#i think that might be fun. the process of coming up with it is very roundabout
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sulumuns-dootah · 2 days ago
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27. 12. Michael - Time to relax (18+)
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     ༺☆༻
⟡ Masterlist ⟡ 
⋆꙳·❅‧The Yule festival of Hell 2‧❆ ₊⋆
A/N: Oh hey, we made it! It's the last day and what a fun it was ^^ I really enjoyed discovering writing for "new" characters! Hope you guys survived the holiday season safely :D
‎‧₊˚✧ 18+ Minors Do Not Interact‎ ✧˚₊‧
     ༺☆༻
“Ugh, I'm so fed up with them... I should execute them all!” Michael sits down in his armchair with a thud and dramatically props up his forehead in one of his hands. For the past week, the lower demons have been apparently causing nothing but trouble and the executioner seraphim was usually the one to have to deal with the fallout of the situations.
“Aw, what did they do this time?” you look up from your book, laying on his bed. It was rare to see him in such state, but in the past week it's happened so often, that you'd gotten used to it.
“Argh! Those sheep fully messed up the recipe for the grand dinner and somehow managed to open a portal to Hell in the process!” Michael quickly raises his head and directs his angry, piercing gaze at you. You think nothing of it, because you know it's not actually meant for you.
“Oh, but you've dealt with it and nothing bad happened, no?” closing your book, you get up to walk over to the seraphim while trying to calm him with your words.
“Yeah, but I wasn't even the first Seraphim to be there! When I got there, Raphael was already there and egging them on to actually open it!” Michael's fist comes down to slam into the armrest and his other grips onto the upholstering so strongly, his nails leave scratch marks in the cream fake leather.
“Aw, that sounds rough...” you sigh, now standing behind the seraphim and comb your fingers though his silk hair, knowing he enjoys it.
Michael only growls in response, but leans into your touch. The wing growing out of his neck slightly twitches as you hit a knot in his locks.
“Well somebody's a little tense... Would massage make you feel better, Mich?” you almost whisper as you move his long ebony hair out of the way.
“Nngh... Please...” he grunts and readjusts in his seat, seemingly letting go of all his previous anger.
His muscles are very hard to touch, but soon enough your expert hands manage to relax them as well as the angel himself. You know this is not the time to be thinking such things, but the way Michael reacts to your every touch and sighs in appreciation, you can't help but start to feel a bit heated.
“Hmm, how do you feel now? Still angry?” you hum, more to yourself, but the seraphim still picks up on it.
“Uh... Hm, yes! I'll make them suffer once I finish here.” the relaxed expression on his beautiful face is quickly back to angry one, albeit less than before.
“Oh? Well... I might actually have a way to relax you even more then...” the accidental double-meaning of his words spark your attention and fully make you give in to the thoughts popping up in your mind.
Slowly circling the armchair with the angel in it, you come to stand above him between his slightly spread legs. With a gentle hand you cup his cheek and affectionately run your thumb over it, “Would you be interested, Mikey?”
A slight blush appears on the seraphim's cheeks at the nickname and he mutters:” I told you to not call me that... But sure... Do your best...”
And with that you sweetly chuckle and lean down to kiss his soft lips before starting to lower yourself down onto your knees. Michael catches up to your actions fast and his eyes widen in shock of your sudden boldness.
To him, it was rare to see you on your knees even for a prayer let alone for him. Perhaps it's the season of miracles after all?
Michael's pants are really easy to undo, which you've come to find out firsthand over the year or so that you've known him, making it really easy to get to what hides underneath.
You don't take him out right away, but rather choose to tease him over the white fabric until you see a wet spot forming on his thigh. The material of his pants is so nice to touch, you don't fear getting a fabric burn from running up and down his very long half-hard dick. The fabric is so soft you can't help but nuzzle your face into his clothed thigh, making his cock twitch at the sensation of your face and the pants rubbing against his sensitive skin.
“Haa~... Y-Y/N!” the seraphim mewls out as your fingers circle the tip of his erection, making the wet spot spread further.
“How about this? Feeling better now?” you can't help but smile while teasing further.
“Nngh... M-more...N-need more...” his blue eye is clouded over with lust and the blush on his cheeks is as obvious as ever.
You hum in response and finally pull his heated cock from his pant leg, marvelling at how pretty it is. The flushed tip proudly twitches in your hands as you slowly blow cold air on it. The sound of ripping leather reaches your ears, telling you how much is Michael holding back.
Deciding that you've teased him long enough, you finally lean in and start gently sucking his tip, going as far as you can go without gagging. Your hands start stroking the rest of his length, that you have no chance of fully taking in without dying in the process of some serious throat training.
“H-nnngh~!” the seraphim lets out a loud moan as his eyes roll into the back of his head. His thighs flex and relax on each side of your head from how much he has to hold himself back from instinctively starting to to thrust into your mouth.
Only a few minutes in, when you look up at the angel, you can see from the furrow of his brow that he's getting dangerously close. To his credit, it has been a while since you two had the time for yourselves with how busy the celebration preparations made you.
“Nyaah~! Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Michael chants your name as if it's a prayer while he finally finishes into your mouth and accidentally also on your chest a bit.
“Hm... How are you feeling now? Still in the mood to decapitate some angels and a seraphim?” you swallow all the last remains of his cum in your mouth and cheekily ask.
“Hah... Ugh! Like I said: I'll finish up in here and get to it.” the anger is back as Michael attempts to catch his breath.
You can't help but sigh. And you really thought you sucked him silly this time. Oh well, there's always the next time.
     ༺☆༻
But wait, this angel also has a gift for you!
"My brothers are laughable to think that I'd allow anything get close to you. Here, take this wand enchanted with the power to command my angel units."
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deck the halls.
‣ pairing — ransom drysdale x f!reader
‣ contents — oneshot, coarse language, fluff, xmas/holidays, mutual disdain but it’s actually just mutual not-so-secret shameful pining
‣ synopsis — for the first time, you think that working for linda drysdale the night before christmas might not be such a bad thing after all.
‣ word count — 3.4k
‣ notes — tbh i’m not very happy with how this turned out but whatever, i’ve been stressing about this for way too long because it’s my first ransom fic, and i’m just done lol. shout out to @intrepidacious though for chatting with me about this fic all winter while i struggled, doing her best to motivate me and letting me vent my writing frustrations through the entire process. ilysm nika 💕
✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog
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Christmastime is here Happiness and cheer Fun for all that children call Their favourite time of yea—
You angrily jam the pad of your finger against the speaker’s power button, cutting off the quaint holiday music and plummeting Linda Drysdale’s normally busy real estate office into silence.
For someone who consistently prides themselves on being so sensible and logical, you sure can be stupid sometimes.
Because you drag a free office chair towards you, anchoring it against the wall as best as you can before climbing on top of it. You teeter precariously, cursing under your breath as you strain to loop a gaudy red and green garland over the push pins above the office doorway.
Linda, however, is even stupider, asking you to put up these god awful decorations before going home, not even providing you with so much as a step stool to do so—even though you obviously aren’t tall enough to reach on your own, even though she said you didn’t have to work overtime today (why, thank you Linda, considering it’s Christmas Eve and all), even though it was already 4:45 when she asked.
One phone call would be all it took to have OSHA crawling up her ass, but because you were only ever a badass in your own head, long after the conversation was over and there was no longer anything you could do about it, you just nodded meekly at your boss instead of telling her exactly where you thought she could shove her precious decorations.
Besides, she’d probably walk away with nothing more than a slap on her wrist anyway—if that.
“A bit to the left, Cindy Lou Who,” comes a voice, the low dulcet baritones that are the bane of your existence, like a persistent under-the-skin itch you can’t ever seem to scratch. You take a deep stabilizing breath upon hearing the nickname, a heat flaring in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the whiskey-spiked hot chocolates you’ve been secretly sipping all day.
You shoot him a withered glare over your shoulder. Ransom, the devil-spawn of your she-devil boss, is lounging lazily in your chair, leaning back with his arms casually linked over his abdomen as he observes your efforts to stay balanced and graceful.
Trust the smug little brat to show up tonight of all nights, when your patience is already wearing thin. No doubt he’s just here to piss you off before swanning over to the posh holiday party happening at his mother’s place tonight—one you’ve never been invited to despite all your years working for Linda, by the way—while you trudge home to a dark and empty studio apartment, with not even so much as a goldfish to welcome you back.
Ransom just smirks back at you through a mouthful of white chocolate chips and macadamia nuts, his hand already rummaging for another cookie from the package he’s stolen right out of the bottom drawer of your desk.
You release a huff of frustration.
There he sits, without a care in the world in his perfectly tailored wool coat and immaculately styled hair that somehow remains untouched by the howling winter wind outside, looking like he’s just stepped out of an issue of GQ.
He doesn’t deserve it, you lament, his coat already starting to pill at the undersides of the sleeves and his sweater probably just a tug at one loose strand away from unravelling completely.
Whoops. You almost fall off the chair for the fifth time since you started this ridiculous endeavour, trying to shake off the mental image of a very shirtless Ransom, tangled in a web of soft white yarn.
What? You can hate someone down to their grimy little bones and still think they’re hot.
Besides, the devil wouldn’t be the devil if he weren’t tempting, would he?
“A real piece of work… the both of you…” you mutter to yourself now, your colourful vocabulary back in full working order now that Linda is holed away in her office and well out of earshot. “She could cut me some slack, you know… Christmas, for crying out loud… and I haven’t eaten all day!”
The asshole nepo-baby just peers up at you past the phone he’s been holding up in front of his face, blinking lazily and not offering any kind of response or assistance—not that you’d expected him to.
“Right, I forgot who I was talking to,” you speak slowly and deliberately, like you’re explaining something rather complicated to a small child. “You see, us humans need to eat food regularly for sustenance.”
“Wow,” Ransom deadpans, his voice muffled through cookie crumbs.
“Yeah, it is terribly inconvenient,” you shrug exaggeratedly, “but not all of us can subsist on the shards of broken souls and children’s nightmares, can we?”
“Calling me the devil again?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re so original; how about you get a new thing?”
“Don’t you have some place to be?” You sneer, your grip tightening on the garland, the plastic biting into your palms as you twist a string of fairy lights around the rest of it. “Why the fuck are you even here?”
It’s a perfectly valid question. Linda is always threatening to cut her son off, but that hasn’t prevented him from skipping out on work as much as possible and galavanting around the city, maxing out her credit cards every chance he gets.
But you know she’ll never actually follow through; He shows himself here just often enough to keep her from seriously considering it, doing his small part to show off a carefully crafted picture for the masses—showing the scions of Boston’s wealthiest family in a united front.
And if there’s one thing Ransom likes more than he hates his family or earning an honest wage, it’s the weight of green lining the deep but frayed pockets of his expensive designer pants.
That shiny Drysdale veneer is all that matters, after all, and you know very well that Ransom’s only real job is to keep it nice and polished. But you’ve been working long enough at this soul-sucking place to notice the telltale signs, to see the cracks beneath the varnish.
The way you swear you see a flicker of something that looks a lot like dread whenever Linda calls his name.
The way his signature smirk twitches with just a hint of irritation whenever some angry coworker, once again passed over for a long overdue promotion in favour of giving Ransom a hefty allowance bonus, calls him a talentless, hopeless, literal son of a bitch.
The way he cracks those self-deprecating jokes about how the only real ambition he has in life is finding new ways to disappoint his relatives, and squander as much of the family fortune as he possibly can.
It’s no surprise, really, that Ransom’s turned out the way he has. You’ve heard the way they all talk about him sometimes, his family seemingly oblivious to your working-class existence.
Never mind the fact that whenever you happen to glance over at him, Ransom’s eyes are almost always on you—watching and assessing with that same inscrutable expression on his face.
Not that you pay close attention or anything.
Not that you care, either.
And never will you admit that it unnerves the hell out of you, almost like he’s trying to see through you—right down to the restless person who hides beneath a false bravado, a sarcastic sense of humour, and mountains of paperwork piled up high on your desk.
The feeling of being seen, so terrible and stirring at the same time.
And yet, you shiver, there’s something about it that rivets you. Something electric, like a live wire running just beneath your skin. It’s the feeling you get when he looks at you with those icy blue eyes, his expression going from scathing to almost inquisitive within seconds, when the two of you are trading jabs and insults like his mother isn’t the one who signs your paycheques.
If you are carbon, then he’s the igniting flame.
But you know better, don’t you? Ransom is trouble, plain and simple—the kind with zero direction in life, the kind with a new girl on his arm every week, leaving them to wake up in the mornings to cold bed sheets and memories of promises he’d never intended to keep.
You will die a fiery death before you come another notch on his bedpost. Not that you even care whether he thinks of you that way at all, because even the idea of doing that with Ransom is—
Shit. You shiver again.
You’re playing with fire by even thinking about him at all, even though you feel the incredibly annoying pull of his presence like a magnet, even though you know you need to stay as far away from him as possible, and even though you are very keenly aware that there’s something here.
It looms large yet goes unacknowledged whenever your eyes lock, when he’s looking at you like he wants to bury you and devour you at the same time, when you’re itching with the knowledge that you’re only keeping him at as much of a distance as you can physically stand.
Why else haven’t you told him yet, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off?
Because there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder what it would be like to let yourself burn—to feel the heat of that passion you can see in his eyes that he never seems to give into, to feel whatever warmth he might muster from beneath the complicated layers of that thing beating in his chest, to feel him next to you as that terrible something you won’t ever name finally erupts and consumes everything in its path.
Ugh. You absolutely loathe yourself for it, and it makes you want to bash your forehead repeatedly against the wall.
“Someone’s going on the naughty list,” Ransom snickers, the sound infuriatingly close now. You do your best not to startle at the new proximity; he’s put his phone away, unfolded himself from your chair with that unexpectedly languid grace, crossing the room to toss your now empty package of cookies into the trash. “And is that any way to speak to a valued coworker?”
“You? Valued? Coworker?”
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Cindy Lou,” he chides, leaning against the edge of an empty desk barely a step away, crossing his arms over his broad chest, then lowering his voice to whisper conspiratorially, “I hear it’s a sin.”
“Jealous?” You laugh humourlessly, snorting in a way that is decidedly very unladylike. “Of what? The fact that you’ve never worked a day in your life and have the soft white hands of a geisha?”
“Oh yeah? Been thinking about my hands a lot, have you?” He smirks again, and you bite back an exasperated moan—er, groan.
“Namely,” you say sarcastically, turning away from him and reaching up for a particularly high spot. “Breaking all the feeble little bones in your tiny rat-like claws, preferably with a nice sturdy lump of coal.”
“I’m not the one who’s gone on a rampage,” Ransom gestures to the office, now adorned with shiny little baubles, bundles of sparkly tinsel, and rolls of satin ribbon, “and vandalized the office.”
“Vandal—it looks festive, you heartless ghoul!” You whip around to glare at him again, momentarily forgetting your unstable position. But instead of rolling away from the wall and taking you with it, the chair beneath you stays firmly in place. Confused, you glance down to see Ransom’s outstretched feet casually braced against the legs.
Your head snaps up so quickly you think you might get whiplash, eyes narrowing accusatorially only to see him looking away, feigning nonchalance despite the fact that his ears are turning red.
Blood rushes to your cheeks, a traitorous warmth spreading through them. You curse mentally for the umpteenth time, feeling the corners of your perfidious mouth threatening to curve up into a smile.
The bar really is in hell, isn’t it?
“You…” you squeak, clearing your throat a few times to get your voice back to normal. “It’s five. You should go get your mother now.”
“Why, am I distracting you?” Ransom replies, tucking his hands into his pockets and still not making eye contact. “And don’t rush me. I’d rather eat glass than sit through another one of Linda’s fuckin’ Christmas parties.”
“Right, because of your repellant personality?” You quip only half-sarcastically.
“So I’m told,” he drawls, but strangely he sounds more pleased than offended by your observation. “But then again, you’re no picnic either, are you Cindy?”
“Excuse me?” You finally climb off the chair, the last of the garland securely in place. You ignore those stupid feelings stirring inside you at the sight of him retracting his legs a second too slow, and only when both your feet are firmly on the floor.
“You can’t tell me you work so hard because you like your job,” he chortles, his smirk twisting into something just a tiny bit meaner this time. “Aw, sweetheart, do you not have any friends?”
