#i want to see more of her in the next season

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch6. the in-laws

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 6/x

ᰔ words. 12.6k

a/n. hiii my ihm lovelies!! hope you all had a great holiday season. i wanted to get this chapter out as a christmas gift but i failed and then i wanted to get it out as a new years post but failed and then i got food poisoning yesterday and while i was rotting in bed i ended up finishing the chapter LOL. it seems i can only write when i'm under duress? but anywho. hope you enjoy haha and see you at the bottom!

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“Alright, let’s head out,” you hear Gojo say from the bottom of the staircase, followed by the sound of dress shoes on the hardwood floor, and you glance over to see him clad in a navy suit with a white button up shirt that had one singular button undone. He’s messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket as he makes his way over to you. You catch the scent of his cologne, and it’s alarming how familiar it’s become to you.

Days go by shorter lately, mainly because it’s winter, and so the sun has almost fully set by 6pm. The sky outside is a dark hue of purple, seen past the windows of Gojo’s house, and the warm, dim lighting inside makes you feel strangely nostalgic. Like in a way that feels like home.

You tirelessly tousle with your hair at the mirror hanging above the foyer table that was snug up against the wall at the front entrance. Your hair wasn’t cooperating. You attempted to curl it, for the first time in forever given you can’t remember the last time you had enough time to do your hair, so you were out of practice. It was obvious, given the way some strands were curled outwards from your face, some inwards, some straighter than others, some curlier than others, and you were about to have a full blown mental breakdown before you remember your grounding exercises– 1, 2, 3, 4.

You turn to face Gojo, who you saw in the mirror was standing behind you and watching you with amusement, and you breathe in deep. “How do I look?” you ask, petting down the fabric of your dress as you face him. The thought occurs to you–why do you give so much of a fuck how you look right now? It’s just Gojo’s family. It’s not like they’re actually your in-laws. And from what Gojo’s mother had told you, it was just an intimate little get-together with Sana’s family. It’s really not a big deal. Yet the necessity to impress still consumes you.

Gojo threads his hands into the pockets of his pants and tilts his head to assess your appearance, and you watch his gaze trace the frame of you. “Nice,” he says, “you look nice.”

“That’s it? Just nice?”

“Well, I tried to call you hot earlier, but it got me yelled at.”

You roll your eyes and grab your purse off the foyer table, “okay, whatever, I’ll take it.” And then you head towards the front door. You hear the jingle of car keys from behind you as they’re shoved into a pocket.

The outside air is chilly in a way that’s almost sobering. Gojo opens the door for you to get inside his car and the warmth of your peach cobbler in your lap comforts some of the nerves you felt. By the time Gojo clicks his seatbelt into place in the driver seat, you realize you’ve never been in his car before, or driven anywhere by him before.

The interior smells of pine and something more familiar too, with sleek leather seats that are so comfortable they make you feel like you’re floating. You know it’s a Benz, you’re just not sure what year or model, and you’d usually ask most people out of a friendly curiosity, but for some reason your pride always got the best of you when it came to him.

“I seriously can’t wait to eat that thing you made,” Gojo comments after he’s backed out of the driveway, “it looks really nice.”

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” you ask him, glancing over at him, and you try not to stare at the strong one-handed grip he has on the steering wheel as he corrects it. 

“Oh yeah,” he answers, “big time.”

“You don’t seem like it,” you mindlessly say, turning your head to glance out into the dim street, passing by houses that idly sit in this neighborhood.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“You seem to maintain a steady weight,” you politely comment.

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Is that the closest I’ll ever get to a compliment from you?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just science. Hard to maintain a build if you eat a lot of sugar.”

He turns onto the mainroad, and you keep your gaze plastered to the outside. “I seem to manage.”

“It’s because you're tall. Tall people get to eat whatever they want.”

You see him nod his head once in your periphery, and you take it as some form of dismissal. “Sure.”

It doesn’t take terribly long to get to Gojo’s parents’ house, just a thirty-five minute drive without traffic. He kept surprisingly silent throughout most of it, and the few moments you did glance at his face, you could even say he looked like he was deep in thought. With a creased brow, a grip on the steering wheel that sometimes faltered, sometimes strengthened, but rarely fully eased. It was all so different from his usual impulse to talk. You know that you often wish for Gojo to shut the fuck up sometimes, but the silence seemed unsettling today.

His parents’ house is large, maybe twice the size of the homes in your neighborhood, but it’s tucked away in a slightly remote area, where the next closest house is about a quarter of a mile down the road. The driveway is long and runs downhill, so you stumble a little on the high heel of your shoe when you step down onto the pebbled pavement, but Gojo holds your elbow so you don’t fall onto your face. And also so you don’t drop the peach cobbler he so desperately wants to try. You’re not sure which of the two was the bigger priority for him.

As you two walk up the driveway towards the front entrance, you hear him sigh behind you. “Just so you know, my mom doesn’t really have any sense of boundaries.”

“Ah,” you comment, “nice to know where you get it from.”

He gives you an irritated look, seen in the corner of your eye, and it’s hard to fight the small amused smile that makes its way onto your face.

He sighs again as you two make it to the top of the steps. “Seriously, though. Chances of you wanting to leave me after this dinner are high.”

“Why? You’ve got a hot older brother I don’t know about or something?”

“I am the hot older brother,” he tells you.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and then face him fully. “You’re not the first guy that’s warned me about his parents, okay? I’ll handle my own. What good is life if your in-laws–er, fake in-laws–aren’t at least a little strange?”

He lifts his finger to the doorbell, and just before pressing it, he says, “alright, then.”

It only takes twelve seconds for the door to swing open, the aroma of fresh herbs and something more sultry like vetiver arouse your senses, along with a warmth beckoning you from the inside of the home. 

Gojo’s mother stands at the doorway, surrounded by a halo of warm lighting, and her face instantly morphs into one of delightful glee.

“Oh! My dear, you’ve made it!” she exclaims happily, and just when you think she’s about to pull Gojo in for a hug, she pulls you in for one first instead, which startles you. “How lovely!”

“Oh—” you stutter, stumbling slightly as your nose becomes buried in the fluff of her silk pressed hair, but the delicate fragrance of lilac is somehow comforting.

She pulls you away to hold you by your shoulders. “You poor thing, you’re shivering! Come inside.” She hastily ushers you inside and you can feel the heat from Gojo’s body as he follows closely on your tail.

When his mother closes the door behind you, you find yourself surrounded by the kind of warmth only a house could provide. 

You take a small look around the foyer, noticing that it’s large with tones of deep wood and a bright white and golden chandelier that hangs daintily above in the cavity of the high ceilings. Leather, wood, velvet, silk, these are the textures that you see as you look around. It’s an old-fashioned taste, with a polished grand piano off to the right in the hall and display cases of vintage dolls and porcelain plates. So very different from modern, but it’s comforting. Like a wave of nostalgia, but from something you’ve never experienced before.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Gojo asks with curiosity lilting her voice as she walks up to you and points at the casserole dish you were holding.

“Oh, it’s peach cobbler,” you say, holding it up slightly with a small smile adorning your face, “for dessert.”

“How sweet! You’re an angel,” she coos, then twists her torso towards the kitchen, “honey! Come here, will you?”

Shuffling down the hallway from the heart of the house is, who you presume to be, Mr. Gojo. He’s tall, with his shoulders slightly curved forward as he approaches you all, and you note that he looks more aged than his missus.

“Ah, this must be my new daughter-in-law,” he says, his voice gruff and crackly from years of use. You smell the faintest hint of smoke from his clothing.

You glance at Gojo, who is watching you interact with his parents, an unreadable expression on his face as his hands remain shoved into the pocket of his suit pants.

Mr. Gojo takes the peach cobbler from you and gives you a curt smile before taking it back towards the kitchen.

“Darling, I must say, you have a lovely figure—” Gojo’s mother begins to say, reaching her hand out to hover it over the curve of your waist, but just at that moment, Gojo comes up to stand in between the two of you.

“Alright, what time’s dinner?” he asks.

Mrs. Gojo glances up at him, her face immediately twisting into a frown. “Nevermind that. I want to take y/n with me back to the kitchen to help braise the chicken,” she says, grabbing a hold of your wrist and tugging you towards her.

“Oh—” you stumble slightly.

“Nope,” you hear Gojo say from beside you, and suddenly there’s a strong arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back to his side, “she stays with me for the night.” You’d remember to blush at the feeling of being pressed flush up against him, but the shock overshadowed.

“Satoru!” Mrs. Gojo exclaims, rather loudly, and she lets out a hmph noise before placing her hands on her hips. “You’re no fun!”

“I’m not gonna let you indoctrinate her into whatever multi-level marketing scheme you’ve fallen victim to this month,” he says, his hold on your waist tightening.

“How petulant!” she says, trying to manage a stern look but Gojo doesn’t seem fazed by it, “quit acting like I’m going to corrupt her! I’m not some witch.”

“Your track record would prove otherwise,” he comments.

“Oh please, the only other time was when you brought—”

She suddenly stops speaking, her eyes going wide, and she glances at you. You cluelessly tilt your head at her.

Ah. The other woman. This mysterious ex-wife. Would you be the other woman in this case? Seeing as to how his entire family seems to walk on eggshells about the subject around you. And they all seem to think that any mention of her would devastate you, when really, you and Gojo aren’t even actually lovers.

But there’s a small part of you,

A teeny tiny part,

Revealed from the way your heart sank at the realization of who his mother was referring to,

That actually does feel some type of way about it.

You want to know who this woman was to him. Does he still think of her? Does he still love her? What happened between them? Was she the one that got away? And how does he feel about the fact that he’s now here with you?

You shake your head vigorously to get those thoughts out of your head.

It was like method acting. You stepped into the role of wife this evening, and now you feel the way that they expect you to feel at the mention of your husband’s ex-lover.

That must be the reason, right?

You slowly push yourself out of Gojo’s hold, and you try not to become hyper aware of his eyes on you as you smooth out the fabric of your dress, then you glance at his mother.

“I’d love to help you braise the chicken,” you say.

There’s a brief silence as you find your voice in this house, and then Mrs. Gojo flashes you a grin.

“Come with me, honey,” she says before wrapping a delicate hand around your wrist and pulling you towards the heart of the house.

There are pictures hung up on the walls as you brush past every hallway, along with peeling wallpaper that is peppered with florals and striped prints, sanded off from years of shoulders brushing against their surfaces in a way that creates an old, dated charm. You learn quickly that Gojo has always been pretty tall, judging from the photo of him standing with, whom you assume are his middle school friends, out on a boat, holding a bass the size of a small child. 

There’s photos of the four of them together, like one professionally taken photo where Gojo and Sana are knelt in front of their parents, and your gaze fixates on the strong grip Mr. Gojo has on his son’s shoulder, digging deep in the bone, creasing the fabric, almost desperately. Gojo looks young in the photo, maybe a recent high school graduate, and his smile is bright but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And, God, the trophies. The trophies that adorned the surfaces of aged cedar wood dressers, seemingly random in the order they are sprawled across the display yet you know there was intention behind it too. Ballet, soccer, tennis, spelling bee, FRC, even dragon boat racing. 

“Feel free to take any of those home,” Mrs. Gojo says with a teasing tone, “you eventually get tired of staring at them.”

You wouldn’t know. Your mother never had much extra cash hanging around to take you to tennis lessons, or ballet lessons, or SAT prep, or whatever. You were lucky enough that you got into college with the cards you were dealt, but you sometimes wonder what your potential could’ve been if you had parents like Gojo did. Maybe the house you live in would be your own, and not something that your mother has spent the past forty years of her life trying to pay off. Maybe you’d have a freshly renovated kitchen and a pretty boat out on the street. But throwing a pity party for yourself right now wasn’t exactly going to get you through the evening.

Mrs. Gojo finally leads you into the kitchen, and the aroma of fresh herbs overwhelms your senses. 

“Smells wonderful,” you comment.

“I know,” she cheekily comments, “will you turn the meat please?”

You grab a pair of tongs and attempt to sear the cuts that were sizzling on the stove.

“Sooooo,” she coos, wasting no time to playfully bump her hip to yours, “how is married life?”

“Nice,” you respond, your cheeks warming slightly, “it’s nice.”

“It won’t always be that way, you know,” she muses with some underlying sense of sincerity that isn’t lost on you.

When you remain quiet, concentrating on the searing sizzling noises coming from the pan, she decides to keep speaking.

“Eventually, you two will settle in a little too much…start to care less about your bodies…and then, oh gosh, when kids come into the picture, forget about having any time for yourselves,” she continues, “some days you’ll resent him, others you’ll feel like it’s the first time all over again.” She sighs. “Marriage is a funny thing—”

“Mrs. Gojo,” you interrupt her, turning to face her, “I—…I really appreciate you, I do, but, um, I’ve already learned a lot already about marriage from my own parents. Things are fine between Satoru and me.” You look into her widened eyes. “And…if something does happen down the line, and we choose not to be together anymore, then that’s okay too.”

After all, you had to prepare her.

“But that’s the thing!” she chirps, “your generation is too—…too impatient. Unwilling to work anything out! A marriage is supposed to be hard, but also it’s something you aren’t supposed to give up on so easily.”

It’s your turn to meet her with widened eyes in response to her preaching, and her posture immediately deflates before she holds you gently by your arm.

“I’m sorry, honey…I know it’s too early to be saying all these things to you,” she says, managing a small smile, “I always forget that I’m too old to be doting on my children like this anymore.”

Your expression softens and you wrap your palm over her bony knuckles, feeling the thinness of the skin that stretches over them. In a brief glimpse, you see your own mother in Mrs. Gojo’s eyes, something familiar, a universal expression of the love a parent has for their child.

“Well…” you say after clearing your throat, “for what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Gojo.” You try to manage a small smile. “I’m—…I’m really happy with your son.”

It was hard to lie to someone like this, especially from the way there’s relief that floods her irises, a genuine feeling that is so hard to come by in these days of false niceties. You often wonder how far a single white lie can stretch before it shatters against its own resistance.

“That’s a relief,” she says, managing her own prim smile, “I’m so glad.”

The two of you finish up in the kitchen, and when you circle around back into the hall, you see Sana standing in the warmly lit family room with Gojo and their dad.

Sana catches your eye, and you purse your lips together hesitantly before walking up to her.

“Hey,” you say softly and she returns the small smile you give her.

“Hi,” she says back to you.

“Um, where’s Juno?” you ask, looking around.

“Oh, she has a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight,” Sana says, “Jun’s dropping her off, and then he’ll come by here later.”

“Ah, I see,” you comment, itching at your elbow from the awkwardness.

“Well,” Mr. Gojo says, gesturing towards the dining room, “let’s eat, shall we?”

The three of you nod at him.

It’s fascinating to watch how the family falls naturally into their chairs, an assigned seating pattern that stays consistent among all dining halls and rooms and tables in the world, one that every family has. Mr. Gojo sits at the head of the table, his wife to his left, his son to his right. Sana sits quaintly to her mother’s left, and you sit across from her to Gojo’s left. The one empty seat is left for the presence of Jun.

“Food looks wonderful, darling,” Mr. Gojo says before leaning over to place a kiss on her bashful cheek.

Your heart does something weird at the sight. A simultaneous twinge paired with a warmer feeling that follows. You hardly witnessed any affection within your household growing up, not between your parents at least, probably because you were young when they got divorced and so the turmoils and tribulations started long before you had any higher order of cognitive discernment beyond the childish interest in Disney princesses and The Backyardigans. For you, the only memories that last of your parents’ marriage are those that feel like nothing more than the frigidity of a business arrangement. Ironically similar to the one you were currently in with Gojo. Except at least yours hadn’t been initially built on a foundation of love and a promise to be there for one another until death did you two apart.

Death was knocking on your mother’s doorstep now. But your father was nowhere to be found. So much for a vow.

Mr. Gojo pours his son a glass of whiskey, single malt as read on the label. Mrs. Gojo pours you and Sana a glass of red wine, and you try to hide the grimace, because you would’ve much rather had the whiskey.

“To y/n,” Mr. Gojo says, raising his glass up into the air, “for being our newest addition to the family.”

You all clink your glasses together, then in a variety of pairings, the last one being the tap of Gojo’s glass against yours, before you all take a drink.

“So…” Mrs. Gojo speaks up, “exactly how long have the two of you been married?”

You glance at Gojo for help, which isn’t exactly an unsuspecting thing to do.

“Four weeks,” he says.

You watch Mrs. Gojo’s eyes twitch. You can understand. Her own son gets married and doesn’t tell her anything about it for four weeks after the wedding. Well, in your case, a courthouse arrangement.

“Where did you two go for your honeymoon?” she asks, and Mr. Gojo clears his throat.

You look at Gojo for help again, and mentally pinch yourself for not being more discreet about how fake this whole thing is.

But Gojo surprisingly looks at ease. “Greece,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Mrs. Gojo’s body language turns to you, clearly irritated by her son’s short and curt answers. “Did you have a fun time, dear?”

“Oh! Yes, it was a very fun time. Definitely did all the newly wed stuff. Just as normal newlyweds do, you know. Because we are newlyweds,” you say through an awkward cough.

“Like…?” Mrs. Gojo pushes, and you can tell that she’s asking out of a genuine curiosity over the itinerary you two had allegedly carried out, but you crack under the pressure.

“W—…We made love,” you say, “we made lots and lots of love.”

The sound of silverware clanking onto ceramic plates startles you out of the blissful ignorance you had to the words that you had just said. Like you were so caught up in your mind about wanting to seem like an actual real life couple to his parents that you almost forgot about the number one social rule when meeting your (fake) significant other’s parents: no references to copulation. 

You glance up to find Mrs. Gojo’s eyes are wide, a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks. The width of Mr. Gojo’s eyes match his wife’s except his expression is also duly accompanied by a furrowed, perplexed brow. Sana looks visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and trying hard to put on a poker face as she pretends like she didn’t just hear what you said.

You finally glance at Gojo, who’s looking at you with the most what the fuck? face you’ve ever seen someone make, and there’s concern on there somewhere too, like he’s not even fully convinced that you’re mentally sane at the moment because why on God’s green Earth would you say something like that at a family dinner table.

Trying your best to laugh it off, you say, “ah…ahaha, d-did I say make love? I meant–I meant that we–”

“Just–” Gojo interrupts you. “Just stop.”

Everyone are still stunned silent and the flush to your cheeks grows warmer. While clearing your throat, you set your lap napkin up on the table and clumsily scootch yourself out of your chair.

“Ex…cuse…me...” you mumble under your breath, knocking the table with your knee on accident, your wine glass almost toppling all over the pretty linen tablecloth but your reflexes catch the stem to steady it. “I need to…use the restroom.” And then you head straight down the hallway without sparing them another glance.

“Use the upstairs one!” Mrs. Gojo calls out to you, “the guest bathroom is under renovation.”

“Of fucking course it is,” you mutter under your breath, but flash them a polite smile before rounding the staircase pillar and then briskly walking up the stairs.

You quickly realize there’s more personality to the house upstairs, with some clutter in the theater loft and mismatching decorations that don’t reveal the careful deliberation of an indoor designer. The master bedroom is directly to the right of the top of the staircase and you glance across the loft at a narrow hallway that leads into the three bedrooms tucked away into the heart of the house.

One foot after the other, you float in that direction as if some force were compelling you towards it. Some trance of curiosity that no human being could ever resist. It’s fine. You didn’t actually need to piss anyways.

The first bedroom you walk past is rather boring, with beige tones all around. Beige bed sheets, beige wall paint, beige lamp shade, beige curtains. But the air smells crisp, and you notice there’s a shelf that has about half a dozen plants lined up in a variety of artistic pots. Similar to the set-up Gojo has in his house at home. You walk inside and brush your fingers across the dresser surface, rubbing fine dust over the pads of your fingers, and with your next inhale, you sneeze.

A guest bedroom, you think to yourself.

The next bedroom you walk past is sweeter, kinder, warmer. There’s pink hues scattered across, the most obvious one being the pillow covers, and there are some shades of a baby blue as well. But the furniture looks modern, sleek, and new. There were two identities at war in the room, like that of a little girl and a grown woman. Neither able to find its voice among the chaos of friendship bracelets sprawled across the desk and the Louis Vuitton purse resting at the foot of the bed. 

Sana’s room, you think to yourself. 

Childhood bedrooms are like time capsules if left untouched for very long. You’ve lived in your room at home for as long as you can remember, only recently having shifted to the master bedroom. The room grew up with you. It had no chance to become some entity of its own. 

The next bedroom you walk by feels familiar, even before you walk inside. There’s a comforting feeling that envelopes just from the lighting alone. You push the door open with a gentle palm.

The culprit of any young man’s room–navy blue sheets. Stretched taut against a made-up bed that has some sort of feminine flair to it, like it wasn’t set by Gojo, but rather his mother passing by his room one day to sit in his absence, only to needlessly mess with the sheets because it gave her a sense of purpose. You go eighteen years pouring blood, sweat, and tears into raising a child, protecting them, nurturing them, being the one they lean on for all of life’s woes, only for them to pack up and leave one day. You suppose that if you were a parent, you would find melancholy in that loss of responsibility too. 

His desk is a large expanse of cedar wood with a desktop monitor and some bookshelf speakers set up on it. The PC itself has collected dust over the years but there’s a small mechanical whirring noise you hear somewhere within. The rest of the desk is mostly empty except for some unopened mail tucked away with some books, the spines creased at the last few hundred pages, but never to the end. 

You pick one of the books up, flipping the pages open, and see sticky notes on some of them. Like English literature notes one would take in class, with studious words that over exaggerate the significance of the prose just to make a teacher happy. Who cares if the curtains were blue? Maybe the author just wanted them to be blue. Why does everything in life have to have meaning?

Setting the book back down with a sigh, you walk over to the bookshelf. There are some more trophies, some sets of comic books, some strange robotic-looking figurines. Small picture frames of foreign scenery are set up in different corners wherever there is empty space, like an afterthought. 

“Hmm…” you hum to yourself, tilting your head to the side to read the vertical spine of a thick black book that was tucked flush up against the shelf's side. 

West Valley High School. Class of 2007.

With your index finger hooking the spine, you slowly pull the book out from its comfy corner. It’s heavy in your hands and you notice that there are ink smudges across the tips of your fingers.

When you open the cover, you’re met with a page filled with a variety of colors and handwriting, and you realize they’re signatures. And to no one’s surprise, most of them are feminine. With hearts, some merely outlines, some shaded in with ink, scattered across the page. Bubbly handwriting, neat handwriting, cursive handwriting, a lot of it in pinks and purples and reds. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was like those Valentine’s Day cards all the girls would sign in grade school to pass onto their crush, except imagine if all of them were intended for just one guy.

You roll your eyes as you flip the pages, seeing no end in sight to the signed ink. I mean, come on, how many signature pages does a yearbook even need? This was excessive. And, no, you aren’t bitter simply because your high school yearbook has maybe a max of fifteen signatures (four of which were from your teachers). It’s just frustrating. And confusing. Why does everyone on this planet adore Gojo except you? Is there something wrong with you? Are you the problem?

There are some signatures from boys too, most likely his friends. Otherwise, you’re not sure what random fleeting classmate you’ve only spoken to a couple times would be brazen enough to draw pictures of penises squirting in whatever empty space they could find in your yearbook, if not for his high school friends. These boys are probably in their mid thirties now, just as Gojo is, maybe with wives and kids they’re now responsible for. You wonder if they’d still find the drawings funny all the same today.

You flip the pages more, taking in image after image after image of smiling portraits. ABC…DE…F…ah, G. Hmm, there. There it was. 

Gojo Satoru.

