#it’s just. so good. there’s so much depth to everyone and everything

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.16.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST

word count: 13,5K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: angst, angst, angst. And then nothing out of the ordinary, have a surprise for this one, there is no kink malpractice so you can all feel comfortable :v

author’s note: As usual, playlist here, translations at the bottom, and artist is @petitesieste ♡ @doggrowth I can't really thank you enough, so just know that your hype about this was one of the things that sustained me through the journey. And thank you everyone, it's been insane four months with this fic. I am truly floored by the love it received. See ya around!

Cross-posted on AO3

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Despite having an in-depth understanding of the alchemy of anger, it eludes Viktor how he got livid so quickly. Certainty doesn’t wash over him in one gush of sweat to the back; it dribbles annoyingly, like well-delivered bastinado.

Your texts were too scarce to keep his nerves at bay. Your smile is too thin when you step through his threshold. Your work-blabber too precise, too rehearsed to be entirely innocent.

And from that point forward, Viktor floats from one emotion to another. Dread slaps him cold and violent when he hears the word regroup, and the justifications that follow. He defends himself with a tone matching the temperature you’ve inflicted on his chest—until you call him out on cruelty.

He tries to reason then. Retreats to his calculating self, one of the strongest versions of him. Counts out all his good deeds as if they’re tokens to be exchanged for love. But truthfully, Viktor can’t hide that something inside him has just snapped in half, and he’s worried it will scare you even further away.

He’s ready to compromise—to ease down on meetings and texts and calls until you find a space where you are able to bring yourself to honesty, and maybe one day tell him what this is really about.

An inch away from telling you I see you. I love you. I know you, you call him out on his human need for closeness, and the current pulls him back toward anger.

Simmering with hot tears, he replays every time he let you be—and scowls internally. He’s lost a spiritual battle with complacency if, after four months of this, you still can’t be honest with him.

He lets you kiss him once. Twice. And then decides: if you’ve leaned into the ugly part of yourself, he can do the same. It’s no longer a current now—just a natural downwelling in the ocean of his own disquiet.

He can hear your sobs from the stairwell, even as you slam the door shut behind you. Feeling like an open wound, Viktor stays drilled into the floor, trying to swallow the tangy spit gathering in his mouth after it got scorched with him telling you to go.

For a while, he breathes with his eyes closed. Goes over everything in his head. Wonders if you got home safely and how much time has passed since you left. When the tension wrung tight in his muscles makes his thigh flare up, he drags himself to the bedroom. As soon as his face touches the pillow, his body coils into an embryo and his mouth releases a silent sob.

Viktor doesn’t really cry often. Not because he feels little—he feels in orchestral swells—but because tears mark the moment the baton slips from his hand. He learned that young. His mother dabbed his cheeks, told him softness was a virtue; his father, one evening when the boy’s leg hurt too loudly, simply straightened him with a look and said, The world forgives a lot, but not a grown man’s tears—especially when the man already leans on a stick. From then on, crying became a solitary indulgence, rationed to the rare night Jayce found him drunk on pain or to the locked bathroom where water could pass for grief.

Now, alone in the dark, the old rule fractures. The tears arrive small and stunned, drying almost as soon as they fall, salt tight on his cheeks. They leave behind that hard bolus in the throat—a lump he can’t swallow or cough clear. He hitches a breath, eyelashes knotting, half-ashamed of the sound. He isn’t sure what he’s mourning: your absence, his failure, the stupid hope he’d nursed all week. Maybe it’s simpler—anger that has nowhere else to leak. So he lets the scant tears run their brief course, hot and useless, while his fists stay balled under his chin like a child’s, as if clenching could hold the rest of him together.

When sleep finally drags him under, it sluices the room of light but leaves the taste of your mouth—salt-sweet, desperate apology—bitter on his tongue. Red was the only clean word he had; he does not regret saying it. What he resents, as consciousness unspools into dream, is himself: the slow drift he’d allowed, the signs he catalogued but never named, the way hope made him clumsy.

By dawn the anger has doubled back, a closed circuit burning itself out on his ribs. You are merely the spark; the current is all his—impossible standards arcing against the tender parts. He wakes gritty-eyed, leg locked tight, pillow damp. Phone blank. The urge to text safe home? lances through him, but he lets it scorch and pass. Still angry, he notes, almost clinically. Good. Better than begging.