You snort so loud it almost hurts, trying not to focus on just how much you and Ransom have in common—a fact he also seems content to leave unaddressed. “Oh, like you do?”
The mental image of Ransom sitting in his mother’s living room, laughing and sharing wine with a bunch of people in front of a roaring fire like he isn’t a raging sociopath makes you shudder.
“Although, I guess I am curious,” you relent with an inquisitive tilt of your head, ignoring the weight of his heavy gaze on your back as you rummage through the last of the decorations.
“Hm, do tell,” you hear him chuckle.
“About Christmas, you bumbling idiot,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “Can’t picture you and Linda decorating a tree or opening presents together.”
“Okay, that’s not even funny,” he grumbles, his expression twisting into something sour.
“Never? Not even when you were a kid?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Dangerous territory. You know too much about his personal life as it is, and this would only humanize him and that’s the very last thing you want.
“Sometimes,” he admits after a few seconds of agonizing silence, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, your eyes meeting, as always, when you look up at him. “Only ever at Harlan’s.”
You stare, unsure what to do with the underlying hint of something in his voice that doesn’t really belong. Harlan is the only person in his family you actually like, who exudes warmth and care even towards a spoiled and ungrateful grandson, and it takes you a moment to realize that the thing in Ransom’s voice might be affection.
It’s alien and unnerving, to say the least, but you still feel a traitorous tug at your heart strings.
“I can’t picture you as a kid,” you say, somehow managing to keep your voice from trembling as you quickly change the subject. Sweet Christmases with his adoring grandpa shouldn’t be something you associate with this overgrown man-child. And even if it is, it doesn’t change the fact that Ransom is a giant, gaping asshole. “I just see you, but… smaller.”
“And I bet you were just a naive little princess,” he smirks when you glare at him, “doting parents, thoughtful presents, cookies for Santa—spoiled in your own way.”
“Oh, don’t get it twisted,” you shake your head, putting up a defensive hand, “we aren’t sharing. That’s not what this is.”
“But you know what they say, Cindy,” he says as he leans in closer, stopping just inches away, so close you can smell the lingering scent of cinnamon and nutmeg on his breath, mingling with the saccharine aroma of peppermint and artificial pine clinging to his sweater. “Sharing is caring.”
His eyes blaze in an unspoken challenge, but before you can do anything else, like maybe start thinking that the bad idea that’s been plaguing you ever since you met this infernal man isn’t such a bad idea after all, the sound of Linda’s voice cuts through the air, as sharp as the diamonds she wears on her fingers.
“What are you two doing?”
The spell is broken, and Ransom looks away with that same infuriating smile that makes you both want to punch and ki—
“Hello, Mother,” Ransom all but sneers.
You step away with considerable effort, wringing your hands in front of you. Linda narrows her eyes in thinly-veiled suspicion, but doesn’t say anything as she begins walking towards you.
Ransom steps in front of you, shoving his hands into his pockets and jingling his keys, “We’d better get going. Your chariot awaits.”
“Have a nice evening, Mrs. Drysdale,” you pipe up, watching nervously as her eyes sweep across the office and your carefully placed decorations with cool indifference. She nods slightly and you breathe a sigh of relief; that’s as close to a thank you as you’ll ever get.
“Ransom, be a dear and go start the car,” Linda says, urging him towards the door with a sweep of her hand. Her son hesitates for only a millisecond, not even looking back as he turns on his heels and leaves.
Only you notice that his hands are clenched at his sides.
“Merry Christmas, dear,” she smiles tightly as she hands you an envelope likely containing your holiday bonus, and you snap back to attention. You take it from her with a quiet thank you, but then her smile quickly turns into a stern frown. “But don’t make a habit of having food delivered here.”
“Food?” You repeat, your brows coming together in confusion. Linda puts on her fur coat, pointing a single gloved finger at the doors. There is a delivery person standing on the other side of the glass, lifting and pointing at a plastic bag heavy with takeout containers.
“Air the place out before you leave,” Linda says as she breezes past him, not even turning back while she lifts a hand in dismissal.
Confused, you follow in her tracks, staring after her as she makes a dissatisfied face at Ransom’s car pulled right up next to the curb. You see him roll his eyes, leaning over to unlock and push the door open for her. Linda doesn’t look too thrilled, but steps in anyway. They drive away, a hint of a smile on Ransom’s face even though it looks like Linda’s already started in on him with her usual longwinded lectures.
You tell the delivery boy you didn’t order anything, but he looks just as puzzled. He checks the receipt and says your name, the office address, which you confirm are correct. He then recites the order: scallion pancakes, rice noodle rolls, steamed crystal dumplings, and a small black sesame latte—your standing order from your favourite restaurant in Chinatown, reserved for nights when you were working late.
“It’s already paid for,” he says, “you might as well take it.”
You do, locking the doors once he leaves and set the bag down onto a nearby desk. Before you’ve even untied it and opened the containers to check their contents, the grin that’s been brewing all night finally breaks free.
Because there’s only a handful of people in the world who know you’re here at the moment, but only one who knows you haven’t eaten yet today, and who knows that despite having permission to leave for the night, you’ll probably settle in for another few hours of tedious paperwork.
Still, you finish every last crumb of your dinner feeling lighter than you have all week.
Maybe you’ll ask him next time, despite all the reasons you probably shouldn’t, whatever happened to sharing is caring?—even if it sounds like an invitation.
And maybe you feel cheeky enough to send him a quick email before logging off, cackling to yourself when he finally fires back a scathing reply a few hours later, likely still sitting in a room full of people just like his mother, trying not to be absolutely miserable.
From: “El Diablo” <[email protected]> To: Reception <[email protected]> Subject: RE: Merry Christmas Oh fuck off, I don’t know what you’re talking about. ——————— From: Reception <[email protected]> To: “El Diablo” <[email protected]> Subject: Merry Christmas …and thanks for dinner, Drysdale.
And if, when you’re finally home long after the midnight hour, you’re tucked into bed feeling full and warm with the temptation to raise your lips into a smile as you drift off to sleep?
Well.
That’s really nobody’s business but your own, is it? 
fin.
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minnlahzz · 3 days ago
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Alain Relationship Headcanons.
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requested.
alain, alain... i hate french people, but ig he gets a pass because his pokemon are sick!! sorry for the delay of this request, procrastination gets the best of me
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alain isn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. he’s reserved, almost to a fault (dangerously nonchalant 😔🙏) and it takes time to understand how he shows affection. he’s not one for grand declarations, but his loyalty and quiet care speak volumes. you might not get a lot of words from him, but his actions leave no room for doubt.
alain would never confess first–not because he doesn't care, but because he's too cautious. (also because he doesn't know how he would talk to you about this, considering he's still young and doesn't want to look like a fool infront of you) you guys have a great friendship already, why ruin it with all that mushy stuff? even if it's obvious you like him back, he's not quick to make assumptions and sees this as your 'friendly gestures,' which definitely killed you as he ignored all your signs BLINDLY. so realistically you would have to confess first.
when you confess to him, he just zones out trying to process what you said. almost like he didn't believe that you liked him back. It would go something along the lines of this.
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you weren't planning on confessing, and especially not today. it just slipped out of your mouth while you guys were hanging out. “i think i’m in love with you,”
alain blinked, turning to look at you like you’d just spoken gibberish. “what did you just say to me?” he heard it loud and clear, he just didn't understand why you said that.
“nothing!”
“...you’re terrible at lying.” (he likes you back)
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for him, actions speak louder than words. that's why his love language is 100% acts of service. he’s not great at expressing his feelings, but he’ll go out of his way to do it for you. need help with something? already done. forgot your umbrella? he’s there with one even before it started getting cloudy.
alain is okay with pda, as long as its not excessive or like frequent. holding hands? sure, why not. hugs? yup! kiss? sure, but only on the cheek.
he’s very observant and notices things about you that even you might overlook. if you’re stressed or upset, he’ll pick up on it right away, even if you’re trying to hide it.
alain can be quite protective, but not the point of being overbearing. he trusts that you can handle yourself, but if ever someone tries to mess with you, they're going to face alains charizard!!
arguments with him are rare, but when they happen, they’re intense. he’s not the type to yell or lose his temper, but his stubbornness can make things drag out longer than they need to. he hates conflict, so he’ll sometimes shut down instead of addressing the issue right away. it’s frustrating, but once he’s had time to think, he’ll come back to make up.
dates with alain aren’t traditional, and honestly, they might not even feel like dates at first. like a walk through the streets of lumiose city or spending time at a Pokémon Center while Charizard gets checked up. it’s less about the activity and more about being with you in a way that feels natural to him. he tries his best though!!
he's not that romantic let me make that clear, but his silliness is somehow charming in a way. he does hilarious things without noticing, and he'd just stare at you confused on what you're laughing about. he's the type of guy who would give you flowers randomly and then say "it was on sale..."
one time, you walked in on him mid-rant about how the weather was today, and charizard was just sitting there nodding like it understood. when he noticed you, he got all defensive: “what? it’s not weird.” yeah, okay, whatever you say alain...
rating time!! 8/10 he's actually really fun to be around despite his cold demeanor and nonchalant dread head energy, he's dependable and genuinely cares for your well being, but his communication skills are through the floor because its almost non–existent! goodluck showing him to your parents...
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skitskatdacat63 · 11 months ago
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Orb...
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+ process kinda
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signalhill-if · 11 months ago
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Fun fact: a lot of the story ideas I have came from the world I designed for an Apocalypse World game, and at the time I was reading @attollogame and loved Sysba and wound up making a character with a similar premise of being a god banished to live in a human body. That character took on a life of their own and became like everybody's favourite NPC. But they were really specific to that game's story at that point and were very fultifaceted, so when I started writing Signal Hill (which has a totally different plot) I decided to split their role in the story into two different characters, Yvette and Aldrich.
In other words, if you trace it far enough back, 1/3 of my main cast is just Sysba from Attollo
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archaeren · 6 months ago
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How I learned to write smarter, not harder
(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)
A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.
The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.
As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!
Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!
2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)
Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.
Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.
I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.
Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!
This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.
As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.
When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD
People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.
What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!
What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.
You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.
And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.
And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.
If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?
And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD
In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.
Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.
Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)
And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)
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ilydeku · 5 months ago
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izuku loves to talk about you during interviews
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- anything and every topic it will ALWAYS be about you
- the question won't even be remotely related to you and still izukus answer will revolve around "y/n, my wife!!" <3
- oh, the glint in his eyes, the peaking smile when he speaks about you, lover boyyy
- the media knows he LOVE LOVES you, they think it's funny for this big, confident, mighty hero to be reduced to sap when it comes to you
- it's like his whole is personality is HIS WIFE
- the journalists lowkey get so SICK of him for this, they don't want to invite him anymore 😭
- but they kinda have to, due to to his status as #1
"Good evening everyone and welcome Hero Talk! Tonight we'll be staring someone you all know and love, single handedly the greatest hero of all time, Deku! Alright, Deku how are you tonight?"
"Feeling pretty good! This is one of my wife's favorite shows, so I'm even more grateful to be here. And how are you?"
"Oh, same old. Really, just living. Now, we wanted to ask you some fun questions. Let's start with this one. Why did you want to become a hero?"
"Wow, haha! That really brings be back to my youth. When I was kid, my biggest influence was All Might, and he miraculously became my mentor. He was a good hero, and a good man. I wanted to be just like him: fearless, persevering, saving people with I smile. I would beg my mom everyday to watch this video on the computer of him saving a bunch a people. I was really swayed by All Might. I wanted to become a hero to make an impact in the world. I wanted to save people with a smile too."
"That sounds really endearing, Deku. I remember All Might's reign. He wasn't number one on the top charts all those years for nothing. So, did you ever think you'd be standing as Japan's top hero?"
"Well, it was never really my goal to become number one. That was Kacchan's- Dynamight's. My dream was, like I said, to become a hero and save others. But I have to say, it really is a blessing. I'd like to thank my Mom, All Might, my friends, and especially my wife for who I've become. My Mom has really done a lot for me growing up: protecting, encourage, and just always caring for me. All Might has kinda been that father figure for me when my Dad was away. My friends have shown me what it's like to work together and really be part of a heart. And my wife? Haha...I can't thank her enough for all the times she's been right by my side, even before we were together. Nothing I can say or do will ever be enough to express how much she means to me."
"Mm. Quite the supportive group. Your wife sounds like quite the lady!"
"She is. She's wonderful."
"Moving on to the next question, do you use social media often?"
"Occasionally, yes?? My wife uses it regularly, posting about us when we go out and stuff. It's mostly for her family to see how she's doing. She handles most of my official accounts. She says it's to be more appealing to the public, and I guess to show that there's more to heroes on the inside?? I'm not really sure, but I trust her process. Although, I'd rather be appealing to her alone."
"The public will always interested in a hero's private life! Now, Deku, what is your ideal setting of relaxation?"
"My wife doesn't like places that are too crowded or noisy, so maybe a cozy day at the beach?- but early in the morning or in the evening when the crowds calm down. Maybe a movie theatre, but days after the movie is released so it's just us together. Actually, a lazy day at home together is great too! Cooking meals and watching a movie on the couch? Really, any place is relaxing if my wife is with me."
(am i questioning Deku's wife or Deku!?) "How scenic! Those sound very fitting for you!! How about any restaurants?"
"Not really. My wife really knows how to cook, it's amazing! I love her home-cooked meals, so there's no way I'd go out of my way to a restaurant. But if my wife is feeling it, I'll be sure to make reservations."
"(sigh)"
"(smiling warmly)"
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crheativity · 5 months ago
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Mc/Yuu that when given genuine affection from their friends such as a small gift or just being told that they enjoy being around them, they just get really quiet and look at their friend with shock and disbelief, tearing up a little bit and just going "...oh..." in a real small voice.
Bonus points if they're not usually emotional like this.
It would be fun if it was the overblot gang since they just got some gifts themselves, or maybe ADeuce duo...idk man, I just want some wholesome friendship, I feel like there aren't enough fics like that in this fandom-
WARNINGS: Can be read as platonic or romantic, some of these might be longer/shorter than others, all of them care about you but (almost) all of them are bad with Emotions. also there are slight references to book 6 in Idia’s section if you squint
COMMENTS: AWH this is such a cute idea! And yes, there should definitely be more wholesome, platonic fics! Also, sorry these are short D:
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Wait, crap, you’re tearing up? He just got you a present- are you okay?? He’s low key worried about you, unsure if this is just you being extremely excited about his (amazing) gift or if there’s something else going on. Either way, he’s quick to figure it out and reassure you as best he can. He’s torn between feeling bad about making you cry and being happy you liked his present so much. Either way, he pulls you into a hug and rubs patterns into your back until you feel better.
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You’re crying?! Ohhhh crap oh crap oh crap- he doesn’t know what to do! Was his present that bad-? Once you reassure him and tell him you love it, he relaxes a little bit but is still clearly distressed. He isn’t very good at figuring out why you’re reacting this way, but his genuine care for you shines through and helps you feel a little more comfortable in his own way.
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Wh-what?? Did he do something wrong-? He did a bunch of research, so he had assumed that this gift would be something you’d appreciate, not tear up over! Riddle is. Confused. And scared. He’s new to this whole “having friends” thing, and he thinks very highly of you, so the thought of messing up is pretty scary. He’s at quite a loss of what to do. When you reassure him and tell him you’re okay, he’s very relieved. He makes a note of how much you appreciated the gift and is determined to do more for you. If he has to get used to having friends, he wants you to get used to receiving the affection you deserve, too.
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Awh, come on. You’re seriously tearing up over this? He ruffles your hair affectionately, giving you space to process your emotions while staying nearby. He doesn’t quite get what all the fuss is about - all he knows is he got you something and then you “exploded into tears” (you did not, he’s exaggerating). He sits with you until you feel better and tries to think of ways he could give you stuff without you “freaking out” like this. Maybe some money left in your pockets would be a good idea…
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As soon as you tear up, he wants to go hide in his octo-pot. He knew it, it was a stupid idea. He should’ve gone with the other present idea, maybe then you’d be less disappointed. If you even still want to be friends with him after this. The moment you explain that you’re really happy, however, his mood does a complete 180, attempting to both comfort you and gloat a little at the same time. He would pat you a little awkwardly on the shoulder, wanting to express he appreciated your vulnerability. He’s definitely making notes on things he could spoil you with.
