes then. But I am expected to work. Perhaps it is a show? Or they wish to verify, that I am indeed, doing what they keep me alive for. Nonetheless, I sit, in the corner, silent as I got to work. As old colleagues try to stop my heart, freeze my blood, rupture my organs. As burns roar over my skin and lightning crackles against canvas walls.

I do not scream. That would be too close to "speaking". I am not fool enough to give them an excuse. There is a belt I can bite. I use it often. Will have to salvage another, as this one is falling to pieces. That and a silencing spell? My screaming is muted.

Getting better at healing magic, I think. Either I have learned to numb the pain or I may have nerve damage. I doubt, now, that I will ever win awards. For my beauty. Too many scars. My arms are a wreck. My hands a travesty. It is nothing short of a miracle, that I have not LOST any fingers, to this.

Why am I here? Why? Why?

At least in my little hovel, I can curl up and weep. Emote. Can take breaks between bouts of pain and battles of magic. But here? Like a machine, stacks are dumped before me, and I am expected to perform. Do or die, human. We can always find another.

Through it all, haunting golden eyes watch. My pain, my exhaustion, all observed, giving away nothing, by that impassive royal face. I don't know what he WANTS.

Finally, after weeks of considering me, he decides to tell me. Comes to some conclusion, no input required. Why would it be? Of course. He is a High Prince. His power is great, his honor and name without equal. Why would he need MY input on anything.

"Did I know," he asked me, voice ponderous and musing, "That of all the mages his people have captured... I had lived the longest?"

I had not. But it did not suprise me.

He sat, considering me, splayed back in his chair like it was a throne, every bit the picture of a royal. A portrait of the man he was born to be. But the distain... the distain? Had... lessened. Not gone. Never gone. Gods, no. We peons were beneath him. Especially I, a mere human. But? Apparently I was not longer quite so wretched.

Our dear High Prince decided I should get a better tent. A new cloak. Actual medical supplies. What wonders.

It made me nervous. What cost, did these things come with? What expectation? Loyalty? I had offered none and never will. That would quickly become a problem. Still, I kept my head down. Always, always, keep your head down. Let the dragons die, for their stupid fucking war.

No longer replaceable. I discovered.

In the next big attack, as there was ALWAYS a next one, I wasn't evacuated last. As attacks fell. But FIRST, as the soilders were arriving. I was... was "essential personal". Shoved in an evac cart with the fancy strategists.

They started deliberately capturing mage supplies. Books and spell papers, chalks and high quality inks. Not just to disarm their opponents. Oh no. But to give to ME. I had... I had NEVER gotten supplies. The last time I had actually, truely, desperately, needed ink? I had been forced to use my own blood.

My hands actually shook. Touching such richs now. It overwhelmed, after so long, with nothing. I... I had healing books. Could actually look things up!

Curling up, before the piles of crates they dumped in front of my little tent, I didn't care, if they saw me cry. On my knees like an acolyte before the alter. Finally. FINALLY! Answers, armaments, and supplies. Relief, after so long? Was rain on desert sands. Burned skin left tender and screaming, to the cleansing mercy, of the softly weeping skies.

This, too, the High Prince saw.

No where to store them, of course. A gift given then taken away. Held just out of reach. Just long enough to give hope. All the better to torment you with it. Oh where we would we store, your useless little trinkets, human?

But I refuse to play the game. Fine. Take them. Take it all.

I need nothing.

Retreat into the Magics. They can not hurt me. I am not here. Far, far away. I am far, far away.

The High Prince, lounging and watchful, seems to have decided. No. The human things will go to him, actually, not to the fire. He watches with strange, considering eyes. In fact? I will make my self useful. Show my gratefulness. He is using valuable storage space on me, so I am to come before him and study. Prove it is worth it.

Is he not gracious? Now press your face to the dirt in thanks, human. Bow and scrape. Be glad, be honored, that your Liege is so kind.

He does not disagree, as they tell me these things. Why would he? They are his due. I think... I think I hate him. Hate them all. But the pull of books, of proper supplies, is simply too powerful. Back to that wretched tent I go. Under the staring eyes that dissect me so. Finally, I can heal my aching body.

He watchs me. As I study, improve, learn and grow. As old books are taken from me, shipped away somewhere, beyond my reaching, and new ones arrive. I desperately make notes. Hope those notes will be enough. Work and suffer and bleed. Somewhere, in the camp, I sense others.

The come and go. Bright lights that flare and then dim. Struggling and struggling, before finally going out. Some faster then others. The objects and messages they have me working on now? Are truely nasty. Again and again, I see the crests of Nobel houses and royal seals. How powerful, I wonder, have I become? Or is it simply... specialized?

A gift, for not dying.

Over the camp walls, I have begun to recognize the surroundings. The mountains and the valleys. The trees, in bloom. It seems wrong, that the world should be so beautiful, as everything is ending. The nation I grew up in, is falling. But... but we passed Heartriver two weeks back. And THAT? Was well within the border.

And from HERE... I can see the school.

The University of Magics. All I had ever wished, was to return. But... but not like this, never like this. I'm... gods. Oh Gods, I'm sorry. For my weakness. For not choosing to die. For not running at all, before it all began. I should have. But... but I was a coward. And now everyone else, must pay the price.

I stand outside my pathetic little tent and watch the horizon smoke. Burn.

Dragons are so very, very fond of fire.

Far away... j-just go far away... the Magic will always take you. Is always kind. Towards the tent I go. I remind myself, as I force myself to move, one step in front of the other? That if the worst comes to worst? I can just... Let Go. Go DEEP. So deep that no one and nothing can ever find me again. So far away, my body forgets I ever lived at all.

Just... just a soul. Floating along like a jellyfish, in the beautiful Allthings. The light and void, the far away and gone. I-It wouldn't even hurt. Just be like... like letting go of a balloon. I could be that balloon. Disappear into endless starlight...

But... BUT! I wont.. I can't! Not yet. Not until every other path has burned. Last resort. Only, ONLY, as a last resort.

(I refuse to acknowledge... how comforting the knowledge is. That I have a plan at all. A way out.)

Entering the tent, I head for "my table". At the High Prince' feet like a dog. A lovely little carpet, comfortable little pillows, a low table to work on. It would... honestly? It would be a lovely place setting. A delightful workstation. If it were not the context. The obvious, blatant, demeaning context.

Sit at his feet and behave. Be good and you're rewarded, be bad and you're punished. Brought little treats at HIS command? Sit on a pillow, on the floor, as they talk over your head? Ha ha... I? I half expected to one day show up to find someone holding a fucking collar.

If they fucking tried? I was going to set everything on FIRE. Even I, had limits.

However, it was just the Prince and I. Uncomfortable, but I could ignore him. Walking for my humiliating little seat, I noticed him watching me. Slowed. Why... why was he watching me? Awkwardly I paused. Did NOT want to be kneeling in front of a man that was staring that intently at me. Especially not so closely to a man, staring like that. The vibes were... off.

"Did you know, pet, that we actually have several rather old alliances amoung the Vampiric Royal Houses?" He said, breaking the strange silence.

'Pet, huh? Good to know he's at least fucking AWARE. I did NOT consent to that!' I seethe, in my head.

"It's been bothering me, you see. Your wretched state." He continues, completely unbothered that he might as well be talking to a statue. I stare, seethe, would give a limb at this point, to set him on fire. "You've suffered unbearably and I've done nothing to correct it, even though I could. We needed you for the war effort, you see, but now? Now, pet, we're nearly done. And I can finally care for you properly."

"Reward you, properly." The bastard says, calm and oh so reasonable, as though I had anything to do with him willingly.

"Honestly, it's long over due. The second I realized I wanted you as Mine, I should have stepped up to care for you properly. Officially. But, sadly, it would have been a conflict of interest. An abuse of power. Now, however? Now I can finally call on our allies for their support. Get you the medical assistance you so badly require."

A pleased smile stole across his face as he considered me.

"You'll make a lovely vampire. It was selfish of me, to cheat you of the years turning you sooner would have given you, but I'm sure you'll forgive me with time. Our people needed us. I can swear to you now, pet, you will forever remain my favorite, even if I take a Queen."

Horror was like a gut punch, deliver by a fighter jet. I felt immediately and intensely sick. W-what? Frozen so completely I nearly forgot to breathe, I looked for ANY sign he may be joking. Exaggerating. But... but no. W-WHAT?? How. WHEN? At what point, in my torment? In my UTTER SILENCE? Did this man "fall in love"?!

H-How can you LOVE a women you've never-?! No. No, I KNEW how.

You decide you like the IDEA of them. The shape of their body. You project onto them your OWN narrative and decide it is a love story. Fuck. FUCK!! I was... this was... no no NO! I REFUSED. Like HELL was I could to live, trapped for DECADES if not CENTURIES, the pretty little war bride of a tyrant!

The High Prince gets up and walkes towards me. Sweeps me into terrifyingly powerful arms. When he smiles? There are fangs. Deadly and hardly the comfort he thinks they are. We are a laughable contrast. Richs and rags, power and prisoner, royal and the woman who might just burn the world to escape. Shit. SHIT. I was scared of him before.

And that's BEFORE he decided he loved me.

[kathlare]

shattered sparks

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: After winning Song of the Year at the VMAs, Amelie is caught in a whirlwind of mixed emotions.

Wordcount: 1.6 k

Warnings: kinda sad

full masterlist // request over here!

September 11th, 2024 - Elmont, NY

The VMA afterparty was in full swing, and the energy was electric. The room shimmered with glittering lights, designer gowns, and the buzz of celebrities celebrating their wins. Amelie, freshly crowned with the Song of the Year award for her track Espresso, had every reason to be ecstatic. Yet, as she swirled the drink in her hand and exchanged half-hearted smiles with congratulatory strangers, she couldn’t shake the heaviness in her chest.

Her phone buzzed again in her clutch. She already knew who it was. Lando’s name had flashed across her screen twice tonight, each time making her stomach twist. This time, it was a text.

Lan🧡: Congratulations, Ames. I’m proud of you.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, caught in a battle between ignoring him or giving in to her impulse to respond. But her anger still lingered, sharp and unyielding. Instead, she locked the phone and slipped it back into her bag, raising her glass for another sip of the champagne that had started to lose its sparkle.

—Hey,— her friend Minnie called over the thrum of the party, nudging her gently. —What’s up with you? You’ve been… off tonight.—

Amelie forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. —I’m fine. Just tired.—

Minnie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. —Tired? Girl, you just won Song of the Year. You should be dancing on tables right now.—

Amelie let out a weak laugh, swirling her drink. —Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?—

Minnie studied her for a moment before placing a steady hand on her shoulder. —Okay, what’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing.’ I know you better than that.—

Amelie sighed, looking around the room at the blur of happy faces. —It’s just… Lando,— she admitted reluctantly. —We had a fight. A bad one.—

Minnie’s expression softened. —Ah. So, that’s why you’re practically glued to your phone, waiting for his texts?—

Amelie frowned, defensive. —I’m not...—

—You are,— Minnie cut her off gently. —And that’s okay. But, Ames, you’re allowed to enjoy this moment. Don’t let anyone, no matter how cute or British, take that away from you.—

Amelie nodded, but the words only felt like a temporary balm. Her fight with Lando still echoed in her mind—the sharp words, the accusations, and, worst of all, the way he had dismissed her feelings.

The memory made her stomach turn. His words had cut deep, and she hated how they made her feel—irrational, insecure, and small. She had lashed out in return, saying things she didn’t fully mean but couldn’t take back. Now, there was a crack between them, and she wasn’t sure how—or if—they could mend it.

Back in Monaco, Lando was pacing his living room, phone in hand. He had seen clips of her speech and her radiant smile as she accepted her award. It should have made him happy, proud. Instead, it left him feeling hollow. He couldn’t shake the thought that he should’ve been the first person she called to celebrate. But he knew he wasn’t, and it was his own fault.

—She ignored you again?— Pietra’s voice broke through his thoughts. She was perched on his couch, arms crossed, her sharp gaze fixed on him.