Seems like his high school didn’t allow yearbook quotes, but you try to imagine what his would be. Probably something corny and lame, like See kids? I told you I was sexy in high school.

He looks cute though. With his hair fluffy, boyishly ruffled to pair with a charming smile that’s at ease. He just looks a little younger, that’s all. Not that much different. Perhaps a bit more scrawny, a bit more mischievous-looking. As opposed to his adult self, who appears sturdy. More serious. But you realize that cheeky part of him that comes out every now and then when he’s teasing you or pissing you off is that boy within him that looks exactly like the portrait in this yearbook that you trace with the pad of your finger. 

You close the book, suddenly a little out of breath, and then slip it back into place. Your eyes catch the shimmer of the trophy at the top of the shelf. It was shaped like a baseball glove mitt, and in the palm cup, there is an actual baseball in there with a black ink signature. You gently pick it up and turn it in your palm to try and read the ink.

Ichiro.

Your dad used to watch baseball. You’re familiar. Seattle Mariners, Ichiro Suzuki. The first Japanese player to ever make it to the Major Leagues. Ten time all-star, and tenth member of the Mariners hall of fame. He retired when you were just a little girl, but you still remember the look of awe in your father’s eyes as he stared at the box TV in the living room of your house when Ichiro took his last stand at the plate.

Gojo was also a boy at that time. Living in this house. Maybe his old man was watching that game at the same time. And maybe Gojo was watching the look on his father’s face, too. It’s the romance of life–you look up at the moon in the sky, and you know that there is someone else out there, someone that you’ll meet some day, maybe even someone that will mean the world to you someday, who’s looking at it too. But you just don’t know it yet.

Lost in endless, rather fruitless thought, you continue to turn the baseball in your hand to pointlessly assess the seams, but it slips out of your hand and onto the carpeted floor with a loud hollow thud that startles you, and when you attempt to bend down and pick it up, you accidentally push it with your toe and it rolls underneath the bed.

“Shit,” you mumble, getting down onto your hands and knees to look underneath the bed.

You see the ball rolled a few feet away, and when you reach for it, it becomes clear that you don’t have the arm span to grab it. You struggle and you struggle, the tips of your fingers barely tickling its seam, and the frustration makes you sweat a little.

“Come…here…you…stupid…thing,” you mutter. You’re sure your hair is a static mess now, too. 

You finally manage to roll it towards you a couple inches and then your palm wraps around it before pulling it to your shoulder, but not without something collateral that’s dragged along with it.

A photograph. Printed out, vintage. You pinch the corner between your two fingers and stand back up onto your two feet in order to better assess the image under the light of the floor lamp.

The first person you notice in the photo is Gojo. He looks younger than in the yearbook, but he’s wearing a suit and a tie. It’s a little big on him, ill-fitting as most teenage boys should look in a suit, like a rite of passage. His smile is less warm than the one in the yearbook too, more prim and stretched into a thin line that’s only slightly curved upwards. It’s only then when you notice the slender fingers sprawled across his chest near the collar of his undershirt, black nail polish blending in with the fabric of the suit. Your eyes trail the dainty hand, and your heart skips a beat when you see a girl standing next to him, pressed up against him, her smile much brighter than his. Pink braces line her teeth and her hair is that classic mid-2000s side-swept bang mess, but she’s pretty. Dressed in a pink-ish purple gown that almost looks like a bridesmaids dress, and you finally see the banner stretched across behind the both of them in the picture that reads Homecoming 2005. 

It’s hard to explain it, but you can just feel it somehow. That this person is important to him. Not just some last-minute date to Homecoming, or an old high school girlfriend he’s long since lost touch with. It seems larger than that, somehow. Unlike penises drawn on yearbook paper, this feels like something a person never outgrows.

Of course, people have lived fully-fledged lives before you’ve met them. Just as you have as well. But you’re overtaken by the insane curiosity to want to learn every single detail about this past life that Gojo has lived. Where did he and his friends hang out after school? When did he learn how to drive? When was the first time he got shit-faced drunk? When was the first time he snuck out of the house? And who was this girl in the picture? 

“Find what you’re lookin’ for yet?” a voice calls out, entirely startling you to where you almost jolt out of your skin, and you swiftly turn on your heel towards the entrance of the room. 

You see Gojo standing in the door frame, leaning against it with his arms crossed as he levels his gaze at you. He has a blank expression on his face, although you would say it’s more serious than playful. 

“What–...I–” you stutter, shuffling the picture you were holding behind your back so he doesn’t see. 

His eyes don’t flit to the movement. “You don’t have to tear the room apart to find my illicit drugs. You could’ve just asked.”

 You roll your eyes. “As if you would do drugs.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It is.”

“So, then, if you’re not looking for drugs, what are you looking for?”

Your cheeks are warm. “I don’t know. Petty cash? Human body parts? Playboy?”

He snorts. “Playboy? Who still has a subscription to Playboy?”

“Maybe your teenage self did.”

“I’m not that old,” he says, “I was watching porn like the rest of my peers.”

“Ew, you freak,” you say, and you grab one of his pillows and throw it at him.

He lets out a laugh before catching the pillow with ease, and then walks up to you, placing the pillow on top of your head. You half-glare, half-pout at him.

“C’mon,” he probes, “tell me why you’re hiding away up here.”

“I embarrassed myself,” you confide in him with a sulk of your shoulders. “I mean. Seriously. What the fuck was that? What a humiliating thing to say in front of your parents. I just feel so weird pretending like this.”

His expression softens. “Sorry,” he says, “for dragging you into this dinner.”

“No,” you sigh, “I’m the one that did. I forgot you can’t necessarily fake a marriage without…doing the typical couple things.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” he hums as his gaze flits towards the bed, “doing the typical couple things, you say?”

You roll your eyes. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, in my dreams alright,” he says with a grin.

“And if I strangled you? What then?”

“I like that. It’s kinky.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you don’t have magazines lying around?”

“Brown box underneath the bed. You didn’t look hard enough.”

You give him a disgusted look. He laughs.

“I’m joking,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not convinced,” you say, turning your body away from him slightly to keep the photo hidden behind your back.

He tilts his head at you, gaze flickering down to your other hand. Your heart skips a beat. “I could’ve guessed that.” 

His hand reaches out and you flinch ever so slightly, something he thankfully doesn’t notice, and then he’s grabbing the baseball out of your palm.

“I always thought I could sell this thing for major money,” he muses, throwing the ball up into the air to catch it. And then doing so again a couple times.

“It’s authentic?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

“Oh yeah. I caught it. First ball game my old man ever took me to, and it happened to be Ichiro’s last.”

Your eyes widen. Gojo was at that game. He wasn’t just watching it from home on some TV like you did with your dad. He was living in it.

“Wow,” you say, “must’ve been quite the game.”

“Don’t really remember too much about it to be honest, other than how stoked I was to just be there with my dad.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I’ll have to ask Mr. Gojo more about it when we get downstairs.”

His expression falters slightly, his smile dropping in the most subtle way that you wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t been intently staring at his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, “maybe.”

Gojo continues to stare at the ball in his palm as he rotates it in inspection. There’s an awkward silence that settles between the two of you, and you feel the burden of conversation has suddenly fallen on you. 

“My, um. My dad was a fan too,” you say.

His eyes glance up to meet yours. “How come I’ve never met him?”

The question catches you off guard. “Wh–...I’m sorry, what?”

“Your dad,” he says, as if it was something so casual. 

“That–...well, he’s–...I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years,” you admit, “not since…not since my mother was diagnosed with cancer.”

He stares at you earnestly, studying your expression, before he decides on saying nothing else except, “I’m sorry about that.”

You sigh. “Satoru, I–” you start, keen on the way his body stiffens slightly when you say his name, “I really don’t have the capacity for much else tonight. I mean, the questions. And the lies. And walking on eggshells around your mom.” 

“Well. I was sent up here to get you,” he says, “and I can’t exactly go downstairs empty handed.”

“Fine. Let’s just get this dinner over with as fast as possible.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees, “I’m with you on that one.”

You take a step forward to head towards the door, but then suck in a sharp gasp when you remember what was being held behind your back.

“Wait,” you say, “look away.”

“...huh?” he huffs, a puzzled look on his face.

“Just look away for a second.”

His eyebrows furrow before he lifts one in a questioning manner. But he acquiesces and turns on his heel to face away from you. “Have I ever told you how strange you are?”

“No,” you say while discretely crouching down, playing along in an attempt to distract him, “you haven’t.” You flinch a little from the sound of your hip popping, but he doesn’t seem to notice and so you bend your wrist in preparation of flinging the photo back to the abyss underneath his bed.

But you stop.

And you take one more glance at the photo.

And your stomach flips the same way it did the first time you saw it.

If you asked, would he tell you?

But the more pressing question is,

Why are you so scared to find out?

You shake your head vigorously to get rid of all your pestering intrusive thoughts. It was the stress, you played it off. A hyperactive mind leads to hyperactive ruminations. And besides, it’s just silly. Sure, there’s your gut feeling that suggests otherwise. But this girl in the photo could really just be an old friend or girlfriend that had no significant impact on the trajectory of his life. Why be the crazy one and lose sleep over this? You’ve lost sleep over plenty of other things in your life, but not stuff like this. It’s just not like you.

You fling the photo across underneath the bed and then stand up just in time for when Gojo turns around to look at you out of curiosity.

“Alright,” you say, dusting your hands off, “let’s go.”

You walk over to where he stands by the doorframe, a slight warmth to your cheeks when he doesn’t move out of your way like he usually does, but instead he leans towards you slightly as you brush past him, and your heart jumps a beat in your chest when you feel his hand gently fall to the small of your back, softly urging you forward ahead of him. A feather of a touch, yet intentional, almost naturally so, like a curious test of the boundary between you two that he’s been dying to understand a bit better. And the fact you don’t turn on your heel to face him with that same undeserved and petty rage that you always do, and instead slightly shudder at the feel of his touch, means that somewhere along the way, you’ve moved the line a little closer.

He’s hot on your trail as you walk down the stairs slowly and when you turn around the post at the bottom then make your way back to the dining room, you see his family staring at you with wide eyes.

His mother stands up. “y/n! Come sit back down, dear.”

You nod meekly, and Gojo pulls your chair out for you to take a seat before he resumes his seat next to you.

The food is slightly cold by the time you finally get to pick at it. It’s not very seasoned, either. Not enough salt for your taste. But somehow Mrs. Gojo having a phobia of sodium is a study of character that makes perfect sense in your head.

Eventually, the awkward silence is too much for you to bear, and you set your fork and knife down on your napkin with a slight bit more force than you probably should’ve.

Everyone looks at you.

You sigh. “I’m sorry for earlier,” you say, “I’m…uh, I’m just not really used to these sorts of dinners…I don’t have much family here in this town, and it’s always just sort of been my mom and me. And I—…I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

Wide eyes blink at you. Mr. Gojo shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat while Mrs. Gojo blinks her long lashes at you. Sana tilts her head, and you have no interest in seeing what Gojo’s expression looks like. You fear it’s the one you’d remember the most.

You were just being honest with how you felt. And it doesn’t take you long to realize something you probably should’ve realized earlier walking into a home like this where everything was perfect and on display with no evidence of the way a true family can crumble on the inside—a house like this does not value honesty. Your mother couldn’t afford you many luxuries in life, but you never felt like you couldn’t be honest in front of her. 

You glimpse up at Sana, and there is some knowing expression on her face. It’s almost sympathetic. As if you two were on the same page about something right now. When you glance at Gojo, you see him staring down at his plate with his brow slightly furrowed.

“It…it’s quite alright, dear,” his mother says through a prim voice, and in an attempt to change the subject, she says, “I do hope you are enjoying the chicken.”

“Ah,” you exhale, “yes. I am.”

“So!” Mrs. Gojo chimes in again as she dabs her mouth to a linen napkin. “Tell me about what you do for fun.”

You blink at her. “Oh, umm…binge watch TV? Occasionally I’ll go for a walk.”

“Ahh interesting! What about reading? Do you enjoy reading?”

“Well, the last book I purchased was a picture book about North Korean missiles…so.”

She lets out a laugh. “And where do you see yourself in five years?”

You hear Gojo sigh beside you before he reluctantly sets down his silverware and then he turns to Mrs. Gojo. “Mom. C’mon. This isn’t a job interview. Just let her eat.”

There’s a slight tinge of pink to the tips of her ears from the interrogation interruption as she glances between the two of you. She looks over at Sana for help but finds nothing other than a gaze tipped down towards a plate full of picked-at food. Mr. Gojo folds a hand over her frail knuckles as if to silently communicate, but Mrs. Gojo retreats her hands to fold in her lap underneath the table.

Feeling somewhat bad for the two of them, you turn the face Gojo’s dad. “Um…Mr. Gojo, Satoru was telling me about how you were a big baseball fan and a big Ichiro fan…do you still keep up with the Mariners?”

The man’s eyes grow wide with a visible confusion and you swear you hear Gojo clear his throat beside you.

“Ah…that’s–” he starts before the sound of the doorbell ringing startles you.

Sana immediately stands up without a word of excusal or a glance in anyone’s direction and she heads straight for the door.

You all look around at one another before Mrs. Gojo says, “must be Jun.”

You were at least glad to find you would not be the only “in-law” at the table full of a tension-laced family dinner, especially given the fact that in most of the cases where you’ve met Jun, his penchant to talk overshadows any other energy.

“What’s up, y/n!” Jun shouts when he waltzes into the dining hall, a few steps ahead of Sana. He throws his jacket over the first surface he finds, body language matching that of someone twenty years younger than he actually is. You can’t tell if it’s overcompensation for something, or if he just genuinely believes he’s still in his twenties. 

To your surprise, he opens his arms out for you to greet him with a hug, and you hesitate before standing up slightly to give him a well-meaning wrap of your arms around him, but it lacks any warmth of familiarity.

“Welcome to the fam!” he jovially exclaims before patting your arm. He then hugs Mr. Gojo, then Mrs. Gojo (paired with those cheek kisses that the French do in greeting), then daps up Gojo (to which you notice Gojo is less than enthusiastic about) before he finally kisses Sana on the cheek and then takes his seat at the other end of the table. Your eyes are keen on Sana now, watching her intently, but she remains staring at the food on her plate. You had a feeling there was someone in this room that didn’t want to be at this dinner even more than you did.

“How was traffic, Jun?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“Oh it was nothing. Took a shortcut. Backroute off of Lake City Way. Full of pot holes though.”

Sana turns to him and scowls. “While you were taking Juno to her sleepover?!”

He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Yeah? We were running late.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to take that route to get into the city! Those pot holes are so dangerous.”

“Honey. Chill. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Just last week I saw news of three plot holes on the Mercer Street intersection opened up. Three people were injured, including a young boy.”

“Okay well if I also believed everything I saw on the news was going to personally happen to me too then we’d have never gotten this far in life.”

“Jun,” Sana deadpans.

“W-Why don’t I fix you a plate, Jun? You must be tired.” Mrs. Gojo chimes in. 

Sana breathes in deep and exhales slowly before slumping down into her chair. 

“Thanks,” Jun says, easing his brow as he sits back in his chair nonchalantly, before he turns to Gojo and starts to talk about mundane things like the stock market, the recent election, something about a new bowling record, and this one Thai restaurant he really wants to try on the other end of town, all within the span of time it takes Mrs. Gojo to set a plate down in front of him.

Mr. Gojo jumps in on conversation from time to time. Mrs. Gojo listens idly, sometimes placing a laugh where she feels appropriate. Jun gets particularly animated about this incident he ran into earlier last week when he was dropping Juno off at school, a story that you notice everyone at the table is for some reason entirely intrigued by, but you suppose it’s the most interesting topic of conversation you’ve all had tonight thus far. At certain critical points of the story, Sana jumps in with a that’s not what happened, Jun and you find yourself finally settling in somewhat to the evening.

Just as Jun’s story is ending, you glance up to Mrs. Gojo and find that she’s staring at you with a smile on her face. It makes you jump in your seat a little, luckily unnoticed by the rest of the table because of Jun’s engaging theatrical hand gestures as he attempts to keep his wife, his brother-in-law and his father-in-law engaged. You would’ve expected Mrs. Gojo to avert her gaze the second yours locked with hers, but she doesn’t. She just continues to look at you with a soft smile on her face and a slight tilt to her head, like she’s getting used to the sight of seeing you at this table.

Her gaze flits downwards slightly and you follow her line of gaze, tracing it to the ring that was adorning your left hand. 

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Oh–” you stutter, the words already getting caught in your throat, “I–...I forgot to say, it’s an honor to wear your ring, Mrs. Gojo.” The table suddenly goes quiet, and you can’t tell if it’s because of you, or if it’s because there was no more story left to tell. “It’s beautiful.”

It truly felt like for every two steps you took forward, it was ten steps backwards. Because you watch the way that soft smile of hers entirely drops, her expression replaced with one of confusion, brows knitted together as she looks at you like you’ve just spoken in a language no one on Earth can speak. 

She glances at Gojo, and you don’t have to look at him  to tell that he’s stiff in his seat. You could’ve felt the tension from a mile away. 

Mrs. Gojo looks at you again. “Oh honey, that–” She glances between you and Gojo. “That’s not my ring…”

Your eyes widen, cheeks already flush from whatever’s to come.

But suddenly, and to your surprise, Sana speaks up. “It was our mother’s ring.”

You look at her with confusion. And then you glance at Gojo. And then you glance back at Sana. And then at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo.

“But…” you trail off.

“Sumiko and Daichi are our aunt and uncle,” Sana says with a strained voice, “our real parents died in a house fire when we were younger.”

You blink at her in shock.

“He didn’t tell you?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“I–” You glance at Gojo and see that he’s poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the glass of scotch he was twirling around in his hand.

“Of course he didn’t,” Sana interrupts, the bitterness in her voice matching the attitude she’s since displayed this entire evening. Her gaze is locked onto her brother’s face, and when his gaze flickers up to meet her eye contact, his expression is set with a tense jaw. “He never wants to mention them. He never wants to acknowledge their life. He never wants to honor them. He just wants to pretend like they never existed.”

“Sana,” he cuts her off, and a chill gets sent down your spine from the seriousness and rigidity in his voice. “Now’s not the time for this.”

“When is the fucking time?!” she spats at him, the simmering tension brewing over. Ah. Yes. The moment you had been expecting. After all, what family does not have its baggage? Sana abruptly stands up from the table, startling everyone with the clanking of silverware and ceramic from the motion. “When is the fucking time for you to admit that you never gave a shit about mom and dad dying? When is the fucking time for you to admit that we moved on to live with these people so fast? When is the fucking time for you to admit how wrong it was for you to force me to call the people here my mom and dad my whole life when they aren’t?” Her voice cracks near the end.

You glance at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo, who both look shocked, hurt, even embarrassed as they gaze down at their food. Your heart stalls in your chest for them.

When you glance back at Gojo, you see that his gaze is hardened even further now. “You’re being rude,” he says, in as steady of a voice as he can manage from the way his brow is creased with disappointment. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sana says as she wipes at the tears with her sleeves, and you notice that she looks young like this. Younger than the usual prim and proper self that she portrays. Too young to be a mom, too young to be a wife, too young to be an adult. Like someone propelled into a life that she never wanted. “That’s always what you say, isn’t it? No answers, you just claim that I’m being childish and rude.” Jun tries to reach out to hold her hand but she snatches it away from him. Under her breath she says, “I didn’t want to come here. I should’ve just stayed home.” And with a rough swipe of her sleeve across both of her cheeks, she suddenly storms off somewhere deep into the house. Jun immediately stands up to follow her, leaving the four of you here with stale, cold food.

The timer in the oven goes off, the sound heard in the distance like a lifeline, and Mrs. Gojo immediately stands up. “Ah, must be…the roasted potatoes. I’ll be right back,” she fusses, and you avert your gaze from her face so she doesn’t feel embarrassed over the streak of a tear you saw streaming down her face.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Gojo says in a small sheepish mumble before following his wife into the kitchen.

And then there were two.

You only have a moment to process the dramatic outburst and subsequent fall-through before you turn in your chair to face Gojo, your face narrowing in contempt. You see him running a hand through his hair, entirely ruffling out any sort of neatness he had combed it into earlier, and he undoes the top button of his shirt with an impatient thumb like he was letting go of whatever image he had been trying to keep up for tonight, because after what just happened, there was no use. 

“So when were you going to tell me that they aren’t actually your real parents???” you hiss at him.

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “They’ve raised us since Sana was just three years old. I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“Okay well if I had known then I wouldn’t have mentioned the ring??? Now everyone’s left the table because of me.”

“It’s not because of you,” he quickly corrects you, “it’s because of years of unnecessary drama of which I’ve still got no fucking clue why it still gets brough up at every. family. dinner. If you didn’t bring it up, then they would’ve figured out a way to bring it up somehow anyways.”

You blink at him, a little taken aback by how dejected he was by this entire conversation.

“Are you going to go check on Sana?” you ask him.

“No,” he says without hesitation, “she’ll calm down soon enough.”

You press your lips into a thin line, contemplating his dismissal, before you let out a huff of disappointment and disapproval. You pull your napkin off of your lap, setting it up on the table, and slip out of your chair to head into the house in the direction you saw Sana storm off into, leaving Gojo to himself at the table.

As you walk down the hallway, all those pictures you saw hung up on the walls, those photos of illusion that painted this pretty picture of a nuclear family fall apart in the narrow space, those firm smiles and hesitant postures making much more sense to you now. They aren’t even his real parents. Baseball and wedding rings. Those details belonged to a life he never intended on sharing with you. 

You walk past the kitchen, stopping briefly just beyond the entrance before backtracking and you find Sana standing near the sink with her arm across her chest as her other hand wipes at her cheeks. The soft sound of a sniffle echoes in the room and you’re surprised to see that Jun left her alone.

Tentatively, you shuffle your feet across the wooden floor. She seems to make note of you in her periphery but refuses to glance up. 

“Hey…” you start when you finally make it to the space in front of her, your hip leaning against the edge of the sink counter in parallel with hers as you face her.

“I—” she starts, shuffling her palms across her cheeks again. “I am so severely embarrassed.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the honesty. “Don’t be. It’s just family.”

“No but that’s the point,” she says through a crack in her voice, “I’m thirty-one, I’m married, I’m a mom, but they’ll always just see me as some immature little brat because I always behave like this.”

You don’t know what to say. You suppose if you were a therapist, or a priest, or a mentor, or a mom yourself, or any other person with an emotional IQ higher than yourself, you would know the right thing to say to her right now. But you don’t. So silence is all that you can offer her, and you hope that it’s enough.

It seems to work in it’s own magical way, as she slowly opens herself up to you within the next passing sixty seconds. A fleeting glance up to your face. The halt of pointless fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. The way she stands up straighter, her hip no longer leaning against the kitchen counter, and you find that you mirror the same movement.

She clears her throat, rubbing her nose with the knuckle of her index finger, her eyes no longer glistening with tears but the corners of them look puffy.

You glance down at your feet for a moment before inhaling deep and making eye contact with her. “Hey, listen…” you say, “I’m—…I’m really sorry…about earlier today. For overstepping about the bullying. Juno’s your daughter, and I really shouldn’t have given her advice before at least running it by you beforehand. Especially for something so sensitive.”

The delicate muscles of her brow lift in surprise at your words, lids fluttering slowly as she processes your words, and the wave of melancholy is contagious as it washes through you as well.

“I’m sorry too,” she says, “for how angry I got with you. It’s just—” she hesitates, and you see that semblance of her that you’re more familiar with. Strict, stern, rough around the edges but for a noble reason. “Y’know, with kids…we tend to get overprotective over them.” Her gaze drops to somewhere beneath yourselves as if she suddenly lost confidence in her train of thought. “I’m just trying to do the right thing for her.”