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He freezes. Dang, he thought it was something you’d like. If not, that’s okay, he did keep the receipt. You can take it back to the store and get a refund if you’d- oh? You liked it? He’s another one that would try to comfort you and feel smug at the same time. The thought of making anyone but particularly you so happy is a little jarring to him, and your way of expressing emotions is definitely unexpected, but he’s glad he got you this. Maybe he’ll get you something better next time.
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For once, Vil is speechless. For a moment he just kinda stands there in surprise, before sweeping you into his arms for a hug - completely ignoring how his clothes might crinkle. He didn’t think you would react that way, and - although he’s pretty sure you’re happy - he wants to comfort you anyway. Once you confirm you’re actually happy, he thinks your reaction is sweet and endearing and pure. He’s definitely buying you more things if this is your reaction to it,
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The moment you say “oh” and start to tear up he’s internally going say sike rn. Bro was not prepared for Emotions. He can hardly handle his own feelings, why’d fate dump him with someone else’s?! Especially since they belong to someone he cares about. He’s not real good with other people, let alone taking care of them. He wishes Ortho was here - he could google Top 10 Ways To Comfort A Friend Who Randomly Starts Crying. Idia kinda just ends up patting your entire head awkwardly and saying “there there” through his tablet. He knows it’s pathetic, okay?
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He’s utterly confused. He followed the Human Customs of buying a gift for someone you care about, why are you displaying a negative reaction? Was the gift not satisfactory? Lilia said this would be enough, although perhaps he should’ve gone with his original plan and bought you significantly more. Were you perhaps disappointed? Once you reassure him, he almost laughs. He thinks your reaction was very cute, he will be buying you significantly more things. Prepare yourself.
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♥Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!♥
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paperclipninja · 9 months ago
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I'm gonna sound very old person yells at cloud but I don't care, I feel like I need to say this. We all (well most of us) know that messaging Neil with any headcanons/theories/wishes/hopes/dreams to do with the show is a no-go because it could potentially compromise the story he wants to tell or ends up telling. And yes, he is a grown up who chooses what to respond to etc and I think it's wonderful he engages with fans and answers a lot of lovely and interesting questions about his process, writing and journey etc.
However, there is another reason not to send theories and ideas about how the show should go to the show creator in the hope of a response: it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter whether a theory is correct, or a speculation may or may not play out. That is why fandom exists.
Online fandom is where we all come together to yell and cry and throw around weird-ass ideas and theories and look at art and read fanfic and unite in our love of characters and a show. A huge part of being in fandom, is the way fandom theories become like an understood little bit of fanon lore that some people attach to, others disregard. But it doesn't matter. And part of the fun of fandom, is when a new season or a new episode of the show comes out, you have this collective catalogue of ideas and theories and headcanons and you get to yell and scream, "omg it happened1" or "lol that that thing was ever talked about" or "thank god that theory didn't come to pass".
Wanting to know now (not that we ever will) and not wanting to wait until the next season to find out the answers diminishes the fandom experience. I cannot stress enough how much we are in the absolute peak of the fandom experience right now. The between seasons time is the ultimate time to be a part of a fandom (as I'm sure many people are well aware), knowing there's another season coming energises everyone to create and connect and speculate and it's glorious! I know it feels like it'll be like this forever, but it won't. Next season is the last and yes, there will be a flurry and uptick of all the energy and excitement once again, and I absolutely believe Good Omens fandom will live on and remain active and thrumming. But there won't be theories and what ifs and hunting for clues for the next season, and over time it will dwindle a little and plateau and some people will fall into other fandoms, and while it will probably bubble away, there won't be the anticipation that sits with us now.
My point is, fandom is where we get to throw around ideas and flail and be ridiculous and also serious sometimes, but it's all for us. For the fans. Showing Neil theories or getting in a flap about a particular speculation and asking if x, y, or z might happen isn't just about putting the creator in an awkward spot, it takes away what fandom is about. Just let this time be ours. If you haven't been in fandom before, enjoy it! Don't be in a hurry to seek definitive answers or know things either way.
It doesn't matter if any or none or all of the things that float around end up being correct or incorrect. Fandom isn't about being right. It's about being a part of a community and being able to share ideas and it's about it being FUN.
So TL;DR Stop sending Neil fan ideas because that is for fandom, not for the creator.
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lassieposting · 1 year ago
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Been thinking a lot lately about romanced Astarion post-spawn ending.
Because like. The Funnest™ thing about cptsd is how much of it gets delayed. When you're trapped in a lengthy, ongoing traumatic situation, you do not have the ability to process and start healing your mental wounds. Your brain and body go into survival mode, and all that matters in the moment is that you somehow cope with the horrors. He wouldn't have been able to even begin dealing with the physical, mental and emotional toll of two hundred years of torture, brutalization and dehumanization while he was under Cazador's control; he is in constant danger, surrounded by sharks in the water, and survival means not letting them smell blood. He can't afford to fall apart, to show weakness. He is shockingly functional and competent in-game, partly because he has to be to work as a game character, but also partly because...it do be like that, to some degree. When death, for whatever reason, is not an option, you just have to shut down and keep going. People adapt in order to survive, and when we learn that showing an "injury" (physical or psychological) only gets us punished, we learn to hide it.
Early-game Astarion is terrified - of Cazador, of Godey, of being hunted down by his siblings, of being staked or sold off at the first opportunity by Tav and the other companions, of turning into a mindflayer, of another painful transformation, of losing himself when he's only just regained his autonomy after two centuries, of what Cazador will do to him if he ever finds him - the man is overwhelmed by fear. He's on thin ice as a vampire, and he's not going to give them any more reason to want him gone. Survival instinct is still in control, and in this new situation, crafting some fragile safety for himself means not only selling his body for protection, but also being useful. Clear-headed. Good in a fight.
Endgame Astarion finds himself in a completely different situation. The time-sensitive overarching threats - Cazador and impending ceremorphosis - have been dealt with. He has a loving, supportive partner he's really starting to feel safe with - Tav/Durge has proved that they're on his side, that their affection is genuine, that they don't just want him for the one thing he's been told he's good for. They've told him they're going to help him find a workaround for his sun allergy. He's getting fed regularly. He has time to stop, and breathe, and just. Recuperate.
For the first time in 200 years, he is safe.
And it will probably take a while to catch up, during which time he will seem to be coping really well, but at some point, his brain is going to realise that he's safe, and it's going to finally start processing the sheer fucking horror he's been through. Since I haven't seen anyone talking about this particular fun aspect of cptsd, allow me to offer u some thoughts on issues Astarion and Tav might end up dealing with in the months/years postgame, during the
✨ Delayed Trauma Response ✨
Memory Gaps: Astarion realising, as he opens up to Tav, that there are entire years or decades of his life from which he has only a handful of memories. Great big blank stretches where he has no idea where he was, who he was with, what was happening to him. Some of the gaps cover years at a time where he was so dissociated and shut down that he just didn't retain any memories of what was going on around him. Some are shorter periods of particularly horrific torture that his brain has deliberately blocked out to protect him.
Recovered Memories: At some point, years into the future when he's done A Lot of healing, he might find that every now and then, a fragment of those lost memories will unexpectedly come back to him. He'll catch a particular scent on the breeze, or overhear a specific phrase in the street, or cross paths with someone whose face is oddly familiar, and he'll get a glimpse of an acute horror he'd filed neatly away where it couldn't hurt him anymore. He very rarely remembers all the context to those flashes of his past. He might recall that he was punished, but not what he was punished for, or he might remember words spoken by a greedy conquest, but be unable to recall the man's face.
Dissociation: Tav knows going into this relationship that Astarion has basically made an art out of dissociating during sex. They also know, from their shared encounter with the drow twins, that he's not great at enforcing his own boundaries - he'll always say he'll speak up and back out if he stops having fun, but in practice he rarely does; he's not used to having the option of saying no to his partner, and being punished if he tries. So they know there's going to be some practice and experimentation and negotiation necessary there, to figure out the rough limits of his comfort zone. But once he starts really processing, there may be days where he just checks out completely. Tav will touch his shoulder, and he'll startle and apologise - "Terribly sorry, darling, I was miles away for a moment there." And Tav will gently point out that he's been sat in the same spot vacantly staring into the middle distance for hours. They've been checking in on him occasionally and this is the first time he's responded. It's unsettling, to say the least.
Lost Time: Astarion was very young when he was turned, physically mature but emotionally juvenile. He was basically an overgrown teenager, in the phase of life where elves are just starting to learn who they are and what they want, and figure out their place in the world. But he never got to do that, because he spent his formative young adult years in a world where everyone became an abuser, where his only means of surviving was to smile and charm and obey while even his basic human dignity was stripped away. He learned that communication is based on manipulation. He learned that the powerful can do whatever they like to the weak. He learned an incredibly toxic, abusive way of life, and that was his family dynamic, his everyday life, for as long as he can remember. Now that he's free and safe, he's realising that the world doesn't actually work that way and that he's now far behind even shorter-lived races in social/emotional development. He's grieving for the person he could've been. He's grieving for the life he could've lived. He's grieving for all the years he already lost, and the ones he'll lose in the future as he flounders to catch up. A decent chunk of his life was stolen from him, and that's time he will never get back.
Flashbacks & Night Terrors: Specifically the kind where your brain convinces you that an injury you had a long time ago is actually an injury you have (or are receiving) right now. There are nights where he'll wake Tav in a panic, because his back feels like it's on fire, he can feel every freshly-carved wound dripping blood and he's in so much pain he doesn't know what else to do. If Tav looks, they see nothing out of the ordinary - old, long-healed scars, same as always. But the pain and the fear and the distress are all very real to him, and all they can do is try to comfort him, cover his back with cool damp cloths or healing salves, remind him he's safe now and they're not leaving him.
Boundary Shifting: Sometimes, Tav can come up and hug him from behind, and he'll melt into them a little bit and go all soft and happy. Other times, he might flinch away or go rigid at the same gesture. A lot of the time, it really depends on how he's feeling on the day, but at least a little bit of it is deliberate - he's pushing to find the limit of just how much autonomy Tav is willing to give him. He wants to know at what point they'll stop respecting his "no". Will they accept it if he doesn't want a hug? If he wants to sleep in his own room tonight? At what point will understanding turn to anger at being rejected? From the drow twins four/fivesome, we also know he's got a tendency to push his own boundaries, and jump into things he's actually not ready for, and Tav would be the one holding his hand through the fallout as he tries to figure out what his own boundaries even are.
Frustration! So, so much frustration. He wants to be Over It already. He wants to move past everything that ever happened to him and never think about it again. He hates that Cazador still has a grip on him, even in death - he doesn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of dwelling on all his punishments, his cruelties. Sometimes, that frustration is going to explode outwards at Tav - he'll get angry at them for coddling him, or find something small to start a fight over, or he'll set an unreasonable boundary and try to defend it because he's still learning what healthy boundaries look like. Sometimes, it will implode inwards, and that won't be about Tav at all, but they'll get the brunt of it all the same - it might come out as self-loathing or self-punishment, and he'll react by doing something stupid, like trying to drive them away, because having a secure, relatively healthy relationship is terrifying and the instinct is to destroy it before Tav can. There will be yelling and angry tears and deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms, and they'd have to work through that. Trauma is ugly, and Astarion is right at the beginning of a very long journey towards healing.
Abandonment Issues: Astarion wants the relationship to be one between equals, but he's kind of got Tav on a pedestal all the same. They saved him. They helped him get rid of Cazador for good. They chose him and love him despite a wealth of better (in his eyes) options, and all his baggage. They stayed with him even when he has very little to offer them. We know his vanity and obnoxious self-absorption is a fragile attempt to obscure the fact that his self-esteem is in the dirt and he has virtually no self-worth, and there are a couple of occasions in-game where it becomes clear that he's afraid of losing the one person who somehow considers him lovable. After seeing Sebastian and all the other conquests, he begs Tav not to hate him, saying that he did what he had to. If he has a rival for Tav's affections, and Tav informs him that they broke up with the rival to be with Astarion, he's shocked and the first thing out of his mouth is, "You ended things with them for me? Why?" And if Durge tries to break up with him for his own safety, his facade drops and he immediately asks if he did something wrong. So while he's not afraid to argue with Tav, if something happens - like an angry outburst - that upsets or angers them, and he thinks he's at risk of losing that one steady, stable person in his life, he might well cling and overcompensate to try and repair what he thinks is a fracture in their relationship. He'll fawn or beg or crawl into Tav's bed to "apologise" and "make it up to them" because, well, very occasionally it worked on Cazador. With patience and good communication and lots of repeatedly driving the lesson home to overcome 200 years of education to the contrary, he will eventually start to believe that "I'm really pissed off at you right now," does not equate to, "You are the worst mistake I've ever made and I am leaving you."
Panic Attacks: I feel like honestly he'd get some symptoms of these on a fairly regular basis, but he's never been given any option other than just trying to power through them. He's used to realising he's shaking, he's used to feeling like he's watching himself from outside his body, or like he can't breathe even though he doesn't need to. He's very familiar with the sickening fear in his gut, so intense it makes his head spin. He's not used to being comforted or reassured about them - he thinks they're normal. Tav disagrees.
Anyway, cptsd is messy and complicated and often looks very different from person to person so these will not represent everyone's but these are just some ideas for what the ongoing recovery process might make them work through, based on the aspects I'm most familiar with.
Projecting? Who's projecting? I'm not projecting. Shut up.
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solxamber · 3 months ago
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Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want to Retire - Idia Shroud x reader
You write a novel that reads like a dumpster fire and while trying to delete the draft, you accidentally get isekai’d into it. Now, as the villainess you have to get Idia Shroud on your side as well as survive high society. You have your work cut out for you.
Series Masterlist
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You’ve lived a life. A noble life, full of honor, glory, and caffeine-fueled late-night writing sessions.
You're an aspiring author.
An aspiring author who, unfortunately, just created the most stupid novel plot of all time.
At least, that’s how it feels. You sit back, staring at your screen, utterly defeated as your latest creation flickers mockingly before you.
You’ve named it: "The Battle for Genius Prince Idia’s Hand" (working title, don’t judge). And wow, it’s a mess.
Here’s the breakdown of your disaster:
You’ve got your heroine—a girl so sweet she’s practically made of sugar, like one of those cookies that look good but crumble the second you bite into them. Naturally, she’s fighting for the affection of your male lead, Prince Idia, who is a socially awkward, genius mechanic prince (because you thought it’d be fun to make him hot and bad with people).
Then there’s the villainess. Ah, the villainess. She’s smart, sharp-tongued, and has enough sass to level a small city. Her entire personality? Sabotage. And she’s also after Idia—because apparently, that’s the only thing women in this story care about. (You regret this immensely.)
But oh no! Plot twist! Idia gets kidnapped by some unnamed evil force (you’ll figure it out later). The heroine? Well, instead of rescuing him, she falls for some Bland Prince. You don’t even know why. You think his name might be Greg. Or Gerald. Honestly, he’s that unremarkable.
Meanwhile, the villainess doesn’t even care anymore about Idia. Instead, she’s full-on dedicated to ruining the heroine’s new, bland romance because… well, that’s her whole schtick.
It’s… awful.
You sit back, hands in your hair, groaning aloud. “What is this? Who would even read this?”
You glance at your notes. They’re a chaotic mess of random scribbles: “Idia = genius, but hates people,” “Villainess needs more fire,” and “Heroine? Too boring. Spice her up. Maybe dragons?”
Yeah. This isn’t working.
You slump in your chair, utterly defeated. The characters are good, great even! But the plot? Oh, the plot is a dumpster fire. No, worse. It’s a flaming dumpster floating down a river of bad decisions. You can’t believe you spent hours writing this.
That’s it. You’re scrapping the entire thing. You’ll keep the characters, sure. But the story? Gone. Deleted. No one needs to suffer through this mess.
Determined, you crack your knuckles and reach for the keyboard, ready to hit the big red “DELETE” button on your disasterpiece.
“Say goodbye to this trash heap,” you mutter, “and hello to some actual good writing.”
But, alas, the universe has other plans.
Just as your finger hovers over the delete key, the worst possible thing happens. Your elbow, as if possessed by the forces of chaos itself, nudges the precariously balanced coffee cup on your desk. The liquid inside, which you had so carefully placed right next to your laptop like a ticking time bomb, tips. In slow motion, you watch the dark, caffeinated doom spill over the edge and land directly onto your keyboard.