Lando ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. —Yeah. She hasn’t replied to anything. Not my calls, not my texts.—

—Well, can you blame her?— Pietra shot back, her tone unyielding. —You were a jerk, Lando.—

Lando stopped pacing, turning to face her. —I know, okay? I messed up. But I didn’t invite Magui. You did.—

Pietra rolled her eyes, unimpressed. —Don’t you dare pin this on me. Yes, I invited her, but you didn’t have to act so oblivious. Amelie found out from someone else, and that’s what hurt her. Not just Magui being there, but you not telling her.—

Max, who had been quietly sipping his drink in the corner, finally spoke up, nodding in agreement. —She’s right, mate. You should’ve just been honest. Amelie’s not mad about Magui; she’s mad because you made her feel like her feelings didn’t matter.—

Lando slumped onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. —I know I screwed up. I just… I didn’t think it was a big deal. Magui and I are nothing, and I didn’t want to make it into something by bringing it up.—

—But by not bringing it up, you made it worse,— Pietra said bluntly. —Lando, you’re in a relationship. You don’t get to pick and choose what’s ‘a big deal.’ If it’s a big deal to her, it should be a big deal to you.—

Her words hit hard, and Lando felt a lump rise in his throat. He hated how true they were, how much he’d failed to consider Amelie’s perspective.

—I just… I don’t know how to fix it,— he admitted, his voice cracking. —She won’t even talk to me.—

Pietra softened slightly, leaning forward. —Give her space, but don’t give up. She’s hurt, Lando, and she has every right to be. But if you love her, and I know you do, you’ll find a way to make it right.—

Lando nodded, swallowing hard. He wanted to believe Pietra was right, but the doubt lingered. What if he had pushed Amelie too far this time? What if she couldn’t forgive him?

As he sat in the quiet of his apartment, the weight of their fight pressing down on him, all he could do was hope that somehow, they could find their way back to each other.

Lando stayed seated on the couch long after Pietra and Max had left his apartment. The echoes of their words bounced in his head, cutting through the silence like a dull blade. He scrolled through the photos from the night, pausing on a picture of Amelie on stage, golden trophy in hand, her face alight with triumph.

She deserved to be happy, to feel celebrated. Instead, because of him, her night was overshadowed by their fight.

Running a hand down his face, Lando sighed heavily. He had never wanted this—never wanted to hurt her. But now, it felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he could pull them back to solid ground or if the weight of their argument would tip them over.

He typed out another message, staring at the screen for what felt like an eternity before deleting it. Nothing he could say felt right.

--------------

liked by minnie.mills, schechoperez, and others

ameliedayman: 1 short step for Amelie 1 sweet leap for @vmas thank you to my dream of a team/ my entire talented

cast + crew for making this other worldly performance one i wish i could do over and over again. Really a night I’ll remember forever 💎💎👽✨

@brettalannelson @mssjo @edwinjcarranza

View all 2,866 comments

minnie.mills: You ate, left no crumbs, AND teleported us to another galaxy. Iconic. 👽✨

bestiesupport44: HOW does it feel to carry the whole industry on your back??

randomfan29: Okay but why is there no like from him?? 👀 → alienlovers69: @randomfan29 We NEED answers. Where is Lando??

loversofamelie56: If they broke up, she’s WAY out of his league anyway.

gracieabrams: Well deserved!!! The whole world is now just a little bit more obsessed with you 😍💎

alexwolffofficiall: Look at you now, rockstar! Song of the year, you’re making all of us proud 🔥🌟 → ameliedayman: @alexwolffofficial It’s just the beginning, babe!

dualipa: You really did that!! So proud of you, queen 👑🔥

taylorswift: THIS IS YOUR MOMENT. So proud of you! Keep shining, baby 💖🌟 → ameliedayman: @taylorswift Thank you SO much, you’re my ultimate inspiration 💖✨

fan_1234: No like from Lando? Hmmm… Are we sure everything’s cool? 🤔👀

pietrapilao: If I could take that trophy and make it mine, I would! But for now, I’ll just be proud of you 👑✨ → ameliedayman: @pietrapilao You could DEFINITELY take it if you wanted, queen 👑💖

f1gossiper: Y’all... where’s the like from Lando? 👀 Is it time to address the rumors yet? 😂

joe_locke: Knew this was coming!! Song of the Year, and you didn’t even have to try. You’re built for this. 💥💖 → ameliedayman: @joe_locke You always know how to make me smile, thank you so much 💖💫

oliviarodrigo: Omg, you’re a literal QUEEN. So proud of you!! 👑🔥 → ameliedayman: @oliviarodrigo Thank you, love!

fanaccount1: So proud of you!! It’s YOUR world and we’re just living in it 🔥💎

f1fanatic23: So she wins Song of the Year, but Lando didn’t like the post? 🤔 I smell tea. 👀

maxfewtrell: A whole VMA win? Ok, you’re officially unstoppable now 🔥💥 → ameliedayman: @maxfewtrell Thanks, Max!

f1lovers69: Y’all see how she looked? And the performance? Straight FIRE. 🔥🔥🔥

[millerstolemyheart]

Mornings Like These | Drabble

Summary: Joel wakes you up for your morning shift at the stables.

WC: 1,253

Pairing: Joel Miller x M!Reader

Warnings: Smut, brief mention of daddy kink, no proofread

Notes: I dunno I just really needed to get this out of my head guyssss

Mornings with Joel are anything but restful.

Within seconds of stirring, his lips are typically dancing along the shell of your ear, whispering sweet nothings and the occasional breathy swear word while his morning wood swells against the soft curve of your ass. Rough, callused hands caress and grope you awake with a tenderness that surprised you the first time it happened.

“Baby boy… sweetheart… darlin’...”

Each pet name falls as sweet as honey from his lips.

“Sunshine… my love… angel…”

Joel’s list of pet names for you is vast, as he likes to keep a repertoire. It gives him lots of options, depending on what mood he’s in.

“Sugar…”

That’s the one that finally stirs you awake today.

When your eyes finally flutter open, you spot Joel peering down at you with a sleepy expression. Those deep brown eyes of his look tired, but they crinkle at the edge when your gazes meet. His graying hair is tousled from sleep, and it makes you think of that time you towel-dried your cat after a particularly difficult bath. A smile tugs at the corner of your lip, and you bring your hand up to tangle in the soft curls that kiss the nape of his neck.

“G’morning…” You whisper, voice raspy from sleep.

Joel silently presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes to enjoy the familiar scratch of his whiskered jaw.. Tilting your head up, you capture his lips in a quick kiss. The movement doesn’t faze Joel. He simply slips his hands up to cradle your head in his hands as if it’s second nature.

“Mornin’, sweet boy…” Joel finally rumbles against your lips. He pulls back long enough to study your face. “Sorry to wake you so early. You did say six o’ clock, right?”

Oh, right. Your shift at the stables. No wonder you weren’t feeling his arousal pressing against you.

“Yeah,” You yawn and reach to give his scruffy cheek a reassuring scratch. “Gotta get home and change before I go. Didn’t bring any clothes with me last night.”

In your haste to see Joel after he returned from a late patrol, you’d forgotten to pack any clothes. In your defense, he was wearing that damn green flannel of his that drove you crazy, so you weren’t really thinking of much other than dragging him from the front gate of Jackson back to his own home in record time. The late evening hours turned into a sweaty, sticky blur that didn’t end until Joel had coaxed at least three orgasms out of your spent body.

“Christ, darlin’... just look at you… practically droolin’ for it, ain’t ya?”

“C’mon, baby boy… know you can do it… gimme another. I want it.”

“I know, baby, I know… just one more… do it for me… be a good boy…”

Your cock gave one final weak twitch before your mouth parted in a silent scream, your entire body jolting once, twice, three times before finally giving out and collapsing into the sheets. Joel’s satisfied smirk danced behind your eyelids all night long, along with the gentle praises he murmured into your ear as you succumbed to sleep.

“Such a good boy f’me… can’t believe you’re mine, darlin’...”

Joel gives a soft snort and suddenly peels himself away to reach over the side of the bed with a faint grunt, a product of his aging back. He picks up the very same flannel from the floor and tosses it over to you. “There.” Wearing a satisfied expression, he reclines back against the pillows, head propped up on his arm. “Just wear that. Stay here and have some coffee with me instead before you go.” His voice is low and gravelly, eyes flitting down to the shirt and back up to your eyes. It’s less of a suggestion and more of a declaration.

He knows what you’ll say.

The faintest blush colors your cheeks as you catch the shirt. You give him a careful look and slip it on over your bare torso. Immediately his scent floods your nose with a warm, woodsy aroma reminiscent of wet trees, wood shavings, and the natural musk you’ve grown addicted to. The sleeves hang just past the tips of your fingers, and you shoot Joel an amused look.

“You think anyone’ll notice?”

Not that you would mind…

“Fuck, I hope so,” he grumbles, reaching out to adjust the collar for you. “Want everybody knowin’ you’re mine…” His voice carries a distinct possessive tone, already imagining you going around wearing his scent all day long as you work at the stables. It’s enough to make him want to rip it right back off of you and coax more sweet sounds out of you.

You roll the sleeve back up to your elbows, showing off some of your bare arms. "I'll wear it your way then." You shimmy closer, nuzzling into warm crook of his neck. It’s your favorite place in the world. “Thanks, Joel.”

Joel stretches his arm around you, holding you close to his body, your head still resting against his neck. "Good," His voice is a low rumble, and his free hand reaches to stroke the short hair at the nape of your neck. It sends a delightful shiver down your spine, and Joel responds with a soft hmph, continuing his action and studying your body for any more reactions.

“You doin’ anything tonight, darlin’?” Joel asks after a few moments of silence. His eyes study you closely, though once again he’s sure he knows your answer.

He does.

You give a coy smile. “Seems like I am now.”

"That's a relief," Joel remarks with a wry smile, his free hand moving to your waist, his gaze on your face. "Wouldn't want you spendin' your evenings with anyone else."

“Getting possessive, are we?” You tease him. Your voice comes out muffled from where your face is smushed under his jawline.

“I'm not gettin' possessive, I'm marking what's mine," he counters in a grunt, his tone still low and gravelly. There’s a familiar glint in his eye that promises deliverance.

Mine.

A wave of heat flushes through your body, unable to contain your own growing desire for him. "Well in that case..." You lean up, capturing his lips in a kiss.

Joel immediately groans into your mouth, his breath hot against your lips. His warm hands snake their way back around your middle, one slipping up so he can tweak your nipple with the rough pads of his fingers. “Christ, baby boy…” He mutters, nose squashed against your cheekbone. “Just look at ya… wearin’ my dirty shirt… don’t know what you do to me, do ya?”

You can’t stop your body from trembling as he wraps himself back around you. Everything about him radiates power… strength… safety… His warmth shields you from the chilly morning air of the bedroom. It’s as if nothing else could matter at the moment. Just him. Just Joel.

“J-Joel…” You giggle, your nose nuzzling the warm crook of his neck and breathing in his scent straight from the source. “Not gonna have any time for coffee…”

“Screw the damn coffee,” he snarls, already shifting his body to hover over your own. His weight pins you to the mattress, and there’s a knot that keeps growing bigger and bigger in your gut when you feel just how hard he really is. His cock gives a firm twitch against your thigh.

“I got a better way for us to wake up.”

[hoshinasblade]

imagine trying out the makeup products you just bought on your boyfriend, vice-captain hoshina soshiro.

it's a lazy sunday afternoon, and although his whole life all hoshina had wanted is to be a great anti-kaiju officer, the past few years something else had trumped over that dream as his number one priority. resting his head on your soft thighs as you gently play with his hair, hoshina in love seems to be a different person from who he is when he is wearing the defense force uniform.

"i'm not gonna put much so they don't clump," you said, brushing his long eyelashes with the delicate spoolie of your brand-new mascara. hoshina has his eyes shut tight, unmoving. after two more strokes of the mascara wand, he blinked his eyes open, pupils dilating as he stares at your face on top of him.