A silence settles between the two of you before you realize you ought to respond to her.

“I get it,” you finally say. “I mean—…I don’t. Because I’m not a mom. But…I’m sure that when I am one some day, I’d understand.”

She finally offers you a smile in return to your words, polite but genuine nonetheless. And a soft remnant sniffle makes her ruffle her nose.

Her expression softens, and she stares straight ahead to your collarbone rather than your eyes. “She really likes you, you know?” Sana glances up at you now. “Hasn’t stopped talking about your ‘blubbery’ pancakes since last week.”

“Aww.”

There’s a sad glint in her eyes when she turns her torso away from you slightly in resignation before some hint of optimism flashes by in her face and she turns to you again.

“Do you…think you could give me the recipe?”

You want to ask her if everything is okay. But instead, you say, “sure.”

The sound of footsteps approaching is heard near the kitchen entrance and the two of you glance in that direction to see Jun walking in. He offers you a fleeting glance before taking his place beside Sana, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling him towards her before placing a kiss on her temple and saying, “hey honey.” 

You watch as she averts her gaze down to the tips of her toes.

“Feeling better?” he asks her but there’s this lack of warmth you cannot quite discern.

“Yes,” she responds, scratching at her cheek as a discreet way of getting rid of the last remaining wetness that had streamed down her face earlier.

He rubs her arm soothingly and then looks at you with a smile pressed into a firm line. “Doing alright?”

You blink at him. “Wh—…yes.”

“Say, y/n, how’s your mom doing by the way?” he asks.

“She’s…better. She’s in hospice now.”

“Palliative?”

“Well—” you say, “I guess. It’s just temporary.”

He shuffles inside the pocket of his coat and takes out something. A small card with finely printed black ink on it. He hands it to you.

“I can’t imagine how expensive that all must be,” he says, and you glance down at the card.

Carevest Capital est. 2016

Invest in a healthier you!

You glance up at Jun. Sana’s gaze has now shifted to the inside of the sink.

“I started this business,” he says, “where we’re revolutionizing the way healthcare costs are managed. In our platform, we basically invest our clients’ money into the stock market, leveraging our high-reward algorithm to maximize returns. But here’s the unique part: we partner with leading healthcare CEOs who match a portion of the profits as an incentive for stock purchases. Together, these funds go directly toward paying off hospital bills and easing related financial burdens.”

Your eyes widen at his words. The speech was practiced, one you can only assume he has pitched to many potential clientele. But there’s a hint of personable grace to it as well.

“I’m telling you, y/n, we’ve had clients who have overcome six figures of medical debt in just six months,” he says, “and you’ll only need a couple thousand dollars to start yourself up.”

You purse your lips together, your finger pinching the corner of the card. “That’s amazing, Jun.”

He smiles at you, releasing Sana’s waist. “Sorry if this kinda came out of nowhere, but I heard through the grapevine that things have been rough.”

Oh, like how your card has declined publicly at the grocery store multiple times, or how you haven’t been able to afford your insurance deductible to get that chipped off part of your bumper fixed, or the fact you haven’t paid your landscapers in over three months so your lawn now looks like a swamp? It was a small town. And people’s finances were always a topic of interest for most.

“I just wanted to offer any help I can,” Jun says.

“Thanks,” you say, returning his smile, “I’ll, um, I’ll look into it.” You push the card into your pocket.

He offers you that same firm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he pulls Sana to him again, placing another kiss along her hairline and the PDA seems like overcompensation on some front from the way Sana is entirely frigid to his touch. 

Maybe it was a woman’s intuition,

But you felt like something was wrong.

“Kids,” you hear Mr. Gojo’s crackly voice say as he stands leaning against the doorframe near the kitchen entrance, “let’s finish dinner?”

The three of you exchange glances before nodding and heading back towards the hall.

Your peach cobbler was apparently very good, the only thing that seemed to cut through the tension of the night. But that was the thing with family, right? You can yell and scream and cry and lecture and mope and roll your eyes at each other all you want but at the end of the day, they’re still family. Sana still seems slightly dejected though, and you can see Gojo in the corner of your eye at the table glancing up at her every other minute or so. His own way of making sure she’s doing okay, you think to yourself. Sana refuses to meet anyone’s line of sight except yours, however, which makes you feel some slight burdensome responsibility of sisterhood you had never signed up for. Nonetheless, you try to offer her a soothing smile whenever she looks up at you, and it seems to put her at ease.

The news of Sana and Jun moving seemed slightly anticlimactic, as Mrs. Gojo mentioned that they had already had an inkling that Jun and Sana would be moving closer to the city. You briefly wonder if Mrs. Gojo knew all along, but decided to make the announcement into some big affair just so that she could see her niece and nephew over a meal.

You make no more embarrassing comments. Conversation dulls into anything and everything unpersonal to you all, such as the news and weather and gossip of other people. And somewhere along the night, you relax your knee, the ball of it pressing into Gojo’s thigh underneath the table. It was wordless, innocent contact that occurs when two people become more comfortable with one another. Only excusable due to the slight buzz you felt in your veins from the wine. He’s kissed you before, yet somehow the press of his thigh against yours feels even more searing. There’s a point along the night where you tip your head to the right slightly, daringly close to resting your head on his shoulder due to the tipsy dizziness weighing in your head, and it would certainly put on a convincing show of newlywed affection for his aunt and uncle, but you manage to catch yourself. And subsequently refuse any more glasses of wine.

“Thanks for having me,” you say to Mrs. Gojo at the front entrance before she pulls you in for a hug.

“Oh, anytime dear,” she says as she gently pats your back, “please.”

When she pulls away from the hug, she holds you by your shoulders before her eyes glance down towards your left hand and the shimmering diamond that sat on the ring finger. She holds your hand in hers and lifts it to examine the twinkle underneath the lights of the chandelier.

“It really is a pretty ring,” she says, her eyes glossing over. “It looked beautiful on my sister, and it looks beautiful on you too.”

Your breath hitches slightly in your throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Gojo.”

“Please,” she says in response to the title, “Sumiko is fine.” But in less of a way in which she’s relaxing formalities, but rather in a way that acknowledges she never had the sovereignty to be called that in the first place.

You hear masculine voices approaching down the hallway as the three men make their way towards the front entrance as well. Gojo glances at you in the midst of their conversation, and he leaves the two of them to make his way over to you.

“Alright,” Gojo says, turning to face the rest of them as he stands beside you. “We’ll head out now.”

Sumiko pulls him in for a hug, then his uncle, and then obnoxiously by Jun as well. Sana fidgets with her fingers as she remains at the end of the line, and you catch a glimpse of surprise on her face when Gojo pulls her in for a hug too. You see him whisper something to her, and it’s only after she hears what he said that she returns the hug and wraps her arms around him as well.

You’re jolted out of your people-watching trance when Gojo walks up to you and takes your hand in his, shoving his other in his pocket. You glance down at the sight, the way his large hand engulfs your own. It’s warm in a firm hold, delicately squeezing your hand once right before you feel the cold air behind you when his uncle opens the door.

Well, you survived. That’s what you think to yourself as you sit in the passenger seat of Gojo’s car, watching the city lights twinkle as you two drive by. You don’t know what you were expecting. Drama? Ease? Tension? For a piece of the sky to fall and land on the roof? There was a part of you that wanted to impress. You want to be one of those daughter-in-laws that the in-laws just adore. You know, where they’re like, god am I so happy that she’s a part of the family now! The one that the mother-in-law is just so ecstatic to know that her son managed to hold down such a catch.

But any expectations and pressure dissolve with the reminder that this is all fake. Fake, fake, fake. And you’d do really well to remind yourself of that reality whenever you spent time with Gojo. Whenever you find yourself acclimating into his life for even a moment, just remember that it’s fake. Can you have a little fun here and there? Sure. Will you probably find yourself in even stranger situations going forward? Yes, because, well, that’s how life is. But it’s just fake. No obligations, no responsibility, nothing. Nada. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

But as you walk through the front door, staring straight ahead into the dark house at Gojo’s back as he sets down the keys by the foyer table, and even as you follow him further into the house towards the kitchen, that feeling inside you surges. 

A woman's intuition.

That something between Jun and Sana was wrong.

Not just routine marital issues,

Or the occasional argument,

Something worse. Something dangerous.

And it’s not something you would ever expect a man to pick up on, even Gojo.

Because it was from the way Sana’s eyes silently communicated with you from across the table,

Something so subtle, a silent plea across a shared dimension,

That she needed help.

“Hey…” you speak up softly, standing in front of the fridge. 

Gojo glances over his shoulder at you from the other side of the kitchen island, barely illuminated by the moonlight through the windows. He turns to face you. “What’s up?”

You blink at him. 

“Um, I really don’t want to overstep again, but—”

There’s a sobering thought that flashes through your mind when you recall that you have never seen yourself as the hero in anyone’s story.

Simply because you could never, ever, ever trust yourself.

You could never trust your feelings or your decisions.

Because you cosigned on hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical loans. Because you stuck around for five years with a man that didn’t love you anymore. Because you still feel naive enough to believe that your best friend who betrayed you still misses you somehow. Because you still foolishly believe your mother will be around to hold her grandchildren someday.

Because you thought that your best bet in order to pull yourself out of hell was to fake marry a man,

And then act as if it’s all real when his aunt looks you in the eye with bittersweet tears as you now wear her bereaved sister’s ring in honor, entirely unaware it was actually being worn in vain.

How could you ever trust your judgement when you behave this way? 

Never the hero. If anything, the villain.

“What is it?” Gojo repeats when he sees that you’ve been silent for too long. He tilts his head at you, his hair falling over his forehead haphazardly and he runs a hand through it to try to get it out of his face. Even in the dim light, his eyes shine a breathtaking blue.

You swallow hard.

“Um,” you say, and then glance down at the wetness you find at your heel. “The, um, the fridge is leaking again.”

He blinks at you for a solid ten seconds, and then the tension in his shoulders drops when he sulks and closes his eyes with exhaustion and defeat.

“Fuck. Okay.”

.

.

.

[end of chapter 5]

a/n. looool i really keep thinking i can post shorter chapters and them bam they be 10k+ words. but i swearrr it's just cuz i be yapping :(( anywho hope you enjoyed this chapter!! a lot of characters were kinda introduced and mm given a bit more depth in this chapter. sorry there wasn't as much romance or anything in this one though haha there will be more in the next one :0 big big thank you to my lovely ihm beta readers ayelin, jules, leni & mirl for helping me out w this chapter!! i believe i may have mentioned this before but i STRUGGLLEEEE with multi-character scenes (i'm much more comfy writing scenes that just have back n forth between two characters) so this chapter was challenginggg esp the whole dinner sequences and there were also a lot of complicated feelings at play, descriptions, stuff i wasn't sure if it was coming off the right way (and tbh am still not sure haha) but they really helped me work my thoughts out n gave wonderful suggestions too so tysm :'') much loveee!! hope to see you all in the next one <3 - ellie

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[kamaluhkhan]

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 10.5k summary: after years away, vi returns home for the holidays and reunites with you, her ex-girlfriend. the universe (*cough cough* and your meddling families) push you together again, and neither of you can ignore the feelings that linger. (or: you, vi, and the ghosts of christmas past, present and future.) warnings: reader is ekko's older sister but not necessarily biological so appearance isn't specified; childhood friends to lovers + second chance romance; reader gets hit on by a creepy guy + gets into a fight (injury + blood mention), smut [strap mention (reader receiving), oral (both receiving), fingering (both receiving), biting, spitting, tribbing, sub!vi makes an appearance...kinda rough + possessive sex but there's aftercare too <33] (18+) ! a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR GIRLS AND GAYS <33 tbh i debated whether to post this now bc xmas was like....3 weeks ago but figured i might as well. so pls enjoy what is essentially an x-rated sapphic hallmark holiday movie.

♪: ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift (sun); winterbreak by MUNA (moon); last christmas by wham! (rising)

track 1: thank god it’s christmas by queen

(winter — age 17)

“okay, just relax your fingers — no, but keep some tension, apply a bit of pressure on the string….yep, that’s better. now, straighten your back….”

it’s dark and snowing outside, and the cold’s seeping in through the window of her attic bedroom, but vi still almost melts into the floor when you follow her advice and press against her chest. she worries that you can feel how fast her heart is beating — faster than it maybe should for someone she’d been calling friend ever since she could remember. 

you shift in her lap, her arms still wrapped around yours from when she offered to guide you through an instrumental version of wham’s “last christmas.” you tilt your head towards her, nose almost brushing against hers. 

“vi?”

“....yes?”

“maybe we should finish our lesson another time. we better hurry up, anyways. i bet ekko and powder are already arguing over whether we should watch home alone or home alone two.”

vi snorts. it’s practically a tradition at this point, along with the annual post-christmas-dinner pyjama movie night.

you try to hand her the bright pink guitar pick, but vi shakes her head.

“it’s yours. you’re gonna need it if you want more lessons.” 

“hm, or maybe i could sell it for a billion dollars once you’re a big rockstar,” you tease. “i can picture thousands of fangirls painting your portrait and writing mrs. violet lanes in their notebooks.” 

you get up, shoot her a wink, and leave vi on the bed, clutching her guitar and trying to get her pulse under control. 

neither of you say anything as you both get changed. the stereo plays the mixtape you’d made for her — you got her for secret santa this year.

“my mom loved this song,” vi hums, a warm ache growing in her chest when the next song plays. this is the second christmas without her, but vi is still not used to using past tense. “she thought freddie mercury was the best rockstar of all time.”

“i remember. you…you must miss her.” 

of course she does, and she could run through a million reasons why.

“vander says you’ll be spending new year’s at your dad’s,” is what she says instead.

you let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “yeah.”

“your mom going, too?”

“just me and ekko. i swear, it’s like he’s trying to be this perfect dad to his new stepkids, meanwhile he’s the one who left us here to deal with his mess, the one who just ran away, and….whatever.” this time, you do scoff. “hey – do you have a shirt i could borrow?”

vi looks over to find that you’ve switched from the velvet dress you wore during dinner into a pair of flannel plaid pants; her cheeks flush when she sees that you’re only wearing a black lacy bralette on top. 

she clears her throat and pulls a clean jersey from her dresser, tosses it over to you. 

“that’s a shame. i was looking forward to spending new year’s eve together.”

you hum and slip the shirt over your shoulders. the only sources of light are the moon and the stars and the multicoloured christmas lights strung along vi’s walls, but she swore that your eyes flick down to her lips. 

“why’s that?” you ask. 

there’s something absolutely dizzying about being this close to you, the way your sparkly eyes wait patiently for her to respond. joni mitchell sings about skating away on a river, and vi wishes she could skate away from this conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. 

vi blinks away from your gaze and fixates on one of the many things she’s pinned up on her bedroom walls throughout the years. it’s a page torn from an old notebook of yours, something from seventh grade math class, but vi always loved your little drawings in the margins. 

vi?” you prompt, never one to let go easily.

“i want to kiss you at midnight,” she confesses.

“yeah?” 

vi nods. she’s tempted to walk out of her room, down the stairs and out into the winter night, until you weave your fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. she looks up — and you’re beaming, a smile that brightens vi’s entire being. 

“i want that too.”

vi finally, finally crashes her mouth onto yours, lips sticky with marshmallow fluff.

you taste like vanilla and gingerbread and hot chocolate that is definitely not spiked with irish cream that vi slipped into your mugs while you distracted the adults. 

you taste like home.

….

so, slight change of plans….i’m gonna stay here in london with the rest of the band. apparently the kirammans throw a super fancy holiday party with super fancy people every year, and cait convinced her parents to let us perform. fingers crossed someone important discovers us.

merry christmas, baby. and, if i don’t get the chance to say it: happy new year.

….

track 2: winter wonderland by darlene love

(winter — age 12)

you’re supposed to be looking after ekko while your parents are at work, but all that really means is making a big bowl of kraft dinner and stove-top s’mores for lunch and watching old christmas specials on the worn-out living room couch while you draw in your sketchbook and your brother, only 7 years old, programs the doorbell to play ‘jingle bells.’ 

when someone rings the doorbell, the tune floats through the house and wakes up your dog who starts barking like it’s the end of the world. 

“easy, ziggy.” you click a marker closed and run a hand through the husky’s fur, attempting to calm him down. “let’s go see who it is.”

you open the door, and there’s vi: snowflakes sparkling on her eyelashes, pink hair hidden under a knitted hat, and a toothy grin that brings out the dimple in her flushed cheeks. she’s also got a split lip and crooked nose from her last hockey game.

“we’re building a fort,” she tells you. she shuffles to the side so that you can see powder, who’s making a snow angel. “well, we’re going to. wanna join?”

you nod, smiling. “ekko!” 

your brother’s already behind you, slipping on his chunky boots and oversized coat that used to be yours before running outside and collapsing onto the fluffy snow next to powder. ziggy bolts outside, too, running circles around them. 

you stumble to get your winter gear on as fast as possible, the cold air rushing inside your front hallway as vi waits for you, kicking her snowy boot against the concrete entryway step. not even a heartbeat after shutting the door behind you, vi takes your gloved hand in hers and pulls you forward, the two of you a flurry of laughter.

…..

hey, pretty girl. i was at this party and one of your songs came on! every time i hear it, i’m in awe of how amazing it is….how amazing you are. i’m basically walking home in a snowstorm, so i’m gonna go before my fingers freeze off, but i just wanted to say that i’m so proud of my rockstar girlfriend.

i was also wondering: are you coming home any time soon? the holidays are coming up, and i really miss you. we all do.  

…..

track 3: last christmas by wham!

(winter — now)

vi should have learned from sonic youth and fleetwood mac: 

no sex or romance between bandmates. it never ends well.

it was bad enough giving into the rumors and fooling around with cait, but it’s another layer of messiness now that cait and maddie dating. meanwhile, cait is very much still bitter towards vi, vi is very much pining after someone whom she’s pretty sure never wants to see her again, and steb and lorris are very much caught in the middle. it’s no wonder the band’s manager suggested everyone take some time apart to ease the tension. frankly, while others protested, vi was almost relieved at the suggestion.

so cait’s off to london, maddie’s off to glasgow, the boys are going god knows where, and vi —

vi’s heading back home, back to you.

she wakes up in the bed of her childhood for the first time in a long time. her dad put on fresh sheets, but they’re still the same ones from back then — worn flannel with cartoon penguins. it takes a lot of willpower to untangle herself from the warmth and cloud-like softness, but eventually she heads downstairs to the kitchen.

powder still has exams so she’s not home from college until tomorrow, and vander’s gone to work. it’s just vi in her too-small christmas pyjamas (she has yet to unpack), eating a box of stale cinnamon pop-tarts for breakfast even though it’s well past noon. curiosity gets the best of her, so she peers through the window to see if anyone is next door.

your mom’s car is in the driveway, completely snowed in. there had only been a dusting of snow while vi was devouring the first pastry, but four pop-tarts in and it’s about doubled. she waits until the snow stops falling; with nothing better to do and a sugar rush to burn off, vi pulls on her old winter coat and snow boots she hasn’t worn since she was 18, grabs a shovel from the garage, and gets to work. 

it doesn’t take her long to clear the driveway, and she has some adrenaline to spare, so she decides to be a good neighbor. 

vi’s heaving one last shovelful of snow over her shoulder when she hears:

“violet? is that you?” 

she turns around. and, okay the first thing she registers is ziggy running towards her, the husky toppling her over into the snow.

“i missed you too, zig,” vi laughs. 

she gets up as ziggy’s still bounding around in the snow, and sees your mom standing in the doorway, looking a little more tired and a little more gray. but the smile on her face when she sees that it is, in fact, vi — it’s so bright that the snow might not exactly melt away, but the years sure do. 

vi remembers making snow angels with you while your moms gossiped over tea, how the two of you would stomp inside with a mess of slush and snow while laughter echoed from the living room. vi remembers your mom keeping a comforting arm around her shoulder through her mom’s funeral while you held her hand. she remembers your mom helping her pick out the perfect corsage to match your suit at prom, making a joke about how next time it might be an engagement ring, and telling vi how proud her mother would have been of her at your high school graduation party. 

with the golden glow of nostalgia comes a crashing wave of guilt at what vi said to you last time you spoke. 

“come inside, sweetheart. i’ll make you some hot cocoa as a thank you.”

vi is tempted to reject the offer, but your mom looks so hopeful and vi’s fingers are about to freeze off, anyways. 

so your mom makes hot cocoa as vi defrosts, the two of them chatting in the familiar yellow kitchen that you and vi once almost burnt down while trying to bake a cake for powder’s birthday. even the magnets and paper memories decorating the fridge are the same, with the addition of an article about vi’s band that was featured in the rolling stone, pinned up by a ceramic cow. 

“she’s an art teacher now,” your mom tells vi after giving an update on ekko. she glances at the oven clock. “speaking of which — i know you just finished shoveling our driveway, but do you mind helping me with another favor?”

“after the world’s best hot chocolate? anything.”

“i told my daughter that i’d pick her up from work, and i’m wondering if you would be able to take care of that.” your mom smiles. “i’m sensing a bad migraine coming on.”

the last sip of hot chocolate trickles down vi’s throat like cement. she knew she’d be seeing you, but didn’t quite plan for how that….reunion might go.

“of course,” vi says. 

vi puts both of their mugs in the dishwasher, about to grab the car keys from the hook by the door when your mom calls out: 

“oh, and violet?” vi turns around. “i’m so glad you’re home.”

you’re talking to a student when vi enters the art room of your old high school. nothing else in the building had changed — same boring concrete, same scratched up lockers, same graffiti immortalizing whom hooked up with whom. this room is the exception, vibrant with how students’ art is displayed all around, paintings and drawings and collages, and you’ve strung up multicolored christmas lights that give the whole space a cozy ambiance. you look the part of a cool, young art teacher: wearing a simple dark purple turtleneck tucked into black jeans and the same combat boots you’ve had since tenth grade, paint stains on your skin that is exposed by rolled up sleeves, and a marker behind your ear. you’re standing in front of an easel, talking to the student who happens to notice vi before you do.

“holy shit. is that violet lanes?”

vi watches as your face scrunches up in confusion, and then falls into shock when you see her standing there.

“it seems that it is violet lanes,” you state coolly while the student squeals. “what are you doing here?”

“oh, i, uh,” vi clears her throat, her palms sweaty. why is her body reacting like she’s a teenager about to ask out her crush for the first time? “your mom wasn’t feeling great, asked if i could pick you up from work.”

“you guys are friends?” the student asks, eyes wide as they flick between you and vi. 

“we used to date, actually,” vi clarifies. wrong move, she realizes, because you can’t help but glare at her.

“oh my god.” the student squeals again and reaches in their pocket to whip out their phone. “i need to tell alyssa that ms. l/n was in a relationship with the violet lanes. are you guys gonna get back together? oh my god, have you come to win her back —”

“layla,” you clip, and by the furrow of layla’s brow, it seems like you’re not usually so stern. you smile at layla, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’ve done some great work today, but you’ll have to finish this when we’re back from winter break. do you mind giving ms. lanes and i a minute?”

layla nods once, gathers her things. when she walks past vi, she can’t help but ask for an autograph. vi complies, of course, even lets her take a selfie. a fan is a fan, after all.

and, quite frankly this is the only part of being in the band that she still enjoys: hearing how excited young girls are at the music she writes, the music that vi wished she had growing up, about girls liking girls, about girls falling in and out of love with each other. everything else is just an occupational hazard that vi’s getting more and more fed up with. 

when vi turns her attention back to you, you’re finished putting all the material away, wiping your hands with an already paint-stained towel.