“No, no, no, no, NO!” you shout, lunging forward, but it’s too late.
The coffee floods your keys like a tidal wave of misfortune. Your laptop makes a sickening little noise, a soft bzzt, and the screen flickers ominously. You sit there, frozen in horror, watching your computer sizzle as if it’s been cursed by the gods of terrible life choices.
And then—just when you think it couldn’t get worse—it gets worse.
There’s a small, but very real, spark. You flinch back, because nothing good ever comes from sparks. The screen flickers violently, the keys start to buzz, and then—before you can even process what’s happening—you feel it.
ZAP!
Electricity courses through your body. Your vision flashes white, your muscles seize, and in one horrifyingly comedic moment, you realize you’re being electrocuted by your own laptop.
You’d scream if you could, but all you manage is a high-pitched whimper before everything goes black.
Dead. You’re dead. Killed by your own coffee and a poorly thought-out novel. Fantastic.
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You blink your eyes open, your head pounding like you’ve been hit with a ton of bricks—or, more likely, an electrical charge. Slowly, your vision clears, and you find yourself… staring at an unfamiliar, ornately decorated ceiling.
Where the hell are you?
You sit up with a groan, and that’s when it hits you: the bed. It’s massive, plush, and absurdly luxurious—definitely not your usual ratty mattress. Panic sets in, and you scramble out of bed, only to catch your reflection in a nearby mirror.
It’s not your reflection.
Oh.
Oh, Shit.
Staring back at you is her. The villainess. The sharp-tongued, drama-fueled antagonist of your novel. The one with a penchant for ruining lives and stealing the spotlight. The one you made up.
You gasp, gripping the sides of the mirror. “No. NO.” You stare at the dark hair cascading over your shoulders, the perfectly arched brows, and the terrifyingly intense smirk that seems to have a life of its own. “Why am I her? Why this of all characters?”
You step back from the mirror and slap your cheeks, half hoping that’ll wake you up from this fever dream. It doesn’t. You’re still stuck in the body of the villainess, and with each passing second, reality—or whatever twisted version of it this is—sinks in deeper.
“Of course,” you mutter, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Of course this is my life now. I write the dumbest novel in existence, and this is what I get.” You pace in front of the mirror, ranting to no one in particular. “Who even thinks it’s a good idea to make me the villainess? Me?! I didn’t sign up for this!”
After a few minutes of thoroughly berating yourself—and by extension, the cosmic forces that brought you here—you finally stop, resting your hands on your hips.
“Okay. Fine. FINE. I’ll play your stupid game, universe.” You throw one last glare at your reflection. “But I’m not tormenting the heroine. Nope. She can have her stupid one-sided rivalry for all I care. I want nothing to do with this mess.”
The decision made, you shake your head and take a deep breath. “Alright, what’s next?” You glance around the villainess’s extravagant room, trying to figure out your next move. And then, a lightbulb goes off in your head.
Prince Idia.
In your novel, he’s socially awkward, reclusive, and definitely doesn’t deserve to get caught up in this disaster. He’s just collateral damage in your sorry excuse for a plot, and honestly? You feel kinda bad about it.
You snap your fingers. “That’s it. I’ll find Prince Idia. Save him or something. Maybe I can even get a reward for rescuing a royal!” You’re feeling pretty good about this plan—much better than sticking around and causing drama with the heroine, at least.
With a dramatic flourish (you are still the villainess, after all), you head for the door, ready to track down Idia and redeem yourself in whatever twisted way you can manage. Who knows, maybe this whole situation won’t be as bad as you thought.
Or… maybe it’ll be even worse. But you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.
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After what feels like hours of arguing with your stubborn, uptight butler—who is absolutely convinced that your decision to head straight for the abandoned palace at the edge of town is the worst idea you’ve ever had—you finally break free.
“If anyone was kidnapped, that’s where they’d be!” you shout over your shoulder as you march toward your carriage, ignoring his protests about "safety" and "reckless behavior."
Butler or not, you’re on a mission. And after a bumpy ride to the palace, here you are, standing at the entrance, waiting for the traps or menacing guards to pounce.
...Nothing.
It’s strangely anticlimactic, actually. You push open the door, expecting maybe a cackle or some ominous fog. But no, just dust and an eerie silence. You frown, stepping cautiously inside.
“What kind of royal abduction is this? Budget cuts?”
Just as you’re about to chalk this whole thing up to a monumental waste of time, you hear it—a low curse, followed by the distinct sound of tinkering. You freeze, listening closer.
Definitely someone messing with something.
Your hand instinctively reaches for your trusty gun (bless past-you for deciding guns belonged in this novel), and with practiced ease, you pull it out and slam open the nearest door.
"Hands up!" you yell, pointing the barrel directly at—
A very, very scared Prince Idia, crouching beside what looks like a half-assembled mechanical gadget. His wide, shocked eyes meet yours, and he lets out a startled yelp, nearly knocking over the tools scattered around him.
"Wh-What the hell?!" you blurt, lowering the gun slightly. This was not the daring rescue scene you imagined.
Idia flinches, awkwardly raising his hands. “I—uh, I don’t know who you are, but how did you even find me?!” he stammers, looking at you like you just kicked his favorite gaming console.
"How did I—? Are you kidding me?" You gesture dramatically with the gun, still in shock. "I’m one of the people you were supposed to choose from! Remember? The whole ‘Battle for the Hand of Prince Idia’ thing?”
He blinks at you, deadpan. “Oh… Oh, no,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back. I staged this whole thing for a reason.” He crosses his arms, stubborn. “I’ll just stay here with my gadgets. You can go back to… whatever you do.”
You stare at him, flabbergasted. “What do you mean you staged this?” You glance around the dusty, decrepit palace. “This is your brilliant escape plan? Hiding out in the palace equivalent of a haunted IKEA?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s quiet, it’s out of the way, and no one bothers me here. I didn’t get kidnapped, okay? I just—didn’t want to deal with all the royal court nonsense.” He shrugs, as if staging a fake kidnapping is the most logical thing in the world.
“You do realize that Ortho is still at the palace, right? Your little brother? Alone? Without you?” You raise an eyebrow, watching the slow dawning horror creep across Idia’s face.
“Yeah, so?” He huffs. “He’s the Crown Prince now. I’m sure he’s fine—"
“Bro,” you interrupt, “have you seen high society? Ortho’s gonna get eaten alive. Not to mention the other princes aren’t just gonna let him waltz around with a crown on his head without making his life miserable.”
Idia’s eyes go wide, his brain clearly working overtime as the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh… Oh no. I didn’t think of that.”
You nod sagely. “Yeah. Big oops.”
He stares at the ground, looking like he’s physically shrinking under the weight of his own bad decisions. And then—something unthinkable happens.
“Help me,” he says, his voice desperate. He looks up at you with pleading eyes. “Please. I’ll—I’ll make you anything you want, build you gadgets, whatever you need! Just help me navigate high society while I… hide in the shadows or whatever.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you… Are you asking me to pose as your fake fiancée?”
Idia flushes crimson, his hands flailing. “N-No! Well, maybe? Yes. I mean, yeah, but it’s not like I want to—" He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Just… ugh. Yes. Please.”
You cross your arms, tapping your chin. “Hmm. Fake engagement, huh? Alright, but only if you give me a beach house when this farce is over and Ortho officially takes the crown.”
Idia looks up at you, blinking in surprise. “A beach house? That’s your condition?”
You smirk. “Hey, I know what I want. So, do we have a deal?”
He hesitates for a moment, but then sighs, defeated. “Fine. You get the beach house. Just… make sure no one talks to me. Or atleast, you have to handle almost all the talking.”
With a satisfied nod, you extend your hand. “Deal.”
Idia, still red-faced and awkward, shakes your hand. You can’t help but wonder what sort of chaos you’ve just agreed to—but at least you’re getting a beach house out of it.
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Sneaking Idia back to your manor wasn’t the most glamorous affair. He insisted on wearing a cloak, “for dramatic effect,” even though the streets were practically empty.
"You know, for a guy who's supposed to be a genius, you're real bad at blending in," you deadpan as he stumbles over his own cloak.
"It’s supposed to make me inconspicuous," Idia mutters, pulling the hood down further. "People see a cloak, they assume you’re some weirdo and leave you alone. It’s basic stealth mechanics."
“Uh-huh. And tripping on it helps too?”
“Shut up.”
Once inside the manor, you sit him down to discuss the details of how you’re going to spin this whole ‘rescue’ thing. Idia, now a little more at ease, starts fiddling with some gadget he pulled from one of his cloak’s hidden pockets. You can't tell if he's actually paying attention, but you figure you’d better get started.
"Okay," you say, leaning in like you’re about to hatch the greatest scheme of your life. "We need a story. Something grand. Heroic. Full of intrigue, mystery—"
“Or we could just say I, uh, got lost?” Idia offers halfheartedly. “And you happened to find me by accident. That sounds more plausible.”
You shoot him a look. "Idia, this is high society. No one ‘just gets lost for 3 months.’ We need something more exciting. Like, I fought off a band of rogue kidnappers—"
“Did you now?”
“And there was this epic battle—"
“With what? Your sense of direction?”
You glare. “Focus. We need an alibi."
Idia sighs. “Fine, whatever. Make it sound cool, but not too cool. If it’s too impressive, people will start thinking I owe you something.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I already have an idea of what you owe me,” you say, smirking.
His eyes narrow in suspicion, but you move on.
"Alright, so I 'bravely' tracked you down to the abandoned palace—"
"Because obviously that's where I'd be hiding," Idia interrupts sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"—and I singlehandedly defeated a gang of ruthless kidnappers, saving you from a life of captivity. You, overwhelmed by my gallantry, are forever in my debt—"
Idia snorts. "Forever in your debt? Yeah, right. You're more likely to find me dead than in your debt."
“Just go with it. It’s a good story.”
Eventually, you both settle on a suitably ridiculous tale where you, after days of tireless investigation, heroically rescued him from an evil plot to overthrow the royal family. It's unnecessarily elaborate, full of conveniently absent witnesses and a dramatic escape from a non-existent dungeon. The whole thing’s so ridiculous, you almost feel bad for making anyone listen to it.
“Right,” you say, standing up. “Now we just need to sell this at court.”
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When you arrive at the palace, Idia hangs back while you step forward, playing your part as the "heroic rescuer." Ortho’s the first one to spot you, and when his eyes land on Idia, they widen with shock and excitement.
“Brother!” Ortho shouts, practically flying over to tackle Idia in a hug. “I knew you’d come back!”
Idia, not really one for public displays of affection, awkwardly pats Ortho’s head. “Yeah, yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it,” he grumbles, though you can see the tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I was, uh, working on some top-secret stuff. Y’know, important genius-level projects.”
Ortho beams. “That sounds just like you!”
You have to hold back a snicker. Yeah, real “top-secret.” Like avoiding social interaction at all costs.
Soon, you’re ushered into the royal court. The king—who clearly knows something is up—doesn't look remotely surprised by the "revelation" that Idia was never actually kidnapped. But, because royal politics are weird, he plays along.
“So, Prince Idia,” the king says, raising an eyebrow, “I suppose you’ll want the Crown Prince title back now that you’ve returned?”
Idia freezes, panic flashing in his eyes. "Uh, absolutely not. Hard pass. Nope. Ortho’s got it handled, right? He can keep the whole… crown… thing.”
Ortho nods eagerly from behind him. “I’ve got it covered!”
The king sighs but nods. “Very well. And what about you?” He turns to you. “Surely, a brave soul such as yourself deserves a reward.”
Here it comes. You’ve rehearsed this with Idia, but now that you’re on the spot, you can’t help the dramatic flair in your voice as you clasp your hands together and say, “All I ask… is for Prince Idia’s hand.”
The king looks thoroughly amused, while Idia, beside you, is turning a very interesting shade of red.
“What?” Idia hisses under his breath. “That was not the line.”
You grin, leaning closer. “Yeah, but you have to admit, it’s funnier this way.”
To his credit, Idia doesn’t collapse on the spot, though he does look like he’s reconsidering his life choices.
Meanwhile, from across the room, you catch the third prince—your so-called "male lead"—glaring daggers at you. He looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel, while the heroine next to him is scandalized beyond belief.
“B-but Idia’s hand was supposed to be won!” she protests, clearly flustered.
You tilt your head innocently. “Oh? Not satisfied with the third Prince?” you ask, batting your lashes at her.
Her face goes red, and the Bland Prince—whoever he is—looks equally scandalized.
Next to you, Idia quietly high-fives you behind his back.
“Nice one,” he whispers.
As you both walk away from the court, Idia glances over at you, his usual sarcasm softened by relief. “You know, I really thought I’d end up hating this whole scheme, but you’re not bad at playing the part.”
You chuckle, nudging him. “Told you it’d be fun. And now I get a beach house, so it’s a win-win.”
Idia sighs but can’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me go to any more parties, okay?”
“Deal.”
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You’re sitting across from Idia in the study, supposedly "spending time together" to prove to the world how deeply smitten you both are. In reality, though, you’re plotting out your beach house retirement plan, while Idia is hunched over his latest gadget, muttering like a mad scientist.
"Okay, so if I tweak this—boom, self-repairing AI drone. Easy. The idiots at court would never get it," he whispers to himself, eyes glued to the wires and gears he's fiddling with.
You’re busy doodling floor plans of your dream beach house, adding an extra pool for fun. “Yeah, totally, sweetheart,” you mumble, pretending to listen. This fake relationship thing is going swimmingly.
That’s when the door flies open, and in waltzes the male lead—of course he doesn't knock. The guy practically drips entitlement as he saunters in, admiring himself in the reflection of a spoon he’s for some reason carrying.
Without missing a beat, you and Idia scramble to look like actual lovers. You slide closer to him, casually tossing an arm over his shoulders, and he—already flustered—just stiffens like he’s been caught in a trap.
“I see you two are enjoying each other’s company,” the male lead says, not even looking up from his spoon reflection. “I came to invite you to the tea party. You know, with all the nobles. The whole ‘Idia’s too traumatized to socialize’ excuse isn’t gonna fly anymore. It’s been three months.”
Idia’s eyes widen, and you can practically hear his soul leave his body. You give him a reassuring nudge.
“Don’t worry,” you whisper. “I’ll do all the talking. You just have to sit there, sip tea, maybe nibble on a pastry, and nod at Ortho. I’ve got the rest covered.”
Idia doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Sure, sure, as long as I don’t have to, like, interact.”
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The two of you arrive at the tea party, and the moment you step into the garden, you realize you're absolutely screwed. It’s not a tea party at all—it’s some weird medieval Olympics with archery targets set up, and a bunch of nobles are taking turns shooting arrows while their wives cheer them on.
“What… is this?” you whisper, horrified. “Why are there archery targets at a tea party? Is this... a misogyny power trip?”
Idia looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. He’s already backing away slowly, trying to make his great escape, but you grab him by the back of his cloak before he can bolt.
He shoots you a look like you’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “This... is not a tea party. You said tea and pastries. Where are the pastries?!”
“I didn’t know!” you hiss back. “I thought we’d just sip tea and gossip about whose cousin married whose horse!”
Before either of you can make another move, the heroine spots you and immediately latches onto your arm, dragging you to the tea table. At the same time, the male lead grabs Idia and hauls him over to the archery side.
"Wait—no—uh—" Idia stammers, but he’s already been thrown into the testosterone-fueled chaos of nobles trying to outdo each other.
Thinking fast, you impulsively declare, “I’ll be the one doing the archery! For my fiancé, of course. You know, because those thugs that kidnapped him? They had bows too!”
Idia, catching on, immediately puts on his best terrified expression. “Y-Yeah! Bows! I’m… I’m still traumatized! Please don’t make me relive it.”
The crowd collectively gasps, and you inwardly pat yourself on the back. Nailed it.
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Somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about archery, you end up winning the whole thing. Turns out, none of the nobles have actually seen a bow before. You didn’t even hit the bullseye—you just got the arrow near the target, which was apparently enough to impress them.
The prize? A complex-looking mechanical device, something straight out of Idia’s dream workshop. You look at it, completely clueless, before handing it over to him.
“Uh, here. I have no idea what to do with this.”
Idia stares at the device, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re… giving it to me?” He looks touched but also suspicious. “You’re not gonna ask for some crazy favor in return?”
You shake your head. “Nah. It’s all yours. Consider it a thank-you for not leaving me to deal with this disaster alone.”