"tell me again why we're trying out your new stuff on me?" hoshina aimed to sound annoyed, but his attempt was futile. his hum was low when he felt you give him a quick peck on his forehead.

you put back the mascara in your bag, picking the liquid eyeliner next. "because you are pretty," you answered. "i wanna find out if i can make you prettier." you uncapped the eyeliner pen, then leaned down to draw a line in hoshina's eyelids.

hoshina did not bother closing his eyes this time as you work, and instead chose to study your focused expression. if he were to decide, your eyes were his most favourite part of you - they were the first things he noticed when you met for the first time. he liked how you can say nothing at all to him but a glance from you would have communicated a thousand words anyway.

you were too close that hoshina can almost feel your breath. his eyes trained on you, he lifted his right hand, surprising you as he touched your cheek lightly. "you're beautiful, i've told you before already, haven't i?" hoshina sighed.

"i -" tongue-tied and startled of hoshina's words, your hand slightly shook, messing up the cat-eye you are trying to draw on your boyfriend.

hoshina chuckled after several seconds of tensed silence. he rubbed on the corner of his eyes, the pigment of the eyeliner staining his fingers.

without getting up from his spot on your lap, hoshina looked up to you once again. "so like what's next, shall we find out if your lipsticks are kiss-proof?"

a/n: just something short and sweet since i recently reached 400 followers!!! thank you as ever for your support. likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated but please do not repost any of my writings anywhere.

MASTERLIST

[lieutenantbatshit]

CHAPTER 13 - once you go in, there's no turning back (hwang in ho x reader)

>> MASTERLIST

previous chapter | next chapter

——

“Noona?”

The voice sent a shiver down your spine, stopping you in your tracks. His voice was cautious and uncertain but heavy with unspoken questions. You turned sharply toward the door, your heart pounding as you did so. And there, standing in the doorway, your eyes widened in disbelief. 

Jun-ho stood there, his expression unreadable, though his sharp gaze flickered between you and the room behind you. His presence was both a comfort and a threat — he was someone familiar in this unfamiliar place, yet someone who could easily shatter everything you had been trying to hold together.

“Jun-ho…” you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice steady.

“His brows furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

For a brief moment, you considered telling him the truth. About everything, In-ho, the games, the reason you were here. But your self-preservation kicked in, forcing you to piece together a half-truth instead.

“I… I needed a place to think,” you let out a shaky breath. “A friend told me about this place when I was looking for in-ho.”

Jun-ho’s stare hardened. “A friend?” His voice was laced with skepticism. You couldn’t blame him.

You nodded, forcing yourself to look confused, as if this revelation meant nothing to you. “I wasn’t sure if it was his.”

Jun-ho stepped further into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. His presence filled the space, tense and searching. His dark eyes darted over the room, scanning the familiar surroundings as if he were seeing a ghost. Then, he scoffed. “You really expect me to believe that?”

You held your breath.

“You’re correct, this is hyung’s apartment,” he continued, stepping past you, his fingers grazing over the furniture. “I came here once before he disappeared.” He stopped in front of a bookshelf, his hand ghosting over a framed photo. You knew what it was — a picture of In-ho before the games, before he was swallowed whole by the world he had tried to escape.

Jun-ho picked it up, staring at it for a long moment. His jaw clenched. “I searched everywhere for him,” his voice was quieter now, but the bitterness in it was impossible to miss. “For years, I thought something happened to him. That maybe he was dead. And then I find out he wasn’t just alive — he was running the damn thing.”

Your stomach twisted as he set the frame down with more force than necessary before turning to you. “And now, I find you here,” his gaze pierced through you. “That’s not a coincidence.”

Jun-ho exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I figured I should let you know,” his voice was rough, like he had been carrying these words for too long. “Maybe it’s because you actually seem like you care about him. Or maybe I just need to hear myself say it out loud.”

A brief silence hung between you, heavy and suffocating. Then he let out a humorless laugh. “He’s the front man, noona. My brother runs the games.”

You flinched at his words, even though you already knew the truth. You averted his gaze.

Jun-ho studied your reaction carefully, his eyes darkened with suspicion. “You don’t seem surprised.”

You felt your heart thrum harder. Your lips parted, but no words came. You only looked at him, seeing his gaze over you.

Jun-ho stepped closer. “Did you already know?”

You felt your defenses crumbling as your thoughts spiraled. It seemed your silence was enough of an answer as he let out a bitter chuckle.

“I used to think I could save him,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I chased a ghost. And when I finally found him… he shot me.”

Your heart clenched.

“I gave up on him,” Jun-ho said, his voice quieter now. “Because he already made his choice.”

“And what if he didn’t have a choice?”

Jun-ho’s gaze flickered with something unreadable after you said it, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Are you saying that you believe it… or because you don’t want to admit the truth?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Jun-ho let out a slow breath, turning away from you and walking towards the shelves. He sifted through a stack of books, letters, and relics of a life that In-ho had left behind.

A life that no longer existed.

“Back then,” Jun-ho started, his voice becoming distant. “I thought my brother was the strongest person I knew. He always had a way of pulling himself out of the darkest situations,” his fingers traced over an old medal, the one In-ho had won in university. “But now? Now, I don’t even know if he’s still my brother.”

You felt the ache in your chest intensify. You couldn’t believe how harshly the world treated these brothers. Then, he finally turned back to you, his gaze softer, but the weight of his words heavier than ever.

“Noona, whatever reason you’re here, whatever you’re holding onto, please ask yourself this,” his voice was low, filled with something almost pleading. “Are you willing to live a lie until the day you die, or are you going to do what’s right?”

Your breath hitched as he spoke.

“Because if you know the truth, you only have two choices,” he continued. “Tell me everything you know about him, the frontman, and save the lives of many… or you can bury this forever.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you like a crushing force. 

Tell the truth. Betray In-ho. Expose everything.

Or stay silent. Go back. Live in the shadows.

Your throat felt dry, the room suffocating. You had fought for survival. You had fought for In-ho. But now, the real fight was beginning, and you had no idea which side you were on. 

Silence filled the apartment long after Jun-ho had left, not realizing he already did. But in your mind, his voice still echoed, lingering like a shadow that refused to fade.

The weight of his words settled deep into your chest, a pressure that made it hard to breathe. You sank onto the couch, staring at nothing yet seeing everything. The past, the present, and the uncertain future that stretched ahead of you.

If you exposed In-ho and the games, the world would finally know the truth — the horrors of the games, the lives lost, the twisted system that had turned desperation into entertainment. But what then? Would it truly end? Would it stop the games, or would the people in power simply replace him and erase his existence as if he never mattered?

Would it change anything at all?

And In-ho…

You pressed your fingertips to your temples, squeezing your eyes shut. It wasn’t just about what he had done, about the blood on his hands. It was about the moments in between — the quiet ones, the fragile ones, the ones where you saw glimpses of the man he used to be.

The man who had once laughed with you on the streets, who promised things he could never give. The man who, despite everything, had let you go when you asked for three days to think.

And then, there was Jun-ho.

Jun-ho, who had spent years searching for his brother only to find a monster in his place. Jun-ho, who had given up on saving him. The memory of In-ho’s bullet sinking into Jun-ho’s body made you feel sick.

Because what if he could do the same to you if you don’t come back?

How much of him was left? How much of the man you once knew still existed beneath the mask, beneath the weight of every decision he had made?

You had seen his hands tremble when he held you. You had seen the way he looked at you in the quiet moments when neither of you spoke — like he was afraid that if he did, the last piece of him that remained human would crack and shatter.

But wasn’t it already broken?

Jun-ho had been right about one thing. You could only do one of two things — expose In-ho and destroy what little remained of him, or stay silent and live with him, carrying this truth in your chest like a lead weight for the rest of your life.

You thought about the others. The ones still trapped in that nightmare, fighting for survival, fighting for a chance to crawl their way out of hell. If you did nothing, how many more would die?

And yet if you betrayed him, would it even matter?

You plopped yourself down to the bed, burying your face in your hands.

Minutes had already passed, maybe even hours. Time felt frozen, meaningless in the suffocating quiet of In-ho’s abandoned apartment.

Then, the black box with a pink bow caught your eye again.

The sight of it made your heart lurch, its place too deliberate and carefully placed. With slow, almost reluctant movements, you reached for it.

Your hands trembled as you untied the ribbon, the silk slipping between your fingers. You hesitated for a brief moment before lifting the lid. Inside, there was an envelope nestled within crisp white paper.

Your breath caught, realizing it wasn’t just any envelope. It had your name on it.

Written in sharp, deliberate strokes, the kind of handwriting you had seen on countless reports, on cold, official documents. But this was different. The way your name curved on the paper felt personal.

With an uneasy inhale, you pulled the letter free, unfolding it with care.

If you’re reading this, you’ve found your way back to me.

The first sentence made your stomach twist. It wasn’t a question, nor hopeful. Rather, it was a statement and certainty.

You asked me once why I did all this. Why I became the Front Man. The truth is, I stopped looking for a way out the moment I realized there was none. There is no justice in this world. Only power and those who wield it. I did what I had to survive.

But if I ever wished for something more, something outside of the choices I made… it would be you.

The words felt like they were cutting into your skin. Your eyes continued down the page, your breath shallow.

It was always you.

Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. You inhaled sharply, your pulse hammering in your ears.

You and I have always been the same. You understand survival better than anyone. You understand what it means to make impossible choices. And now, you have another one to make.

Your vision blurred for a second, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

If you choose to walk away, I won’t stop you. But they will.

But if you stay, then come back. Come back, and I will show you the world beyond this. The world we can build together. I never lied to you about that.

I will give you everything. Not as the Front Man. Not as the overseer. Not as the man who ran the games. 

Just as me. Your In-ho.

Your hands trembled as you lowered the letter, your heartbeat erratic. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were at a crossroads.

You had spent the last few hours caught between two paths — Jun-ho’s quiet plea for justice, the weight of every life lost pressing into your ribs… and In-ho, the man who had shattered your trust, yet still held something deep inside you that you couldn’t sever.

You could leave and take this letter, burn it, and let the world know what you knew.

Or…

You could step back into the abyss.

The weight of everything threatened to crush you. You ran your hands over your head, fingers digging into your scalp as you tried to steady your erratic breaths. Your chest tightened, your thoughts racing in an endless, suffocating loop.

Jun-ho.

In-ho.

The games.

Their lives, your life, the lives of everyone still trapped in that nightmare.

No matter which path you took, someone would suffer. If you told Jun-ho the truth, you’d be condemning In-ho to a fate he could never escape. You wouldn’t want to know what the system could do to those who strayed too far from their role. They would never let him go. And if they found out about Jun-ho? He wouldn’t make it out alive.

But if you stayed silent, if you kept this secret locked away in your chest, then you were no better than the masked men who orchestrated the deaths of hundreds. You would be turning your back on the people still trapped inside, on the innocent who would be lured into the next set of games.

A sickening weight settled deep in your gut, twisting like a knife. Then, you felt a shift, some kind of pressure. Right near your ear.

Your fingers brushed against something small, firm, and foreign beneath your skin. Your stomach lurched. You pressed against the area again slowly and cautiously, the dread pooling into your veins.

It wasn’t your imagination. It was there.

A cold realization slammed into you like a freight train. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out all other noise. Your stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in your throat.

You had to get it out.

Your feet moved before your mind could fully catch up. You rushed to the kitchen, yanking open drawers with shaking hands, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The metallic clatter of utensils filled the air as you rummaged frantically until your fingers wrapped around the cool, unforgiving metal of a small knife.

You gripped it tightly, your knuckles white. Your reflection in the window caught your eye — a pale, frantic ghost of yourself as your mouth slightly opened as if gasping for air. A woman on the verge of something irreversible.

You braced yourself against the counter. With one final, shuddering breath, you angled the blade behind your ear and pressed down. Pain seared through your skin, sharp, and unforgiving. Your vision blurred, but you clenched your teeth, forcing yourself to keep going. The blade bit deeper, warm blood trickling down your neck, staining the collar of your coat.

And then, a small metallic object dislodged and tumbled onto the counter with a soft clink. It was a tiny black chip, no bigger than a fingernail, glistened under the kitchen lights, coated in fresh crimson.