“i meant what you’re doing back in town,” you explain, not quite meeting vi’s eyes. you pack away some books and your laptop into a supple leather briefcase, and slip on your coat. vi’s cheeks flush when you catch her watching you. 

“it…it doesn’t matter. i’m here for a while, though.” 

you sigh. “okay.” and you don’t say anything more. vi keeps up with you as you switch off the lights, lock the door, and stride to the parking lot in silence. when you get to the car, you extend your hand.

“i’m driving,” you say, gesturing at her to give you the keys. “we both know that you’re a terrible driver.”

“i’m not a terrible driver,” vi guffaws. 

“says the lesbian who gives the rest of us a bad name,” you quip, a hint of a smile dancing across your lips, like the first bout of sun after a winter storm. “c’mon, pretty girl. i’m not giving up, so unless you wanna freeze to death….” 

the nickname slips effortlessly from your tongue, so much so that you don’t even seem to realize it, but vi’s breath hitches and she’s more than happy to fold to your every whim if it means hearing you call her pretty one more time. 

“so….” vi glances over at you from the passenger seat. a snowy landscape passes outside the window, and you tap on the steering wheel to a generic christmas song that plays through the stereo. “you’re teaching high school now?” 

she wonders if you remember the last fight you had, almost two years ago to the day.

you keep your eyes on the road. “yeah. guess i graduated from finger-painting with kindergarteners.”

vi feels her cheeks heat up all over again. 

so, you do remember. 

she wonders if you’ve replayed it over and over again and hoped for a different ending like she did. she should have thought more about what to actually say to you —

“you know, i never understood why you liked this song so much,” you suddenly say when the radio starts playing dolly parton’s cover of ‘i’ll be home for christmas.’ 

vi can read between the lines, but she’s waiting for you to point out the irony in her preference for a song that’s about someone wanting to go home for christmas, something vi has deliberately avoided at all costs these past few years. 

“it just seems kinda sad,” you continue. 

“you love ‘last christmas,’ and that one’s pretty sad,” vi points out.

“sure, but it ends hopefully.”

“oh?” vi tilts her head towards you. “how’d you figure? 

“sure, it’s someone singing about heartbreak and how much it sucks during christmastime, but then there’s this hope that they still find true love down the line. it’s a maybe that isn’t hopeless.” you shrug. “meanwhile, your song ends with the lyric ‘if only in my dreams,’ which just seems too accepting of the fact that going home for christmas, being with the person they love — it might just be a dream.”

“i don’t know. some dreams do come true,” vi muses. 

by now, you’ve made it home. you put the car in park but keep the engine going, presumably to avoid becoming icicles. neither of you make a move to leave. 

you glance over at vi. “your dreams sure came true, ms. violet lanes,” you joke, but there’s an air of sadness to it.

“not all of them.”

“yeah? which ones haven’t?”

vi swallows the lump in her throat and hopes that you understand the look in her eyes. “let’s just say i’m working on them.”

you blink away and cut the engine.

….

you’re still dealing with the shock of seeing vi back in town when your brother, freshly home from college, suggests going skating. 

he can be fairly convincing, especially when he mentions that it’s a christmas season tradition, so, you prepare for what is essentially a double date with your brother, his girlfriend/your ex-girlfriend’s sister, and your ex-girlfriend, with isha as a fifth wheel.

should be fun. 

it turns out, despite all her past hockey experience, vi really cannot skate. in fact, skating seems to be the complete opposite of riding a bike: she’s terrible at it after years off the ice, essentially reenacting that scene from bambi. it’s easier to ignore vi’s presence when she’s sitting next to the snack bar, by herself, but then powder skates up next to you and asks if you’d be kind enough to please help her sister have a good time. you roll your eyes at her shit-eating grin, but it is a bit sad, watching vi on the sidelines. she’s wearing a beanie and a pair of sunglasses to hide her identity, and now she kinda looks like a divorced dad watching his grown kids pass him by while he’s stuck in a midlife crisis.

you convince vi to give skating another shot — it’s tradition after all — and pull her out onto the rink. you start by holding her from behind, keeping her hips steady until she gets the hang of it. you try to let go, but vi stumbles and reaches out for your gloved hand, and you melt into the familiarity of her fingers curled around yours. the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, first with you pulling vi along, then with her taking the lead, until vi almost knocks into a small child.

“see what i mean by you being a bad driver?” you jest, successfully maneuvering to avoid collision. 

then, you follow where vi’s eyes have settled — on powder and isha laughing and chasing each other around the rink. vi had asked earlier when isha had dyed her hair blue; you still have some residue under your nails from last weekend, when powder came for a study break and the three of you ended up helping isha achieve a new look she’d apparently been itching to try. 

“you know powder’s graduating this year?” 

“she overloaded her credits so she could get out of there as soon as possible,” you explain, having had many conversations with powder leading up to the decision. 

vi nods, her jaw clenched. you already know what she’s thinking, and frankly, you agree: that vi hasn’t been here, literally and figuratively. you also feel the warmth of vi’s skin radiating through her glove to yours, notice the slight flush to her freckled cheeks, how chapped her lips are from the cold, so much so that you’re tempted to share the vanilla chapstick you’ve got on your own lips, to kiss her deeply like you did last time you were here, together.

it’s only been three days since vi’s been back home. this is only the second time you’ve seen her, and you’re already falling back into old patterns, tempted to ask her to stay, to try again, even though you already know the answer.

except….not staying isn’t the deal breaker it used to be, so maybe trying again isn’t as hopeless as you think it is.

vi squeezes your hand, and you realize that you’ve stopped skating entirely. 

“hey. you still with me?”

you nod, decide to enjoy this moment for as long as you can, and the two of you glide across the ice.

…..

when you suggest making stove-top s’mores, it’s another item on the list of things she’d missed. 

a list that’s been growing a lot these past few days.

vi offers to make more once you’ve all run out, and ekko follows her into their kitchen while you, powder, and isha keep watching christmas specials in the living room. she turns on the gas stove, stabs a marshmallow through a wooden skewer and waits for it to roast — and, for ekko to say something.

“i don’t know what happened between you and my sister, but i need you to promise me that the tabloids aren’t true. that you and that kiramman chick didn’t hook up…at least until after y’all broke up.” 

“or, what, you’re gonna challenge me to an arm wrestle? think you can finally beat me?”

“oh, i know it.”

a pause. the marshmallow catches on fire and vi blows on it to quell the damage.

“i didn’t cheat on her.” she throws out the burnt marshmallow and gives it another shot. “i would never. does….does she think i did?”

ekko shrugs. “not sure. some of those articles are pretty convincing. but, since you’re promising me that you didn’t…”

“i didn’t.”

“then that saves me from kicking your ass.” ekko nods once and uncrosses his arms, handing vi some graham crackers and chocolate. “actually, i could use your help with something.”

“sure.”

“she applied to this great art residency in new york, like, on whim. the only people she’s told are me, powder, and vander….i think she’s nervous to tell mom, at least until she knows for sure she’s gotten in, but this is the most excited i’ve seen her be about something in a while, and she worked really hard on her application…” 

“i’m sure she did,” vi states. “what do you need my help with?”

“convincing her to go.” 

“i’d love to help, but i’m not sure i’m someone she’d wanna hear from, especially about this. she was never a fan of me leaving to pursue my dreams.”

“she was never a fan of you leaving,” ekko corrects. “she’s still a fan of you pursuing your dreams.” he juts his chin out at the article stuck to the fridge. 

vi had just assumed that your mom had pinned that up.

“okay.” vi says. “i’ll talk to her.” 

a plateful of semi-burnt s’mores later, and vi and ekko return to the living room with the rest of you. 

vi forgot how nice this felt, all of you cuddled on the couch, ziggy included, watching how the grinch stole christmas. she half expects her mom to walk in through the door without even knocking, shake the snow off her hair, and hold up a batch of pre-baked gingerbread people she’d gotten for the kids to decorate.

but that’s not happening. other than isha, none of you are kids anymore and things can never be the same.

and yet — you glance over at vi and give her a sticky marshmallow smile, and she feels her heart grow three sizes.

….

baby, i swear it’s not what it looks like. the record label thought it would be good promo to get a picture of me kissing under the mistletoe…’tis the season and all that…..cait and i were both really drunk and things got a bit out of hand….but it looks worse than it is. i swear on my mother���s grave that nothing happened.

please call me back, baby…..i’m so fucking sorry….please. 

it’s not christmas without at least hearing your voice. 

….

track 4: river by joni mitchell

(winter — age 23)

it’s hard to believe that hours ago, you were kissing vi backstage and showering her with praise after the concert. she was happy to indulge in your excitement, even though she was all sweaty and her ears were still ringing from the crowd. 

more than happy, in fact. phone sex can only go so far, and it’d been too long since vi had seen you writhe and heard you whimper for her firsthand. 

“i missed you so fucking much,” you groan, tightening your grip on vi’s hair. it’s now an inky black instead of fuschia — the band’s starting to lean more punk rock. 

a particularly hard thrust is her way of telling you that she missed you too. so fucking much. she throws your legs over her shoulders, pushing the strap deeper inside you and digging her knees into the mattress as she coaxes you through another orgasm. you pull her down for one last searing kiss, your tongue searching each crevice of her mouth. 

“i can’t believe you’re here,” vi continues a few moments later, after you’re both cleaned up and getting dressed. she wants to add something along the lines of i love you, but she bites back the sentiment. she’ll save that sappy shit for later tonight, when she finally gets down on one knee for you. 

you glance back at her from where you’re pulling out a sparkly silver dress from your side of the closet (and isn’t that such a slip of the mind? your side, as if it’s a shared closet and a shared bedroom and a shared home; if she thought about it more, though, she would realize that, though she has no problem asking you to marry her, she’s still terrified at the thought of staying in one place for more than a few months).

“me neither,” you smile. 

vi walks over to you, presses her half-dressed body against your lingerie-clad form (vi’s sure you wore this fuschia set just to drive her insane; it’s working). she lodges her hand behind your ear and pulls you in closer, kisses you deeply because you’re here and she missed you so fucking much and she’s so ready to make you her wife.

she could write a whole record just about the taste of your lips: the sweetness of vanilla chapstick, the saltiness of sweat and the headiness lingering from the wetness you lapped up from between her legs.

you pull away first. vi tries not to stare at how your chest heaves, your breasts straining against intricate lace. 

“we, um.” you clear your throat. you slip your hand underneath vi’s blazer, and she groans when you make contact with the exposed, burning skin of her abdomen. vi thinks you’re about to suggest another round, or two, or ten, but instead you untangle yourself from her and say: “we should probably get ready.”

the after party is going well. the club’s busy, the music’s good, and the drinks are flowing.

you seem to be having a great time until someone (probably cait or maddie, on cait’s behalf) lets it slip that the band’s heading to london later in the month to start recording their new album before the end of the year….something vi decidedly did not want to tell you until later tonight, after the high of the proposal, after she’s promised you that she’s dedicated to this relationship, that she’s always been dedicated to you. 

instead, vi’s trailing behind you as you angrily stomp towards the bathroom, her mind scrambling to come up with a way out of this argument.

there’s a line, but you cut in front and slip inside as soon as someone walks out. 

“wait, what the fu —”

you slam the door and lock it behind you once you’re both inside, ignoring the subsequent banging and jiggling of the handle.

“please, baby, let me explain —”

“i can’t fucking believe you,” your voice is steady, measured, and for some reason that makes vi even more nervous. “you give empty promise after empty promise that you’ll be more present, but something always gets in the way, is always more important than —”

“don’t you dare say that you’re not important to me. i offer to fly you out anywhere to be with me, but you’ve only taken me up on the offer once. twice, now.”

“it’s been five years, vi. five years of us staying together because….god, at this point i don’t even know why — ”

“do you not understand how much i love you?” vi raises her voice over the sound of the club music outside. “i was gonna propose tonight.”

you stare at her, then start to laugh.

“please tell me you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“if you think marriage will save us, then you’re delusional. what was your plan — call me your wife while we’re thousands of miles apart, but not even have the time to answer my calls? we’re barely in a relationship now, vi. all that’s left between us are missed calls and voicemails —” 

“oh that’s really all that’s left between us?” 

“i love you, violet. i have since we were kids. but, now, there’s also all this — the parties, the crowds, the fame….you’ve gone all over the world, and you can’t even be bothered to visit your family during the holidays.”

“well i’m sorry that my ambitions are bigger than that nothing town we grew up in,” vi snaps. “i can’t believe you’re throwing a tantrum because i’m not making it home for christmas. for what? so we can all reminisce by the fireplace, pretend that we can be kids again, even though things can —” vi chokes back a sob, soothes it with a healthy dose of anger. “things can never be the same. you need to grow the fuck up.”

“maybe you should be the one to grow up!” you finally yell. “convincing yourself that this relationship is working, meanwhile you’re running away from everything and everyone you grew up with because it reminds you of your —”

“at least i’m not afraid to actually go after my dreams,” vi cuts you off before you can finish that sentence, uses the broken shards of your words against you. “don’t you want more for your life than finger-painting with a bunch of kindergarteners? you’re gonna end up just like your deadbeat mom, going nowhere, drinking yourself to sleep, all alone, with nothing to show for the life you’ve lived.”

as soon as the words leave her mouth, vi wishes she could take them back. you don’t bother swallowing your tears, letting them rush down your cheeks. vi digs her nails into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and wiping them. it wouldn’t make sense, anyways. she’s the reason you’re crying. 

you take a deep, shaky breath.

“yeah, well, i’m glad that your mom isn’t alive to see what a selfish asshole you’ve become.” there’s a pause, and vi feels her stomach turn at your casual cruelty, your quiet anger. “i’m gonna pack up my stuff and catch the first flight out of here. merry fucking christmas and happy fucking new year. have a nice life.”

vi screams and throws the velvet box against the door you’ve slammed shut behind you. the hot tears that were building in her throat finally boil over. the engagement ring clatters onto the floor.

…..

vi? it’s me. not sure if you’ve blocked my number. i wouldn’t blame you. i know it’s been, like, a year, but it feels weird not hearing your voice for this long, especially around the holidays. well, i guess i could just turn on the radio….it’s not the same, though. anyways, merry christmas. happy new year, too. and….and i’m sorry. 

please come home.

…..

track 5: i’ll be home for christmas by dolly parton 

(winter — now)

karaoke at the last drop used to be one of vi’s favorite christmas traditions, so you decidedly avoided it at all cost since the breakup. vander always tried to convince you to join, but he understood and even made sure to not give you a shift during that time after you started working there at 21. 

you kept the job because, evidently, high school art teachers don’t make a ton of money, and you would one day like to move out of your mother’s house. 

which, as it turns out, might happen sooner rather than later. you applied for this artist residency in new york, and, yeah, you put time and effort and heart into your application, but you were sure that you’d be rejected. while you got your acceptance email this morning, and you were so fucking overjoyed at first, the thought of leaving still terrifies you, so you’ll postpone worrying about that until after the holidays. that’s what they’re for, anyways: a break from reality, a peek into a cozy snow-covered world where everyone is festive and joyous and worry-free.   

right now though, you’re feeling neither festive nor joyous. gert called in sick, and no one else is able to cover for them, so you’re stuck at the last drop on christmas eve, listening to one of your old high school classmates drunkenly fumble the lyrics of darlene love’s ‘christmas (baby, please come home).’

about three verses in, vi walks into the bar with mylo and claggor, flakes of fluffy snow melting into her grayish pink hair. you’re already pouring their drinks before they reach the counter. mylo and claggor offer their sincere appreciation, chattering away as they leave to snag a booth in the corner. vi stares at her drink before grabbing the beer glass. 

“you remember.” 

“are you surprised?”

vi smiles. “no. it’s just nice. cait keeps insisting i order gin martinis instead. says it’s classier.” 

something sour curdles in your stomach. “yeah, well. i’ve always liked you the way you are.”

that probably ended up sounding like you’re still pining after vi (which you’re….not) rather than the bitter comment you intended it to be. 

vi’s soft blue eyes search yours. 

“i better get back to the boys,” she finally says. “maybe sign up for a song or two.”

you’re busy clearing a table when you hear her voice again. actually — a silence fills the bar, and it’s replaced by the lush rumble of vi singing ‘last christmas.’

you watch her as she performs, eyes locked on yours, and it’s over before you know it. you feel like you should go say something to her, but then there are a bunch of excited fans that she has to attend to, signing autographs, taking photos.

as you swallow your disappointment, the normal chatter of the bar resumes. you’re walking back to the kitchen when you feel someone pinch the back of your thigh, right under your ass. you whip around to find that old classmate who butchered a christmas classic an hour or so before (james, you think his name is, from ninth grade science), with the most arrogant smirk.

“hey, gorgeous. my friends and i were just arguing over who should take you home tonight.” he gestures towards a table of guys who look like equally preppy assholes. “i won the chugging contest.”

“good for you,” you say, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “grope someone in here again, and you’ll be sorry you did.” you turn around to get back to work, but james grabs your wrist and stands up abruptly so you’re chest-to-chest.

“i don’t think you understand what i’m offering, baby.” you gag at the nickname and the stench of beer on his breath. you’re a bartender, you’re used to getting hit on, but creeps like this are the worst.

you rip away from his grasp. 

“i’m not interested,” you snap. “and i’m not your baby.”

“listen.” james puts his hands on your shoulders, and if both of your hands were free, you would promptly push him away. everyone’s having a good time and you don’t wanna cause a scene, so you try to think of ways to get this asshole out of the bar and into the snow without much of a fight. “you know, santa might come down your chimney on christmas eve, but if you’ve been a good girl this year i’ll come down your —” 

“there you are!” powder’s voice is loud over the sound of someone singing another generic christmas carol. she knocks into your side, breathless. “sorry we’re late. had some car trouble.”

“well, hello.” he removes his hands from your shoulders, shifts his predatory gaze from you to powder. 

oh, fuck no.

“powder,” you keep your voice steady even if your heart is racing. “go back to the table. i’ll be there in a sec.”

james reaches out for powder, but you punch him square in the jaw before he can so much as touch her, the tray of glasses crashing on the floor. 

james’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only egotistical, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a blow to their ego. 

in fact, he’s angry enough to deliver a punch right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but powder manages to catch you before you tumble into the broken glass. she holds you as people start yelling. you think that vander rushes over, too, shouting at james to get the fuck out of his bar and never step foot in it again. 

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is all a bit fuzzy. powder tries her best, but you slump your body weight into hers and she almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” vi’s surprisingly calm voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. 

somehow, you find yourself in the bathroom, sitting on the counter as vi stands between your legs. she carefully examines your injury, but you notice how she avoids making eye contact. 

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while.

“remember teaching me how to throw a punch?” the question slips past your lips before you can stop it.

vi looks slightly amused, and she finally meets your gaze. “‘course i do,” she hums. “you tried to convince me to help you start an all-female fight club at school.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the pain from your nose.

she remembers. 

somewhere within her, vi holds on to fragments of you.

“thank god the principal vetoed it. would’ve been a disaster,” she continues.

vi wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of her silk red button-down now stained a darker crimson. “how’s your hand?” she asks. 

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

vi smiles sadly. “i guess you’ve been the one protecting my sister while i’ve been away.”

while i’ve been away. 

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart. 

vi’s back home, sure, but only for a limited time. 

her fingers graze your cheek, and the breath hitches in your throat.

“you know, i only wanted to start that fight club as an elaborate plan to spend more time together,” you confess, opting to preserve the delicate bubble of nostalgia you’d stumbled into together. “we were each so busy….i had studio, and you were always away at hockey games. it wasn’t realistic in the end, though.”

“i would’ve stayed if you asked,” she tells you, and you wonder exactly what she might be referring to. 

you swallow the lump in your throat. “it’s what you loved, though.”

“but i - i loved you, more. you had to have known that.”

“yeah, well. i loved you, too,” you explain, and it’s clear that neither of you are talking about a lesbian fight club. “whether it was hockey, or music….as long your heart was in it, it was more worth it to let you go, to not stand in the way of your dreams.” 

“you were my dream.”

you scoff, cheeks heating up, and look away. “you probably say that to all the girls.”

“no.” vi guides your chin towards her. “just the one.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on vi’s— messy, urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. she cradles your face in her hands, and you wrap your legs around her waist to bring her closer. you taste beer on her tongue, and maybe a hint of lime, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the adrenaline, but dizzy from her. vi’s gaze is heavy on yours as she traces your top lip with her thumb.

“vi,” you whimper, itching to kiss her again. 

“you’re still bleeding.”

vi wipes away the blood with the sleeve of her shirt. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s a knock on the door. vander, wondering if you’re okay and if maybe you could hurry up and get back to work. 

you can’t sleep that night. before, staying up on christmas eve was an elaborate operation to catch santa. now, it’s overthinking a very hot kiss and all the unresolved tension between you and your ex-girlfriend next door. 

logically, you knew that you missed vi, everything about her and who she is, the way you would laugh and argue and make love. but the rush of feeling her tongue licking into your mouth, her body melding into yours after being apart for so long….

you’re scared that she won’t feel the same, but you’re even more terrified of letting the moment slip through both your fingers without at least trying. 

so, you grab your phone, deciding to finally reach out to her, when by some christmas miracle you get a text from her.

she climbs through your window not long after, wearing plaid boxer shorts and a zaun university sweatshirt you’ve been looking for, for about five years. you didn’t bother to change, either, only wearing an oversized shirt. you sit cross-legged on your bed as she waits by the window. vi stares at your chest for a good few seconds, and you remember that you’re wearing one of her band’s concert tees, faded from years of wear. 

“so, um,” vi starts, her voice as soft as the well-worn cotton of your shirt. “we have so much shit to talk about and figure out, but, i, uh, can’t stop thinking about early tonight —”

“vi.” the swarm of butterflies in your stomach is replaced by something more delicate, more urgent. “do you wanna come sit?”

vi swallows thickly, looking between you and the still open window. a winter breeze rushes through. you shiver, thinking she might just turn around and disappear into the cold night. instead, she shuts the window, removes her snow-covered boots, and settles onto the bed next to you.

you place a tentative hand on her cheek, still cold and slightly flushed. she shudders when you run your thumb over the tattoo under her eye.

“i know there’s a lot we have to work through.” you take a deep breath as she shifts closer, suddenly dizzy from the familiar scent of her winter pine old-spice body wash. “right now….right now, i just want you.”

“yeah?” vi smirks, her shyness melting away. she settles a warm hand on your bare thigh. “how do you want me?”

you exhale sharply when her hand travels higher, dull nails scraping at the fabric of your underwear. 

“it’s cute that you’re flustered,” she quips, leaning in even closer. her breath is warm and heavy against your lips. “because i’ve spent so many night replaying all the dirty, nasty things we used to —”

you tug her sweatshirt and pull her back onto the bed, feeling her body solid against yours. the vibration of her groan shudders through your body when you crash your lips onto hers with such hunger, you’d think you had been starving without her. 

“how’s about an encore, superstar?” you drawl. 

you bite your lip hard at how vi nods at you desperately, eyes all dark and lustful.

“you read my mind,” she breathes. by now, her hand has reached the hem of your shirt, and she pushes up the cotton to reveal the supple skin of your stomach. you give her permission to remove it, leaving your top half exposed.

her lips nip and suck down your body until she reaches the waistband of your panties. she pulls it up with her teeth, the elastic snapping back when she lets go. you whine her name, and she looks up at you with dark eyes. 

“can i?” her breath fans over your navel, her nails digging into your hips as she waits for your answer.  