Sunday he sulks like a bad hinge: every movement creaks. He limps room to room, grunts at the kettle, snarls at the crutch and canes when they clatter. By afternoon he’s seated on the couch, shoulders knotted, the crumpled copy of The Memorandum in his lap. Pages ruck up under his thumbs—your margin notes, tiny scribblings he read like blessings. Now the paper squeaks as he squeezes it, and the only sound in the flat is the dry, silent sob that breaks in his chest but never quite clears his throat.

You notice the absence of the booklet on Saturday, right after you get home and dump your bag out on the kitchen table—keys, lip-balm, rehearsal schedules, loose change—and the stack of stapled pages is nowhere. A dull, hollow click in your chest: it’s left on his night-stand, wedged under an empty mug. 

It was meant to be a surprise—tiny, scrappy fringe performance, sixty seats, your half-secret gift to say I think about you often, I love this part of you. Now it feels juvenile, a school-girl handing in homework nobody asked for.

Here, there is nothing of him. No bite-mark blooming beneath a collar, no fading bruise you can push for comfort. Your skin, diligent traitor, has healed too quickly; even the ache in your ass has resolved to a memory. The rational shard of brain reminds you that if Viktor says I’ll call, he will—but if the call is to snip the last thread, you won’t be allowed to beg for a souvenir.

You don’t bother with the mirror. One glance would finish you: puffy eyes, blotched throat, a smear of mascara dried like soot. Instead you pace the narrow flat—couch, sink, couch again—trying to resurrect the steel that told him let’s regroup. The argument is gone; what remains is a howl, wide as a chasm. His mouth, stone-cold on the safeword, keeps replaying in the meat of your mind. You’d asked him once, what were his limits. Now you know: he will endure eye-rolls, snot oozing from your nose when you can’t take another inch of cock, a display of sluttiness staged to make him jealous, every filthy demand that starts with fuck my and ends with an assigned body part—save the one where you act like a stranger and call it sensible. That, apparently, is the line. You crossed it wearing a smile that wasn’t yours, and the price is this room, echoing with nothing that smells of him.

Chest still bucking with the leftover currents of sobs, you lurch through the flat in search of anything that might stand in for Viktor.

A hair-brush—not the right heft, but it will do. You fold forward, try to land the strokes where his palm would fall. The bristles snap against skin, a dull, petulant sting that means nothing without the breathy good girl trailing after it. You swing harder; the ache builds, but it’s all noise, no music.

Next attempt: teeth. You clamp down on the soft under-swell of your own forearm, hoping for crescents, for proof, for permanence. Your bite is too shallow, canines too blunt; it raises a faint pink ridge that fades before your eyes.

There’s nothing left but the simplest humiliation. Fingers shove beneath underwear, two knuckles grinding, the other hand at your throat—pressure you’ve seen him measure to the millimetre. It should empty you, siphon the poison off, but a neon warning sears the inside of your skull: What are you doing?

Everything collapses. You drop where you stand, back against the couch, knees barking against the floorboards, and sob until the ribs ache again—ugly, inconsolable sobs that strip your throat raw and leave you with nothing but the echo of his name, caught in the dark like a moth that can’t find the window.

In a world where poverty rivals leprosy, you’ve proved yourself a thousand times over. You stayed just below the surface—patient, observant—waiting for the rest to drown themselves, letting the weight of their coins drag them under. A few of the darlings survived, later bending to kiss your feet, but that mass-drowning was crucial: their bloated bodies became your rafts, letting you rise.

People can force themselves to fit where they don’t belong. Even a fat man can survive thin ice if he endures the humiliation of spreading himself flat. A poor girl can survive public school if she stays invisible long enough to snatch scholarships and swallows the slurs that follow.

But in a world where caution reads as cruelty, you are suddenly out of your depth. You’d called it mercy in your head—offering to regroup, trimming the thing before it frayed—yet the moment the word left your mouth you watched it hit him like a bullet, a neat, steaming hole opening his ribs.

You’ve seen Viktor teary with laughter, fucked out so damn well the irises rolled back catering you to a weirdly sexy, ghastly view of his whites; you have never seen him like that—face slack, breath arrested, grief rushing up unfiltered. Your stammered clarifications only packed the wound, dressing it with gauze made of panic. A single mis-chosen kindness, a dormitive principle in a fresh syringe: it numbed nothing, it only stopped the strongest muscle. Pretty phrasing, ugly phrasing—it comes down to the same plain sentence beating in your skull: you just broke his heart.