Your entire body went still, and then the realization hit.

He had never intended to let you go.

A choked sob bubbled up from your throat. The walls of the apartment seemed to close in, suffocating and oppressive. Your breaths came in sharp, erratic bursts. The betrayal burned through you like acid, scorching every last remnant of hope you had left. Your chest heaved as your fingers curled into fists at your sides, your rage exploding.

With a sharp, guttural cry, you seized the closest object — an empty glass left on the counter — and hurled it across the room. The shatter echoed like a gunshot, fragments scattering across the floor. Your hands trembled, your body convulsing with anger, fear, and betrayal.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You inhaled sharply, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth as you turned toward the door. You couldn’t stay. Not here. Not in this place that reeked of his lies.

You had to leave before they came looking. Before he came looking.

One last time, your gaze swept across the apartment. The relics of the man you once thought you knew. The life he had built on a foundation of secrets.

The letter he had left you still sat on the counter, taunting you. His words, his promises, his confessions — nothing more than ink on a paper. 

It didn’t matter anymore. None of it did.

You turned away, your footsteps slow at first, then faster, more determined. You reached the door, gripping the handle with bloodstained fingers. 

Without another glance back, you slipped into the night, disappearing into the shadows.

——

The car ride was silent.

In-ho sat across from you, though he wanted to sit beside you if only you didn’t avoid him. His fingers loosely curled as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He stole glances at you in the dim light of the limousine, but you didn’t look at him. Not even once. Your gaze remained fixed outside the window, watching the city lights flicker past as if they held answers he could never give. It was all a familiar routine, one that should have been easy and controlled. But today, he felt restless.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

He had granted your request and given you space for three days. Three days apart. Three days to return to Seoul, to clear your mind, to decide whether you could live with the truths you had uncovered.

He stole a glance at you, at the way your fingers toyed absently with the hem of your coat, at the way your jaw tensed as if holding back words you refused to say.

As the limousine slowed to a stop in front of your apartment, he turned to you fully, waiting for you to say something. But you didn’t.

You simply reached for the door handle.

“Three days,” he reminded you, his voice quieter than he intended.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping out, but he caught you looking at his lips. But just when he was about to lean in, you exited the car. No goodbye. No glance back. 

The door shut, and that was it.

He watched as you disappeared into the building, his throat tightening with something he refused to name. Then, after a long pause, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers pressing into his temples. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? He had given you space and time.

And yet, as the car pulled away, he had never felt more like he was losing something he could never get back.

After a moment, he straightened, inhaled sharply, and signaled the drive. “Take me to my other residence.”

——

When In-ho arrived at his apartment, he didn’t immediately go inside. He stood outside the door for a long moment, staring at the numbers etched into the steel. it had been years since he had last bene here, before he had disappeared, before he had become someone else.

The apartment was dimly lit when he stepped inside, a place untouched for far too long. His footsteps were quiet against the floor as he walked through the space, past the memories he had locked away. The air carried the scent of dust and old books, the faintest trace of something familiar — something from a life that had once belonged to him before the games, before the mask.

On the table, he placed the black box with the pink ribbon. Inside was his letter, carefully folded and carefully written. He had thought of burning it a hundred times before, had debated whether you should even read the words he had poured onto the page. But in the end, he had sealed it away, hoping you would find it.

He lingered there for a moment, his fingers resting against the smooth surface of the box, before his gaze drifted toward the shelf near the window. And that was when the memory came back.

The daisies.

As a child, you had loved them. It was the same kind of flowers he’d given you when he wrapped your finger with a paper ring, imitating what you were both watching on the TV. He had never understood why the concept of marriage fascinated you so much—until he did. 

The memory played in his mind like a scene frozen in time, your small hands carefully pressing the petals between the pages of an old book, preserving them as if afraid the world would take them away from you. He had helped you once, collecting the finest daisies he could find, sneaking them into your hands like a secret only the two of you shared. 

That had been a lifetime ago.

He exhaled, pulling himself from the memory before it could tighten its grip any further. There was no use in lingering on the past, not when the present was slipping through his fingers.

Without another glance, he turned and left.

——

Hours had passed since In-ho returned, stepping into the apartment with something unfamiliar clawing at his chest. Something hopeful, perhaps. A foolish, desperate hope that maybe you had come back. That maybe he would find you here waiting. Conflicted, but still within reach.

Instead, the sight that greeted him made his blood run cold.

The counter was stained with small droplets of blood, but enough to send a wave of dread through him. And next to it, lying in plain sight, was the microchip.

His stomach dropped, realizing that you had found it.

His hands curled into fists as he stepped forward slowly and carefully. As if the weight of realization might shatter him completely. His gaze drifted to the black box that was still there, but slightly moved. The ribbon had been undone, the letter taken.

You had read it, but you were gone. 

His pulse pounded in his ears as he turned, eyes scanning the room as if you might still be hiding in the shadows. But there was nothing. Only silence, the remnants of your presence, fade by the second.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

Damn it.

You had left. You had run. And this time, you hadn’t looked back. You weren’t just slipping away — you had vanished completely, disappearing into the shadows before he could stop you.

A flicker of something dark settled in his chest — something sharp, something dangerous. He wasn’t going to let this end like this.

He had let you go once.

He wouldn’t do it again.

Jaw clenched, eyes burning with determination, In-ho reached for his coat, slipping it on with practiced ease. Then, without hesitation, he stepped out into the night, his mind set on one thing and one thing only.

And no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you thought you could disappear, he would find you.

——

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A/N: I've decided to put this series also in AO3 and Wattpad so we could reach more people 🫶 I'm so happy with how these chapters are turning out. I find myself writing for hours (even the whole day) again so expect more updates in the next coming days ❤️ Anyway, feel free to leave out your thoughts here, and I'll gladly interact with each and everyone of you. 🫶

Don't forget to leave a comment in this post to be tagged in the next chapter! ✨

TAGS: @machipyun @love-leez @enzosluvr @amber-content @kandierteveilchen @butterfly-lover @1nterstellarcha0s @squidgame-lover001 @risingwithtriples @fries11 @follows-the-life-ahead @goingmerry69 @plague-cure @theredvelvetbitch @cherryheairt (p.s. if i forget to you, please let me know)

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Between the lines - part 8

CW : meanie sevika, artist reader, hockey player vi and sevika, modern au, highschool shenanigans, cheating, sex, dark themes, love triangle, lesbians, quickies

A/N : MY BABIES WHAT DID THEY DO TO YOU-- oh and vanders here too i guess

previous part

Freshman Year – Sevika POV

Sevika leaned heavily against her locker, arms crossed, her head resting against the cold metal as she exhaled through her nose. Her phone vibrated in her pocket for what felt like the hundredth time. She knew it was her dad, and she didn’t need to check the screen to know he was either blowing up her phone with angry texts or guilt-tripping calls. Their fight last night had escalated into shouting that echoed through the house, both of them saying things that cut too deep to take back. The anger in his voice still rang in her ears, but it wasn’t just that. It was the guilt—the small, insidious weight in her chest—gnawing at her for losing her temper.

She rubbed her forehead, trying to shake the memory away, her knuckles still red and raw from hours of pounding into the punching bag in her room. Her fists had been bloodied by the time she stopped, but she didn’t care. It was the only thing that made her feel like she could breathe last night.

“Hey!”

The cheerful voice jolted her out of her thoughts. Sevika glanced to her left as a girl with pink hair approached, her energy radiating like sunlight. She recognized her immediately—Vi, the freshman who seemed to always carry an air of confidence wherever she went. But as Vi’s gaze swept over Sevika, her expression shifted.

“...What’s wrong?” Vi asked, her tone softening, her head tilting in concern. She leaned casually against the lockers, but her sharp blue eyes locked onto Sevika like she was trying to read her mind.

Sevika shrugged, looking down at her bruised fists. “Nothing. My dad’s just being a dick,” she muttered.

Vi’s brows furrowed as she noticed the damage to Sevika’s hands. “That’s... not nothing,” she said, her voice gentle but pointed. “What happened?”

Sevika hesitated, her fingers curling into her palms. She wasn’t used to people asking questions like that. Most people kept their distance when she looked like this—bruised, tired, and carrying the weight of a bad mood. But Vi didn’t back off.

“I just needed to hit something,” Sevika admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She flexed her sore fingers, wincing slightly at the sting. “Got a little carried away.”

Vi’s expression softened, and before Sevika could react, Vi’s hand reached up to cup her cheek. The gesture caught her completely off guard.

“Sevika,” Vi said softly, her thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “I’m sorry. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone, you know?”

The touch sent a warmth through Sevika she wasn’t prepared for, and she flushed, quickly averting her gaze. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, her voice more defensive than she intended. She felt exposed under Vi’s gaze, like her walls had suddenly turned to glass.

Vi didn’t pull her hand away immediately, but she respected the boundary Sevika was trying to set. Instead, she gave her a small, understanding smile before dropping her hand to her side.

“So,” Vi started, leaning back against the locker next to Sevika’s. “Are you going to hockey tryouts tonight?”

Sevika blinked at the abrupt change in topic. She wasn’t sure if Vi was trying to lighten the mood or distract her, but she appreciated it either way. “I was thinking about it,” she admitted, her tone softening. “But I’m not really sure it’s my thing.”

Vi’s face lit up, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Not your thing? You’ve got the size and the attitude for it. I bet you’d be scary as hell on the ice.”

Sevika couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her. “Scary, huh?”

“Terrifying,” Vi teased, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Seriously, though. You should come. You’ve got a lot of fight in you, and that’s exactly what the team needs.”

Sevika looked at her, studying the earnestness in her expression. For the first time that day, she felt a small flicker of something other than anger and exhaustion. Maybe she’d give it a shot.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Vi grinned, straightening up. “Good. I’ll see you there, then.”

Before Sevika could respond, Vi started walking away, tossing a quick wave over her shoulder. Sevika watched her go, the warmth from her touch still lingering on her cheek.

Maybe trying out for hockey wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Violet's POV

Vi stood in front of the poster taped to the wall, her chest tightening as she scanned the list. Her name wasn’t there. She stared at it, hoping maybe she’d missed it somehow, but there was no mistake. Her name wasn’t on the list, but Sevika’s? Sevika’s name was at the very top, bold and unavoidable.

She let out a sharp sigh and looked down, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the frustration from bubbling over. The noise of footsteps and laughter from behind her snapped her out of her thoughts. One of her guy friends approached, slinging an arm over her shoulder with an exaggerated, almost mocking sympathy.

“Yikes, kid. We really thought you had it in the bag,” he said with a grin that wasn’t nearly as apologetic as his tone pretended to be.

“Welp! There’s always next year!” a girl in the group added, her laugh grating in Vi’s ears.

“We’re joking!” the girl said quickly, though the smirk on her face didn’t feel like a joke.

The group began walking away, their casual dismissal stinging more than it should’ve. “Love you, Violet,” the guy said over his shoulder, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vi didn’t respond. She just stood there, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She hated the way they treated her, as if her failure was just some punchline.

Her gaze shifted back to the group as they made their way toward Sevika, who was standing a little ways down the hall, oblivious to the commotion. Sevika hadn’t even looked at the list yet, but it didn’t matter. Everyone already knew she’d made the team. She’d been the clear favorite from the start, with her natural talent and undeniable presence on the ice.

Vi’s stomach churned as she watched the group swarm Sevika, their voices loud and full of fake admiration. They crowded around her, practically cornering her against the lockers as they showered her with compliments.

“Sevika, you were amazing out there!” “Honestly, you carried the whole tryout.” “They’d be crazy not to pick you as the team captain next year.”

Vi narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening as her nails dug into her palms. Her frustration wasn’t just about not making the team—it was the way everyone treated Sevika, like she was some untouchable force. It wasn’t Sevika’s fault, and deep down, Vi knew that. But in that moment, the jealousy and resentment burned too brightly for her to care.

Sevika’s gaze finally broke through the crowd, her eyes landing on Vi. Her brows furrowed with concern, and she took a step forward as if to come over. But one of the guys in the group grabbed her arm, pulling her back into the circle.