“yes. please.”

you hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but you could feel vi smirk against your inner thigh before sinking her teeth into it. you whimper, and vi salves her tongue over the area to ease the sting before removing your underwear. she positions your legs over her shoulders for better access to where you need her most.

vi moves her tongue and fingers in all the ways she remembers makes you shake, curl your toes, and grind down on her face. in return, you grip her pink hair, tightly, and utter praise in all the ways you remember makes her shake. 

“just like that, pretty girl,” you encourage, practically melting into the mattress. it feels so good — dangerously good, intoxicating, even — to be devoured by vi.  “keep doing a good job and i’ll return the favor later.”

vi’s moan vibrates throughout your body and she becomes faster, reaches her tongue deeper, bringing you over the edge. she leaves a few more bites on your body on her way up to meet you and when she does, vi’s lips and chin are shining with your release.

you lean forward slightly to lick it up. you ghost your mouth over hers.

“your turn,” you taunt and run your thumb over her tattooed cheek. 

you twist your calf around vi’s leg and flip your positions. she lets out a yelp when her back hits the mattress. once you’re hovering over her, legs and arms on either side of her body, you do what you’re sure you’d never get tired of doing: you kiss her, passionately, deeply. you bite her lip as you pull away. 

there was always a bit of jealousy that gnawed at you, became your very-own shoulder devil that you just couldn’t shake when you were together, no matter how hard you tried. it was no secret that vi was admired by many, that girls around the world were crushing on her, hoping they’d catch her eye, get their chance with her. you never felt like she was yours, and yours alone. 

but you do get a deep satisfaction knowing that right here, right now, you’re the only person who gets to see her like this — pink hair splayed across the pillows like her very own halo, but the rest of her telling a much less-angelic, much more sinister story: her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her cheeks a devilish shade of red, her eyes dark and lustful and waiting for you to make the next move. 

"you want me to have my way with you?" you whisper, voice honeyed with desire.

vi whimpers, a sound that fuels the fire in your abdomen. "yes."

you practically rip off her sweatshirt, kiss down her jaw, her neck, her exposed chest and sternum down to her stomach. vi lifts her hips from the bed so that you can remove her boxers, and you’re delighted to find nothing else underneath. 

you’re greeted by her glistening pussy. blowing onto her folds, you run your tongue from her hole to her clit, loving how you already feel her slick coating your lips. vi spread her legs even wider, and you take the opportunity to sink two fingers into her cunt. you know her body, as well as you know your own, as well as she knows yours. you flick your gaze up, view slightly blocked by the pink curls of her bush, but you can still picture it — how her eyes roll back, how her mouth opens to release a perfectly delicious gasp.

"god, i've barely touched you and you're already about to come. did you miss me that much?" you tease, feeling her clench around your fingers. as if you aren’t subtly rutting your hips against the mattress, eager to ease the throbbing between your legs. 

all you get in response is whine. it’s muffled, and you crane your neck upward to see her biting down on her knuckles, so hard you’re worried she might break skin. 

unacceptable.

the rest of the world gets to hear her every day, any time they please. you want to be serenaded by the lyrics of her want, the notes of her desire. all for you and you alone.

with your other hand, you reach up to pinch one of her pierced nipples, always so sensitive. "answer me, violet."

vi props herself up on her elbows to look at you, just as you remove your mouth from her.

"yes!" she sings, practically sobbing. you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the throbbing between your thighs intensify, hearing the frantic lilt of her voice — like she needs you and only you. "i missed you so fucking much. please, just do something."

at her request, you move up the bed so that the two of you are face to face, one of your hands holding her chin while the other is two fingers deep in her cunt. you add another, just to reveal in the timber of her sultry moan. she tries to bring her hand back, to quiet herself, but you shake your head. 

with your thumb, you trace over her lips, uneven and scarred and imperfectly beautiful. "open." 

vi obeys you instantly. you spit in her mouth, heart racing as you watch her swallow the combination of your saliva and her cum without question.

you continue fucking her with your fingers until she moans, louder and louder as she reaches her peak.

removing your fingers from her pussy, you lock eyes with her as you bring your syrupy fingers to your mouth and suck off her juices. then, you kiss underneath her ear, lips sticking slightly to her skin, and you whisper: "now i know why they say you have the voice of an angel.”

“fuck,” she exhales, the breath turning into a chuckle as you kiss underneath her chin, where you know she’s ticklish.

"one more time for me, okay, pretty girl? i want to feel you against me," you whisper. "i want to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

vi nods, allowing you to adjust your positions so that your cunts are touching. you start fucking her down into the mattress and she sits up slightly so that your nipples brush against each other, the cold metal of her piercings encouraging the roll of your hips, her nails digging into the curve of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. 

“i missed you too. so fucking much,” you finally admit.  you flick one of the silver rings before leaning down and wrapping your lips around her nipple. 

“i missed these, too,” you add as you release her nipple with a pop, and vi moans. you’re grinning from ear to ear because, holy shit, vi is here and you’re together and you’re both happy, if only at the ecstasy of your silken cunts gliding against each other, at the taste of the other slicking your tongues, as thick as nectar and twice as sweet.

she laughs — love and magic and everlasting bliss — and you have to capture her lips now if you want to swallow the sound. you feel it bounce through your ribcage, awaken something deep within you that you feared was lost to time.

vi thrusts her hips upwards, presses harder against the seam of your cunt until you’re gushing against each other, not quite sure who’s making what mess. 

strings of cum connect you as you remove your body from hers. for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath. vi drapes an arm over her eyes, chest heaving. 

you throw on some clothes and leave the room, hoping that vi’s still there when you get back.

….

vi worries that if she opens her eyes, she’ll wake up from this dream. 

she’ll be in some uncomfortable bed in london or tokyo or los angeles. the dull ache between her legs would be thanks to some girl who’d be eager to text all her friends and spill all the details about what vi likes in bed, or caitlyn who would tell vi to shave next time, darling, or i won’t let you fuck me again anytime soon.

instead, vi hears the creak of a door opening, feet tiptoeing along the floorboards. the mattress shifts with the weight of someone between her legs, though their body is not touching hers. 

“vi, baby,” a gentle coaxing, a familiar voice, pulling towards something she forgot she needed. her heart soars when she finds you kneeling on the bed, holding a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in another. 

“yeah?” her voice is hoarse, but her throat doesn’t sting in the same way it does after a concert. it feels tender, well-used, well-loved.

you hold out the cup of water, watch vi eagerly gulp down half of it before she realizes what she’s done.

“shit, i — did you want some?”

you smile and shake your head. “i had some downstairs after my shower.” it’s then that vi registers the water dripping from the ends of your hair, soaking the fabric of her (fine, your) sweatshirt. “i’m gonna clean you up. is that okay?”

vi nods.

okay? okay? vi thinks she might have whiplash. 

it’s been a while since someone has fucked her so well she’d be satisfied for years and then touched her so tenderly afterwards. you run the damp cloth over vi’s sticky, sweaty skin, occasionally leaning down to press soft lips where you’d left teeth marks and bruises before. 

“there.” you throw the cloth on the floor. “so, um. do you wanna stay….?” 

you bite your lip as you wait for vi to answer. you start picking at your nail polish, too. vi sits up and grabs your hand. 

“i do,” she soothes. “do you want me to?”

your smile brightens the entire room and you kiss vi before muttering:

“i do.”

vi slips on her boxers as you settle into the bed next to her, leaving her top half bare. she notices the sketchbook on your bedside table, and she lifts it up at you, a silent question if she can flip through. you take it from her as you shift to sit between her legs, her chest warm against your back. the room’s only illuminated by the string of multicolored christmas lights you’d left on, but vi can see the talent, the passion behind your work as you walk her through your sketchbook. you tell her about the techniques you’ve been working on and new mediums you want to explore, about how you want to make the kind of art that makes people appreciate the beauty in the everyday. 

“i always loved your art,” she muses. vi cranes her neck slightly, places a kiss on your shoulder then one on your cheek. “the world would be more beautiful if you shared it.”

you hum and place the sketchbook on your bedside table. you each shift to your sides, facing each other; vi notches a leg around your hips, and you throw an arm around her waist, fingers trailing down her tattooed back. 

“ekko talked to you, huh?”

“i would have said that even if he hadn’t,” vi promises. “so….have you heard anything yet?”

“well….yeah,” you sigh, smiling shyly. “i got in, actually.” 

“really? that’s amazing, baby.” she beams at you, excitedly cupping your face in her hands, leaving small kisses across your cheeks until you’re giggling. 

“okay, okay,” you laugh. “i don’t know if i’m gonna go yet.”

vi hums knowingly. she presses her forehead against yours. 

“i know you’re scared, baby,” she says softly. “but sometimes it’s just a leap of faith.” 

“i know.” you pause, gnawing at your bottom lip while your eyes fixate on the scar on her upper lip. “can i ask you something?

“anything.”

“when you proposed to me….” her body tenses up, but you brush your hand over her bicep and the tension in her muscles dissipates. “was that a leap of faith? like, were you scared?”

“well, not at first.” she takes a shuddery breath, her voice suddenly small. “i always thought that we’d be together….i just didn’t think through how we’d make it work, i guess. i didn’t mean to mess things up, though.”

“hey.” vi leans into the hand you cup around her cheek. “we both messed up. we never actually talked, you know? but….i’m glad we are, now.” you swallow. “i still love you, vi.”

vi exhales. “you know, girls tell me that they love me pretty much every day.” 

you can’t help it — you roll your eyes, and vi laughs. because, truthfully, her heart has felt more full at your admission of love just now than it ever has for an area of screaming fans.

“there’s a point to this, i promise,” she says, nudging her nose against yours. “i used to get such a thrill from it….but then i think about what you said earlier. my heart — it’s just not in it anymore. all the band is now is drama and gossip and compromises of fame over art, and…. i don’t know. it’s not really what i want anymore. i want to be with you. for real, this time.”

you blink at her; she can feel your chest pulsing against hers like a hummingbird.

“would you, um, if i were to take that leap of faith and do that artist residency, would you —”

“anywhere you wanna go,” vi promises. she thinks about it a bit more….how nice it’s been to be home for the holidays, how nice it would be to come home year round.  “preferably close enough so we can have dinner at home on the weekends.” 

“sounds like a plan,” you smile.

the two of you twist closer underneath the flannel sheets, sink into the mattress, and gaze up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling until you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

you jolt awake a few hours later, several firm knocks on the door and ekko shouting:

“it’s christmas! get the fuck up before ziggy eats all the bacon!”

beside you, vi protects you from the frosty winter morning. her body radiates warmth, and her eyes flutter open, ever so slightly, as you gently shake her shoulder. 

she groans, turning on her back, rubbing sleep from her eye. 

“i better go.” 

“....yeah.”

you flush when you glance over as vi’s slipping on her sweatshirt, rose-petal bruises delicate across her skin. she opens the window, hair still mussed up, and a gust of frigid air rushes into the room. 

the image is so familiar: vi, one leg in your room and another out the window. you feel like a teenager again, scrambling to get dressed and avoid anyone hearing that you’d snuck your girlfriend into your room late at night. but there’s something else now, too — you imagine this becoming routine: waking up next to each other every day, swapping clothes, kissing over coffee and pancakes at breakfast. a place where the two of you might create some new memories, build a shared life together. and much more, so much more that feels like it could be your reality, sooner rather than later. 

you’re so deep in thought that you don’t notice vi rushing back towards you. she kisses you and kisses you, until your lungs are burning.

"merry christmas, baby,” she mumbles against your lips.

you grin back at her. “merry christmas, vi.”

....

hi baby, i know you’re at studio right now, but i forgot to ask you this morning: how do you feel about sending out holiday cards this year? i know they’re kind of cheesy, but it seems like the type of thing married couples might do…..

anyways, we’ll talk about it when you get home. i’m test-driving this new recipe for brussel sprouts to bring to dinner at my dad’s. 

i’ll see you later. love you!

[shrimpybbq]

a timeline of rafe cameron and obx actress!reader’s character’s relationship (+ their real life one) pt 2

season 2: the yearning

season 2 is where rafe's obsession with iris really grows

he's constantly wondering about her, and how she feels about him. he's so convinced that she hates him and will never speak to him again, but he has this feeling that she won't report him

after john b and sarah 'died', iris spends more of her free time with the pogues. she comforts jj, and often seems to end up bailing him out of trouble

but they don't know that rafe's managed to get her phone number, and he keeps sending her messages trying to explain what happened on the tarmac - she doesn't respond

he even tries to go to her work, but she's not working that day

as rafe spirals, he genuinely feels she's the only one who would be able to understand him

he messages her before he goes to the bahamas

r: "hey, i'm gonna be gone for a few days, but i still really need to talk to you, ok?"

r: "please, i need to explain"

r: "just give me a chance to explain"

r: "please"

iris has him under his first initial in her phone, just in case any of the pogues happen to see her notifications. finally, she decides to respond, if only to understand more (and to get him to stop texting her)

i: "ok"

rafe literally shouts with joy seeing her response, no matter how dry it is. she's finally acknowledged him

while he's away, iris goes to see barry. her mom has been getting worse, and in a way, barry understands what she's going through. he's surprisingly good to talk to and the pair end up smoking together more than once, venting about their lives

in his deluded state, rafe truly thinks he will be able to win iris over with the gold. he's dreaming about paying for her mom's medical bills, winning her favour and looking after iris, living their happy little lives together forever

iris and rafe finally talk at tannyhill, rafe pleading that he was just trying to protect his dad. surprisingly, she listens intently, and lets out some small 'hmms' and 'mhms'. they get back to neutral ground, though she's still torn between what to do, but inside, she knows rafe shouldn't go to prison for a mistake

side note: ward oversees the pair talking, noting his son's wildly erratic hand gestures and decides to keep an eye on whatever is going on between the two

they're good for a few days, and then the pogues return to kildare with a very much alive sarah and john b, and everything changes once again

iris was so busy working that she hadn't had much to do with the gang, until jj texts her that john b had been arrested, and that rafe had tried to shoot them all - safe to say she's disappointed

oh but she's so mad when she hears of him trying to drown sarah, and she fully ices him out again

rafe kidnapping iris was not his finest idea, but she won’t listen to him after she hears and he’s just so mad. he’s got her in his car on the side of the road, just trying to get her to listen but she keeps telling him she “knows what he did”

rafe doesn't register what he's done until the sound of her sobs cut through his internal monologue, shamefully apologising and dropping her home, not even trying to say anything more

he’s just mean mean mean in this season bc he's hurt, but also he wants iris so bad and when she won’t even look at him, he can't control his actions

iris hears from the pogues that there is a warrant for his arrest and can't help feel concerned for him, only to be both shocked and concerned at the sight of ward cameron blowing himself up, her being the one to console sarah on the pier

everything is awkward between the pogues now, but it only gets worse once they see the texts on iris's phone following rafe's release from jail, him asking to see her...

they completely shut her out, refusing to even speak to her, and it only serves to push her further into rafe's (extremely willing) arms

he wants her to stay with him for the next few days, unknowingly about to bring her into all the drama with the cross

iris and rafe end up kissing for the first time just before he manages to get the cross for himself, and from then on, it's on between them - they're all over each other. think making out against the wall, in bed, on the couch

they both understand each other, able to see through the tough facade they put on and be vulnerable around each other. at their core, they’re just two hurt kids clinging on to each other

rafe literally thinks he will combust if she ever tries to leave him after he got a taste

unfortunately for him, he tries to get her to come along with him to guadeloupe, but she refuses

"Rafe, I can't leave my mom…. she can't survive without me," Iris whispered.

"No, no, c'mon, we can go together and I'll make sure she's got a carer and everything, the best medical treatment, ok? I just - I just need you with me for this," Rafe pleaded, desperation seeping through his tone.

"I'm sorry Rafe, but I can't."

and just like that, the beginnings of their relationship crumble, leaving rafe feeling betrayed, hurt and angry, spiralling as he lost something he barely had, and leaving iris all alone on kildare once the pogues get lost at sea, vulnerable and hurting

season 2: behind the scenes

heheheheehhehe

season 2 is where rafe and iris get closer, and the flow on effects are felt between drew and obx actress!reader

the kisses they share on screen are so steamy it has fans freaking out, especially at the quick glimpses they get of their tongues melding together. even people from outside the fandom start resharing videos of the kiss with hashtags like #wantthis #hot #menext

like i'm talking hands in hair and 'rafe' gripping her waist like he's about to be torn away, pulling away panting, red lips, etc.

drew and obx actress!reader had both spent time looking forward to the kiss, each secretly reminiscing on the kiss at jd's party. neither objected when they had to redo the take multiple times

the lingering touches shared between their characters are also picked up on, with rafe often touching iris and keeping her close by the end of the season

drew and obx actress!reader spent more time together this season working to develop their relationship after the directors told them more of the series plans, growing their bond even more

the attention on season 2 is greater this time around, with more fans and more people interested in the actors personal lives

obx actress!reader posts a few behind the scenes pictures, but nothing that really gets tongues wagging

it's a picture posted by madison bailey that does, with drew and obx actress!reader lying next to each other on a yacht, the pair side by side as they appear deep in conversation. fans go crazy from all angles, from the tiny bikini she was wearing to drew only in his swim trunks

the pics of them getting clingy and touchy later on in the evening don't ever make it out however….

the cast just sigh, having flashbacks to the 'friendly kisses' the pair always seem to share after a few drinks

in interviews, fans learn of obx actress!reader spending christmas at drew's and they just go wild, convinced the pair are in a secret relationship

with rafe and iris becoming more important characters in season 2, interviewers are lining up to film with the two of them alone, and for the few that manage, the views on the clip are sky high

it's literally just drew and obx actress!reader flirting and giggling the whole time with each other

obx actress!reader 100% simps for drew, complimenting his new look to the interviewer and saying he looks so handsome. drew can only blush and look down at his hands, all shy and cute

ok but lets talk about the bloopers!

it's the scene where they're in the car, rafe begging iris to listen to him after trying to drown sarah, and drew is waving his hands around wildly and accidentally hits her in the head. drew is instantly all over her, tenderly brushing her hair away from her head, checking in on her and apologising so much. it's quiet, but the microphones pick up on drew whispering "are you ok, baby? 'm so sorry"

but yet, they're not in a relationship??? and then drew starts filming hellraiser and people become convinced he's dating odessa??? and everyone is just so confused (including drew and obx actress!reader)

but then? there's pictures posted by paparazzi of drew and obx actress!reader together in new york, seeming far too close to be platonic and cuddling up against each other? queue even more confused fans

hehehe

Q: if i were to give obx actress!reader a love interest to spice things up and build some more angst, who would you want to see???

[celestiamour]

Hi, Could you write more about semi x fem reader, maybe the reader helps her not to get murdered? I love semi a lot but there aren't many fanfics about her🥺😭 please

ft. se-mi x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ preventing her untimely demise┊0.6k words

setting: season 2, episode 7 contains: canon-typical violence & murder, sorry nam-gyu fans, it’s one or the other, friends to lovers

➤ author's note: i was so mad when she died, why do the squid game writers hate lesbians

it’s difficult to see anything going on with the bright white fluorescent lights constantly flickering, but the sound of screams piercing through the night was enough to tell you that the “special game” had started and it was dangerous to remain in bed. you watched as one of the women next to you cried out in terror as a man used a broken bottle to stab at her chest,, and you immediately jumped out and hit the floor running before he could turn his sights on you. 

the first people who came to your mind to search for where your allies were to make sure they were alright, particularly min-su and se-mi whom you’ve become close over the past few days and knew would be targets of their previous group after voting to leave. 

you heard her familiar voice yelp in surprise just a little ways from you, the same voice that so often threw compliments at you like they didn’t fluster you so bad you wanted to hide under the blanket and comforted you when you cried about the people who lost their lives earlier that day when everyone else was asleep, sending you into a panic. 

as resilient as se-mi was, she was no match to overpower nam-gyu physically as you watched him corner her against the wall, his bloodlust so powerful you could almost smell it with one of the forks given out during dinnertime in hand. you could see a glint of red shining off the metal, indicating that it was already used to take a life. 

a glass bottle suddenly came in between them, shattering against the concrete floor. you didn’t even bother to look up, just seizing the opportunity to jump the man from behind and trying to steal the silverware from his grip while he was still in shock. while you couldn’t fully take it from him, you did manage to knock it out of his hands. 

you were smaller than him, but you used all of the strength in your body to keep him pinned down once se-mi kicked him in the stomach and picked up the utensil. without hesitation, she began to repeatedly stab him in the neck with it, over and over again, both of you ignoring his pleas and screams knowing that he would have done the same to her without so much as batting an eye. you only got off him when he stopped squirming under your grasp, ignoring the blood that splattered all over your hands, clothing, and face.

it hasn’t hit you yet that you just held a man down for her to murder and you’re sure the guilt will consume you later, but all that matters is that both of you have survived to see another day together. you’ve never been so happy to see those damn guards in their hot pink uniform, even if they were shortly taken down in a matter of minutes to steal their guns for the planned player revolt. both of you 

neither of you were allowed to join due to a lack of experience with firearms and being women, but due to the clear determination in your eyes, they did leave a walkie-talkie to call for backup if they needed it.

once the shots fell quiet and were no longer ringing in your ears, se-mi looked at you with a little smile on her face and reached out to caress your face, “you know, i always thought you were really pretty, but i think you look kinda sexy with the blood everywhere.”

“do you really?”

“of course, i do, but we really should wash up”

[miwiheroes]

Dropping Byler Evidence Every Day Until Season 5

Day 1 - The M&Ms scene

So yeah, this scene is never really talked about that much as like actual proof, more like a funni little thing where Mike looks at Will for a moment when he walks away, but analysis of the cinematography, framing and narrative of this scene can be revealing.

First thing: as soon as El wipes her nose, revealing it was her that helped Mike and Lucas, the camera zooms in on Mike, as if to be like 'oooh wonder how he's going to react'! and the audience is then in suspense, because they're probably expecting him to smile or try to take this opportunity.

What does he do? He just says 'Thanks." And the moment of suspense is broken. It's almost like a record scratch. We will come back to this reaction later, basically because it shows that Mike really does not mind being on these terms with El.

Second thing: At first glance there seems to be 3 main characters of this scene: Mike, Lucas and El. However, Will also seems to be included in this scene unlike Max who is also there. There is no reason to have Will be in some of these shots that, I want you guys to understand, is intentional. The directors didn't just accidentally set up this frame:

They didn't just forget to move Will out the way. In this shot, the Rule of Thirds can be applied. While El and half of Mike are in the second third/ third third, both half of Mike and Will are in the same third. This is also the third on the left, which is where (in western cultures) people begin to look at images from (reading from left to right). The fact that Will looks at Mike when he says 'Thanks' is the first thing that the audience is intended to notice (because its on the left), even if it is very subtle.

It is also important to note that the writers of the show know, in this moment, that Will is in love with Mike, they've had that planned out from the start (this is undeniably canon, unlike Mike's feelings to Will). Therefore, it is interesting that they included him in this shot and the next part too:

Like?? what was the point of the directors putting him in this part? Placing him in an interactional role with Mike in a Mike and El scene is just interesting to me. Like,,,, also could Mike not have talked to El with Will there?

After Will gets up, there is this really awkwardly long part where Will goes from the left third to the right third of the screen and just stays there? Like he's still in the shot (which they can easily catch and retake if they needed to). Why do the writers/directors want you to take such notice of his presence?

Also, going back to the fact that Will has to leave for Mike to be able to talk to El. Again, the directors did not need to put Will in this scene, they could have had him doing something else. Instead, they had him there to subtly further his character arc of being selfless/being shoved away by Mike in favour of El. It's also maybe simply because Mike just can't handle having both Will and El in the same context without ignoring one for the other, because he holds them to the same romantic standard.