He blinks, clearly not used to receiving gifts without strings attached. “Well… uh, thanks. And… good job on the archery. You, uh, really sold the ‘traumatized fiancé’ bit.”
Before you can respond, the rest of the nobles start talking about "true love," and you can practically feel the heroine’s eyes boring holes into you. She’s fuming, glaring at the male lead—who, by the way, didn’t win—and looks like she’s about five seconds away from tearing out her hair.
You shoot her a smug grin, thoroughly enjoying her frustration. Idia, who’s been watching the whole thing with mild amusement, lightly bumps you with his elbow.
“Thanks for… you know, saving me from whatever that was. And for giving me this… thing,” he says, holding up the device.
“No problem,” you reply, smirking. “I think we’re pulling off this whole ‘smitten lovers’ thing pretty well.”
Idia snorts, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah, well, if you keep dragging me to ‘tea parties’ like this, we’re gonna need to come up with a better plan. Preferably one where I don’t have to socialize with archery-obsessed nobles.”
“Deal,” you laugh. "Next time, I'll find a real tea party."
"Please don't."
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You’re lounging on a comfy chair, lazily chatting with Ortho, who’s happily explaining some new contraption he and Idia worked on. You’re half-listening, more focused on sipping tea and enjoying the rare moment of peace in this chaotic castle.
That is, until Idia suddenly appears in front of you, looking unusually determined. He stands there, awkwardly shifting his weight, before thrusting his hand out in front of you.
Without thinking, you blink up at him and, in your confusion, place your chin on his outstretched palm. You give him a questioning look, waiting for further instruction.
Idia’s face immediately flushes a deep red. “W-What are you doing?! That’s not—I didn’t—gah!”
Ortho’s trying not to laugh, but it’s clear he’s barely holding it together.
“What?” you ask innocently. “You held out your hand, so I thought…”
Idia runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered, before spluttering, “I—no, I was asking for your gun!”
“Oh. Right.” Without hesitation, you hand him the trusty weapon you always keep on hand, because at this point, you’ve learned to never question what Idia needs. It’s always better that way.
“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing it like he’s on a mission and rushing off to whatever secret lair he retreats to.
You glance at Ortho, who’s giggling to himself. “Do you think I should be worried about that?”
“Nah,” Ortho says with a cheerful shrug. “He’s probably just making modifications. He’ll be fine!”
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The next day, your luck runs out. Just when you were hoping for another peaceful afternoon, the heroine arrives for a surprise visit, dragging along her little posse of noble followers. You’re seated in a stiff parlor chair, forced to endure the barrage of small talk and fake smiles, feeling as if the universe is punishing you for all the nonsense you wrote in that novel.
One of the heroine’s cronies leans in with a sickeningly sweet voice, “Oh my, Lady Heroine, I just love your new gown. You look positively radiant. Unlike some people who seem to… dress for comfort, I suppose.”
You shoot her a withering glare, but it’s hard to focus when the heroine herself joins in, adding with a falsely sympathetic tone, “It must be so difficult for you, pretending to fit into high society. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be, keeping up appearances.”
You’re just about to snap back when, suddenly, the door bursts open. In comes Idia, holding your gun, looking both determined and completely out of his element. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wonder what kind of chaos he’s about to unleash.
Before you can ask, he walks straight over to you and hands it to you, his expression serious. “Here. I finished the modifications.”
Your jaw drops as Idia starts rattling off a list of improvements. “So, I increased the firepower by 30%, added a cooling mechanism so it doesn’t overheat, and now it’s got an auto-targeting system that can scan multiple threats at once. Oh, and I swapped the trigger to be more responsive, so you won’t have any lag—”
You can’t help but notice how animated he looks. His usual deadpan expression is replaced by a lively spark in his eyes as he talks about all the intricate details. He’s completely in his element, and you find yourself enchanted by the way he speaks. It’s rare to see him so passionate, so alive.
The moment is shattered when he finally notices the others in the room. His face drains of color, and he gives a forced smile that screams I don't want to be here. Without another word, he turns on his heel and flees the room. But you notice something strange—he had been holding your hand the entire time. His grip, tight and warm, leaves a lingering sensation even after he’s gone.
You’re left holding your newly modified gun, your face heating up as you process what just happened. The heroine's entourage are all staring at you with wide eyes, as if they’ve just witnessed the most romantic moment of the century. Even the butler, who’s usually the epitome of professionalism, is grinning like he’s just uncovered the secret to eternal happiness. The maids nearby are giggling behind their hands, clearly entertained.
You glance down at the gun, then back to where Idia disappeared. Great, you think to yourself. How am I supposed to survive this?
As if reading your mind, the heroine gives you a smug smile. “It seems your fiancé is quite… attached. How charming.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the sudden rush of blood to your cheeks. “Yeah, he’s a real romantic,” you mutter sarcastically.
But even as you try to brush it off, your thoughts keep returning to that sparkle in Idia’s eyes, the way he had held your hand, and the way his enthusiasm had made your heart skip a beat. Maybe this royal con is going to be more complicated than you expected… but also, maybe not as bad as you feared.
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Dragging Idia to get fitted for the imperial ball is like trying to drag a cat into a bathtub. He’s actively resisting, feet planted as you haul him toward the tailor with all the enthusiasm of a man being led to the gallows.
“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he groans, leaning back so far you think he might just throw himself on the floor in protest. “An angel loses its wings every time you make me do this. Do you want heaven to be wingless? Is that what you want? To singlehandedly destroy heaven?”
“I’m aiming to open a black market for wings, yes,” you say, deadpan, yanking him forward. “The profits will be incredible.”
“You’re a menace,” he mutters, shuffling along behind you, still resisting like a particularly stubborn mule. “Just put me in a broom closet with a bag of chips and leave me there. I don’t need to go to this ball. No one wants to see me.”
“I do,” you quip. “I’m dragging you into society, one unwilling step at a time.”
By the time you actually manage to get him dressed, you feel like you’ve aged five years. But when you take a step back to admire the result, it’s worth it. Idia looks stunning, even if he’s fidgeting like his clothes are secretly made of fire ants. He’s basically the human version of a rare collectible: usually hidden away, but absolutely jaw-dropping when you finally get to see him.
“Alright, Prince Drama,” you say, exhaling, “I’m going to get dressed. Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone.”
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When you return, you immediately notice something’s up. Ortho’s whispering something to Idia, and whatever it is, it’s causing a nuclear-level blush to spread across his face. He’s stiff as a board, and when he turns around and sees you in your ball attire, he goes straight from “mildly panicked” to “catastrophic system error.”
Without warning, he chucks a flower at you. Just full-on throws it like it’s a projectile weapon.
“Here,” he croaks out, his voice cracking halfway through.
You blink, catching the flower mid-air with one hand. “Uh, thanks? Were you... trying to plant this on me?”
Idia’s face somehow manages to get even redder. “No—I mean yes—I mean—” He looks around for help, but Ortho just gives him an unhelpful thumbs up from the corner.
You grin, deciding to help the poor guy out. “Why don’t you pin it in my hair instead?”
His hands shake as he fumbles with the pin, and you’re pretty sure he’s using every ounce of self-control not to stab you in the scalp. You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the whole situation is just too funny. Especially when Ortho gives you a conspiratorial wink from behind Idia’s back like he’s this close to winning a bet.
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The ball itself is, as expected, a social hellscape. You and Idia survive by sticking together like conjoined twins, fending off the waves of nosy nobles and fake smiles. You can practically see the stress radiating off of Idia, his expression one of pure misery.
And then, the king makes his grand address, signaling the start of the first dance. You feel Idia stiffen beside you.
“Oh no,” he mutters, “Oh no. This is where it all goes downhill. I’ll trip, I’ll break my leg, and then they’ll throw me in the royal dungeon for embarrassing the family.”
“Relax,” you say, squeezing his hand. “It’s just one dance. I’ll lead, you follow. Easy.”
“I hate this,” he mumbles as you drag him onto the floor. “I hate everything about this. I should have just set myself on fire and gotten out of it that way.”
But despite his protests, you manage to lead him through the first few steps of the waltz. To your surprise, he’s not completely hopeless. He stumbles a little at first, but with you guiding him, he starts to get the hang of it.
“You’re doing great,” you say encouragingly.
“Stop lying,” he grumbles. “I’m one misstep away from taking us both out like a bowling ball hitting pins.”
The music continues, and with every turn and spin, you notice the room around you fading into the background. For a moment, it’s just you and Idia, navigating the intricate steps of the dance together. He’s still anxious, but he’s keeping up, and more importantly, you can tell he’s starting to trust you. He’s letting you take the lead, and for someone like Idia, that’s huge.
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From Idia’s perspective, this entire ball is a waking nightmare. He’s completely out of his element, surrounded by people he’d normally go to great lengths to avoid. But then there’s you. You’re handling everything with this... ease, this grace that he can’t even begin to comprehend. You’re not just dancing with him, you’re actively navigating the minefield of court politics like it’s no big deal.
And you don’t need to do this. This isn’t your problem—it’s Ortho’s succession, not yours. But you’re here, by his side, going all out to make sure Ortho’s future is secure. Idia’s heart twists in his chest. He doesn’t get it. You’re way too cool for this. Too cool for him. You wink at him mid-spin, and he feels like his brain’s short-circuiting.
"Oh no. I like them. Like, really like them. And soon, they’ll be gone. This whole engagement is just for show. After Ortho’s investiture, we’ll go back to our separate lives, right?"
He swallows hard, trying not to freak out, but it’s too late. He’s in way too deep.
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After the dance, you lead him off the floor and start mingling with the other nobles, making alliances and doing your whole “political mastermind” thing. Idia stands awkwardly to the side, trying to blend into the wallpaper, but his eyes keep following you. You don’t have to do all this for Ortho, but you are. And that’s... that’s really cool. He admires you, he can’t help it.
And then—oh no. The lower nobles. They spot him and beeline toward him like sharks smelling blood. Before he can make a break for it, they swarm around him, throwing party invitations at him like confetti.
“Prince Idia, you simply must attend our garden soirée next week,” one of them gushes, eyes sparkling.
“And our evening gala!” another pipes up. “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course!”
Idia’s face goes pale, and he shoots you a look that screams, HELP ME.
You swoop in like a knight in shining armor. “Ah, yes, well, unfortunately, Idia can’t attend. He’s... uh... allergic to sunlight.”
The nobles stare at you, blinking in confusion. Idia stares at you too, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement.
“Allergic to... sunlight?” one noble repeats, frowning.
You facepalm. Smooth. “I mean... it’s a joke! Ha! Obviously! What I meant to say is... uh...” You scramble for an excuse. “I need a nap.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I—uh—can’t sleep without him,” you blurt out. “It’s, uh, a couple thing.”
The nobles blink at you again, thoroughly bewildered.
You grab Idia’s arm, muttering, “We’re leaving,” and make a quick exit, practically dragging him behind you.
As soon as you’re out of earshot, you let out a groan. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that. ‘Allergic to sunlight’? Really?”
Idia is doubled over laughing, completely losing it. “You what?!” he howls. “You need a nap? And you can’t sleep without me?!”
“Shut up!” you say, cheeks burning. “I was trying to save you!”
“You saved me? More like doomed me!” He wheezes between laughs, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, you are terrible at this. You make me look good, and that’s saying something.”
You glare at him, but his laughter is so infectious that you can’t stay mad. And honestly? He looks free. Unbridled, even. It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh so openly, so without reservation, that it almost makes you forget how embarrassing the situation was.
Almost.
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It's finally time for Ortho's investiture, and to say you feel unprepared would be an understatement. Not for any political reason—you've long since mastered the art of navigating court intrigue. No, the issue is far more personal, far more heart-wrenching. After today, once Ortho is declared Crown Prince, Idia will no longer have any excuse to stay in the spotlight. He'll retreat, back into the shadows, probably even fake his own kidnapping to get out of any future public events. And you?
You'll finally get that peaceful beach house you’ve been dreaming about.
But the thought doesn’t feel like a reward. It feels bitter. You don’t want that beach house—not if it means losing Idia. The man who’s wormed his way into your heart with his sarcasm, awkwardness, and hidden kindness.
But you know he’s not someone you can tie down. Idia doesn’t do well with permanence. And as much as your heart begged to hold on to him, you also know he’d likely slip through your fingers if you tried.
So you do what any self-respecting person would in this situation: put on a brave face, slip into your formal attire, and prepare to smile your way through heartbreak.
When you walk out to greet Idia, he’s already dressed in his formal robes, looking every bit the reluctant royal. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, but he says nothing, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.
You muster up the strength to smile and reach for his hand. “Ready?”
He nods, but neither of you can meet the other’s eyes.
From Idia’s perspective, today should feel like a victory. He’s been planning for Ortho’s investiture for months, and now that the day is finally here, he should be feeling nothing but relief. But no—he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s not about Ortho. His little brother is brilliant, and Idia knows the kingdom is in good hands.
No, what he’s not ready for is letting you go.
If someone had told him a year ago that he would care about someone—want someone—so desperately, he would’ve locked them up in a mental facility. But here he is, standing on the precipice of his worst nightmare.
You, who shine in every public setting, who effortlessly charm everyone around you, are going to move on. He knows he can’t tie you down with his reclusive lifestyle, his constant desire to escape from the world. How could he? You’re everything he’s not—bright, resplendent, beloved. He can’t ask you to give up your life for him.
But when you come out and take his hand, his heart skips a beat. Neither of you are able to look each other in the eye, but the gesture says more than any words could.
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The investiture itself goes off without a hitch. Ortho’s speech is flawless, full of the hope and wisdom of a ruler who will no doubt lead the kingdom into a golden age. You’re so proud of him—of the boy who’s become like a little brother to you.
But even as you smile and clap with the rest of the court, you feel a heaviness in your chest that has nothing to do with the political spectacle unfolding before you.
A few tears slip down your cheeks, and you don’t even know if they’re from the overwhelming pride you feel for Ortho or the quiet heartbreak you’ve been trying to suppress all day.
Before you can wipe them away, Idia silently hands you his handkerchief. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, and that just makes the ache in your heart a little worse.
You take it with a quiet, “Thanks,” dabbing at your eyes, and you both stand there in tense silence, watching as the formalities continue around you.
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Once the investiture concludes and the guests filter out, you and Idia retreat to a balcony to catch your breath. The sky is darkening, and the cool evening breeze does little to soothe the heaviness you feel in the pit of your stomach.
Idia breaks the silence first. "I've, uh... already arranged the beach house. It’s in your name now."
You blink, looking over at him. His voice cracks slightly, and when you finally turn to face him fully, you realize that he looks like the very picture of heartbreak. He’s not meeting your eyes, staring out into the distance as if it’ll keep him from falling apart.
You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Idia... do you want me to leave?”
He freezes, still not looking at you. "I... I want you to be happy. I mean, that's the whole point, right? The beach house, everything—you’ve been wanting that for ages."
“I didn’t ask if you wanted me to be happy,” you say quietly. “I asked if you want me to stay or go.”
The silence between you stretches, heavy and suffocating. You hold your breath, waiting for him to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“I... I don’t know what I’m gonna do if you’re not here anymore.”
That’s all the confirmation you need. Before he can say anything else, you step forward, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss. For a split second, he stiffens, shocked, but then he melts into it, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
It’s everything you needed and more—sweet, desperate, and filled with all the words neither of you have been able to say. When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily.
“Come with me,” you whisper. “To the beach house. We can... we can figure everything out from there.”
Idia lets out a watery laugh, one that’s half-disbelief, half-relief. “You really want a shut-in like me hanging around your dream house? You’re gonna get sick of me in a week.”
You smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I don’t think I could ever get sick of you. So... what do you say?”
He hesitates for a moment, then gives a small nod, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Yeah... okay. I’ll come with you.”
And just like that, the weight that’s been pressing down on your chest all day lifts. It’s not the end—it’s a new beginning. One where you and Idia don’t have to part ways, where you can move forward together.
As you both stand there on the balcony, holding each other close, the world feels a little less daunting, and the future a little brighter.
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The grand hall is slowly emptying out, nobles drifting away after offering their congratulations to Ortho. You and Idia maneuver through the lingering crowd, dodging overly-friendly dukes and avoiding eye contact with barons hoping to extend the festivities.