“C’mon, Sevika! You’re the star of the team now. We’ve got to celebrate!”

Sevika hesitated, glancing back at Vi, but the group didn’t give her a chance to move. They kept her pinned in place with their endless chatter and over-the-top praise.

Vi turned away, the lump in her throat growing heavier. She didn’t want to be there anymore. She didn’t want to see Sevika surrounded by people who seemed to idolize her, not when Vi felt so small in comparison. She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked off, her head low as she tried to shake the bitterness that clung to her like a shadow.

After breaking up with Vi, everything felt like it was spiraling. You spent hours in your room, staring at the walls, replaying every word of the breakup in your head until it blurred into static. You barely slept, and when you did, your dreams were littered with fragments of the past—Vi’s laugh, her hockey stick clattering against the ice, her disappointed eyes as you walked away. The silence in your life was unbearable, and you knew you needed to do something, anything, to fill the void.

It was in one of those restless moments that Jinx called.

"Hey, loser," she greeted, her voice loud and chaotic as always. "You ever think about making cappuccinos for angry old ladies or pretending to care about someone's gluten allergy?"

"What?" you asked, blinking as you sat up in bed.

"The bistro downtown!" Jinx exclaimed. "They’re hiring. I work there sometimes, you know, when I’m not blowing stuff up in my head. Come work with me! It'll be fun!"

You hesitated, but before you could say no, she steamrolled over your thoughts.

"Besides," she added with a teasing lilt, "ever since your mom and vander started hanging out and drinking wine while talking shit about us, shes been taking any chance i walk past them to course me into convincing you into getting a job"

You groaned, but she had a point. Your mom had been hinting—not so subtly—that it was time for you to start "pulling your weight." With a sigh, you found yourself muttering, "Fine. I’ll apply."

"That’s the spirit!" Jinx cheered. "Just don't burn the place down on your first day."

The next day, you showed up at the bistro. It was small but charming, with rustic wooden tables and potted plants hanging from the ceiling. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods filled the air, and for a moment, you felt... okay.

Jinx was already there, balancing on a stool behind the counter while trying to fix a crooked "Specials" sign. She waved at you with exaggerated enthusiasm. 

The manager/owner was a dorky guy. He was nice and could be sarcastic, he reminded you of an older brother youd never had

By the end of your first shift, your feet ached, you had spilled milk on your shirt, and you were fairly certain one of the regulars hated you. But for the first time in days, your head wasn’t drowning in regrets or sadness. You had something else to focus on—a new challenge, even if it was just making lattes and wiping down tables.

As you locked up that evening, Jinx nudged you with her elbow. "So, what do you think? Bistro life suit you?"

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. "It’s... something."

As for Sevika... she had a habit of crawling through your window, unannounced but never unwelcome. It started as an occasional visit, but soon, it became almost a routine. Some nights, she'd show up for hours; other times, she'd stay until morning, slipping out before your mom stirred from her room.

You didn’t question it much at first, but deep down, you suspected she was worried about you. Maybe she thought your thoughts would get the best of you, or maybe it was just her way of being there without saying too much. Sevika wasn’t the kind of person who offered flowery words of comfort—she’d never been—but her presence said more than any speech could.

The nights she didn’t come around, she’d call instead, her deep voice crackling through your phone late into the night. “You doing okay?” she’d ask, in that casual but heavy way that told you she wasn’t just making conversation. And when she wasn’t calling, there was always a string of texts: Did you eat? Don’t stay up too late. You need anything? Sometimes it was nothing more than a simple goodnight, but it was enough to remind you she was thinking about you.

When she did show up, she’d crawl through the window with the quiet ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. She’d drop her jacket over the back of your desk chair, her broad shoulders filling the small room as she plopped onto your bed like she owned it. “Your window lock’s a joke,” she teased once, smirking as she adjusted the blanket around her.

On those nights, the two of you would talk about everything and nothing. Sevika would sit cross-legged on your bed, fiddling with a loose thread on the blanket as you told her about work, school, or whatever random thought popped into your head. She’d listen, really listen, her sharp eyes softening in a way that made you feel seen.

Sometimes, she’d bring snacks she swiped from the gas station, or a book she thought you’d like. Other times, she’d just lie beside you, her arms crossed behind her head, and let the silence fill the space. Those were the nights you felt the safest—the weight of her beside you grounding you in a way you didn’t fully understand.

One night, as you lay on your side, watching her chest rise and fall in the dim light, you whispered, “Why do you keep coming here?”

Her eyes flicked open, and she turned her head to look at you. “Why not?” she said, her tone light, but the way she held your gaze told you there was more to it than that.

You didn’t push for an answer, and she didn’t offer one. But as she reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers brushing your cheek, you knew.

Sevika stayed until just before dawn, as always. And as you watched her climb back out the window, her silhouette disappearing into the early morning haze, you realized you didn’t mind her coming and going as much as you thought you would.

Sevika pressed you against your door. Hand on your hips. You giggle as she kisses your jawline. You lean your head back for her as she ventures down your next. It has been at least a month since you broke up with vi and you've been attempting to keep your relationship with sevika quiet. Even if it didn't really work. People were definitely noticing her consistently by your side, when she whispers sweet nothing in your ear. 

You giggle as your hand goes to her belt and you feel something pressed against your palm “..are- are you wearing your strap right now?” you tilt your head. “Shut up, baked salmon” she teased. You wrap your arms around her neck and push yourself off the door. You guide her to your bed she looks down at you with a smirk taking in the scent of your perfume

You push her down onto the bed, climbing on top of her. Her hand rested on your lower back, you cup her cheek, memorizing her face for a second. You placed a small peck on a scar on her jaw “how'd you get this one?” you tilt your head

“I was being stupid without my helmet and the puck hit me right on the jaw” she sighed at her own stupidity. 

You giggle and straddle her hips. “I have work in an hour” you giggle as she holds your hips “mmm quickie?” she tilted her head. You roll your eyes and scoff “fine you maniac” 

A sight for sore eyes when you were sat on her lap, bouncing on her purple strap, Head thrown back and face fuzzy. Her hands remained on your hips watching you with a smirk as you completely lose yourself. Her hand massaged your clothed tit “such a dirty slut” she chuckled

All you could respond with was a choked out moan as she grinded into you. You falling into her chest, hiding your face “thats it, cum on my cock” she said as your body seized. Seeing stars as she pressed her hand to your head, holding you so close. 

Sevika leaned back against your desk, smirking as she watched you rush around the room like a whirlwind. “You know, you’re not gonna get ready any faster by panicking,” she teased, her tone dripping with amusement.

“Easy for you to say,” you huffed, yanking a brush through your hair while simultaneously trying to pick out an outfit. “I have 30 minutes to get to my shift, and you’re just sitting there looking smug.”

She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest as her eyes followed your frantic movements. “I think you look fine the way you are,” she said casually, her smirk deepening when you shot her a glare.

Ignoring her, you turned back to your wardrobe, tossing clothes onto the bed in search of something suitable. Lately, you’d noticed her style rubbing off on you. Darker colors, edgier cuts—you’d even found yourself drawn to combat boots and ripped jeans, things you never would’ve considered before. And, of course, you always topped off your outfit with the leather jacket she gave you at the start of... whatever this was.

“Don’t forget the jacket,” Sevika called out, as if reading your mind.

“I wasn’t going to,” you shot back, slipping it on over your shirt. The familiar weight of the leather made you feel oddly secure, like you were carrying a piece of her with you.

Once you were finally dressed, you grabbed your makeup bag and darted over to the mirror. Sevika watched with amusement as you attempted to apply eyeliner while standing on one leg to pull on your boots.

“You gotta go,” you giggled, standing in front of her with your hands on her shoulders, trying to push her toward the window.

She didn’t budge, of course. Instead, she grabbed your hips, her large hands resting on either side as she grinned up at you. “What, you’re kicking me out now?”

“You know my mom will lose it if she catches you here,” you said, though your laughter betrayed any real urgency.

Sevika chuckled, her thumbs brushing lightly against your sides. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” she said, though she made no effort to move.

“Sevika,” you said, your tone half-scolding, half-laughing.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, pushing herself up from the desk. As she stepped toward the window, she glanced back at you, her smirk returning. “Don’t miss me too much while you’re at work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile.

You and Jinx were chatting at the counter, enjoying a lull in the shift. With no customers waiting to order at the counter, you both assumed that meant nobody needed help. Of course, the growing number of annoyed faces at the tables suggested otherwise, but neither of you seemed too concerned.

“I regret putting you two on this shift,” the manager muttered as he walked by, shooting you both a pointed look. “Go tend to the customers.”

Jinx groaned dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Fine, fine,” she muttered, reluctantly stepping out from behind the counter to take orders.

You stayed behind, leaning casually against the counter until you noticed Jinx returning, but this time she stood across from you where customers placed their to-go orders. Her smirk was devilish—the kind that usually meant trouble was brewing.

“Do you think he’s hot?” she asked, tilting her head toward the manager, who was busy chatting with a customer at the bar.

“Ehhh,” you said, wrinkling your nose. “Not really my type.”

Before Jinx could continue, the door chimed, and a boy with stark white hair strolled in. His confident smirk and relaxed posture made him hard to miss. He sauntered over to the counter, leaning casually next to Jinx.

“Hey, ladies,” he said smoothly, glancing between the two of you before locking eyes with Jinx.

There was a shift in the air as Jinx and the boy—Ekko, you assumed—stared at each other in silence. It wasn’t the comfortable kind of silence, either. There was tension there, a loaded history that seemed to hang between them.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing between them before deciding it was safer to back away. Grabbing a notepad, you quietly slipped off to tend to the tables, keeping a subtle eye on the scene from across the room.

“What are you doing here, Ekko?” Jinx finally sighed, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “It was a stupid mistake to kiss you.”

Your ears perked up at his words, but you kept your focus on taking orders, pretending not to listen. Still, you couldn’t help glancing over occasionally to make sure things didn’t escalate.

Just as you were trying to gauge if you needed to intervene, your manager stepped into your line of sight, blocking your view of Jinx and Ekko entirely.

“Seriously?” you groaned, crossing your arms as you tried to look around him.

The manager gave you a stern look, though there was a hint of amusement in his expression. “You need to work,” he said simply.

“Why aren’t you bothering her?” you shot back, gesturing toward Jinx, who was still locked in conversation with Ekko. “She’s the one in the middle of it.”

The manager’s gaze softened slightly, his tone shifting. “Listen, I know what it’s like to be a teenager,” he said with a small shrug. “I’m giving her a pass.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. Your teasing demeanor faded, replaced by a flicker of awe. “That’s like... really nice,” you admitted with a small smile.

“What? I can’t be nice?” he quipped, raising an eyebrow at you.

“No, it’s just—” you paused, glancing back at Jinx and Ekko before looking at him again. “I didn’t think you’d be so... understanding.”

The manager huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it. Now go take care of the customers before I regret being nice.”

Ekko eventually left the bistro without ordering anything, his expression unreadable as he disappeared through the front door. You took that as your cue and walked over to Jinx, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“What was that about?” you asked, leaning casually against the counter as you turned to her.

Jinx bit her bottom lip, a rare flicker of nervousness crossing her face. “We’ve been hanging out for the past month,” she admitted. “And last night, he kissed me. But we were drunk, so—” She sighed, trailing off as if the weight of the situation was still pressing on her.

“Wait, are you hungover right now?” you asked, tilting your head as you studied her.

Jinx scoffed, smirking. “No, I don’t get hangovers.”

You couldn’t help but mock her, mimicking her voice with a playful grin. “I don’t get hangovers,” you teased.

Before Jinx could respond, the door chimed again, and both of your heads turned toward the entrance. Violet walked into the restaurant, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. Your heart sank a little, but you quickly backed up, stepping away to give them space.

Jinx sighed, watching you retreat before she turned her attention to Vi. Her expression hardened as she walked over to intercept her. “You can’t be here,” Jinx said firmly, crossing her arms as she stood in front of Vi.