We see this mishandling of El and Will in the airport scene, the whole time Mike is with El in the beginning of S3, Rink o Mania, the dinner after Rink o Mania etc. Basically, when both El and Will are around, he feels like he has to get rid of Will to be able to be romantic towards El, despite being able to talk about it to Lucas. When it's just him and Will, he's pretty happy (we see this in the 'Cool. Cool.' scene and the 'Guess it's up to us again' scene which are the only two scenes in S4 where Mike believes he is no longer in a relationship with El and just thinks he needs to team up with Will and go back to Hawkins without El). Therefore, he needed Will out the way because he can't be romantic with his girlfriend with Will distracting him lmao <3

Third Thing: Lucas is the one to encourage Mike to make up with El.

To be honest, him encouraging him alone isn't really that convincing of the fact that Mike is queer coded blah blah, like, your friend is allowed to say 'That was the Olive branch! Your way in!' without it being queercoding. The queercoding however, comes with the reaction to that information.

First, I want to point to something I may bring up in the future of this series. In S1, Lucas is the first person to ever suggest that there might be something romantic going on between Mike and El. When he says "Why don't you just marry her?", Mike does not go all ooooh flustery and blushy, he does not go 'EW GROSS' like a lot of boys that age would, instead he just acts confused. Multiple times.

The first time is when he goes, "Lucas what are you talking about?" The second is in response to Lucas going "Mike, seriously?" saying "What?" again. When Lucas then teases him about caring about her, he just says "Shut up Lucas" in this really tired tone, rather than a flustered or angry one. He basically gets the idea that he probably should like El romantically, if he shows even any care towards her.

Now, throughout S3, Lucas is the one to constantly question Mike's actions towards El. He's confused on why he won't tell her the truth about Hopper, and everything else, which all culminates into this "Oh my god. You're hopeless," when referring to picking up signals about girls.

I must say this rn too: You don't pick up on signals you don't want to receive. You do pick up on signals you do want to receive. I think most of us know what it's like to have a crush. You constantly look out for little things and overanalyse their actions towards you. But Mike has no clue. Maybe because.... he just doesnt feel that way.

Okay going back to reactions. Basically, you would kind of expect Mike's reaction to hearing that his girlfriend, that he's sooooo sad about losing oh nooooo, has decided to reach out and say that she's okay with him would be excitement, right?

When Lucas is describing how he's going to let Mike talk to El, Mike looks extremely nervous, which I get. It's normal to feel nervous in this situation, but the thing is, El seems okay with him, surely he would at least have a little light in his eyes?

When Lucas has to say 'Talk to her, alright?' (as if Mike has no fucking clue) Mike nods and then there is a swell in the music, the camera zooms in on him, and instead of the music swelling to some nice, positive tones, it's almost foreboding, mimicking the mixed feelings swirling in Mike's brain. His face also kind of looks.... weird like he's unsure, or maybe he's disappointed? Nervous? idk

I would understand this to be a little romantic if he smiles, but jesus, he does not crack a single grin at this part.

It almost seems like he's deciding to do something he doesn't really want to. I think he was completely content with the fact that she helped them, but didn't want to do anything about it because he's totally fine being on good terms with her, obviously, but not necessarily on romantic terms with her. Maybe he's fine with the fact she doesn't really want to be with him.

However, after Lucas says this stuff, now he's looking over at her and thinking, wait, maybe she does want to be with me.

But instead of a:

Wow, maybe she does want to be with me! :D

It's a:

Oh, so she does want to be with me.

^basically this means Mike decides, based on his encouragement from Lucas rather than his own feelings, that he should talk to her. What can he say to Lucas here? That he doesn't want to? That isn't really an option for him.

Fourth Thing: Okay this is very small but for some reason this scene is interspersed with scenes of Jonathan and Nancy getting almost killed by the mindflayer army like???

Why would they cut from this very tense scene where these beloved characters are about to be killed to this scene between Mike and El where everything is fine!

It's like.,,,, they want the audience to be tense watching them, even if it's not directly for the right reasons. They want the audience to maybe feel the tension in the foreboding nature of the fact that the mindflayer is in the same building as them, meaning there is always some danger lurking in the background.

Okay hope you enjoyed today's byler evidence :) stay tuned for tomorrow's!

[mssorceressupreme]

Let Me Help | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: After losing a quidditch match, Fred is frustrated and you help him by giving him a post-match massage, which leads into something more, or well something sweet.

Warnings: massaging, making out, hickeys, moaning ig, praising (ish), slightly steamy but mostly fluffy, fluffy!fred, nap-time together, cuddling, littlespoon!reader, bigspoon!fred, pls i want to have nap-time in fred's arms

———

The roar of the crowd had dwindled into murmurs as you, Hermione, and Luna sat on the bleachers, watching the Gryffindor Quidditch team gather on the pitch below. The match against Hufflepuff had ended moments ago, and to everyone’s surprise, Gryffindor had lost after a season of winning.

It wasn’t just a loss—it was a hard-fought game, filled with moments of near victory that had slipped through their fingers.

Fred and George, always the heart of the team, looked particularly worn down. Fred’s usual buoyant demeanour was dimmed, his lips were pressed in a firm line, nodding as Oliver clearly scolded him about something. He wasn’t one to take criticism lightly, especially not when he was already down.

“I think Wood's giving Fred a hard time,” Hermione murmured, squinting at the scene below.

“Fred looks sad,” Luna observed, tilting her head dreamily. “Maybe he’s just feeling the weight of the nargles today.”

You tried waving to Fred, catching his eye. "It's okay Freddie..." you mouthed, attempting to comfort him slightly from the bleachers.

He looked up and, instead of the cheeky grin and exaggerated gestures you were used to, he blew you a small, almost apologetic kiss.

It wasn’t the playful, confident one that usually made you laugh; it was soft, almost sad, and it made your heart ache.

“He’ll be okay,” Hermione reassured you as you all made your way down from the stands.

The walk back to Hogwarts was subdued. The team split off to the showers while you, Hermione, and Luna headed toward the common room. Your mind was on Fred the whole time, wondering how you could cheer him up.

When the players eventually returned, freshly showered but still visibly tired, you led the cheers in the common room to boost their spirits. George gave a half-hearted grin, Angelina and Katie exchanged appreciative smiles, but Fred hung back, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.

Determined to help him, you waited for the crowd to thin out before slipping away and making your way to the boys’ dormitory. Knocking softly, you peeked inside. Fred was sitting on his bed, his head resting in his hands, and the sight made your chest ache.

There was no sight of his dorm mates, they were likely out and about, lurking around campus somewhere.

He looked up when you entered, and his face softened immediately, though the exhaustion in his eyes noticeable.

“Hey,” you said gently, closing the door behind you.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice low. He patted the spot next to him, and you sat down, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, though you already had a good idea.

Fred sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Oliver. He’s... he’s been on my case. Said I was distracted during the match, that I wasn’t focused enough. Maybe he’s right.”

You frowned. “That’s not fair. I watched the whole match, Fred. You were brilliant out there.”

He shook his head, a humourless laugh escaping him. “Doesn’t feel like it. We lost. And Oliver... he’s just so stressed about this season. Guess I was an easy target today.”

Reaching out, you placed a hand on his arm, stroking gently. “Ignore him. He’s just upset because he cares too much about the team. But that doesn’t mean he’s right about you. You gave it your all, Fred. I could see it. And I’m so proud of you.”

You hated seeing him like this, your Fred, who always had a joke or a cheeky grin, now looking so defeated.

Fred gave you a small, grateful smile, his gaze softening further, though the weight of the day still lingered in his expression. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Someone has to be,” you teased, squeezing his hand. “You’re not half as annoying as you pretend to be Weasley.”

The corner of his lips curled up ever so slightly, and you decided you’d do anything to make it stick. An idea popped into your head, and you straightened up.

“Sit on the floor,” you said suddenly.

Fred blinked at you, confused. “What? Why? You’re not planning to hex me, are you?”

“No hexes,” you promised, laughing. “Just trust me.”

Still skeptical, Fred slid off the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor. “This better be good,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

You knelt behind him, placing your hands on his broad shoulders. The moment you started massaging him, he tensed, clearly surprised.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” you interrupted, grinning. “Just relax.”

It didn’t take long for him to give in. A low groan escaped his lips as your fingers worked over the knots in his shoulders. “Merlin Y/N, that’s... bloody amazing,” he muttered, his head dipping forward.

“You’re all tense,” you said softly, your fingers kneading the muscles in his neck. “You’ve been carrying too much stress.”

Fred let out a deep sigh, his body slowly relaxing under your touch. “You’re going to put Madam Pomfrey out of a job,” he joked, his voice muffled. “This is—blimey—I could get used to this.”

You smiled, continuing to work your fingers along his shoulders and down his back. The earlier frustration and tension seemed to melt away, his breathing slowing as he leaned into your touch.

“You know,” he said after a while, his voice lighter now, “if you ever decide to quit school, you’ve got a future in saving stressed Quidditch players.”

You laughed, continuing to massage him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As you leaned closer, you couldn’t resist planting a soft, lingering kiss on the side of his neck. Fred’s breath hitched slightly at the unexpected gesture. Smiling against his skin, you pressed another kiss just below his ear, then one more at the curve where his neck met his shoulder.

“Wha—” Fred started, his voice thick with surprise and something softer, “what are you doing?”

“Cheering you up,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin as you spoke.

He let out a low, content hum, tilting his head slightly to give you more access. “Well, I’d say it’s working,” he moaned softly, his grin evident even though you couldn’t see it. “Bloody hell, you’re good at this.”

You giggled, continuing to pepper his neck with light, affectionate kisses. “Good. You deserve a little TLC after today.”

Fred turned his head slightly, his voice a little breathless now. “A little? I deserve this every day.”

“You’d get spoiled,” you teased, kissing just below his jawline.

“Already am,” he admitted with a happy sigh. “And if you don't stop I might just take you here and now." He moaned again, as you left him a hickey, sucking sweetly on the side of his neck.

"You like that Weasley?..." You cooed, continued planting sweet kisses around his neck and he threw his head back, groaning softly.

"Mhm, feels so good love..." He hummed, eyes shut as his breathing grew heavier.

You chuckled, pulling back slightly to look at him. His eyes were closed, his lips curved in the most serene smile you’d seen all day. His usual cheeky confidence was still there, but it was softer now, tempered with gratitude and affection.

When you finally stopped, Fred turned around to face you, his brown eyes warm and filled with gratitude and adoration. “My girlfriend's incredible,” he said softly, reaching for your hand.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, smiling.

He got up and made his way onto the bed, hovering over you as he pushed you down gently, making you lie down with his hands beside your head, trapping you beneath him essentially.

He then bent down into a kiss, sweet and unhurried, his lips warm against yours. You giggled, as he continued, parting your mouth slightly as his tongue slipped inside.

His lips were soft, pillowy against your own. "Fred..." you moaned into his kiss softly as he sucked on your tongue. You could feel the soft tickle of his breath beneath your nose, your fingers running through his hair as you breathed each other in.

He too, had always managed to make you melt at his touch, to feel good, to feel loved, you were weak beneath him.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out a content sigh.

“You really know how to cheer a bloke up, don’t you?” he teased, his grin finally back.

“Someone’s got to keep you from sulking,” you quipped, poking his chest playfully.

Fred chuckled, moving to lay beside you on his bed. You curled up against his side, his arm wrapped securely around you.

For the first time that day, he looked completely at ease, the weight of the match’s loss forgotten.

As you lay there together, his fingers idly traced patterns on your arm. “You know,” he said after a while, his voice soft, “I don’t deserve you.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, frowning. “Don’t say that Freddie, you're amazing. You know, despite how much of a git you can be sometimes, you deserve all the happiness in the world.” You turn to face him, brushing some messy strands away from his face to see him, your Fred.

His grin returned, this time with a mischievous glint. “Well, if you insist... I suppose I’ll let you keep spoiling me.”

You laughed, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t push it, Weasley.”

He laughed too, pulling you closer. “Too late.”

Fred pulled you into his arms, your bodies pressed against each other, your head rested below his, melting into his chest, one of the many perks being the little spoon.

The two of you laid there, tangled together, the world outside fading into nothing. His steady breathing lulled you into a peaceful nap, and for the first time since the match ended, Fred looked completely at ease.

When George returned later, he peeked in, grinning at the sight of you both asleep, Fred’s arms securely around you. He quietly closed the door, leaving you both to your well-deserved rest.

[dem0batz]

The Ice Dragon and the Prince of Freaks

Eddie Munson x Reader

Author's Note: Fluffy unedited little post-season 4 one-shot I just wrote inspired by this post. I yearn for this sweet playful little freak.

Content Warnings: implied difficult home life, weed ~1200 words

The trailer park is silent, save for the soft crunch of fresh snow beneath my boots as I trudge toward the busted up playground equipment. Forrest Hills hasn’t bothered replacing any of the equipment, probably since the park was initially built. The rusty swing chains look unreliable at best so you opt for the squeaking merry-go-round, brushing off a layer of snow to clear a spot.

You hiss when the cold metal seeps right through my jeans, sending a shiver up you spine. Pulling your threadbare coat tighter, you hug your body, huddling into yourself to produce warmth. It doesn’t do much, but it’s better than being stuck alone in the trailer with your dad. It was hard enough living with him on a normal day, let alone being snowed in with him and a bottle of whiskey.

Just as your eyes find the moon, blurry from the stormy sky but still shining brightly through the haze, movement catches the corner of your eye. The figure is in black head to toe from the halo of dark wavy hair down to the dark jeans stuffed into worn leather boots. The black beanie on his head is folded over his forehead, shortening the length and revealing a small tear near the crease. His clothing was just as worn as your own, something a lot of the folks around here had in common.

“Busted,” he says an unlit joint hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“Mind if I join you?”

“I don’t know,” you frown, eying him wearily. Your finger swirls through the layer of snow to your right, finishing the design off with a curling flourish. “That sign says ‘Freaks Only’.”

“Don’t you know that I’m the King of Freaks in this town, sweetheart?”

Eddie’s lip twitches as he tries to keep a straight face before the infectious smile breaks free, dimple creasing his cheek in a way that always made your heart patter against your ribcage. He closes the distance between the two of you, careful to pick the side to your left so as not to disturb your sign. After dusting off a spot, you watch him drop to sit next to you, hissing the same way you did when his ass makes contact with the freezing cold metal. You resist the urge to laugh as he adjusts to the cold.

“What are you doing out here so late, Munson? Don’t you know there’s a snow storm tonight?”

“Do you?” he challenges with a lift of his dark eyebrow, lighting up the joint and passing it to you.

You accept, taking a long inhale. Ignoring his retort, not wanting to delve into why you’re sitting alone in a snowstorm in the middle of the night, you blow it out in his direction, creating a dramatic steaming cloud against the blistering cold that swirls around him.

“When I was a kid, I loved going out when it was cold and seeing my breath on the cold wind. It made me feel like a mighty dragon. I used to wish for it so hard that sometimes I was convinced I would sprout wings at any moment and fly away from home.”

Pinching the joint between his fingers, he takes a hit of his own.

“Understandable as that may be, I’m glad you didn’t fly off without me. This place is more bearable with you around. Plus, what’s a dragon without a prince to kidnap and whisk off to her lair?”

“Aren’t princesses the ones who usually get kidnapped in these scenarios?”

“If you’re the dragon kidnapping me, you can call me whatever you want, sweetheart. Dragons don’t discriminate. Trust me."

“You play too much D&D,” you snort at his comment, swiping out to grab the joint.

Eddie pulls it just out of reach with a pout pulling down his lips before you can snatch it. You know the frown isn’t sincere, Eddie just likes to play around.

“No such thing and you would know that if you accepted my offer to play.”

“No way. There’s way too much of a learning curve, Eddie, and it’s intimidating as fuck.”

You make another lunge for the joint but he rises it high above his head with a gleeful smile as you crash into his chest. His arm snakes around your waist, holding you close while still keeping the weed out of reach.

“I’ll give it to you if you agree to play. Just one night. I promise I can change your mind with a single one-shot adventure. What do you say, pretty girl?”

Big brown eyes sparkle down at you with mirth. Another shiver wracks down your body, but you tell yourself it’s from the cold despite the sudden heat climbing up your neck toward your cheeks. This is not the first time Eddie has crossed into flirtatious banter with you— flirting was practically a second language for him. With all of his natural charm, it baffled you that he had been labeled the freak of Hawkins, even long before the incident in the woods where he was attacked by wild animals and left scarred.

The two of you had never spoken about it, but this was a small town and word got around. From what you’ve heard, he was lucky to have survived. You would think after an incident like that, people would be more compassionate but everyone mostly still eyed him with uncertainty. The only ones who didn’t seem to be afraid of him were a few students still attending Hawkins High and a few who already graduated but moved away for college. He was just as much of an outcast as you, maybe more, though you didn’t understand it.

“I’ll think about it.”

You reach for the joint again, letting out a frustrated steaming sigh when he jerks the glowing paper away once more. He lifts an expectant eyebrow, waiting.

“Fine,” you hiss, “I’ll play some freaking D&D now will you please give it to me, Eddie?”

He hums with a triumphant grin, “Such a polite girl, too. I’ll give you anything you want if you keep asking like that, baby.”

Eddie laughs when you swat playfully at him, but he finally passes the joint back to you, though he doesn’t release you from his hold. His arm circles around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side as you take another hit to try to warm yourself up. The heat radiating from his side helps as you pass the joint back and forth a few times. By the time Eddie carefully stubs out what remains on the merry-go-round handle and tucks it away in his jacket, you feel much warmer and lighter than you did when you first came out here.

Even the moon looks brighter.

Warm lips press against your cold cheek, pulling your attention from the sky and back to the prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen, more glassy and shiny than they usually are due to the weed.

“What was that for?” you whisper, not wanting to break the fragile peace of the quiet snowy night.

“Just felt like it,” he whispers back, his voice low and warm. “Are you still thinking about flying away?”

You shake your head, eyes flicking down to his lips, all pink and dusty from the cold.

“Good. You’re not allowed to go without me.”

“Deal,” you agree, something cementing between the two of you like an oath.

With a soft smile, he leans forward to capture your lips, sealing it with a kiss as cold snowflakes blanket the two of you in.

[ladyandherbooks]

I loved Callum and. Runaan's interactions this season. While I do agree it would have been great to see some of Callum's negative feelings towards Runaan I think that they really only had time to focus on one siblings anger towards him so I'm okay with them not focusing on it. Callum has also had time to work through his feelings towards Runaan during his and Rayla's quest to free him.

I do think that the other reason as to why they got on well this season is that Runaan has complete faith and trust in Rayla's choice of romantic partners and friends. And when this boyfriend not only helps to free you but also puts your daughter first, then Runaan wouldn't be able to dislike him.

Look at his smile when Callum chooses Rayla in 7x02:

He already likes Callum because he's putting Rayla first and making her happy.

And the worst that their reactions get is Runaan getting annoyed at Callum for using the same compliment as small talk for the 15th time in two weeks, which to be completely fair is very understandable.

But Callum quickly rectifies this by freeing Ethari from his Moon Cub duties that day, thus ensuring that he could spend the day with his husband. But he does give Callum the biggest eye raise at Callum's enthusiasm at volunteering to watch the Moonshadow elf kids because he knows Callum is way over his head and is giving his enthusiasm the reaction it deserves

And then the deadpan stare after the 10 babies comment

It really was a harmless clash in personalities where a grumpy, serious broody elf had to interact with his daughters goofy, nerdy, loving and sometimes awkward human boyfriend who is also staying with them for 2 weeks straight. A boyfriend who is also trying his hardest to make a good impression but is not always succeeding but you like him anyway because he has a good heart and loves your daughter more than anything in the world.

And the pair of you manage to bond and come to trust each other enough to go on a mission together where you not only protect one another but he also trusts you enough to ask you to kill him in order to save the world.

I think that this moment where Runaan came to love Callum as he was not only willing to sacrifice his life to save everyone in Xadia but also wanted to protect Rayla specifically from a promise that would cause her a great deal of pain and grief.

I am excited and curious to see how their relationship and interactions evolve and develop as, like some fellow fans have already discussed, Callum wants to be a part of this family and misses, wants and needs fatherly relationship, one of which Runaan and Ethari will be happy to provide, especially since Callum will be spending alot of time in the Silvergrove in the next 7 years. They're going to love each other so much and have each other's back but Runaan will still be giving his dorky son in law a raised eyebrow whenever he says or does something ridiculous or dorky.

[wyvernspirit]

So after watching all of Jentry Chau Vs The Underworld in the past 2 days I've quite a bit to say

This show needed to be two seasons long, I feel half my critiques would probably not exist if it got the runtime it deserved

Kit had the most interesting character arc and was done the most dirty of everyone by the lack of runtime later in the season and also the characters around him??? Can everyone stop treating Kit like shit for two seconds please??

I at multiple points went "God this feels like arcane levels of Greek tragedy" so it has that going for it

If it has ended as a season 1 on episode 9 (I think? The episode where she's out on the field and Cheng revived his daughter then the portals are opened) it could have been a really solid set up for a season 2, but unfortunately the next final episodes feel incredibly jam-packed and rushed with no room to breathe

The music and fight scenes were arguably the best part of the show, there was some really interesting "camera" work too

I didn't like how Michael basically played with 3 girls feelings for the whole show, particularly sorry to girl from the last episode who doesn't even get a name as far as I can tell

(also the way he went "and Kit did you love him too??" as some kind of snap back to Jentry like HE DIDNT LITERALLY JUST DIE MICHAEL CAN YOU STFU FOR TWO SECONDS NOT THE TIME)

Michael kinda just sucked? Like I wanted to like him but he's very meh to me and I'm sorry but the reveal of him actually being really bad at the flute just, threw me off completely especially because instruments are expensive!! He didn't buy it on a whim, the whole thing is he's supposed to have this deep passion for music but like it's not really reflected at all?? There's not even any conversations between him and Jentry about music outside band tryouts

And him having powers I guess could have been set up for a season 2 but we end this season really conclusively? All the plot threads and character arcs wrapped up. Like if anything I could see a spin off with him maybe but- like I don't want one, I just could see that happening

Actually to go back a paragraph for a second, that's something the show does a few times where it drops these very sudden interests of the characters and pretends they had them all along?? Like Jentry and baton twirling, like come on wouldn't it have made more sense if she got sought out by the school dance team or something?? Or just have her main spirit fighting weapon be a baton!! Show her having genuine interest in that aspect of spirit fighting and then have it reflect later in school? Like why did these girls see a video of Jentry dancing and go "Hey she could probably baton twirl!" that makes no sense!

The animation was really great! More than that even, I love the art style and art direction this show has, it really gave me some major inspiration! I want to draw some fanart really badly!!

Okay this a major IN MY OPINION, low-key I think the show might have been more interesting if it was just set in Seoul for the whole time, I preferred Jentrys friends there, I much preferred the environments and the colours the art direction had in the setting of Seoul

I didn't really care for Texas in the show and It made the feelings of her later questioning if she should return or not be hollow to me the viewer, because I was like OF COURSE SHE SHOULD

Stella is a character I have complicated feelings on! I really did not care for the minuet of Michael's introduction at school her getting weighed down as just "the girlfriend" character and how Jentry wasn't allowed form a meaningful connection to her until after Michael and her broke up, hell Stella basically gets forgotten by the plot until the last 4ish episodes, and IN THOSE she's a REALLY fun and strong character! I love how she started learning seals and was such a a big part of them winning that final fight at the school, which frankly I don't think she gets enough credit for

And while I find her blushing at Jentrys other friend cute it just makes me sigh because now I realize the show totally could have just done a "Fuck the boys" Jentry x Stella ship and I would have been totally down

Actually low-key I think my ideal is Kit and their Girlfriend Jentry and Jentrys Girlfriend Stella ((and I guess maybe Stella's boyfriend Michael if he got written better, but meh don't expect me to include him in the polycule if I ever write Fics/draw art for this show))

Also speaking of Kit god I would love them to be genderfluid or I guess it to be acknowledged? As queer and not just, because their a skin walker. Like you can read them that way because of them being a skin walker demon but like if it was acknowledged in the show after making Jentry's skin he experimented a little with how he looked as Kit and his sense of fashion and style!!