Nobody to judge you—beyond some god, if it’s even out there—you nearly crawl upstairs to bed, body begging for softness, brain refusing to halt the self-inflicted persecution. You fall face-flat, one leg slumped off the mattress, praying your snot-clogged breath won’t suffocate you in the night—or that it does.

Sunday is catatonic. You wake with a gaping need for Viktor’s angular body to smother yours, to have him splayed flat until you can count his ribs by the way they press into your belly; to feel his hands mould to your sides, carving the dip of your hips deeper. You spend the holy day paralysed in bed, face glued to the cell-phone screen, thumb working itself raw—typing, deleting, hovering—practising such fierce restraint over the send button that, by evening, the joint won’t even pop properly.

You cling to his promise of calling as the new week begins, then damn your past self for building a machine so efficient you have nothing left to busy your hands. So you make your body the substitute: wall-to-wall meetings, endless walk-throughs, pep talks delivered with missionary zeal to every electrician and understudy who crosses your path. From the mezzanine you look like the textbook picture of a tireless director—notes in one hand, headset in the other—while inside, hydrochloric acid eats slow tunnels through gut and heart.

Meals shrink to sips of burnt coffee and ulcer-bright energy drinks. The stabbing under your ribs? Stress, you insist, and the omnipresent urge to heave the whole damned universe out of your throat. Days smear into a cheap film montage: fierce heroine accepts every crisis with a stitched-on smile, nails the lighting cue, fields the donor call, signs off on costumes—then checks her phone in the wings, hope flaring and dying in the time it takes the screen to stay blank.

On Friday, Mel appears in your doorway like a stage-hand who’s lost the plot—huge grin, coat still half on, car keys dangling. You clock the performance in one glance: the smile’s painted, the eyes are all business.

“Save it,” you mutter, signing the last requisition. “You’d never survive callbacks with that face.”

She snorts, palms flat on your desk as if she could pry you loose by leverage alone. “Charlie,” she calls sweetly over her shoulder, “Director’s got a hard out in five.” Charlie—bless him—snaps a salute and vanishes, shutting the door with a click that leaves no escape.

“You’re being abducted,” Mel announces. “One drink, two at most. Doctor’s orders.”

“I don’t recall appointing you my physician,” you dead-pan, but she’s already collecting your coat, your bag, your half-drained coffee like props from a scene change.

Outside, the air tastes of wet concrete and spent adrenaline. You let her shepherd you down the block, each step peeling away the theatre’s fluorescent cling. She keeps a light hand at your elbow—no lecture, just ballast.

The pub is low-ceilinged, wood-warmed, mercifully dim and completely not fitting for someone like Mel, but it’s the first best spot. She plants you in a corner booth, orders something dark for herself and a gin for you, then waits until the silence starts to ring.

“Talk,” she says, soft but immovable.

You pick at the cardboard coaster, scabbed with old spills. Words feel like rusted hinges, yet they come: the fuck-ups, the panic, the no-contact. Viktor’s face. You don’t name the fear; it’s there, anyway, hanging between the pint glasses.

Mel listens the way good friends do—shoulders squared against the weight, eyes steady, not flinching when your own glass trembles. When you trail off, she nudges the gin across the table.

“Drink,” she instructs. “Hydrate the tragedies.”

You manage a laugh—weak, unexpected, but real. It scrapes something loose in your chest, and for the first time all week you breathe without tasting acid.

It does absolutely nothing in the department of perpetual terror of being abandoned, but does allow you to force down a bucket of chips and fall asleep listening to robotic voice of an online translator repeating “I love you,” in Czech.

Viktor’s week hasn’t been any kinder. He stalks the lab like a man carrying splinters under every fingernail—snaps at interns for breathing too close to the centrifuge, curses a pipette into early retirement when it drips on the bench. Jayce clocks the tempo by noon on Monday: glassware clinks harder, Viktor’s cane thumps wider arcs, and there’s a new bruise blooming on the stainless lid of the -80 °C freezer that no one will admit came from his elbow.

Tuesday, Jayce corners him at the autoclave—steam hissing, goggles fogged. “Hey, V. Hip again?” he asks, too casual to be casual.