“What? Why?” Vi narrowed her eyes, confused by the sudden hostility.

“Look at her,” Jinx said, her voice quieter but no less serious.

Vi turned her head, glancing back at you. You were behind the counter, pretending to be busy, but the sad look in your eyes gave you away. You weren’t even trying to hide it.

“What? She and I are cool!” Vi groaned, throwing her hands up in frustration.

Jinx shook her head, stepping forward and nudging Vi toward the door. “No, you’re not. Not yet. Just... give her some space.”

Vi resisted for a moment but eventually let Jinx guide her out of the bistro. She stopped just outside the door, looking back through the window at you one last time before walking away.

Jinx sighed as she re-entered, running a hand through her hair before walking back over to you. “You okay?” she asked softly, leaning against the counter next to you.

You gave her a small, forced smile. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Jinx didn’t push, but the knowing look on her face told you she saw right through the facade. Instead, she just bumped her shoulder lightly against yours and changed the subject. “Alright, let’s get back to work before he starts hovering again.”

“I don’t know. I feel like she’s keeping something from me,” Samantha sighed, swirling the wine in her glass as she leaned back against Vander’s couch. Her shoulders slumped, and she pressed the cool glass against her cheek as if it might ease her frustration.

Vander, seated across from her, nodded in understanding. “Tell me about it,” he replied, a weary look crossing his face. He took a long sip of his wine before adding, “Vi’s been coming home drunk, and Powder… well, she keeps avoiding talking to me.”

Samantha’s brows shot up in surprise. “Drunk? Where is she even getting alcohol?” she asked, setting her glass down on the coffee table.

He shrugged, a mix of exasperation and resignation in his expression. “I don’t know. I try not to pry too much—kids her age don’t like that. But… I think the breakup is really taking a toll on her. She hasn’t been herself lately.” He rubbed a hand over his face, his rough fingers brushing over his beard.

Samantha sighed deeply, her concern etched into every line of her face. “Maybe I should put her in therapy,” she muttered, almost to herself. “I just… I don’t know how to get through to her anymore. She’s shut me out completely.”

“Therapy might not be a bad idea,” Vander admitted, though there was hesitation in his voice. He leaned back against the couch, his eyes drifting to the picture frame on the wall. It was an old family photo, back when things felt simpler. “Powder’s not any easier, though. She doesn’t like Silco, and now every time he comes over, it’s… awkward. Real awkward.”

Samantha followed his gaze to the picture on the wall. The corners of her mouth tugged into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Things were easier when they were little, weren’t they? Back when their biggest problems were scraped knees and broken toys.”

Vander chuckled softly, though it was tinged with sadness. “Yeah. Now it’s heartbreak, rebellion, and… whatever else life’s throwing at them.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared worries hanging heavily between them. Samantha finally broke the quiet, her voice hesitant. “Do you think we’re doing enough? For them, I mean. As parents?”

Vander glanced at her, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “I don’t think there’s a right answer to that,” he admitted. “We do what we can, hope it’s enough, and… pray they find their way.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “I just hope she knows I’m here for her, even if she doesn’t want to talk to me right now.”

“She knows,” Vander assured her, his voice steady and firm. “They both do. They just gotta work through it in their own time.”

Samantha gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Vander. It helps… talking about this.”

“Anytime,” he replied with a reassuring grin. “That’s what friends are for, right? Even if it’s just to drink wine and complain about our kids.”

They both laughed softly, the tension easing just a little as they clinked their glasses together in a quiet toast 

The front door creaked open, and the faint sound of giggles drifted into the living room. You and Jinx stumbled in, leaning on each other for support, barely able to contain your laughter. Vander’s head turned toward the noise, his brow furrowing.

“Powder? Come say hi to Samantha,” Vander called, his tone firm yet warm.

You and Jinx exchanged a brief look—wide-eyed and knowing—before awkwardly trying to straighten yourselves out. You were both undeniably wasted, and there was no way to hide it.

“Uhh… yeah, Dad, we’re pretty beat. She’s gonna stay over tonight,” Jinx mumbled quickly, waving it off as you both shuffled toward the stairs, trying your best not to trip over each other.

Vander’s skeptical gaze followed the two of you, and Samantha raised her eyebrows in silent agreement with his concern. “Something’s up,” he muttered under his breath.

“Wait a second,” Samantha called, her voice sharp. She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto you with a mother’s intuition that you couldn’t escape. “Sweetheart!”

You froze, cursing silently under your breath before forcing a too-wide smile and turning to face her. “Mom!” you said, blinking in an exaggeratedly innocent way.

Her eyes scanned you and Jinx, who were still hooked together like conspirators caught in the act. You swayed slightly as she took a step closer. Vander crossed his arms, his stern expression practically drilling into Jinx.

“Are you guys drunk?” Vander asked bluntly, his voice low but firm.

You and Jinx immediately launched into synchronized denial, shaking your heads furiously. “No! Nope! Not at all!” you stammered.

“I’m sober like a judge,” Jinx added with a giggle that completely undermined her claim.

Vander let out a long, exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Powder, you know you can’t drink on your meds,” he said, his tone laced with disappointment.

Jinx pouted, her mischievous grin fading for a moment. “I’m fine, Dad, it’s not a big deal,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

Samantha, however, turned her full attention to you. She stepped closer, concern etched into her face. “Seriously? Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

Your smile faltered, and you waved her off, your voice rising defensively. “I’m fine, Mom! Seriously, it’s nothing!”

“Nothing? You come in here reeking of alcohol, barely able to stand straight, and you call that nothing?” Samantha’s voice was sharp, cutting through your weak excuse.

“It’s not a big deal!” you snapped, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Can we not do this right now?”

Vander raised his hand, his voice cutting through the tension. “Enough. Both of you.” He looked at Jinx and then at you, his voice steady but firm. “Go upstairs. Now.”

Jinx grabbed your hand, her grip tighter than necessary, and started pulling you toward the stairs. “Good night!” she called out, her voice overly cheerful as she tugged you along.

Samantha and Vander watched the two of you disappear up the stairs, the sound of muffled laughter trailing behind.

Vander let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Teenagers,” he muttered.

Samantha shook her head, worry clouding her face. “This isn’t like her. Something’s going on, Vander.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “We’ll figure it out.”

@vyvvycg @drinkdawudda @jiungmcvv @half-of-a-gay @savedforlaterr

[captain039]

PART 2 The Meaning of Flowers

Viktor x reader

Bridgerton AU

Warnings: olden times, sexism, light swearing, plus size reader, older Viktor, age gap, fat shaming, sexual, smut, oral F and M receiving, innocent reader, light corruption kink, reader in her 20s, long-haired Viktor, possessive Viktor, obsessive Viktor, angst

Previous part <-

Dearest Reader, if you missed last night's first soirée of the season, then you indeed missed a few exciting first dances in our great city. Our lord and ladies mingle with one another to find their hopeful match for this year’s social season. Though hidden amongst the mingling and squabble of our fair city you may have missed a rather intriguing encounter, a new lady was seen talking to our great men of progress, you heard right not man, men, both our Duke Viktor and Councilman Talis were seen with an unknown lady though by my eyes she seemed to run off without further conversation.

You groan as the sun shines brightly on your closed lids once more. A break is all you ask for, being able to wake up on your own than someone blinding you by the great sun in the sky. You don’t blame Mercy, she’s doing her job and an excellent job she does, however sometimes you wish to strangle the poor woman. Another ball another lavish dress and eager mamas introducing their daughters to the wealthier side of the city and once again you find yourself awkwardly at your father’s side thankful your mother was ill enough to not come, but alas listening to your father ramble about mines in the south is rather boring, after your first embarrassing clumsy act with the Duke and Councilman you seek to go nowhere that will end up in a scene. You should really speak with the other ladies but half of them can hardly have a conversation outside stitching and piano playing, not that you judge them for such upbringing that is all a lady is permitted to do while she doesn’t flaunt herself on the marriage mart. Your father moves and you hurry along with him your eyes on the ground careful of your feet.

“Duke Viktor” Your father greets heartily and you feel your stomach drop.

“Lord Y/l/n” The duke greets back as you lift your gaze to his. Recognition flickers in them and a small smile graces his lips.

“Come to knock over my cane again?” You know he’s joking but you feel yourself flush with embarrassment and feel the urge to hit him with said cane.

“You’ve met my daughter?” Your father quizzes.

“Briefly, hardly an introduction” you cut off the duke… again.

“Your daughter was eagerly in search of a hiding place in doing so she knocked my cane” he chuckled his honey eyes studying you with a sparkle.

“Is this true?” Your father stares at you like you stole something rather than accidentally knocked into him.

“It was an accident papa!” You exclaim quietly.

“Truly she is correct no harm done” The duke de-escalates the situation smiling gently.

“Why were you hiding?” Your father hisses and your mouth opens and closes as you frown at his brazen act.

“Papa-“ the duke cuts you off this time.

“Truly my lord, she did nothing wrong, seeking to move away from a rowdy crowd and have a drink in quiet” Something about his defensive tone makes you stare at him. A shiver goes down your spine at the look he glances at you.

“I apologise on my daughter’s behalf she is- unbecoming sometimes” your papa sighs and you look to the floor instead of speaking your mind knowing such a thing would be frowned upon.

“The young lady already apologised,” The duke says firmly.

“Of course my duke” your papa nods, your father gets called away by the Council Kirammans husband and you sigh a bit.

“May I know the lady’s name?” The duke doesn’t leave, simply turns his attention to you. Your eyes rake over his high cheekbones and honeyed eyes, thick brows and the moles dotted on his face. You notice his hair, long, tied back neatly despite the waviness of it.

“Your name?” He asks again and you stutter before telling him.

“I’m sorry my Duke” you say nodding your head a bit.

“It’s alright, I imagine your nerves” he says his gaze casting out to look over the many lords and ladies mingling, dancing, laughing and bickering.

“You do not seem nervous,” you say, then again why would he be, a man of his stature would have nothing to be nervous about and he’s very much declared himself in no search of a Duchess.

“From what you see no” he smiles and you look at him, really look at him in a studying gaze, your eyes flick down his well-pressed and cleaned burgundy suit, too spotless almost, you notice the light shake of his hand that rests on his cane that he hides behind his hip.

“What do your eyes see?” He asks and you realise you may be studying him a bit too intensely for a young lady as yourself.

“I’m sorry my Duke, nothing” you cover up. He smiles shaking his head before he steps closer.

“I can see a liar a mile away my lady, tell me,” he says.

“Your suit is too clean like it’s never been used, hardly any wrinkles, no dust, no spots, your hand that you rest on your cane shakes slightly whether from nerves or holding yourself up, you hide it behind your hip with how your leaning so nobody can see it,” you say. You expect him to be offended, tell you off for ever diminishing his gentlemen stature, but he looks pleased, surprised even.

“A rarity indeed” he mumbles to himself something you don’t recognise flicking in his gaze and that you don’t comment on. He goes to speak again before his name is called a sigh escaping his mouth as he looks over. Your eyes linger on the strong jawbone sliding down the little bit of neck he has revealed within his suit and an unnatural thought occurs of how you wish your lips to be there.

“It seems I’m being summoned. Excuse me my lady” he nods to you and you give a small bow your mind reeling at whatever thought you just had as you quickly busy yourself with finding your father.

“Talis” Viktor greets a little annoyed as the man smiles brightly.

“Viktor, I couldn’t find you anywhere” Jayce laughs easily easing up Viktor’s tense posture. You’d seen right through him so easily and it intrigued him. The way your eyes danced over his suit, his body, to his cane and hand, a small frown on your face as you studied. His mind went to other places instantly hardly appropriate for such a young lady and an aged gentleman such as himself. He wondered if that little frown would be there while focusing on your pleasure, he felt his body tense again barely listening to whatever Jayce was saying to the other gentlemen around him. He wondered how you’d sound, would you gasp? Whimper? Moan or scream? Would it be too much or too little? Did you prefer fingers inside or rubbing reverently at your bundles of nerves? Both? Would you grip his hair so tightly as you came undone on his-

“Viktor?” He jolts a small breath leaving him as he finally focuses on Jayce again.