Idia clings to your arm like a cat being dragged to the vet, mumbling, “Please tell me we’re not about to be emotionally ambushed again.”
You smirk. “Relax. It’s just Ortho.”
“Yeah, that’s what you always say before things get sentimental and I have to deal with ‘feelings.’”
You spot Ortho standing near the dais, still wearing the ceremonial robes from his investiture. Despite the long night, he looks bright-eyed, waving cheerfully at some departing courtiers. When he catches sight of you two, his face breaks into the biggest grin, and he hurries over like an eager puppy.
“There you are!” Ortho beams, practically glowing with excitement. “I was worried you left without saying goodbye.”
“Us? Leave without saying goodbye?” you tease. “What kind of villains do you think we are?”
“Exactly the kind who would sneak away in the middle of a banquet,” Idia mutters under his breath. “And you know what? That plan still sounds great.”
Ortho rolls his eyes fondly. “You’re impossible, brother.”
“Only when I’m awake.”
“Anyway,” you cut in, shooting Idia a playful glare before turning back to Ortho, “we wanted to talk to you before we go.”
Ortho’s smile falters, just a bit. “You’re leaving already?”
You nod, squeezing Idia’s arm. “Yeah. We’re heading to the beach house.”
Ortho tilts his head, curious but not upset. “You’re moving there?”
“For a while, yeah,” you explain gently. “Idia and I need a break from all the court politics. But don’t worry. We’ll visit you. Often.”
Idia shifts beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh... It’s not like I’m leaving forever or anything. Just... you know, temporarily escaping society.”
Ortho laughs, but there’s a softness in his gaze now. “I get it. I don’t blame you for wanting to leave all this behind for a bit.”
You take a step closer, voice lowering. “And hey... I know you’ve got a lot on your plate now. But we’re still family. If you need anything—anything—we’ll be here for you.”
Ortho’s grin returns, full force. “I know. I’m really glad you two have each other. Honestly, I was worried for a long time that Idia might never find someone willing to put up with him.”
“Gee, thanks,” Idia deadpans. “Glad my personal development arc has been so inspiring for you.”
“But seriously,” Ortho says, his expression softening again. “Thank you. You’ve done more for us than you had to. I know you could have just... gone back to your world or left things as they were. But you stayed. And you helped him.”
Oh no. Not this again. That suspicious prickle starts in your eyes, and you blink rapidly to fend off the tears. Not now. Not in public.
“You’re not... making me cry,” you insist, even as your voice wobbles. “This is just... allergy season.”
“Oh no, it’s happening,” Idia groans dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t cry. If you cry, Ortho’s gonna cry, and if Ortho cries, the nobles will definitely blame me.”
“Shut up, you big baby,” you sniffle, swatting his arm before pulling Ortho into a hug. “Come here, you. Group hug, now.”
Ortho barely has time to react before you’ve wrapped him up in your arms. He laughs, squeezing you back. You reach out blindly and grab Idia’s sleeve, yanking him into the fray.
“Wait—wait, what—!” Idia stumbles forward, sandwiched awkwardly between you and Ortho. “This is... I don’t...”
“Shhh,” you whisper, patting his back. “Feel the love.”
“This is emotional ambush!” Idia protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I want it on record that I was forced into this.”
“Noted,” Ortho says with a laugh, hugging both of you tighter. “But you’re not getting out of it.”
For a moment, the three of you just stand there, huddled together in a ridiculous knot of limbs, nobles glancing your way but tactfully avoiding comment.
Idia mutters into your ear, “This... this is basically treason against introverts.”
You grin. “Consider it penance for being emotionally stunted.”
“You’re both the worst,” he grumbles, but his arms stay wrapped around you.
Eventually, you pull back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “We’ll be back soon, Ortho. I promise.”
“I know.” Ortho smiles warmly, giving you one last squeeze. “And when you do, I’ll make sure you never have to attend another dull court event again.”
Idia perks up at that. “Oh. Now that’s what I call incentive.”
With one last shared laugh, the three of you break apart. Ortho steps back, standing tall and proud in his new role, though his smile still holds all the warmth of a little brother seeing his family off.
“Take care of him,” Ortho says quietly, glancing meaningfully at you.
“I plan to,” you reply, meeting his gaze with a small, reassuring smile.
“And you,” Ortho adds, looking at Idia. “Don’t screw this up.”
Idia gapes, indignant. “I—why does everyone assume I’m the one who’s going to screw it up?!”
You and Ortho exchange amused glances before both of you answer in perfect unison:
“Because you will.”
Idia groans. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”
With that, you bid Ortho one final goodbye, tugging Idia along before anyone else can rope you into small talk. As you leave the grand hall and step out into the cool night air, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.
Idia sighs in relief. “Well, that’s over. Time to hibernate for the next decade.”
You chuckle, lacing your fingers through his. “Hibernation in the beach house?”
“Hell yeah.”
And with that, the two of you set off into the night, leaving the court behind—for now.
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Oh, what happened to the heroine and the male lead, you ask? Let’s rewind a few months before Ortho’s investiture—back when they were still blissfully unaware of the elaborate downfall that awaited them.
You knew that the heroine and the male lead would try to make a spectacle of themselves during Ortho’s rise to power. The way they pranced around, flaunting their superficial charm and good looks like they owned the place—it was insufferable. And, of course, they were always scheming in the background, hoping to secure power and glory for themselves. You couldn’t stand it.
So, you set up the perfect trap.
It began at a lavish gala, one of those unnecessarily extravagant events where nobles gathered to network, gossip, and throw subtle insults at each other. You arrived fashionably late, as any proper duchess would, with Idia reluctantly in tow, mumbling under his breath about how every social event felt like “one of those long quests with zero rewards.”
“The rewards are emotional, Idia,” you whisper, linking arms with him.
“Yeah, emotional damage,” he mutters.
You suppress a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. Tonight is the night. You had planted the seeds weeks ago, a few well-placed rumors, some whispered insinuations, and a letter you’d accidentally left behind in a well-trafficked corridor. It was all coming together like a beautifully chaotic symphony, and now, the climax.
You spot the heroine first, her radiant smile masking the venom beneath. She’s making a grand entrance, arm-in-arm with the male lead, who, as always, looks like he’s stepped straight out of a romance novel. His hair is perfect, his jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. But you know better. They’re both so predictable.
“They’ve arrived,” you murmur to Idia.
He gives you a blank stare. “Yeah, cool, I’m just here to not die of social exhaustion. Whatever you’re planning... don’t tell me. I don’t wanna be involved.”
“Suit yourself,” you reply with a grin.
You watch them mingle, waiting for the right moment. And there it is—the heroine, attempting to cozy up to the king, laughing a little too loudly at one of his mediocre jokes. You slip through the crowd, making your way to where a certain nosy noblewoman is holding court. A noblewoman known for her love of gossip and her even greater love of ruining people’s lives with it.
Perfect.
You lean in, feigning concern. “Oh, My Lady... I probably shouldn’t say this, but I heard the strangest thing about the heroine. You won’t believe it.”
Her eyes gleam with curiosity. “Do tell, my dear.”
“Well,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “there’s talk that the heroine and the male lead are involved in some... unsavory business dealings. Something about embezzling funds from the royal coffers for their own gain? I don’t know how true it is, of course... but it would explain some things, wouldn’t it?”
You leave the rest unsaid, letting her imagination do the rest. The best part? It’s all technically true. You had orchestrated it so well, the heroine and the male lead had no idea that their “private” meetings and “innocent” financial maneuvers were anything but secret.
She gasps, her fan snapping shut. “I knew there was something off about them! Oh, the gall! I must inform the king immediately!”
And just like that, the gossip spreads like wildfire. Within minutes, the entire room is buzzing with scandalous whispers. The heroine and the male lead notice the shift, the way people start looking at them, and for the first time, they’re on the back foot. They try to smile, but their unease is palpable.
You sit back, watching the chaos unfold, sipping your wine as nobles begin to distance themselves from the pair, shooting them suspicious glances.
Idia sidles up next to you, looking around at the suddenly tense atmosphere. “What... what did you do?”
“Who, me?” You bat your eyelashes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He gives you a side-eye. “You’re terrifying.”
“You knew that when you asked me to be your fake fiancée.”
The next day, official inquiries are launched into the heroine and the male lead’s finances, and though they try to clear their names, it’s no use. The damage is done. Their reputations are ruined beyond repair, and they’re forced to withdraw from court life entirely. A fitting end for their ambitions.
Which brings you to the present...
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It’s a peaceful morning in your beach house, and you’re sitting on the veranda, enjoying your coffee while the sun rises over the horizon. The sound of waves crashing against the shore is your only company, and for once, there’s no looming political intrigue or royal drama to worry about.
That is, until Idia stumbles out of the bedroom, his hair a messy blue cloud, his eyes half-closed with sleep. He groans as he sees you, one hand on the wall to steady himself. “Why are you up so early? It’s like... the middle of the night.”
“It’s 10 AM,” you reply with a laugh.
“Exactly,” he grumbles, shuffling over to you. Without another word, he flops down beside you, his head immediately finding its way to your neck. He nuzzles into you, muttering something unintelligible, and you chuckle softly, patting him on the cheek.
“You’re such a big baby in the morning,” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
Despite being married for the past two years, Idia’s face turns tomato-red every time you do something affectionate. He blushes furiously now, burying his face in the crook of your neck to hide it.
“Y-You’re unfair,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “Saying stuff like that... it’s embarrassing.”
You grin. “But you’re so cute.”
“I’m not cute. I’m a grown man. And you’re a villain for making me get up before noon.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Maybe, but I’m your villain. So deal with it.”
Idia groans dramatically but makes no effort to move away, too comfortable where he is. You continue sipping your coffee, enjoying the moment of peace, when he finally speaks again, a little softer this time.
“Y’know... you really did a number on the heroine and the male lead. They’re still laying low, huh?”
“Maybe the rumor I spread was truly a masterpiece,” you say with a smirk, remembering how perfectly everything had gone according to plan.
Idia snorts. “A masterpiece of destruction, maybe.”
You chuckle, pressing another kiss to his forehead. He sighs contentedly, the two of you basking in the quiet comfort of your shared life. It’s moments like this that remind you just how far you’ve come together, from court intrigue and scandal to peaceful mornings at your beach house.
And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.
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Series Masterlist ; Masterlist
For the next part,
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drchucktingle · 9 months ago
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autistic expression in a neurotypical art gallery
this morning i thought i would talk about AUTHOR VOICE specifically when it comes to AUTISM. as autistic author i have learned to turn the dial up and down when writing characters. rose from CAMP DAMASCUS is basically exactly where i rest on spectrum and this shows in a few ways
in roses internal monolog you will see that she uses phrases like ‘my friend’ to talk about folks where neurotypical buckaroos might just use first name. or with her parents she will think of them in FIRST NAME instead of ‘mom’ or 'dad’. this is way many autistic buds THINK
to explain this trot I will say it is not a way of disrespect or anything like that, it is simply that these terms are TECHNICALLY all correct and interchangeable. socially, autistic buds often learn to mask by pinpointing WHEN to use these words that logically the same to us.
in CAMP DAMASCUS i left these things in to create character, but if you go back in my writing you will see it. in TINGLERS this is because they are honest in PUNK ROCK way. unfiltered expressions. in earlier novels its admittedly just because i did not realize it was unusual yet
point is, ROSES internal dialog in camp damascus is neurodivergent and i CHOSE not to change her thought process in this way, because we are BOTH autistic. this can be a risk because some neurotypical buckaroos will read it and just think ‘what a strange way. this is bad writing’
camp damascus reviews are actually very good it is a very well received book by any measure, but you will see some folks kind of making fun of these traits (i do not think they would do this if they knew it was authentic autistic way BUT we cannot educate EVERYONE on this trot)
POINT IS i am now faced with an artistic choice in later books. do i write with my AUTISTIC voice even though some neurotypical readers find it awkward? in technical sense some readers WILL think each book is better if i eliminate my autistic tendencies in later edits
my advice is this: character voice IS SO IMPORTANT, but a big part of writing is finding the place between YOUR voice and your CHARACTER voice where both are authentically existing in some way. like acting, you are always bringing something of yourself even when you 'disappear'
when writing BURY YOUR GAYS i did not plan to make misha on the spectrum, but misha is part of me and i am on the spectrum. what i have realized over time is that ALL OF MY CHARACTERS will have these traits in some way because i wrote them, and i will never disappear completely
so when edits came for BURY YOUR GAYS and misha, i took that dial and i turned it farther towards neurotypical than i did with rose, BUT I DID NOT TURN IT OFF COMPLETELY. in literal sense, i left some of those ‘my friends’, because i will always bring MY VOICE to my art as well
i am proud of being on the spectrum. while my voice may not hit every convention of ‘good writing’ it is authentically ‘MY writing’ and i think that is more important than any outside checklist for ‘correct literary expression’. and guess what THE RESULTS ARE IN, MY BOOKS DO WELL
so if you are an artist getting feedback or reviews, consider which parts you can LEARN FROM and grow and change, and which parts are just AUTHENTICALLY YOU. because while your honesty may defy conventions and seem unusual to some folks, IT IS OFTEN WHAT MAKES YOUR ART SING
feel free to turn that dial marked 'YOUR TRUE VOICE' up and down when it makes sense. i do this all the time. but i have long since decided i will never turn that dial OFF completely. your voice is your POWER buckaroo, dont be afraid to sing with it
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nosyp · 9 days ago
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Twst boys reactions to u singing/listening to a suggestive song🤭
A/N = ME DOING ALL DORMS AT ONCE??? crazy day guys (btw im listening to body by megan thee stallion ykyk
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Heartslabyul
Riddle Rosehearts
Instantly turns as red as his hair, unable to process what he's hearing.
Stammers something about 'decency' and 'propriety' but struggles to look you in the eye.
If you're singing, he might just leave the room, saying how it’s 'inappropriate' but deep down, he's flustered, shook.
Trey Clover
Smirks and tries to play it cool, but his ears betray him by turning pink.
“That's... quite a choice of song.” He doesn’t outright say anything, but you can feel his awkwardness.
If you catch him humming along later, well, that's another story.
Cater Diamond
He... LOVES it. Homeboy IS PULLING OUT HIS PHONE to start recording or lip-syncing with you.
“Hey, let's do a duet! This'll totally gonna trend!”
Doesn’t seem bothered at all, but you notice his sly grin when the lyrics get particularly spicy.
Ace Trappola
Laughs obnoxiously, pretending he’s unfazed, but his red face gives him away.
“Pfft, what kind of song is this? You’re so weird.”
Secretly intrigued and might look up the song later.
Deuce Spade
FREEZES. His face is as red as the Heartslabyul logo color.
“W-WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO?!”
HE CANNOT handle the situation and will try to change the subject, but his curiosity gets the better of him... and... just imagine what happens next.
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Savanaclaw
Leona Kingscholar
He just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed at first. But gradually, the corner of his mouth quirks up.
“You trying to get someone’s attention with that?” he teases.
Might tease you mercilessly, but if you’re singing it, he’ll close his eyes and just enjoy the show.
Ruggie Bucchi
Snickers and probably joins in, singing the most suggestive lines louder than you.
“Hey, you got good taste!”
If you get embarrassed later, he’s LIVING for it and he probably WILL NEVER let you live it down.
Jack Howl
Mortified. Shocked. Disgusted(?). He’ll try to act like he doesn’t hear it but is very obviously uncomfortable.
“Do you really need to sing that out loud?”
If you keep going, he might just leave to “get some air” (a.k.a. calm himself down his racing thoughts).
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Octavinelle
Azul Ashengrotto
Adjusts his glasses nervously but tries to stay calm and composed (he's defo not inside).
“An... interesting choice of music. I’m sure it has its appeal.”
If you’re singing, he’s secretly enjoying it but won’t let it show, except for the slight twitch of his lips.
Jade Leech
Smiles politely but with a glint of mischief in his eyes as he watches u listen/lip sync/sing the song.
“Ah, such bold lyrics. I didn’t know you had this side to you.”
You can’t tell if he’s impressed or just teasing, but he’ll remember this forever.
Floyd Leech
HE... LOVES IT. In fact, he loves it so much he might even start dancing or yelling the lyrics with you.
“This is fun! Let’s play it louder!”
If anyone else reacts awkwardly, he’ll drag them into the chaos for extra entertainment.