Viktor tries the usual dodge. “Weather.” A shrug, a wince. “And incompetent hands.”

“That hip excuse is past its sell-by,” Jayce murmurs. He folds his arms, blocking the aisle with six-feet-plus of practiced immovability. “Talk.”

The word scrapes Viktor raw. He leans on the cane, shoulders pulled tight. “We… argued,” he says at last, voice pitched low, like admitting to a lab accident still under investigation. “It’s on... hiatus.”

Jayce’s brow knits until the two arches all but fuse—one disapproving caterpillar. “And you’ve been marinating in misery since?”

Viktor exhales, all brittle edges. He tells Jayce he needs some time to think, to crack this. Jayce reassures him it’s going to be fine with a clasp of a large hand on a bony shoulder and a smile so warm that, for a moment, the corners of Viktor’s lips twitch upward—then fall back down.

Truthfully, Viktor is still very angry with the entire universe. He points this anger in all directions and is fully aware it slows him down. So he waits until it simmers. Then, he reasons, he’ll be able to think clearly, dissect the whole misunderstanding, and present you with a perfect solution.

On Friday evening Viktor eyes the copy of The Memorandum after coming face-to-face with the random objects you’ve left in his apartment. Among baggy T-shirts and warm socks you never wear, he finds a pair of knickers—and from that point forward things just happen to him.

He sits on the bed and inhales. Blood forces its way down his cock involuntarily, and before he knows it Viktor is splayed on the mattress, hand down his pants, fisting bitterly while his mouth and nose fill with the narcotic scent of his favourite spot on this planet.

He wonders how many more times he’ll have to touch himself like this—rough, ashamed, balls clenched by sorrow—to thoughts of the ideal version of you. Is it fair to keep that version, to hold you up to it, when he’s spent four months convincing you you’re good enough as you are? He tries to harness the malice into something productive, retracing every moment he’s failed.

Emptying you of intrusive thoughts by filling you up with his cum has never failed, so he crosses that one off the list. Pushing the soggy safeword out of you—even though it felt like a sliver in the throat—did bear fruit; he wouldn’t take it back. It happens; it’s a learning curve. Disappearing for a week to lick the wounds of his malfunctioning flesh—he’s not proud of that, but it earned him the very good badge and an epic blowjob. That’s when he felt loved by you for the first time. He wouldn’t give it up, even though the sight of you crumbling in the kitchen is one of Viktor’s least favourites.

That’s where he stops—he should have pushed then, peeled back the layers to see what hurt was hiding. He should have questioned why the vanishing of something casual sent you into high-alert, made you claw from the cocoon. And then, of course, there’s the car. The desecrated driver’s seat reminds him of that evening every time he has to drive. He’s dealt with it—punished, kissed better—but something icy coils in Viktor’s stomach, telling him that perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted the incident as mere propellant to your I love you. The confession eclipsed how barricaded you are when it comes to speaking plainly.

Viktor rolls to his stomach, shoving the pillow aside. The waistband of his pants drags over hip-bones gone sharp with wanting; he works them halfway down and presses his face into the scrap of cotton you left behind. Your scent is faint, almost theoretical, but it sends a low voltage through his spine. Fists knot into the sheet, he ruts letting memory supply the heat of your body.

“Milovaná… miluji tě,” he whispers into the fabric, voice breaking. “Chybíš mi, má lásko.” I miss you. My love, I miss you.

The words melt into a ragged groan as release punches out of him—hot, sudden, blooming between boxer-cloth and mattress like a palm-sized spill of sunlight. For a heartbeat there’s only the throb, the emptying, the ghost of you under his tongue.

Post-nut clarity snaps the room into brutal focus. Suddenly the answer to where the compromise lies presents itself to him. Breathing hard, he reaches for his phone—half intent on confessing, half on erasing the impulse—and sees a new message from Mel:

Before you scoff... not intervening, just looking out for my friends. She’ll be home this weekend.Do with this what you wish.

The glow of the screen strobes across his damp cheek. Viktor wipes his hand on the sheet, pulls his pants back up with a shaky exhale, and stares at the text until the words steady into possibility.

Stars aligned, he thinks idly. And even though Viktor knows he’s stepping into the same river twice, he decides he needs you unprepared—no over-manufactured explanations, no speeches, no excuses, just you, pure and raw. He texts Mel back: Thank you for the tip.