“Yes, sorry, continue” he nods pushing those thoughts deep down. He’s declared himself not looking for marriage or any form of attachment, sure he’s had his share of women, mainly from Talis’s outgoing personality, but he doesn’t crave the companionship of a wife, a duchess on his arm, bound to one person when life holds a boundless amount of people and discoveries within his work. His eyes drift over the city’s wealthy lords and ladies a slight sneer on his lips before he finds you. His sneer falls, his pupils dilating his heart jumping ever so slightly. He’s met you twice for god's sake. You were a beautiful dress, sure the dresses on the other ladies are beautiful, but you, the pale pink with lace on the bodice, those white gloves hiding your delicate hands and arms. His eyes roam over your plush curves, the swell of your breasts and hips, the curves of your cheeks and those innocent eyes. Bright, wide and unsure of everything around you, like a scared bird shaking its wings in nervousness. He notices you don’t talk to the other ladies or gentlemen, standing by yourself with a tiny glass of over-sweetened lemonade in your hands. Your dance card hanging from your wrist, he wonders if any lords have put their names down, the thought sends a surge of something through his body and suddenly every gentleman in here is a threat to you and your innocence. None of them could handle you, you’re not like the other ladies with simple upbringings from their mamas, no you, you were allowed to explore even just a little, able to have a witted conversation that would throw any gentlemen off and sneer at your lack of polite submissiveness. His teeth grind at the thought, of you dancing away trying to have a nice engaging conversation and a simple-minded gentleman frowning at your attempts and knowledge getting offended that you may in fact no more than the gentlemen, them leaving halfway through the dance leaving you embarrassed and undesirable. Every gentleman in here was a threat indeed.

Next part ->

[amongemeraldclouds]

better than revenge | chapter three: from moonlight to sunrise

Can be read as a standalone, Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Chapter three summary: Flashback when you first spoke to Mattheo and he needed your help during winter break.

Warning: Blood, swearing, no use of y/n. I’m using my creative license to bend rules that may not work in the original setting (eg. apparating at Hogwarts and so on).

Author's note: If you read this as a standalone, it’s always gonna stay as sweet as it is, no exboyfriend!Mattheo plot looming about.

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Flashback when you met me.

The moon shines brightly outside the window. I feel a yawn making its way up my throat as I head for my dorm. The place is so silent at night with most students home for the winter break.

A loud crack erupts and someone apparates ahead. What the hell? I raise my wand defensively, but then I see a figure lying on his side, cradling his stomach. I run towards him, hoping he’s not seriously hurt.

I kneel when I reach him and nearly recoil as the metallic stench of blood hits me. There’s so much blood. I close my fist to keep me in place and gently place a hand on his shoulder.

He grunts and rolls to his back, wincing in pain. I see his face and recognize Mattheo Riddle. I’ve seen him around in class and in parties, he’s the type of guy your mother would warn you about. I’ve never spoken to him before.

“Can you stand?” I ask, offering a hand and he nods. I haul him up slowly, bringing his arm around my shoulders for support. He’s heavy but we take things step by step as I walk him towards my dorm, it’s much nearer than the hospital.

I lay him down my bed and prepare a washcloth and bowl of warm water. Once I stop the bleeding and clear most of the blood on his face, I hand him a glass of water. “Thank you,” he says.

I have so many questions, but I just ask the important one. “Whoever did this to you, will they come back? Are they hunting you down?”

“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guys,” he replies, sounding smug despite his bruises.

When he lays back down, I introduce myself. “You’re lucky I study healing magic, I know some spells and have potions here that can help you. You seem injured in your stomach area, would you allow me access?”

“I’m not normally like this,” he says, embarrassed. “Usually, I’d buy you dinner first,” he quips then coughs and winces.

“And that’s what you get for being a smart ass. Permission?” I try again. He nods this time and I unbutton his shirt so I can inspect his injuries. He has two broken ribs and soreness in his abdominal area but nothing further.

I cross my fingers behind me as I think of the right spells. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mattheo interrupts my thoughts.

“Do you really have a choice?” I retort. “We can take you to Madam Pomfrey, but then you’d have a lot of questions to answer. I’m guessing it’s why you apparated here instead.”

“I meant to apparate in my room,” he tries to explain. With his injuries, I’m amazed he was able to do it at all without ripping himself to shreds in the process.

“Well, if you must know, I was the top student at my healing magic class level one and two,” I say. 

“Nerd,” he says teasing.

“You’re lucky you’re already injured or I might have a go myself. Now do you want to be treated or not?”

“I’m sorry, go ahead,” he sobers and wonders why the hell he was being such a shithead.

I recall the spells again and keep my fingers crossed behind me. I’ve never actually used them before on a living, breathing human, but he doesn’t need to know that. After three tries, it works. 

“I feel so much better,” Mattheo remarks, eyes brightening. It surprises me how captivating they are like stars twinkling in the night sky. I smile back at him.

“I just need to apply some potions, make sure you don’t get an infection then we’re all done.”

I beam after applying the last dose - all those classes and late nights studying paid off. 

“Now get some rest and I’ll take the couch. I need to monitor you for the next couple hours and reapply some of the potions. You’ll be right as rain by tomorrow,” I say.

“I can go back to my dorm, you’ve already done enough,” he says, moving to get up. 

I hold my hand out to his shoulder to stop him. “Nope, if you get up and something goes wrong, you’ll just make it difficult for me. Come on, doctor’s orders.”

He lies back down. “Fine, but the bed is big enough for the two of us,” he says tapping the side of bed for me to join him. “I’m not gonna let you take the couch. It’s not like I can move that much anyway, just don’t do anything to me,” he says playfully.

“If I had bad intentions for you, I would’ve done it already,” I say yawning, way too tired for all this.

He catches it and tamps down whatever annoying remark he was going to say. “Thank you for healing me. Come here, let’s rest,” he says in a gentle tone.

I place a pillow between us and join him after freshening up. Finally snuggled in my blanket, it doesn’t take me long to drift off to sleep.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎ 

Mattheo wakes up just as the first rays of sunshine filters in through the window. He looks beside him at your sleeping face, wondering how anyone could be so kind to him. Let alone someone he never spoke to before.

He also wonders why you had to be so beautiful? The way the light radiates off your face gives you an angelic quality. If you were truly an angel, he wouldn’t even doubt it.

Something in his heart flutters like an animal waking from hibernation. It was far more dangerous than any of the wizards he fought off last night. In fact, he’d rather face an army of dementors than explore this feeling.

But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind it at all.

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A/N: For the longest time writing this series, this was my favorite chapter.

Taglist: @hoeforvinniehackerrr @i-think-you-are-gr8 @thecraziestcrayon @adreamingpendulum @themarauderswife7 @midsoulz @ultramarinetovelvet @val-writes @lafrone @daisiesformylove @mildly-delulu @allebasi05

[jikookonlyfans]

Analysing my favorite Jikook moment

Here's the moments that caught my eye with Jikook. I'll be putting my 50 cents into it...or let's just say, my 80 cents. If that even exists.

What are my qualifications, you say...

So this moment, that I thought about a lot.. believing that a lot of people actually did too, is one of my favorites. Why? It is simply because it gave me time to pause. And think. Ask myself a question ; what the hell was that? 🤔

So I looked into every little bit of movement I could get my eyes on. So case study 🥴

Flinch of the year

Jimin and JK were partners in intense frontline military service for a year, suggesting a deep bond forged under high-stress conditions. Their closeness is evident in JK’s habit of massaging Jimin's neck to ease his chronic pain, and Jimin typically leans into these massages, indicating trust and comfort.

Then, a casual post-military hangout, JK places his hand on Jimin's neck to start a massage. Jimin flinches about one second later, before the massage begins, but then stabilizes, stays still, and continues chatting with JK as if nothing happened. JK doesn’t react to the flinch and proceeds.

Crucial details :

•Jimin's flinch is delayed for about ½second and is not immediate.

•Jimin is accustomed to his chronic neck pain and usually leans into JK’s massages, not away.

•The flinch doesn’t disrupt their interaction. both carry on casually.

While I cannot possibly tell why exactly he flinched, I can say what I know.

They were obviously at the front lines. And I think that says a lot more that we need to. It is a highly risky place to be at. So during the almost 2 years, this kind of place and training heightens sensitivity and vigilence. Even though Jimin trusts JK, the unexpected placement of JK’s hand might have triggered a subconscious defensive response, especially if Jimin was momentarily distracted or not anticipating the touch, which we can tell he wasn't...looking at the fact that he was busy talking and narrating stuff.

Jimin's chronic neck pain could have been particularly bad that day, making his neck more sensitive to touch. Even though he’s used to JK’s massages, the initial contact (before the massage began) might have caught a tender spot, prompting a reflexive flinch. But as we all know, or care to observe : Jimin's neck pain has caused him to lean into Jungkook's massages a lot more time, instead of running away from it. So this cancels out.

Possibility 3, after a year of intense military service, Jimin might be grappling with readjusting to civilian life or processing emotions tied to their shared experiences. The flinch could reflect a brief emotional guard. A moment of vulnerability or discomfort with physical closeness in a new, non-military setting. Which is definitely 50/50. The first 50 owing to the fact that, they indeed have to adjust because no one comes from the military looking like they had a 2 year vacation. The other 50 owes to the fact that he had a buddy in the military (Jungkook), so even if adjusting is inevitable, it's not that much that he needs a full blown out readjustment.

Or, Jimin might not have expected the touch at that exact moment, especially if he was distracted by their conversation or the setting. A sudden hand on his neck, even from a trusted person, could prompt a startled reaction, especially in a post-military context where situational awareness is heightened, and the timing too. They were not alone in that room, with the stuff and us–the viewers.

Eyes

Eye movements can reveal cognitive or emotional processing. A dart to the left often (though not universally) suggests accessing memories or internal reflection, as the left side of the visual field is linked to the right brain hemisphere, associated with emotions and past experiences. Jimin’s eye dart as he leans into the massage could indicate he’s processing something emotional. A moment of pain, or even relief as he relaxes into JK’s touch.

And after all that, he relaxes anyway. And he continues. And this fact is also a crucial detail. The part of the brain that controls how reflective he is, made him pause for a moment, reflect and then continue. While this is not a very important detail right now, it shows in a lot of overthinkers (yes, I am boldly declaring that Jimin has shown signs of deep thinking before, continues to show them even to this day, and will in the future. But we'll not talk about this today. If you disagree, bite a wooden table and break your teeth, 😤)

So it is not shocking that he acts like that, and creates an awkward vibe before continuing normally. He got touched, flinched, thought about it for some time,then went on. Finally, allowed the massage to continue.

It's something that a lot of people don't really care to consider. But the fact that the massage continued even after all that ..shows trust.

1. Jungkook didn't stop even after seeing the initial discomfort of Jimin. He trusted enough that their dynamic is something Jimin is comfortable with. Because they do it all the time, they've been doing it all these years. So he knew Jimin would eventually give in, or that if he was uncomfortable, he'd have avoided it altogether. And this also shows that Jungkook knows Jimin well enough to understand how Jimin communicates. Jimin can shove his hand off, or shake his head to tell him “No”...and when he didn't, it tells him that Jimin said, “ it's okay... continue ”❤️😭❤️😭❤️😭

2. Jimin, the reflective person.. ALLOWED it to continue, indicating that his brain caught the “safe zone” and leaned into it. Even if he did think about rejecting the massage offer, he did not. Why didn't he? I guess we'll never know.

But, I've been on Tumblr for years now. And the amount of people I see in here with little faith in this relationship is appalling. Disgustingly annoying. I could spent an entire day on this, but it wouldn't make sense, so even if it was just a little...saying something wouldn't ruin anything. This is for all the people who “believe” with a fraction of their heart. For all those who continue to get gaslighted by people who know nothing.

People don't need to think Jimin gets beat up just because of that flinch. Yes, it was a dramatic flinch, but it doesn't showcase violence in any way.

Let's look at it again.