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Scarabia
Kalim Al-Asim
He's coming with you. He's gonna clap along with you and kinda gets into the beat without really processing the lyrics.
“This is such a fun song! Where did you find it?”
When he realizes the meaning, he might blush but will laugh it off as no big deal.
Jamil Viper
Stops whatever he’s doing and sighs.
“Do you have to listen to that here?”
Pretends he’s annoyed, but if you’re singing, he secretly finds your confidence impressive.
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Pomefiore
Vil Schoenheit
He just raises an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.
“Bold of you to think that’s your best performance.”
Critiques your singing technique if you’re performing, but he’s secretly entertained.
Rook Hunt
Absolutely enchanted. Amazed. Bewildered. Flabberghasted.
He just stands there, admiring you... until he joins in while making a dramatic entrance, adding flair to your performance.
“Ah, such passion! Such boldness! You are magnifique!”
Encourages you to sing louder because he’s living for the chaos.
Epel Felmier
Blushes furiously and tries to act tough.
“Ain’t you embarrassed singing something like that?”
If no one’s around, he might ask for the name of the song. Who knows? hehe
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Ignihyde
Idia Shroud
Short circuits (even tho he isn't really a robot). His hair flickers a brighter blue as he processes the lyrics.
“W-WHAT ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO?!”
If you’re singing, he’ll cover his ears, but he’s totally recording it to listen to later (not that he’ll admit it).
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Diasomnia
Malleus Draconia
Malleus just... tilts his head, confused but also intrigued (as he usually is).
“Is this a mortal courting ritual?” he asks with a curious tone.
He doesn’t really get it but finds your boldness fascinating.
Lilia Vanrouge
Completely unbothered and probably starts harmonizing with you.
"BODY ODY ODY ODY"
And finally, when your both done, he just says “Ah, I remember a similar song from centuries ago! Let’s make it a duet.” as if this happens to him everyday.
Encourages you to embrace the silliness and fun of it.
Sebek Zigvolt
OUTRAGED and overly dramatic about it.
“How dare you subject Lord Malleus to such inappropriate music?!”
If you’re singing, he’ll try to lecture you, but his flustered expression ruins the effect. Just imagine him all red and flushed trying to scold you for singing an inappropriate song.
Silver
Barely reacts, too sleepy to care.
“Huh? Oh, nice song, I guess.” he mutters, all groggy and shit.
If he actually processes the lyrics, he might blush slightly but won’t make a big deal out of it.
A/N = Also idk how to do dividers well so, y'all get this. Hope y'all enjoyed ☺️ (cuz i definitely did)
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munsonsmixtapes · 2 months ago
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As You Wish
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Eddie Munson x fem!reader
summary: you and Eddie meet at Robin’s Halloween party and realize that you’re dressed up as a couple
based on this request!
Eddie was convinced that he didn’t believe in love at first sight, but the second you walked through the door to Robin’s apartment, he was beginning to think that his mind was changed.
You looked absolutely breathtaking in your Buttercup costume and he was realizing that you were the new friend that Robin had made at work. The one she had gabbed about endlessly, always wanting to make it clear to Eddie you were very pretty and very single.
That was always something that his friends told him and faster many failed dates, he had revoked all of their setting up privileges. But this time…this time maybe he’d let it slide.
He turned away from you when you approached the snack table where he and the other three in his group had been standing. He wanted to remain cool and mysterious even though he knew that he was nothing of the sort. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been chronically single.
“And who might you be?” You asked and Robin patted Eddie on the shoulder to let him know that you were speaking to him. He whipped around, knocking over the bowl of chips in front of him in the process and was grateful that a mask was covering most of his face because it hid his blush.
He was quick to drop to the floor to scoop the chips back into the bowl and was so focused on what he was doing that he hadn’t even been aware that anyone had been helping him until a hand brushed his.
Eddie looked up slowly to see your eyes looking into his, a warm smile on your lips. His gaze shifted to your hands to see m that they were full of chip crumbs that you were picking up from the floor and he was about to thank you, the words on the tip of his tongue, but you had somehow rendered the man who never shut up speechless.
“I-“ he started, but his mouth was now dry and he was suddenly very aware of how hot his costume was. Jesus, he really needed a glass of water.
“Yeah?” You asked, your voice so gentle and he appreciated that you were being so patient with him. A lot of women he had come across would have made fun of him, but you didn’t. You had even gone as far as helping him clean up the mess he had made.
“D-“ he cut himself off again, not entirely sure what he was trying to say. He was blowing his shot at getting a date without and he hadn’t even said anything yet.
You gathered the rest of the chips into the bowl and then stood, offering him your hand and he took it, letting you help to his feet.
“Well, look at that,” you smiled as you got the full view of his costume. “It seems we’ve somehow dressed up as a couple.” You let out a chuckle and Eddie swore it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.
Your words finally registered in his brain and he looked down at his costume before looking at yours, seeing that the two of you actually did look like a couple and that made him feel even more sweaty than he was previously. What were you doing to him?
“Guess it’s fate,” you added with a wink and the man thought he was going to die right there.
“G-guess so,” he was finally able to get out and your smile widened at his agreement. Robin had told you that he was cute and she had been right, at least, you thought she had been even though you couldn’t see most of his face. And you thought his clumsiness was adorable. Most men you had come across had been cocky or way too confident so it was refreshing to see someone who wasn’t.
And his costume was impressive, so close to the one that Westley had worn in the movie and you wondered how much he paid to have it made. Surely something custom like that had to cost a pretty penny. Yours had just come from items you already had in your closet and you were lucky just how accurate everything looked.
“I really love your costume,” you complimented and you watched what you could see of Eddie’s cheeks turn bright pink. “Where did you get it?”
“I um-I made it,” he replied, stepping closer to the table to grab his bottle of beer that he had left sitting there. He took a sip, watching your face the entire time, gauging your face for any negative reaction. How many times had he told a girl that he made his own cosplay costumes only to be met by grimaces? It was all so exhausting to try to put on a facade, to pretend to be someone else and he was tired of it. That was why he had stopped putting himself out there, why he decided that it was better to be by himself.
But your face lit up as soon as the words left his mouth, fascination written all over it and the man swore he was dreaming for a second.
“You made this?” You asked, your beautiful smile getting even brighter. “That’s fucking awesome!” You were now grinning and Eddie resisted the urge to clean out his ears or make you repeat yourself.
“I did,” he nodded, your smile feeling infectious as one spread across his own lips. “I um-“ he cut himself off, but then thought he should continue, deciding that you were a safe space for him. “I make costumes all the time. I love to cosplay.”
Now you were beginning to understand why Robin was trying to set the two of you up. Not only had she probably (definitely) known that you two were going to coincidentally dress up as a couple, but she also knew that you both were into cosplay.
“Me too!”
“Now you’re just pulling my leg.”
“No, seriously, I’ll have to show you my photo album sometime.” Sometime as in…were you setting up a date?
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” you nodded. “Do you want to get a drink-oh-you already have one.” Eddie took another sip of his beer and realized that the bottle was in fact empty.
“Empty,” he held up the bottle and you nodded, feeling a shy smile appear on your cheeks that were starting to burn.
“Let’s go, then,” you held your hand out and Eddie took it without hesitation, letting you lead him into the kitchen for another drink.
“As you wish,” he responded with a smile as he looked down at your entwined fingers, subconsciously letting the pad of his thumb rub along your knuckles gently as he followed you, wondering what the hell he had done to deserve you.
You spent the rest of the night side by side on Robin’s couch, drinking and laughing with the rest of the group. And when the party came to a close and the two of you went down to where you had parked, you exchanged numbers, deciding that maybe Robin did know what she was talking about in regards to setting the two of you up.
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neferaskingdom · 3 months ago
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♡ Closetgate: The Max-tastrophe | MV1
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader [Face Claim: None]
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Summary: Max finds himself in a very tight situation—literally. Lando is summoned for an emergency extraction, Charles serenades about honor, Y/N fights for her life trying to prove that nothing happened and the boys plan Max's funeral, but hey at least they finally kissed?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Part 4 of my wheel-to-wheel but still in denial series: Masterlist
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Y/N never expected this to happen. One moment, she was causing chaos on Instagram with that elevator pic—harmless fun, right? But Max’s confession came out of nowhere, and now she was standing in her apartment, heart pounding.
She barely had time to process the fact that she’d just invited Max over, let alone get ready. Y/N looked down at her oversized, mismatched pajama set, which sported a giant, ridiculous “I Paused My Game to Be Here” T-shirt. Definitely not the “I’ve just confessed to liking my childhood rival” look she was going for.
She barely had time to question her life choices before there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Max stood there, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t about to change everything. He gave her that classic smirk, but something felt different tonight—softer, more uncertain.
“Did you run here or teleport?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise.
“I might have broken a few traffic laws,” he joked, walking in like he hadn’t just sprinted across town. He glanced around her apartment, then at her, still wearing her gaming shirt. "Nice shirt, by the way," he smirked.
She rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Verstappen. I didn’t expect you to break the sound barrier to get here.” Max chuckled, plopping down on her couch like he belonged there. "You texted, I ran. It's the natural order of things."
"You actually came," she blurted, mostly because she didn’t know what else to say. The second the words left her mouth, she realized how ridiculous they sounded. "You told me to," Max shot back, stepping inside without missing a beat. "What, did you think I’d say no?"
"I don’t know! Maybe?" she stammered, closing the door behind him. "This whole thing is weird!" 
"Weird how?" Max turned to face her, looking genuinely confused. "Because I confessed or because you didn’t see it coming?"
Y/N groaned, throwing her hands up. "Both! Max, we’ve spent most of our lives arguing over who’s funnier and which one of us sucks more. And now you’re telling me you like me? You don’t just drop that bomb and act like everything’s normal!"
Max shrugged, trying to act casual, but there was something in his eyes that made Y/N’s stomach flip. "I’m not saying it’s normal. I’m saying it’s real. We joke around because that’s us. But I like you, Y/N. I’ve liked you for years. I just didn’t want to mess up what we had."
Y/N’s mind was racing. She couldn’t reconcile the Max in front of her with the one who used to relentlessly call her out on social media. “So, what? You’ve been secretly into me while roasting me all these years? And I’m just supposed to be like, ‘Yeah, cool, let’s date now?’”
Max smiled, but it wasn’t his usual cocky grin. It was softer, more vulnerable. "I get it. It sounds insane. But I’m serious. When I saw that post, Y/N… I thought you had someone else. And it hit me harder than I expected. I realized I didn’t want to just be the guy you bicker with online. I wanted more than that."
She stared at him, still processing. "So, you’re telling me this now because of one random photo?"
"It wasn’t just the photo," Max said, stepping closer. "It was the idea that I’d waited too long. That I might have missed my shot."
Her heart skipped a beat. This was getting real, fast. Y/N crossed her arms, more to protect herself from the flood of emotions than anything else. "Max… I don’t know what to say."
Max chuckled lightly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck—a nervous habit she’d noticed over the years. "You don’t have to say anything. I just couldn’t keep pretending anymore."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. There was something so raw and honest about him right now, and it was messing with her. This was Max—her partner in social media wars, her favorite person to annoy. And now, he was standing in her living room, confessing feelings that she didn’t know how to handle.
Finally, she let out a breathy laugh. "You’re really bad at timing, you know that? I was just getting used to us hating each other."
Max’s smile widened. "We never hated each other, Y/N."
"Sure felt like it sometimes," she muttered, though there was no bite behind her words. She was too busy trying to sort through the tangled mess of emotions in her head.
"Come on," he teased softly. "You know we’ve always had a thing."
"A thing?" Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so insulting each other in public and trolling each other on Instagram was just our way of flirting?"
Max stepped closer, and this time, there was no teasing in his voice. "For me, yeah. That’s always been part of it. But it’s more than that."
Max says with a shrug. “I like you because you're chaotic and you keep me on my toes. Plus, I figured all the teasing was basically foreplay.”
Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!” She grabbed a throw pillow and launched it at him. “That is not how that works!”
Max laughed, catching the pillow and tossing it aside. “Hey, if it’s not, it should be! We’ve been bantering for years—it’s basically flirting with extra steps.”
She facepalmed, letting out a frustrated groan. “This is so not how I expected this conversation to go. You’re taking all of this way too casually!”
Y/N’s heart was beating so loud she was sure he could hear it. "Max, this is a lot. I didn’t… I didn’t expect this."
"I know." His voice was soft now, almost unsure. "But I had to tell you. I’ve been holding it in for so long, and I thought—"
"That you’d shoot your shot now?" she cut in, trying to lighten the mood even though her head was spinning.
He grinned, finally relaxing a bit. "Exactly. You can’t blame me for that, right?"
She bit her lip, trying to hide a smile. "I guess not. But… Max, I—"
He raised a hand, stopping her. "You don’t have to say anything right now. I just wanted to be honest. For once."
Y/N sighed, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on her. "But here’s the thing… I kinda, sorta like you too." The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she immediately wanted to crawl into a hole.
Max blinked, then his smile widened into something she’d never seen before—completely genuine and warm. "Kinda, sorta, huh?"
She rolled her eyes, though her heart was flipping. "Don’t make this weird."
"Too late," Max said, stepping even closer, his voice playful but soft. "You’ve already made it weird."
Y/N groaned. "You’re impossible."
"And you like me anyway," Max shot back with a grin, his face just inches from hers now.
Y/N sighed, her defenses finally crumbling as she looked up at him. "Yeah, I guess I do."
Y/N sat down beside him, feeling the weight of the situation settle in. She looked at him—his stupid grin, his messy hair, his absolute lack of any chill—and suddenly it all clicked. This wasn’t some weird joke or prank. Max actually meant every word.
"Okay," she said slowly, still processing. "But I reserve the right to make fun of you for the rest of our lives."
Max grinned, scooting closer. “Deal. But you should know, I’m not backing down. Now that I’ve made my move, I’m all in.”
“God, you’re so dramatic,” Y/N muttered, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Well, you kinda like me that way,” he teased.
“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes. But deep down, she knew he was right.
Before she could say anything else, Max leaned down, his lips brushing hers in the softest, most unexpected kiss. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that swept her off her feet or made fireworks explode, but it was perfect. It was exactly what she didn’t know she needed.
When he pulled back, he was still smiling, his hand lingering on her cheek. "Told you we’ve always had a thing."
Y/N was too flustered to argue, her mind still reeling from everything that had just happened. "Okay," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. "But don’t think this changes anything. I’m still gonna kick your ass at karting ."
Max chuckled, pulling her into his arms. "I wouldn’t expect anything less."
They kissed again, and this time it was longer, more intense. Y/N felt herself melting into Max’s arms, his hands gently resting on her waist as he pulled her closer. She could feel the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under her fingertips as her hands slid up to his chest. His lips were soft but insistent, and there was a tenderness in the way he kissed her, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than she had imagined.
Her hands slipped up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and Max responded instantly, deepening the kiss in a way that made her head spin. For a few blissful seconds, all the banter, the teasing, and the chaos of their lives disappeared, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken tension that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface.
When they finally pulled apart, slightly breathless, Y/N looked up at him, trying to steady her pounding heart. Max's lips were still curved into a small, satisfied smile, and his thumb absentmindedly traced the side of her hip.
“You know,” she started, trying to regain her composure, “if you’re going to stay, I could, uh, make some space on the couch.”
Max raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning in full force. “You want me to spend the night?”
Her face heated instantly, but she refused to let him see her squirm. “Don’t get too excited, Verstappen.” She poked him in the chest, narrowing her eyes playfully. “No funny business. It’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a last-minute confession for me to invite you to my bed.”
Max chuckled, his laugh low and sending a ripple of warmth down her spine. He leaned in, his voice dropping to that maddening, teasing tone she was starting to realize she might actually like. “Oh, I wasn’t planning on funny business, Y/N.” His lips brushed her ear, making her shiver slightly. “I’m gonna wine and dine you, take my time. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me to come to bed.”
Y/N’s eyes widened at his words, and she smacked his arm, trying to play it cool, though her heart was practically doing somersaults. “Begging?” she repeated, a disbelieving laugh escaping her. “You’ve officially lost your mind.”
Max, completely unbothered, grinned like the cat who caught the canary. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“God, I’m going to regret this,” Y/N muttered, though a smile tugged at her lips.
“Only if I don’t get the chance to prove you wrong,” Max shot back smoothly, his arm casually wrapping around her waist as if they’d done this a hundred times before.
Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through her. “Fine. You get the couch. And maybe—maybe—we’ll see about that whole wining and dining thing later.”
Max leaned back, stretching out on the couch with that same cocky grin. “Challenge accepted.”
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Text Message between Y/N and Lando:
y/n: LANDO I’M GONNA DIE. y/n: LIKE ACTUAL DEATH. COME TO MY APARTMENT NOW.
lando: huh??? lando: it’s 8am, woman chill lando: also why is this my problem
y/n: CHARLES IS HERE y/n: HE SHOWED UP AT 7AM AND HASN’T SHUT UP FOR AN HOUR y/n: He’s on a WHOLE monologue about "family honor" y/n: I AM GOING TO JUMP OUT THE WINDOW IF YOU DON’T HELP ME
lando: and again lando: why… is this my problem? 💀
y/n: BECAUSE MAX IS HIDING IN MY CLOSET, LANDO y/n: IF CHARLES FINDS HIM HERE, I’M GONNA NEED TO WRITE A EULOGY y/n: HELP
lando: … lando: hold up HOLD UP MAX IS WHERE NOW???
y/n: CLOSET. MAX IS IN THE CLOSET. y/n: LIKE. LITERALLY HIDING IN MY CLOSET RIGHT NOW BECAUSE CHARLES IS RANTING ABOUT THE ELEVATOR PICTURE
y/n: AND IF CHARLES FINDS HIM HERE HE’LL LITERALLY COMMIT MURDER!!!
y/n: HURRY UP AND GET HERE I NEED A DISTRACTION y/n: HE’S GOING TO KILL US BOTH AND THEN DRAG OUR BODIES THROUGH THE STREETS OF MONACO
lando: LMFAOOO NOT MAX HIDING IN THE CLOSET LIKE HE’S IN A TEEN ROMCOM 💀 lando:  YOU AND MAX?? 
lando: Wait so like. Did you two… y’know? 👀
y/n: NO NO NO IT’S NOT LIKE THAT, I SWEAR. y/n: WE DID NOT HOOK UP. NOTHING HAPPENED. y/n: but if charles finds him he’s not gonna believe that, you KNOW how dramatic he is
lando: Then why’s he in your closet, huh?
lando: You’re telling me you two were just doing nothing at 7am, and now he’s hiding from your overprotective brother??
lando: This is sus af 💀
y/n: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NOTHING HAPPENED. y/n: He came over to… uh… talk? y/n: BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT!! HURRY THE HELL UP BEFORE CHARLES GOES FULL "BIG BROTHER PROTECTOR MODE" AND THINKS THE WORST
lando: Soooo Max just "talks" now? Sure, sure. Just casually talking at 7am at your apartment. lando: I bet he was gonna give you a "lecture" of his own, wasn’t he? 😉
y/n: I’M GOING TO BLOCK YOU IF YOU DON’T STOP.
y/n: HURRY UP, LANDO.
lando: yeah your brother’s gonna yeet Max into the Mediterranean Sea 💀 lando: this is absolutely gold lando: I’m grabbing popcorn, one sec
y/n: STOP JOKING I’M SERIOUS LANDO y/n: CHARLES IS GOING ON ABOUT “RESPECT” AND “TRADITION” LIKE WE’RE IN A DAMN PERIOD DRAMA y/n: HURRY UP AND GET HIM OUT OF HERE. CHA IS LITERALLY OUT HERE RAMBLING ABOUT "RESPECTING FAMILY HONOR."
lando: Fiiiine, I’m getting out of bed. lando: But seriously, Max? Who would have guessed? That’s hilarious. You could’ve picked a better hiding spot tho 💀
y/n: YOU THINK I HAD TIME TO COORDINATE A BETTER PLAN WHEN CHARLES SHOWED UP OUT OF NOWHERE???
lando: You could’ve gone with like… under the bed? Maybe pretend he’s a delivery guy? 😂 lando: Closet’s too obvious, mate. Rookie mistake.
y/n: OKAY, SPYMASTER LANDO, HOW ABOUT YOU FOCUS ON GETTING HERE AND NOT ON MY HIDING STRATEGIES?
lando: wait sooooo lando: MAX REALLY STAYED OVER?? 👀 lando: I’M TELLING YOU, I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING BETWEEN YOU TWO. YOU DON’T HIDE IN CLOSETS FOR JUST ANYONE, SIS
y/n: WE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING LANDO. I SWEAR TO GOD. y/n: BUT IF YOU DON’T GET HERE, CHARLES IS GONNA ASSUME THE WORST AND START DIGGING A GRAVE
lando: fine fine I’m coming 💀 lando: this is too good tho, I’m never letting you live this down lando: if Charles finds Max it’s gonna be like “sooo, Max, wanna explain why you’re hiding in my sister’s closet like a serial killer?”
y/n: LANDO. I WILL BLOCK YOU. y/n: JUST GET HERE NOW, BEFORE I HAVE TO FAKE MY OWN DEATH TO ESCAPE THIS SITUATION
lando: can’t wait to see you try to explain why Max is suddenly living in your closet 😭😭 lando: tell Charles Max is helping you with a home renovation or some shit 💀 lando: I’ll be there soon to save your ass
y/n: IF YOU DON’T HURRY, IT’LL BE MY FUNERAL YOU’RE COMING TO. y/n: I’M NOT KIDDING, LANDO. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
lando: Yeah yeah I’m on it.
lando: But if Max survives this, I wanna be best man at the wedding 🥂
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lando created a group
lando added Y/N, max, daniel, george and alex to the group
lando has changed the name of the group to “Drive to Survive: Closet Edition”
lando: EMERGENCY GROUP CHAT. STOP EVERYTHING. 🚨
george: Bro, it’s like 9AM. What now??
alex: Bro, what is it this time?? Did you lose your keys again? 💀
daniel:  Lando, I swear to God, if this is about you locking yourself out of your car again, I’m leaving the group chat.
lando: NO. BIGGER. MUCH BIGGER. lando: I had to save Max’s life this morning. 😳
max: lando, if you even—
lando: MAX WAS HIDING IN Y/N’S CLOSET THIS MORNING.
y/n: LANDO, I SWEAR TO GOD—
george: HOLD ON. Max was hiding in what now?? george: MAX. HIDING. IN Y/N’S CLOSET?! 💀
alex: WAIT WAIT WAIT. MAX?! IN HER CLOSET?? alex: Sounds like an F1 driver version of "Narnia." 🦁 alex: But instead of a lion, you found… Max?
daniel: Wait, hold on. HOLD UP.
daniel: Max was hiding? In Y/N’s closet?
daniel: Were you two… busy? 👀
daniel: This is starting to sound like the setup to a very different kind of movie, if you know what I mean… 
lando: RIGHT?! Closet boy Max out here sneaking around at 7AM.
y/n: NOTHING HAPPENED. y/n: CHARLES SHOWED UP OUT OF NOWHERE AND MAX HAD TO HIDE OR HE’D BE DEAD.
lando: She’s underselling it. Charles was out here talking about "honor" like we were back in medieval times.
max: she’s not wrong, charles had murder in his eyes talking about Y/N’s hypothetical boyfriend
george: So, you’re telling me Max was hiding in Y/N’s closet because big bro Charles was about to lose his mind? george: LMAO Max, mate, you were this close to becoming roadkill at the next race.
george: This is gold. Max, you hiding like a teenage boy sneaking out of a girl’s room?! How much were you sweating?
max: look, it was either the closet or death by leclerc
alex: Soooo... you were hiding because…? 👀
alex: If Charles finds out, he’s definitely running Max off the track next race. alex: Or worse, he’ll crash right into him. 💀
daniel: Run him off the track? Charles would straight-up crash into Max next race, no questions asked. 💀
george: Mate, can you imagine? Lap 20: "Verstappen crashes after mysterious contact with Leclerc." 🤔
george: "Sources say Charles Leclerc was last seen revving his engine and screaming about his sister’s honor."
daniel: Bro, I can already see the headlines: "Verstappen DNF—Cause: Leclerc Rage." daniel: Max would be like, "I’m innocent!" while Charles just revs the engine like, "Try me bitch."
lando: Charles would be all smiles in the press conference like, "It was an unfortunate incident…" lando: Meanwhile, Max’s car would still be smoldering in the background.
max: ngl, he’d probably reverse just to make sure it’s done right 😬
alex: "Accident," sure, Charles. I’m sure brake checking Max into the wall was totally accidental.
daniel: Sooo… why were you hiding, Max? 👀 daniel: Closet redecoration? Or were you two getting cozy? 😏
lando: Oh, come on, there’s no hiding in closets unless something was happening. Let’s be real here. 👀
max: look, i was just… you know… max: avoiding death by overprotective brothers. that’s all.
george: Sure, Max. Just avoiding "death"… by hiding in her closet. Sounds innocent. Totally.
alex: Did you fold her clothes while you were in there, or just admire the view? 😂
daniel: Oh, we’re calling it "admiring the view" now, huh?
max: you guys have dirty minds, jesus
lando: Bro, you were literally in her closet. This is peak suspicious behavior.
y/n: NOTHING HAPPENED. y/n: STOP MAKING THIS WEIRD. 🙃
lando: Y/N, babe, you don’t just shove someone in your closet for no reason. There’s something here.
daniel: Yeah, like… what were you two really doing before Charles showed up? 👀 daniel: C’mon, no one hides someone unless they’re in the middle of… something.
y/n: I swear to god, if one more person suggests anything—
max: maybe i was just there to give her fashion advice 🤷‍♂️
george: OH, so that’s what they’re calling it now? "Fashion advice." Sounds steamy.
daniel: So what’d you suggest, Max? "Less clothes"? 😏
y/n: I’M LITERALLY GOING TO MUTE THIS CHAT. NOTHING HAPPENED.
lando: Uh-huh. Sure. lando: You don’t just casually invite Max over to give you "advice" in the early hours of the morning unless something’s going on. Just saying. 😉
daniel: I mean, I’d hide Max too if he showed up like that… 👀
alex: "Like that"? Sounds like Max was already halfway to being undressed. 💀
y/n: YOU GUYS ARE THE WORST.
max: you get used to it after a while
lando: Okay, okay, jokes aside… are you two, like, officially a thing now?
max: yeah, y/n and i… we’re seeing where this goes. officially.
george: OMG, IT'S HAPPENING. MAX AND Y/N ARE OFFICIALLY A THING. 🎉
lando: SOUND THE ALARMS, EVERYONE. lando: We’ve got ourselves a new grid couple. 👀
daniel: Ahhh, the "closet inchident" seals the deal. Love it. You Leclerc’s sure do love your Inchidents
alex: Soooo… have you told Charles yet? Or do we get to keep this secret and watch the chaos unfold?
y/n: ABSOLUTELY NOT. NONE OF YOU SAY A WORD. y/n: Do you WANT Max to end up in a wall at Monza?!
george: Max already looks like he’s preparing his will. 😂
max: pretty sure charles will crash into me on lap 1 if he finds out too early
daniel: I mean, Charles is gonna "accidentally" forget how to brake if he finds out Max’s been sneaking around his sister. 💀
lando: Yeah, next race? You’re gonna see Charles giving Max the death stare before they even get to Turn 1.
max: I’ll be lucky if I don’t get run off the track before lap 10
alex: Charles be like, "Oh sorry, did I cut across your line? Total accident, mate."
george: Imagine Arthur joining in, double-teaming Max on the straights. 💀
alex: "Sorry mate, but family’s family."
daniel: Max, if Charles finds out you were in her closet, he’s coming for you both on and off the track. No question.
lando: I can see it now—Max and Y/N in the paddock: "Charles, listen, it’s not what it looks like!" Meanwhile, Charles is just revving the engine, ready to take you out. 😂
max: and here i thought the danger was over when i left her apartment
alex: Bro, the danger just began. Charles is about to add "track rage" to his skillset.
daniel: "Oh, Max? Never heard of him. My car just had a mind of its own today." daniel: RIP Verstappen 1997-2024 💀
lando: You’ll go down as a legend, Max. "The man who was brave enough to date a Leclerc and live to tell the tale."
max: that’s if i make it past monza
y/n: YOU’RE ALL DRAMATIC.
george: Dramatic? Us? No way. george: I’m just saying, you better have a solid excuse ready when Charles finds out.
y/n: We’ll tell him eventually. Just… not now. y/n: And until then, if any of you open your big mouths, Max’s blood is on your hands.
daniel: So, what’s the plan? Keep hiding Max in your closet until you tell Charles? 💀
y/n: technically, yes.
y/n: But until then, NONE OF YOU SAY A WORD. LET ME HANDLE THIS.
lando: I mean… if I accidentally let it slip, is that on me or on the fact that Max was literally hiding in a CLOSET? 🤔
max: thanks lando, really appreciate it
daniel: Don’t worry, Max, we’ll make sure your funeral’s nice. Real classy. 💐
alex: I’ll bring flowers. Something dramatic, like roses. 🌹
george has changed the name of the group to “Max's Funeral Planning Committee"
george: Should we do slow-mo highlights of Max’s best overtakes at his funeral? Maybe some sad violin music?
lando: I’m picturing Max’s ghost standing next to Charles, watching the replays like, "Really? This is how I go out?" 💀
y/n: YOU’RE ALL INSANE. STOP JOKING ABOUT THIS.
george: We’ll make sure it’s an open casket. But, you know, open… after Charles crashes into it.
y/n: I’M BLOCKING ALL OF YOU.
lando: Can’t imagine how you'd even explain Max’s sudden appearance in your wardrobe to Charles. "He’s just helping with interior design, bro!" 😂
max: okay okay, enough. max: but for real, don’t tell charles anything yet.
daniel: Sure, we’ll keep the secret. For now. But we want front-row seats when you break the news.
y/n: Let me handle it before anyone here decides to run their big mouth.
lando: Big mouth? Me? Never. 😉
george: You know, this whole "keeping it secret" thing feels very Romeo and Juliet.
lando: Yeah but without the poison, please.
daniel: More like, Romeo hiding in Juliet’s closet while her brother lectures her for an hour. 😂
alex: "Romeo, why are you still in that closet?" alex: "Shhh, Charles will kill me."
max: i hate you all
alex: Don’t worry, Max. We’ll be at the next race, just in case Charles accidentally loses his brakes. 😂
y/n: You’re all the worst. 🙄
lando: Max, you better not be hiding in anyone else’s closet anytime soon. lando: Or else this group chat’s gonna have to upgrade to "Max’s Closet Chronicles: The Sequel."
y/n: Don’t give him ideas.
george: Max: Professional F1 Driver by day, Closet Houdini by night. 😭
max: i hate you all
y/n: Welcome to the club.
daniel: This is gonna be legendary.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
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bitchy-craft · 3 months ago
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PICK A CARD: How your future spouse will treat you
Hello and welcome to this new post of mine! In here I will give you a reading on how your future spouse will treat you. I hope you guys enjoy and find this useful!
Masterpost > Paid Readings > Subliminal Channel
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~pick a card~
Pile 1:
Your future spouse would treat you as if you were their best friend, just a bit more romantic. You would be their best friend, and they’d be yours. All crude jokes are allowed to be made, and will even be encouraged to be made. Your whole relationship would be about having fun, making jokes, and creating embarrassing situations for each other. You two will bond with humour, and that will be the main line within your relationship.
Your future spouse will be caring, and definitely will be serious when needed. They will listen to you when you are upset, and make a joke once they think they can start making them now, cheering you up in the process.
Pile 2:
Your future spouse would treat you very well. Their whole ideal within a relationship is being able to care for someone (although they’d obviously allow you to have your own things, that you can be your own independent person). Whenever they can they will love to help you out, cook for you, clean your place when they think it needs a clean again.
Your future spouse would always make sure you feel okay, and will immediately start helping once they realise they can. They are the kind of people to wake you up with a breakfast in bed every once in a while (not always, they still want it to keep having a special feeling to it, not just something you can expect every day / every week).
Pile 3:
Your future spouse would treat you very well. They’d be known to be very considerate with you. You might have some problems with things, or some difficulties in general; whether it comes to socialisation, something physical, something mental, or not being able to completely live on your own. Your future spouse would be your support beam, and love to be able to measure up to your needs and help you with everything.
Overtime they’d even be able to help you grow, and you’ll learn to do things, or be more confident about certain things even though you never imagined to be able to grow like that, to be able to do all those things.
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