Idk I would have loved it, I have some strong feelings on how this show had hints of queerness but never actually acknowledged that queerness besides I guess Jentrys fake parents being like "So do you have a boyfriend?? ..or a girlfriend??" Which I mean, I guess, diversity win the cat spirits pretending to be your dead parents don't care if your gay!

I was very invested in the mysteries of the Chau family for the whole run I just wish that they had time to breathe, we went from one revelation to the next and each one hit just that little bit less because there was no down time given between them.

Okay overall though, it's going to be rotating in my mind like a microwave for the next two weeks I can tell

I don't know if it's strong enough to stick around as a major fixation but maybe a minor one where I occasionally get drawn back over the characters who had so much potential to me

I'd say a solid like 8/10

Yeah I know I just did all that whining and complaining

But I did genuinely enjoy most of the viewing experience and the ideas behind it

It was good, I think other people should give it a try, it deserves a lot more love and attention for sure

[pricegouge]

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was�� called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

[my-introverted-self]

Casually rewatched s1 recently and got reminded (of how I felt during the first watch) that Buck’s “most transformative” relationship with Abby was less about love (not saying he wasn’t in love or falling) but more about his personal growth and making intentional choices to change and be better.

Buck was couched by Bobby trough almost every step of the relationship, he hesitated a lot and I actually think that he’d agree with Abby to break up (as she suggested to set him free from the hardships of her life situation at the time) had he not JUST have a conversation with Bobby where he openly admitted it was too “adult” for him to deal with and he wanted something less complicated and heavy despite his feelings towards Abby BUT Bobby yet again reminded him that being with such a great woman comes with a price and it’s what an actual serious relationship requires. That’s why Buck dismissed Abby’s suggestion and said he is ready to face it all with her. Only for her to leave next episode.

And the value this relationship gained (to the extent of ghosting the narrative) was not through it happening and being so great and full of love but through Buck’s longing and reflection in next seasons. Because he committed for the first time and it confused and hurt him how it ended. So you know it’s seems more about Buck than about Abby…

But it got me thinking that I would REALLY like to know why Buck thinks that now Tommy is his most transformative relationship after Abby. Because with Abby we got a lot of transparency through Buck articulating his feelings and concerns to Abby, Bobby, his friends and family in different increments before, during and after. And then we got to see the impact of all that on his life and character. So eventually the whole thing seems bigger than it really was in my opinion. But with Tommy we sadly got almost nothing. No mentions or remarks woven in casually, no heart to hearts/gossiping with or asking for advice from his friends and family, no conversations or arguments with Tommy himself, no cryptic voice-overs. So we didn’t really get to see the content of their relationship or Buck’s thoughts and feelings about it. But he considers it the most transformative of his life. I just want to hear more about it in canon 😢 Is it purely about Buck and his revelations about himself? Or is it actually about Tommy and experiencing something solid in their relationship dynamic? Was he truly falling in love? Did he find in that partnership what he was looking for all along? Will it have meaning beyond Tommy being his first man? What was so different about them?

We may never get to know…💔

[alewritesfics]

Bridging Realities

ℑ𝔙. 𝔅𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤..... 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: unedited, slow burn, eventual smut/ spicy scenes, some angst but happy ending, playful banter

⏮️                ⏸️                  ⏭️

The morning sun streamed through the windows of the Featherington estate, casting a golden glow over the lively preparations for the day ahead. You were seated at your vanity, Varley fussing over your hair with more vigor than necessary, muttering about how even a race required proper presentation. You nodded absently, your mind far from the conversation—or even the impending event.

You were dressed already, the soft, pastel blue gown fitting you comfortably as you stood and moved toward the window. You still wonder how on earth you got port- mama, to agree to buy new dresses and with different colors this time, although you think it mostly has to do with the arrival of the new featherington lord and how it meant that they no longer needed to worry about money much.

The bustle of the household faded as you leaned against the frame, gazing out at the beautiful house across the street, in which you could swear you see movement in.

It should’ve been a simple day—a moment to enjoy the festivities, the thrill of the race, and the chatter of the crowd. And yet, the weight of your thoughts anchored you in place.

The question swirled relentlessly in your mind. What do you do next?

The story you knew so well—the love story of Kate and Anthony—was already beginning to take shape. You’d seen the tension between them last night, the sharp glances, the lingering stares. You knew the moments that were meant to happen next.

But at what cost? Edwina’s heartbreak? Anthony’s stubbornness that was the whole reason people got hurt in the first place? Was it even your place to intervene? A few days ago you didn’t even exist in this world, so how could you?

Your gaze drifted to the bright sky, searching for clarity. And yet, another thought began to creep in, unbidden but persistent.

What if you didn’t step aside?

What if you let yourself want something—long for someone—for once? Anthony Bridgerton wasn’t just a name on a page, or a face in a show anymore. He was a man, flesh and blood, with flaws and feelings. And you… you weren’t just a bystander that dreamed to be in a love story like his. Not anymore.

Your fingers tightened on the windowsill as your heart warred with itself. To let the story unfold as it always had or to take a leap into the unknown, to risk selfishness for the chance at something real.

And then again, maybe you were meant to change things? Why on earth would the universe transport you into the world you’ve always dreamed of if you weren’t meant to?

“Miss Y/N?” Varley’s voice broke through your reverie, startling you. “The carriage will be ready soon. We mustn’t keep the others waiting.”

You straightened, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you turned back to the room. “Of course, Varley,” you said, your tone steady even as your thoughts churned.

As you left the room, you resolved one thing: Today, at the races, you would make a choice. Whether to follow the script you knew so well or to write a story of your own.

“Why did I have to accompany you?” you asked as you walked behind Penelope as she entered the drawing room of the Bridgerton house

She ignored your words, approaching Eloise from behind “Is that a copy of Lady Whistledown?” Penelope asked

“It is” Eloise answered, putting down the paper

“I thought we were done with her” Penelope said

“Do not discourage her, Penelope” Lady Bridgerton said “If she has taken an interest in Lady Whistledown again, perhaps it means she’s interested in what she has to say about the season’s available gentlemen too” She turned towards her daughter

You chuckled, swallowing down your nerves as you approached her mother “If Eloise has anything to say about it, Lady Bridgerton, then no” You said

“See, even Y/n gets me” Eloise huffed, turning to face Penelope

You smiled, looking at what you hope will be your future mother in law “Lady Bridgerton,” you greeted

She stopped her embroidery, looking up at you with a smile “Y/n, dear, it has been a long time since you’ve visited” Violet said

You blinked before you realized that perhaps you had or well, the past Y/n Featherington had visited the Bridgerton home before with Penelope.

“Yes, it has been” you nodded before sitting on the chair next to her “artist Bridgerton brother,” you greeted Benedict with a smile

He chuckled “still calling me by that, poet Featherington sister?” He teased back

You looked at him lost “Poet?” you said confused

“yeah,” he brought down his sketchbook “Don’t you remember when you recited on and on about the color of Anthony’s hair, his mesmerizing eyes?”

What?

“Oh, yes, I remember that as well” Lady Bridgerton chuckled “It was sweet seeing how enamored you were with Anthony when you were little, of course, it never went far as you were only three and ten years old when you decided you wanted to marry Anthony and he was well off into adulthood”

Your face froze as Lady Beidgerton’s words sank in, your heart skipping a beat. What?! You laughed nervously, trying to mask your shock. “I—well, I suppose teenage girls are prone to fanciful ideas, are they not?”

“Fanciful indeed,” Violet said, smiling warmly. “Though, I must admit, it was endearing. You followed him about during those visits, asking the most peculiar questions about the responsibilities of a viscount. You were so earnest, poor Anthony didn’t know what to do with you!”

Benedict smirked. “Oh, he certainly knew what to do—run off to the study and hide.”

“Benedict!” Violet scolded lightly, though her tone was still amused.

You felt your cheeks heat, and for a moment, you were lost for words. Of course, the past you would have been a lovestruck teenager, completely unaware of what that might mean for your interactions now.

You cleared your throat, your mind racing as you tried to compose yourself. “I assure you, I’ve outgrown such girlish infatuations. Besides, Anthony and I have hardly spoken more than a few words to each other recently.”

“Oh, but that could change,” Violet said, her tone light but laden with meaning. “Anthony needs a steady hand, someone with wit and charm to keep him grounded.”

Benedict leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at you knowingly. “And who better to manage his chaos than someone who once planned her entire future around him?”

You shot him a pointed look, though your lips twitched upward in a small, reluctant smile. “I believe we’re getting far ahead of ourselves.”

“Perhaps,” Violet said with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, “but it’s always nice to see old friends rekindle a connection.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the weight of their playful remarks mingling with your own uncertainty. You had come here prepared to make a choice, but now it seemed as though fate—or the Bridgertons—was nudging you toward one particular path.

“I believe we were never friends, Lady Bridgerton, it was just a childish infatuation on my part,” you say “I believe Anthony has his eyes set elsewhere right now”

Violet raised an eyebrow at your comment, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps, but you’d be surprised how easily one’s eyes can be redirected when the right person is in view.”

Benedict chuckled, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Oh, this is far more entertaining than I anticipated. Please, do carry on.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart was beating faster than ever. “I assure you, Benedict, there is nothing to carry on about. Anthony and I barely speak, and whatever childish notions I had are long gone.”

“C-colin!” you heard Penelope exclaim, You stood up as the rest of the bridgertons embraced the newly arrived Colin, watching with a smile as they greeted him

“And where, may I ask, is our intrepid viscount?” Colin asked looking around his family

“He is-“ Anthony stepped into view as Lady Bridgerton spoke “back from courting already”

“Colin, you are back, even better” Anthony said as he saw Colin “Family, I would like you all to-“ his eyes met yours, making him go silent

“Y/n…” he spoke “i-I did not know you were here”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, Anthony cleared his throat, his eyes leaving yours “i-I would like you all to ready yourselves for the races today, we will be attending united as one” He finished saying to his family

You stayed next to him as his family went off to get ready “I’ll be there in a bit” you say to Pen as she looked at you expecting to leave, she nodded before she left the room

Your eyes flickered back towards Anthony, finding him looking at you, you smirked “You’ll escort me to the races, won’t you?” you say boldly, having decided to not step aside and instead make your own choices.

Anthony’s eyebrows furrowed at your boldness, his usual composed demeanor slipping ever so slightly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly weighing his response.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched thin, and you could see the flicker of hesitation in his dark eyes. His gaze shifted briefly toward the door, as though calculating his options.

“I… had intended to accompany my family today as a united front,” he said carefully, his voice measured. “There are certain… expectations that must be upheld.”

You raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Expectations?” you repeated. “Anthony, are you saying that escorting me would somehow disrupt your plans?”

His jaw tightened, and he glanced away, his reluctance palpable. “Not disrupt,” he clarified, though the tension in his voice betrayed him. “It’s simply that…” He trailed off, clearly unwilling to elaborate.

Ah. So this was about Edwina. You felt the pieces fall into place with startling clarity. Kate’s refusal to let him court her sister must have spurred Anthony into finding another way to gain the Sharma family’s favor—an approach steeped in duty and strategy, as expected of a viscount.

But you weren’t about to make it easy for him. Especially not after what you had decided and you’d be damned if you were losing without a fight.

“Anthony,” you said, stepping closer so that he couldn’t avoid your gaze. “If your goal is to show yourself as a responsible, family-oriented man, what better way than to escort an old family friend?” You let your tone turn teasing, though your eyes stayed sharp.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse outright. Then, with a soft sigh, he turned back to you. “You do have a way of making things sound entirely reasonable,” he admitted, though his tone lacked its usual confidence.

You smiled triumphantly, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm. “Then it’s settled,” you said brightly. “We’ll make quite the impression, won’t we?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze flickering briefly toward the door again, as though still calculating his options. But then, he nodded, his movements stiff but resigned. “It would seem so,” he said finally.

As you walked together toward the carriages, you could feel the weight of his hesitation lingering between you. Anthony Bridgerton was a man bound by duty and logic, but there was something else simmering beneath the surface—a conflict he hadn’t yet resolved.

But that was fine. You weren’t looking for perfection. You were looking for an opportunity to remind him that life didn’t always need to be dictated by duty and expectations. If you were rewriting this story, you weren’t afraid to challenge the characters along the way.

Even if one of those characters was the man you’d been dreaming of for years.

You smiled, satisfied with his answer—for now. Today was only the beginning, after all. If you were going to rewrite the story, you intended to do so on your own terms. And Anthony Bridgerton? Well, he would simply have to keep up.

You looked around the field filled with people with a smile, the sound of horses galloping resounding nearby. Your eyes searched for any familiar face nearby but hard to see with so many people around.

You turned back to look at the man beside you, his eyes searching as well. You held back a scoff as you knew why, “Whatever plan you had for today, it would have only ended up hurting people” You stated, looking back at the field.

Anthony turned to look at you, your arm intertwined between his “What do you mean?” he feigned innocence

You looked at him once again “You mean to tell me you didn’t plan on elaborating a grand scheme so the eldest Sharma would leave you alone with Miss Edwina?”

Anthony’s gaze narrowed slightly, though there was no malice in it. “And what, pray tell, do you think I’m planning?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” you said, glancing toward the arriving carriages. “You intend to use today to make a grand show of your family’s unity and charm, all to prove to the Sharmas that you’re the perfect match for Edwina. Am I close?” You didn’t want to mention his plan to get Thomas Dorset to woo Kate.

His silence was answer enough.

You sighed, releasing his arm as you turned to face him fully. “Anthony, I know you mean well, but this… performance? It’s not going to end the way you hope it will.”

He frowned, his jaw tightening. “And why is that?”

“Because you’re not being honest with yourself,” you said simply. “About what you want.”

His expression darkened, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I am entirely aware of what I want,” he said stiffly.

“Are you?” you challenged, stepping closer. “Because it seems to me you’re more concerned with what you think you should want. There’s a difference, Anthony, and if you don’t figure it out soon, you’re going to hurt a lot of people—including yourself.”

The words hung heavy in the air between you, his gaze locked on yours as if trying to decipher your meaning. For a moment, you thought he might push you away, dismiss you like he did everyone who dared to question him.

But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “You make it sound so simple,” he said quietly.

“It’s not,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “But it’s worth it.”

Anthony’s gaze lingered on you, something unspoken passing between you. Then, with a subtle nod, he extended his arm to you once more. “Shall we?”

You smiled, slipping your arm back into his. “Lead the way, Lord Bridgerton.”

As you walked toward the crowd, the weight of your words seemed to settle on him, though he said nothing more. But you could feel it in the way he held himself, in the quiet moments of hesitation that punctuated his otherwise confident demeanor.

“You should let things flow the way they’re supposed to,” you pat his arm “If there are things impeding you to court Miss Edwina…..perhaps you should give up” you say selfishly

Anthony glanced at you, his brows knitting together as he processed your words. “Give up?” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “You would have me surrender so easily?”

You met his gaze steadily, though your heart raced at your boldness. “Not easily, Anthony. But if you’re only pursuing her because you think it’s the right thing to do, rather than what you truly want, then yes. Why waste your time—and hers—on something that isn’t real?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d pushed too far. But then he sighed, the tension in his features softening ever so slightly. “You speak as though you know my heart better than I do.”

“Perhaps I do,” you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. “Or perhaps I just see things more clearly because I’m not the one caught in the middle of it.”

Anthony didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting to the lively crowd ahead of you. The sounds of laughter, conversation, and the occasional cheer for a victorious horse filled the air. You could see his family mingling in the distance, their bright smiles a sharp contrast to the weight of the conversation between you.

“And what about you?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now. “You speak of honesty, yet you remain shrouded in mystery. What is it that you truly want?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you faltered. How could you explain the tangled web of emotions and desires that had brought you to this point? How could you tell him that you weren’t just another Featherington, but someone who had seen his story unfold in ways he couldn’t possibly understand?

“I…” You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the ground. “I want to live a life that feels real. Not one dictated by expectations or duty, but one where I can make my own choices. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

Anthony studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint smile, he shook his head. “You’re a peculiar woman, Y/N Featherington.”

You laughed softly, the sound tinged with relief. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” You looked at him “Besides…. I’m already fighting for what I want” there was something unreadable in your eyes as you looked at him

Anthony’s smile faltered ever so slightly as your words hung in the air, their weight settling between you like an unspoken challenge. His dark eyes flickered over your face, searching for something—clarity, perhaps, or reassurance—but all he found was a quiet determination that seemed to unnerve him.

“Fighting for what you want?” he repeated, his voice careful, measured. “And what is it, exactly, that you want, Miss Featherington?”

You tilted your head slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk gracing your lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The teasing lilt in your voice did little to ease the tension that had crept into the conversation. Anthony’s hand shifted subtly where it rested on yours, as though he were considering letting go. His usual air of control seemed to waver, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something unfamiliar in his expression—unease, perhaps, or uncertainty.

“Miss Featherington,” he began, his tone carrying the weight of a man accustomed to steering conversations in his favor, “it is not often I find myself at a loss for words, but you seem intent on ensuring I remain so today.”

You chuckled softly, though your gaze remained steady on his. “Perhaps that’s because you’re not used to being challenged, my lord.”

Anthony’s brows furrowed, and he looked away briefly, his gaze scanning the crowd as if seeking an escape. When he looked back at you, his composure was intact once more, though there was a faint crease in his brow that betrayed his lingering nervousness.

“You speak with remarkable confidence,” he said, his voice cooler now, as though attempting to regain the upper hand. “But confidence can be a dangerous thing when wielded carelessly.”

“Only to those unprepared to face it,” you countered smoothly, the edge in your tone softened by a smile. “But don’t worry, Lord Bridgerton. I have no intention of unsettling you—too much, at least.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before meeting yours again. “You have an uncanny ability to make a man question himself,” he admitted, his voice low. “I wonder if that is your intention.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “And if it were?”

Anthony’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions neither of you dared to name. Finally, he let out a quiet sigh.

“Then I suppose I must brace myself,” he said, his tone laced with reluctant amusement.

You smiled, your grip on his arm tightening ever so slightly. “Good. You’ll need it.” You say “Just like you’ll need it when I say that High Flyer will be the winner today and the horse you bet on, Nectar, will not” you smirk

Anthony stopped in his tracks, turning his head to look at you with an expression of mild disbelief. His brows arched, and for a moment, his usual composed demeanor gave way to something closer to exasperation.

“You’re challenging my judgment on horses now?” he asked, his tone laced with incredulity.

“Perhaps,” you replied breezily, your smirk widening. “High Flyer has a higher chance to win, the track is soft and hot thus Nectar will have a great disadvantage as he’s not as swifter and lighter as High Flyer. A rather unfortunate trait for a racehorse, wouldn’t you agree?” you use your knowledge of this episode

Anthony blinked at you, his lips parting slightly as he processed your words. “You’ve been studying the horses?”

“Is that so surprising?” you teased, tilting your head. “I’m merely preparing for the inevitable moment when you’ll have to admit I was right.”

His gaze narrowed, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. “You’re rather confident for someone who has yet to see the race.”

“Confidence, as you’ve pointed out, can be a dangerous thing,” you said, echoing his earlier words with a mischievous glint in your eye. “But I’m willing to take my chances.”

Anthony shook his head, though he couldn’t entirely suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Very well, Miss Featherington. If you’re so certain of your prediction, perhaps we should make this more interesting.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Are you proposing a wager, Lord Bridgerton?”

“I am,” he said, his voice gaining a touch of his usual commanding confidence. “If High Flyer wins, I will publicly admit my error—and you may choose a forfeit for me, within reason.”

“And if Nectar wins?” you asked, folding your arms as you regarded him with playful suspicion.

He looked in thought for a minute “Then you will meet me tomorrow morning when you come to my home with your sister” he said smoothly, his gaze steady on yours. “Just the two of us. No Penelope. No excuses.”

The boldness of his proposal took you by surprise, and for a moment, you were at a loss for words, feeling your breath catch in your throat. But then you smiled, the thrill of the challenge sparking in your chest.

“Very well, Lord Bridgerton,” you said, extending your hand to him. “You have yourself a wager.”

He clasped your hand, his grip firm and warm. “Then may the best horse—and the best gambler—win.”

As the two of you continued toward the racetrack, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhilaration. This wasn’t just a wager; it was a game, a dance, a challenge—and neither of you intended to back down.

“You were saying?” you turned to look at the viscount smug as High Flyer won first place in the race

Anthony’s expression was unreadable at first, his gaze fixed on the racetrack where High Flyer had just thundered across the finish line. The crowd erupted into cheers, but the Viscount’s focus remained solely on you.

“I believe I was saying something about confidence,” he murmured, though there was a faint edge of resignation in his voice. His eyes flicked back to yours, narrowing slightly at the smug smile that curved your lips.

“You were,” you said, tilting your head. “Something about it being dangerous, wasn’t it? It seems my confidence wasn’t misplaced after all.”

Anthony exhaled sharply, though you couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sigh of defeat. “It seems not,” he conceded, his tone reluctant. “I suppose I owe you my public admission of error.”

“Oh, there’s no need for dramatics, my lord,” you said, feigning modesty. “A simple acknowledgment that I was right will suffice.”

He arched a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he were fighting a smile. “Very well,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Miss Featherington, you were right. High Flyer was indeed the better horse today.”

Your grin widened, your victory made all the sweeter by his reluctant but good-natured capitulation. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

He stepped closer, his voice lowering so that only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” he said, his tone teasing yet laced with something deeper, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Perhaps,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a glint of mischief. “But don’t forget—this means you’ll have to endure my chosen forfeit.”

Anthony’s smile finally broke free, a rare and genuine thing that made your heart skip a beat. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said. “And I’ll face it with as much grace as I can muster.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, the lively crowd around you fading into the background. There was a spark between you, unspoken but undeniable, a sense that this was more than just a game.

“Well then,” you said, breaking the spell. “I look forward to seeing how well you handle it, my lord.”

Anthony chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. “And I, Miss Featherington, look forward to our morning meeting—when Nectar’s loss will no longer matter.”

His words left you breathless, your retort caught in your throat as he offered you his arm once more. “Uh, you lost, how is the meeting still in place when I won?” you asked

Anthony smirked, his expression that of a man who had been waiting for this exact question. “Ah,” he said, his tone deceptively casual, “but the terms of our wager never explicitly stated that the meeting would be void if High Flyer won. I simply said I would admit my error. And I did.”

Your eyes narrowed, your hand tightening slightly on his arm. “That’s not how wagers work, Lord Bridgerton,” you countered, though there was a flicker of amusement in your tone. “You can’t twist the terms to suit your convenience.”

“Twisting?” he echoed, his smirk growing. “Not at all. I am merely exercising the same cleverness you demonstrated in predicting the race. Surely, you wouldn’t begrudge me that?”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though the corners of your mouth betrayed the urge to smile.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he replied smoothly, his gaze flicking to yours with a glint of challenge.