[ganondoodle]

i might have already talked about this but i honestly cant remember if i did or if its one of my totk thoughts that keep haunting me in my head (and god knows how id find it on tumblr)

.. did they ever say how long link was gone for? like at the start? bc to me it feels like it must have been months or something given how some things are .. although others are the opposite

like the spypost alone is so weird to me, its a goddamn stupid place to put it, a SPYpost should either be concealed or in a hard to reach place with good look of the environment around it- which it doesnt have at all (despite higher up hills being right around the corner ...), who would put a spy post directly on flat ground at the castle doors?? (AND in a place where i think would have been the ONLY good place to put nothing there/dont change it- or have it bee a secret entrance into the castle you can find on your own .. if the castle was actually like a dungeon and inaccessible for the most time ...) makes even less sense if it was built before link disappeared bc wh- .. whats its purpose anyway? the calamity is gone and instead of rebuilding castle town or soemthing nearby you put the words least sensical spypost right at the front of the castle thats a dead dirty lump of rock (yes i know zelda mentions soemthing of the miasma being active or whatever but that changes nothing abotu how little sense thing darn thing makes to me .. ) (i will stand by my idea of rebuilding the ranch ruins into a little hub and tavern instead, a spypost can be a smaller thing higher up but that as a little new town and maybe with my personal little wish of having all your horses run around a ranch, of course its got little defense, this is a ranch and the calamity was gone and its not that close to the castle, its also rather in the middle of the map and a bigger wider area would be hard to miss, plus its using an old neat reference and making something meaningful out of it, soemthing this game is allergic to im- *breathes in* fine.)

death mountain, i assumed at least, cooled down with the cataclysm (.. way too serious sounding for .. largely just some pebbles falling from the sky) and it seems like theres alot of stuff built on there and even grass growing and everything, like its been that way for a long time, yunobo being dumbified by brainwash mask and the things he does also dont feel like they happen in a day or two

the other regions on the other hand ... ignoring how mcuh of a non issue the rito problem is (the oooooh blizzard doesnt even stop them from flying ..... its not freezing them either bc none of them wear any more clothes and just do business as usual .. but then food is supposed to be a problem? .... you .. you can fly ..... ... why wasnt the boss then a monster that eats everything of the region or soemthing ... a big ol worm razing entire forest, or .. you know, make the blizzard an actual problem, winds so strong you cant fly, temperature so low you freeze immediately without special armor), are just .. dealing with it themselves? and dont seem to even seek out the help of anyone else? like it literally just happend?

but then theres entire sonau research teams and people studying it but .. all the shit started to appear with the cataclysm ... so???? though zelda at the start talks about it like its been a well known every day life fact that the acnient stupid furry first king of gods holy lands was called rauru and he was a sonau (WHICH NO ONE KNEW ANYTHIGN ABOUT THE LITERAL ONYL THING KNOWN WAS THE ARMOR SET IN BOTW THAT ALSO DOESNT MATCH ANYTHING AT ALL TOTK SONAU) and his fridge wife was sonia like its just written in every history book and still somehow accurate (might i remind you its been MORE than TEN THOUSAND YEARS sicne then and nothign was known of them in botw) while no one remembers link from a 100 years ago, nor from 6 years ago, but then remembered the champions for the 100 year botw gap and then promptly forgot about them in totk (it really feels like that) BUT THEN you got kids in school that dont fking believe the calamity happend (which was defeated just like 6 years before that)

then again .... theres not a single soul on the sky islands, despite there, NOW more than ever, multiple ways to get up there, are you telling me everyones obsessed with the stupid sonau shit and then no one even tries to go up there??? arguing that it wasnt accessible until noodle zelda broke through the clouds at the end of the tutorial doesnt work bc those ruins already fell down, people must have known and no one even tried?? also they can go up there after it go opened up?? plus clearly the ruins were able to fall through also ... what even determines whether an island falls down or not? why do some fall when tHe dEmON kInG wakes up? you see it with those green sonau magic stuff but like .... who ... did that, both rauru and mineru were dead when zelda noodlefied herself and there everything was STILL on the ground? the only magical thing the constructs do is use fuse sometimes i dont think they can lift up all that shit .. clearly is wasnt rauru either bc he acts surprised about it being up here, but why does it falter when big il ganon man wakes up? mineru after the weird static non battle with ganondorf wasnt doing so hot and we have no idea how much time passed between that and the moment she goes into the purah pad (i could be annoying about that as well) either

in taburasa (tarrey town) they do all that shit with the sonau stuff, implying theres enough time that passed to make people tinker with it too so ?(though i still hate that bc its so .. shouldnt you of all people be scared of more techy bs materializing when the whole calamity is like back almost exactly like it was before? not even suspicious? no? you dont even know how it works yet everyone trying to work with it like there isnt anythign better to do??)

like with everything in this game it keeps contradicting itself, the inconsistency makes me want to rip my hair out anytime i try to make sense of it

[slut4thebroken]

Promise

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Neil Lewis x reader

Summary | He’s a perv and lowkey a bad friend lol

Warnings | Smut, technically non con, masturbating, objectification, degradation, misogyny?, perv neil (again).

Words | 1.5 k

Notes | Ty to whoever sent the ask for this 🙌 Also this is barely proofread btw

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

“Give me a sec, I need to finish getting dressed.” You said, with only your head in the frame. Your hair was still wet so you must have just gotten out of the shower. He smiled and watched your head disappear, listening to the sound of clothes rustling until you were finally sitting down in front of your computer. “Hi.” You said through a breath of exertion from rushing to get dressed. 

“Hi.” He chuckled, but it trailed off when he noticed your top. You were wearing a very tight, very low cut tank top and no bra— He knew because he could just barely see your nipples poking through the fabric. 

“How was your day?” You asked and he had to force his gaze to move back to your face, finding a small smile on your lips. 

“Same as always. Went to work, came home. Nothing new.” He shrugged. “What about you? You were telling me about something earlier over text,”

“Right..” You groaned, already getting annoyed again at just the reminder of it. “You know that one coworker I hate?” 

“Yeah.” He chuckled quietly. 

“Well, she was there today.” You said bitterly, then started droning on about what happened. Honestly, he couldn’t listen to a word you were saying. He was watching your tits through the screen as his cock started fattening up in his pants— In his defense though… he hasn’t touched himself in like.. two days. So it’s only natural he’d get worked up so easily— especially because it’s you. He palmed his bulge beneath the camera, being careful not to move his arm too much. 

He waited as long as he could… Honestly, he did. 

“Hang on, I gotta turn my camera off really quick. I’m still listening though.”

“Okay.” You said, thinking nothing of it. He turned the camera off and you continued talking, gesturing with your hands, making your tits move in a way that had his mouth watering. Unable to wait any longer, he pushed his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock and immediately started stroking it. His eyes fluttered shut and he bit his lip to stifle a moan as his head fell back. 

He was barely listening to your words, just wanting to hear your sweet voice and imagine you were saying something else instead… something far dirtier. Wanting to watch you again, he leaned his head back up and opened his eyes to study your face. Your lips looked so pink and pouty, and so fucking kissable— it drove him crazy. 

“Neil..” You called out, snapping him out of his trance. 

“Yeah?” He cleared his throat when he heard how raspy it already was. 

“I asked if you were listening.” You giggled— fucking giggled. 

“Sorry… I promise I am now.” It was so hard to talk with his cock in his hand, throbbing with need. 

“Why can’t you turn your camera on?” You suddenly asked, making him freeze. He never thought you’d actually confront him about it…

“I- Uh… I spilled soda all over myself and I’m still trying to clean it up, while being mostly nude… I can turn it back on if you want.” He said suggestively. 

“Okay okay, sorry.” You laughed, then continued talking. “Oh- I wanted to show you what I got the other day. It reminded me of you.” You smiled and then stood up, making his jaw drop. The tank top didn’t even reach your belly button and the shorts you were wearing rested low on your hips. 

When you turned around, he choked on a moan and squeezed the base of his cock, trying not to come right then and there. No wonder the shorts were so low… If you pulled them up any higher, they’d expose more than just the very bottom of your ass. You must not have heard him because you walked a few more steps to your bookcase, then started looking for the mystery object. His hand had a mind of its own and started stroking again as he watched your hips sway while you looked through different drawers and shelves. 

You bent down to look through the bottom half, sticking your ass out as if you were teasing him on purpose. He cursed under his breath when he could just barely see the outline of your pussy in the skin tight shorts. When you leaned back up, the fabric was even higher up on your ass now and when you turned around to walk back to the computer, he saw that your tank top shifted as well, exposing more of your cleavage and the swell of your breasts. They jiggled as you sat back down in the chair.  

“Are you sure you’re listening?” He suddenly heard through the trance he was in.  

“Mhm.. just keep talking. Promise I’m listening.” He tried not to say the words through a moan. 

“Okay…” You said skeptically, but continued anyway. He was enjoying the view of your tits, but he desperately wanted to see your ass again, so he bit his lip and tried to think of a way to get you out of the chair again. 

He waited until you were done talking before asking, “Is that thing up there new?” Your brows furrowed and you turned around to see what he was talking about. 

“The figurine thing? I guess yeah. You haven’t been over in a while.” 

“Can I see it?” You smiled and agreed and he watched you stand up and turn around, only letting you take two steps before stopping you. “Wait,” You froze and turned back around, leaning down into the frame so he could see your face. 

“What?” The way you were bent over exposed even more of your tits and he stifled a groan at the sight. 

“Nevermind, sorry.” He chuckled, playing it off. You seemed suspicious but eventually leaned back up and turned around to continue walking. You got up on your toes and reached up, making your tank top raise even more, now showing your entire lower back. He imagined seeing that when he had you bent over instead, squirming and moaning under him until he came on the cute little dimples you have. 

“I used a stool to get it up here.” You laughed, dropping your heels, making your ass bounce, and twisting around to face the computer. 

“It looks like you’re almost there.” 

“Really?” You turned back around and looked up, then started reaching again, making little groans of effort that had his cock throbbing. 

“Try jumping.” 

“Neil, do you have to see it?” You huffed, already getting tired of this. “Can’t you just wait until the next time you come over?” 

“But I want to see it now.” He made sure to make his pout show in his tone since you couldn’t see his face. You let out a loud, exaggerated groan in response, but kept trying. The first time you jumped, your fingers almost brushed it. He watched in awe and cursed under his breath at the way your ass moved when you landed. Is that how it would move when he plowed into you from behind? 

You jumped again, just barely touching it. When you landed, you pulled your top down, embarrassed by how much of your midriff was showing. Neil muted his computer for a moment, needing to let out the sounds while you couldn’t see that he turned his sound off. 

The tip of his cock was completely red now, pulsing and twitching in his hand as he neared his orgasm. He moaned loudly when you jumped again and his hips bucked up into his hand. 

“Fuuuck..” He groaned, tilting his head back, but not too far so that he could still see the screen. When you jumped again, you finally grabbed it and he turned the audio back on as you walked over. Just before sitting, you pulled your tank top down again when you noticed how much of your stomach was showing. You didn’t seem to mind that the added coverage on your stomach was at the expense of the coverage on your tits. Or you just didn’t know. 

You started talking about the figurine and where you got it, and he let out little uh huh’s or grunts in response. He genuinely had no idea what you were saying, but there wasn’t even a small part of him that cared. You put it down and suddenly stretched your arms up, leaning back in the chair to stretch your back with a low moan. 

He felt his balls tighten up instantly and he got to his feet, knowing exactly what he wanted to do. He rapidly fisted his cock as you leaned back up, your top even lower now. With a stifled groan, his orgasm finally crashed over him. Rope after rope of come painted the computer screen, right on your tits. 

“Neil?” You asked, but he couldn’t talk, not when his body was literally shaking from the intensity of the pleasure. “Are you okay?” He started panting quietly as he stroked the last bead of come out, then released his cock. 

“Yeah.” He said through a breath, flopping back down onto the chair. His cock was still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, especially when he saw your come covered tits though the screen. 

“Are you sure?” You were so cute when you got all concerned like this. So cute, but so dumb. 

“Promise.” 

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