You let out a soft huff, trying to suppress the fluttering sensation in your chest. “Fine,” you relented. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you off the hook for losing.”

Anthony chuckled, his voice low and warm. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Featherington. I’ll accept whatever forfeit you impose. But I do hope you’ll keep it… reasonable.”

“I’ll think about it,” you said with mock seriousness, pretending to consider all the humiliating possibilities.

As you walked together, the playful banter between you was laced with an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken yet impossible to ignore. You might have won the wager, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Anthony had been the winner in the end.

⏮️                ⏸️                  ⏭️

Taglist:

@heyyitsreign

@imafangirlofeverything

@stopeatread

@smartiepants217

@magical-spit

@ifilwtmfc

@kitkat27

@electronicexpertshark

@annareidprofiler

@zestygingergirl

@noirrose21-blog

(last minute tag. Hope you'll enjoy!) @ericityyy

[clone-anon-after-dark]

The Time It Takes

(A Crosshair x Reader fic in 3 parts)

Written for @lightwise

Word Count: 2,513

Warnings: Some discussion of sex, but nothing explicit

A/N: Reader’s appearance is not described. This fic contains some soft and hesitant Crosshair and early relationship stuff. Also Tech Lives and is on Pabu and he is in this fic so deal.

Part 1

Only a few days into a new rotation and you were already wondering what the year had in store. A hectic holiday season followed by some difficult conversations with someone who would never be yours. You’d known this for a while, but sometimes discussions still needed to be had. While he lived on the other side of Pabu, you didn’t see him as often as you’d think given the size of the island. That seemed to be both a blessing and a curse for while you longed for that connection, it would never be as fulfilling as you needed. You stood by the dock as you watched his shuttle leave for another trip; thoughts only disturbed by a single “hmph” behind you. Internally rolling your eyes, you knew exactly where that came from.

You turned to find Crosshair sitting next to Batcher on a bench along the dock. She was ready for a nap after no doubt spending the morning chasing fish while he went for his morning swim. He often swam further away from the busy side of the island and along a quieter part of the beach. You weren’t sure what brought him over here on his walk home.

“Problem?” you asked him.

He raised an eyebrow at hearing the single-word question he so often posed to others.

“No,” he replied. “You?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” you answered.

You were immediately distracted from your melancholy and somehow drawn into him. The man who often stood away from everyone and observed everything always managed to pull you in. You weren’t sure what it was about him that made you a little bit giddy. For his part, Crosshair pretended to be aloof, but it was increasingly hard for him to avoid you. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find a path through the community that would exclude you entirely. It was more that without planning and without thinking, he wanted to see you. His feet simply took him there.

You stood next to him while Batcher lightly snored. Crosshair petted her back until finally deciding to break the silence.

“Do you….” He uncharacteristically scratched the back of his head. His brothers did that when they were unsure, but like Tech, Crosshair rarely behaved this way. He always seemed so sure of himself.

“Do I what?”

“We should get lunch,” he said.  Internally, he was screaming at himself. He wasn’t a romantic, but this was probably not how it was done.

“I’d like that,” you replied. “In fact, I’m hungry now.”

Crosshair got up and Batcher followed. You meandered up to a small restaurant that always served the same things, but it didn’t matter because the food was always good and because she was on her best behavior, even Batcher was welcome. It took a little time to get into a groove of talking and eating, but Crosshair made a good effort. He wasn’t usually one to beat around the bush, so he came out and asked.

“What’s with you and that man? He’s married, isn’t he? Are you a trio with room for a fourth?”

You nearly spat out your food. His attempt at humor and honesty left you speechless for a moment, but you tried answering as embarrassed heat set on his cheeks.

“No, umm, well, yes, he’s married, but we’re not polyamorous and,” you sighed, “He was something I wanted or thought I did, but I’m not the person he can commit to. He’s with someone else. We’re still friends, but I guess I wonder what-if since he’s the closest thing I’ve had to a life partner.”

Crosshair wasn’t sure what to say. He had never been in a position to think about a partner. Tech’s survival and later reappearance on Pabu meant that he and Phee were together, but the concept of something like marriage was never introduced to the clones. They were made for a war that was over. They hadn’t even been taught about the basics of sex and anatomy until as a cadet, Tech managed to dig up information on the first data pad he’d made. The thought of being with someone felt like a cruel joke and yet in your presence and now that the Empire was behind him, he felt like maybe it wasn’t a joke after all.

“What about you?” you asked. “I thought you had a thing for one of the fishers.”

“Just because I lifted crates for her once doesn’t meant anything. I was being nice, if you can believe it.”

“Ah.”

Crosshair ate another bite from his noodle bowl and then ventured another question.

“What does partnership mean to you?”

You looked at him with surprise and answered after some contemplation. It was having an equal. Someone to help and be helped by. Sharing struggles. Lifting each other up. Fixing the house. Doing chores. Staying in bed late whenever work could wait. Listening to the rain together. You wanted stability. You wanted to not be alone. You wanted to be loved and to love and you weren’t going to settle for someone who couldn’t do their part.

“And getting laid now and again wouldn’t hurt either,” you added.

He grinned at that.

“And what about you?” you asked, returning to seriousness.

“I only recently started thinking about it,” he answered. “It sounds like something I never thought I’d have.”  He took a sip of his drink and then added, “But I would like to try.”

Part 2

Crosshair loved to steal kisses. The single peck you left on his cheek after your second date gave him all kinds of flutters. Maybe it was the sniper in him, but he loved pulling you away into the shadows even just to kiss the crown of your head. He was used to being out of sight. It’s where he felt safest and so it stood to reason that he felt safest having you all to himself and tucked away in a corner, on a balcony, or - at one point - up a tree. It wasn’t surprising that he was good with his mouth. His oral fixation was not limited to the toothpicks he routinely rolled between his lips.

For his part, Crosshair loved having someone he could make smile and laugh. He was still his dry, snarky self, but he smiled much more often, sometimes picking you up when he’d visit after a day’s work, just so he could hold you as close as possible. He could feel your heartbeat. He could feel you breathing. He could feel your happiness and it fueled his own.

Then one morning some weeks later you just happened to be ready to walk to the beach.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I thought I would come swim with you.”

“I swim alone,” he answered, guard coming back up.

“No, you don’t. Batcher is always with you,” you retorted; feeling brave and a nervousness at the fear you had overstepped.

“She’s different,” he countered.

“Can I join you anyway?” you asked, now more unsure.

“Just today.”

You walked together in silence, but the curtain that had almost drawn between you started to lift. He was cautious and you were trying to figure this out. Once on the beach, he put a towel down and – with his back to you - took off his cybernetic hand. He swallowed harder than he wanted to and it was clear that was the source of his insecurity in this moment. Tech had made him that cybernetic, but losing his hand and now gaining a different one had changed him. He still had to take it off whenever possible before getting in the water to avoid salt affecting its functionality. Taking it off and putting it on was a reminder and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen like this by you.

Crosshair took a breath, walked to the edge of the water, and looked back at you just as waves splashed his ankles. You looked at him, then his stump, and then back up at him and smiled. You realized you loved him. Walking into the water next to each other, you both started swimming until you reached a spot that was familiar to him. He closed his eyes, face to the sun, and took some deep breaths while treading water. You laid back and started floating, waves moving you in a comforting lull. He kept close, still treading softly while meditating on his own thoughts; somehow able to reflect and find calm despite Batcher doggie paddling close by and trying to snag a fish. Every so often he reached out to you to keep you from drifting too far. You sat up in the water, fingers tracing down his right arm before coming to the end of his stump and kissing it. He pressed a kiss to your lips like his life depended on it.

After about an hour, you both had enough and made your way back to shore. You dried off and he put his hand back on, this time not hiding. Taking a step toward him, your fingers interlaced with his - both biological and cybernetic.  He leaned down to kiss you, briefly pulling you into his chest before Batcher charged up the beach trying to bark with a large fish half hanging out of her teeth.

He walked you home hand-in-hand.

Things progressed to the point that he was spending the night. It was a lot quieter than staying with his siblings. Although they were nice, Wrecker was always there to elbow him and make it awkward. Crosshair would rather come to your house and snuggle on the couch.

He never pushed for more than you were ready for since he preferred to take his time anyway. He was nervous to be intimate with you and was scared shitless to tell you that, but somehow your gentle spirit made it okay for him to say something when the time came. You brought up sex and he avoided eye contact for several moments until you caressed his cheek.

“It’s okay,” you said, kissing his temple. “There’s no hurry. We can take the time it takes.”

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he whispered. “I can’t mess this up.”

“Then we talk,” you replied. “Communicate. We can do whatever we both want.”

You wanted him left in no doubt as to how you felt. He was vulnerable and you knew it. Crosshair liked being competent. He liked control and knowing what he was doing. With this, he was so far away from experienced that he couldn’t even pretend.

“Tell me what you like,” you implored.

“I don’t know what all I like.” He managed to look into your curious eyes and relaxed a bit. “In war, there’s no time. I would simply get the job done as fast as possible and get back to work.”

“Well that’s no good here,” you answered. “We can take our time.”

“Maybe you show me something you like and we can start there,” he suggested.

As much as it was a challenge for him to let go of control, he trusted you and that night he discovered a lot more about himself.

Crosshair was game for helping you in more constructive ways too. While he’d never fixed a sink, Tech gave him some pointers and he spent the better part a day on yours. He got down and dirty and made sure the job was done right while you tried catching up on work for the job you were actually paid for. It wasn’t a fun day, but it was more help than you’d had in a long time. Maybe ever. The citizens of Pabu helped each other, but it was hard to ask for help after being hyper-independent for so long. Crosshair started taking note about things around the house that could use some attention before they got worse.  The more time you worked together, the more you found your strengths complimented each other and you fell into a familiar routine.

Part 3

It was another sunny day on Pabu and you were grateful for a day off work without anything looming in the distance. You enjoyed lunch with Crosshair at what was now your usual spot while Batcher sat at his feet and gobbled up the occasional snack offered by him. You sat next to each other and shared a smile as you finished your meal. Just out of the corner of your eye, your ex appeared.

“Hey,” he said, walking up to you and trying to analyze the situation. “You weren’t there when I landed.”

Crosshair’s arm instinctively wrapped around you as a sudden jolt shook your chest. The man in front of you represented the past. The man next to you was your future.

“I assumed you were fine,” you answered. “You said it was going well when we talked last.”

“I’m just used to seeing you right when I get in,” your ex said with a hint of disappointment.

“You’re seeing me now,” came your reply. “You know Crosshair?”

“I’m familiar,” your ex replied with a nod in your boyfriend’s direction. “Maybe we can get dinner. All of us, if you prefer. Catch up.”

You nodded and he left.

Crosshair pulled you closer and left a firm kiss on your temple.

“I don’t like him,” he growled while leaving money to cover the tab.

“Why?” You sipped the rest of your drink.  “He’s actually nice. He was just surprised to not see me.”

“I don’t like the thought of you waiting around for him and being heart broken. I don’t like you not getting what you need.”

You looked up at him and only found sincerity and concern on his face. Maybe some frustration, although you knew it wasn’t directed toward you.

“I’m not broken-hearted anymore,” you reassured. “I just want you.”

Crosshair stood up and pulled you up with him. You walked home and waited until you were alone to bring up the subject again. Crosshair was interested, but as he preferred not to be pushed for information, he also didn’t push you.

He lay back on the sofa and you curled up against him. The skies darkened outside as he traced circles on your back. The story of your past relationship came out of your mouth in a stream of consciousness. Crosshair listened and held you a little closer as you got more emotional. You described your hopes and wishes, the ways your life was different, how things fell apart, what happened since. You went quiet and a peaceful chorus of soft rain fell on the window above you. It was a relief to let go of the past.

After some time, Crosshair broke the silence.

“I want to give you what you need.”

“You do.” You looked up at him and kissed the back of his hand. “I love you and I want to give you what you need. And what you want.”

“I love you too,” he replied. He pulled you into a fiery kiss and mumbled something about being more comfortable in bed with you.

[sexy-obese-assassin]

List of helluva (boss) predictions for season 3

For Striker:

. Gets his own helluva short (possibly about taking his horse BombProof to the vet)

. Gets his very own episode thanks to his backstory.

. Striker appears in 6 of the 15 episodes of helluva boss (3x more than 3 from season 2)

. Striker finds out that stolas is no longer demon royalty (Thanks to blitz) stolas and imp make peace with Striker as he moves on from Stolas & searches for the main target of demon royalty. (Stella)

__________________________________________________

The main predictions:

. In season 3, EP1 we get a backstory of Stella and Andre. the same way we got a backstory for Stolas and Blitz and S2 EP1. But in Stella's POV.

. we see a serious I.M.P discussion about Millie's pregnancy, and what the future will be for the company for the next 9 months. (Possibly in episode 2 or later in season 3)

. Octavia and Stolas reunite as he gets his own apartment (thanks to Blitz) for Octavia and stolas to live in for the rest of their lives.

. During Millie's hiatus in I.M.P they get an interim replacement for Millie that could either be Striker, Sallie May, Or one of Millie's brothers.

. After Millie has her baby, crimson kidnaps it shortly after M&M's backs are turned, (leading to the final battle between I.M.P Vs, Crimson, & during that final battle between I.M.P & Crimson, (with the help of Striker & Millie) moxxie assassinates crimson between the eyes the same way he did Martha in murder family (S1, EP1).

. In the Lust Ring, we have an awkward run-in with stolas, blitz, and the "better than Blitzo" succubus Imp, and reveals his real name.

**THINGS I DON'T WANT TO HAPPEN IN SEASON 3.**

. 1 by 1. every main antagonist and protagonist in helluva boss dies. (Ex: Blitz, moxxie, Millie, stolas, Striker, Loona, Fizzarolli.)

. M+M break up 💔 (prolly due to baby discussion)

. Yet another C H E.R.U.B.S comeback (just give it up angels, Ya Lost to I.M.P twice now)

__________________________________________________

And that's it for the predictions, feel free to give me your thoughts in the comments. 🥰 Or not, I don't give a shit. 🤪

[miwiheroes]

Dropping Byler Evidence Every Day Until Season 5

Day 3 - Mike's incriminating dilemma

I think one of the most obvious byler proofs to me that barely gets any notice or recognition that it is very convincing, is the fact that Mike seems totally unwilling to talk to Will about his problems with El. Whenever Will is spoken to about the issues they have, it's very noticeable to the audience that Mike talks about it in very general terms, making sure he doesn't end up spilling what they spoke about.

This is simply because it is incriminating.

It's also the reason why he doesn't tell Will he called him multiple times even though he easily could! It would solve a lot between the two of them if he had admitted he called him (which we got confirmation about from Dustin). However, he would rather not, and would rather sacrifice himself in a sense than have Will know how much he called, turning the focus away from himself.

So again, why wouldn't Mike just tell Will about what happened? He knows that it might help him, since he's definitely told a friend about his relationship problems before (Lucas). However, this time he's hiding something bigger -- he does not love El. He would much rather have Will stay in the dark about what he really 'needs to say' than have Will ask him more questions. He's worried that if he gives too much detail, he'll be outed as a liar, he'll be figured out by Will. There is no other reason for hiding what El wants him to say. He could tell Will, but he's simply worried about the questioning this would earn.

The fact that he's lying is one of the reasons he makes this face here:

This is when Will says 'Whatever you didn't say, you can say it to her then', referring to when Mike sees her again. He believes he's comforting Mike that she's safe and he will see her again.

At first, Mike grins at Will, simple because... he's happy that Will's comforting him. But then he starts to dig deeper into what he's just heard and what it then means. That's when he almost startles, blinks rapidly and looks nervous. The internal conflict is clear on his face, and the directors want you to take notice of it.

It's almost like he's disliking the fact he has to lie to Will here. He doesn't like that Will has no idea how deep this thing actually goes, and it's really not as simple as saying I love you when he sees El again.

All in all:

Will has no idea that he's encouraging Mike to say I love you to El.

He believes he's comforting Mike on the fact that El is safe and that Mike will see her again.

But Mike's worried about saying I love you. Meaning he's worried about seeing her again.

He does not want to say I love you.

Okay.... so this means that he does not want to say I love you. Even if it means that he can see El safe again. But this can be for many different reasons. Maybe he's not ready to make the commitment or something. But the next scene on the car is when Mike shows the real reason why he doesn't want to say it.

The next time Mike and Will talk about this, the thing that he has to say to her has been reframed to being 'The Truth.' He's realised, between the previous scene and the car scene, that he will eventually have to explain himself to El because he'll likely see her again. He thinks that if he had explained himself, maybe he would have taken him with her.

Now, 'explaining yourself' does not at all sound like a confession of love. It almost sounds like Mike trying to justify to El why he doesn't say it. AND:

He tells Will in this scene that he 'didn't know what to say' despite El spelling it out for him very clearly. This shows he knows that he can't say what she wants him to say, and he has no idea how to explain why he can't say it in a way that isn't incriminating. Again, he can't tell Will the thing he has to explain away, because it would raise too many questions.

Will says 'to say how you really feel', suggesting that Mike feels the opposite of what El wants. And the fact that Mike nods. He NODS when Will says 'what if they don't like the truth?' is just so clear to me. It AGAIN solidifies that Mike is nervous because he really doesn't want to tell El the truth. He has no idea what to say to make it better without lying.

TLDR; Mike does not want to say I love you to El. The reason? He doesn't love her.

[idea-less-author]

I'm rewatching Doctor Who, and first of all, I forgot how much I not only loved this show but also Rose Tyler as a whole. Also nine needs more love. Anyway, I just finished episode 1×6 Dalek, and all I could think was how interesting it would have been if the Dalek survived and joined the time traveling duo. Walk with me a second.

We all known the Daleks, what they're like, what they are, what they've done, what they're capable of. But, this Dalek has spared 2 human lives. It's just kinda meandering with Rose questioning everything. It just wants freedom, but what does that mean really? The Doctor comes in and threatens it, sees that it's changed due to Rose's DNA, and is feeling something other than hate for the first time in it's existence. It's no longer a true Dalek, but it's still alone. It asks Rose for it's final orders. And, what if, she says no. And doesn't change her mind.

This is the first time the Dalek has ever felt the full spectrum of emotions. Of course it's over whelmed. It's neever felt anything more then maybe anger and hatred and now there are so many new things to feel.

Grief for what it once was and for all it once knew, fear of all of the unknown ahead, I'm sure some guilt for not only what it has done, but for even allowing itself to be changed in the first place. It gained human emotions for the very first time, moments after finding out that it was alone, and after being tortured for who knows how long. It's standing with the being that ended the time war by massacring both of their people, and the woman who' s DNA changed you so fundamentally that you know longer know what you even are. You're feeling sunlight for the very first time. That does not sound like a being that should be making life changing/ending decisions at that moment.

So, what if Rose refuses to give that final order. She recognizes all of the above. She's a lover, she's compassionate, she's emotionally intelegent. She doesn't like the suffering of anyone, including her enemies, but death would not be her first answer. It hasn't been before, it wasn't after, so why this time?

No, what if instead Rose chose to be kind to the Dalek by being a bit crule, and refusing it's request to die. Instead she convinces the Doctor to bring him aboard the ship. She picks the Dalek up, right out of the exoskelton, and not only gives the Dalek, it's first ever physical contact, but a new home. (I understand that the Dalek is squid-like and slimey but honestly I don't know how much Rose would care about that when trying to show compassion. Hell she tried to show compassion by carressing the Dalek earlier in this very episode.)

Nine would not be thrilled with these developments. You want to bring one of the creatures that helped end his people, terrorized the Universe, and is the reason that his alone, onto HIS Tardis? Are you mad? And they would bicker a bit. Shouting would happen, and the Dalek might even be on the Doctor's side. But I think in the end Rose would look at Nine with her big doe eyes, passionate about life in the way that she always is, and he would cave. He would be upset and cross (with himself mostly), but he would let Rose bring it onto his ship. I mean the Dalek has changed, and let's be real, he's the reason the Daleks alone, as well as himself. He had his reasons, but do they even matter at this moment? With this Dalek?

Now the next episode does take place near immediately after this one on station 5 and whatever, but even with the Dalek I think that the adventure with what's his name (I can't be bothered to look it up atm but you know the guy) can go much of the same as it did. The Dalek get's let on the Tardis recovering from it's ordeal, rethinking everything, and what the implications for it are now that everything is different. I think all of the Canon episodes for this season are much of the same too, just add a couple of new adventures showing the Dalek what life can be now with a full sectrum of emtions. And because it got these emotions from Rose, probably a shit-ton of compassion. I also think that it would start to build itself a new mechsuit, or whatever you want to call it. But this time, it has more uses then just death, destruction, and conquering.

The Dalek and the Doctor would have a whole frenemies thing. The Doctor doesn't trust the Dalek because it's a Dalek, and the Dalek knows that the Doctor should be it's number one enemy. But, they are cohabitating. And Rose wants things to work out, so they try to not be hostile. But every now and again, they find themselves... talking. Specfically when the Dalek is working on it's new suit, the Doctor will, help? Tbh it starts out with him being extreamly suspicious of the Dalek and wanting to keep an eye on it. Which leads to helping, segestions, being a sound board. And if I'm being honest, if it were a someone other than Nine I would say that this would be the time he notices what's happening and go and skulk around for a it before the cycle happens again, but I honestly think Nine would notice, and just continue on. Get to know the Dalek. Trust in Rose. At some point I do think that the Dalek chooses a name for itself, at Roses prompting. No idea what, but just another way that the Dalek changes and differenciates itself from the rest.

Now while this is all happening, they are still going on the rest of the adventures in the season. Jack joins the T.A.R.D.I.S. team. I think he'd kinda love a Dalek that's no longer a Dalek, who wants to live life, and maybe do some good for once. He joins the building sesions. Rose is there, it started off as her chaperoning The Doctor and The Dalek, but it just became hanging out and providing commentary fairly quickly. They're all having a grand time. It's strange, but it's theirs. Then Station 5 part 2 happens. The Doctor, Jack, and Rose get yoinked into their respective game shows. Rose gets disitegrated. Their Dalek and the T.A.R.D.I.S. are found and The Doctor and Jack are mourning. Their Dalek knows something is off. They figure out that the Daleks are back. They go to the Emperor.

Now I can't quite decide if Our Dalek would even be tempted by the emperor or not. Maybe at first? but It's changed so much. The Emperor likely wants nothing to do with It anyway because It's no longer a True DalekTM. And Our Dalek has changed so much. SEEN so much. Has been cared for by Rose Tyler, which we all know is a life chaging experience.

Once again I'm not entirely sure how the fight against the Daleks end for Their Dalek. It gets sent with Rose to protect her while everyone else fights and dies against the Daleks. It help Rose get back. Or It stays behind with Jack and The Doctor, completly fine with sacrificing it's life to save humanity as long as Rose is safe. If we go that route there are several ways you can go from there. It dies fighting what it once had been a hero. It dies, and comes back like Jack. In that case I think that It would continue on with Jack as a companion. Or maybe It goes It's own seperate way from Jack after resuraction. It lives, no need to be resurected. It could continue on with The Doctor and Rose. It could be left behind with Jack. It could stay behind with Jack. It could decide to go separate ways from the Doctor and Rose (I don't think Ten would be as tolerant of Our Dalek and It would sense that, so It goes on it's own adventures. Or maybe it goes and finds Jack after The Doctor becomes Ten.) Idk So many ways that it could go and I like a lot of them. I think bringing It back like Jack and letting them Travel together is my favorite.

I was just overtaken with this idea and had to share. I have no idea if this had been done broe, I'm sure it has, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. I just started rewatching and it's over taken me. I'd love to hear other people's thoughts.