Morning finds him rehearsing the plan like a theorem, turning every angle for fracture. Either this works, or one of you quits and plays trad-spouse—a laughable option, and certainly not yours. He settles on clothes that are neutral: nothing calculated to charm, nothing you’ve called a favourite. The hip flares; he ponders the crutch problem—wood or metal? Leaving it behind would be vanity, taking it might tilt the field with pity. Integrity wins: the crutch comes, plain aluminium, no appeal for sympathy.

Preparation takes so long the late-November light is already bruising toward dusk when he finally steps out, your copy of The Memorandum tucked beneath his arm—an escape hatch if words fail.

He knows the way by heart from that single evening. Another half-hour of dusk traffic puts him outside your block; he slots the car into the exact space where everything went wrong once. Your windows glow. For a beat he wonders if he should have brought flowers—and whether arriving unannounced makes him a creep. His palms are welded to the steering wheel, leaving damp ghosts when he pries them free. A cigarette would help, or vodka, but he has neither, only the thump of his heart in his throat.

The place is one of those narrow Hackney terraces—Victorian brick, two storeys, each slice of house glued side-to-side with the next. The mortar is soot-stained, window-frames a tired white; wheelie-bins huddle at the curb like gossiping pensioners. Your door, he realises now, is a brave red—paint scuffed at hip-level, brass letterbox dulled by London rain. A single upstairs sash spills lamplight onto the street, warm as theatre footlights. He wonders if there’s a handkerchief bit of yard out back where you keep the miscellaneous or drink furtive morning coffee, manually relaxes his shoulders, then takes the three shallow steps to that red door.

Knock. Nothing—imaginary belt tightening round his neck. He smooths the collar of his jumper, knocks again.

Footsteps, soft and barefoot. The door opens.

For a second you look gut-punched; then the mask slides on. “Hi,” you say, voice level, hands buried in the sleeves of an ancient hoodie.

Viktor wobbles on the crutch, exhales; the sound catches in his throat. “Hi yourself. Can I come in?”

You stare, unblinking. When the knock first sounded you considered doing what children do when parents aren’t home—pretend the flat is empty, hide under a blanket, breathe through cotton. Worst nightmare, greatest wish: the torment ends, but it finds you messy-haired and drowning in the ugliest sweatshirt you own. Still, it’s Viktor standing at the end of the silence, so you manage, “Y-yes. Of course.”

He follows, head slightly bowed, eyes everywhere. The hallway is narrow, overfull: coats stacked three deep on tired hooks, a small tide-pool of shoes along the skirting. Every spare patch of wall is postered and framed—proof that thirty meant trading Blu-Tack for glass. Low amber light spills from what he guesses is the lounge; a tight stair angles upward, probably to your bed. He draws breath to speak—

“How have you—”

“—Do you want tea?”

The words collide. You flinch, half-laugh, half-wince. Viktor tilts his head. “If you’d rather we go straight to it—”

“Please,” you whisper, already backing toward the kitchen. Still, habit wins: kettle filled, switched on, the rattle of teaspoons.

He lingers in the doorway, scanning. Little wooden table squeezed between fridge and wall; cupboards with coloured-glass panes reveal a riot of mismatched mugs. “I’ve come with a mundane solution to what seems a very tangled calamity,” he says to your back, voice low. “But first we need to talk. Really talk. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” You drop the tea-bags—rat tails of string curling over cup rims. Yours already holds a slug of milk—something, Viktor thinks, best never confessed to anyone English.

You hand him the mug, fingers brushing his for half a second longer than manners allow, then retreat to the counter—hardened clay shield held tight to your ribs. Steam rises between you. The hush is weighty, almost chemical, before Viktor draws one deliberate breath and breaks it.

“Have I been too severe with you?” His voice is calm on the surface, but the question trembles so much it makes the inside of the cup quiver as he lifts it, the mug picking up his pulse.

Tea nearly goes down the wrong way; you cough once, twice, blink blind. He’s asking outright, no soft lead-in, and the words jam in your throat. At last you manage a clipped, “What—?” pulse hammering at the hinge of your jaw.

Viktor steps closer, sets his cup on the table with surgeon’s care. “Have I been too strict? Too raw? Did I push you to do something you never wanted?” Each clause is a bead on wire, counted off with the same steady cadence he uses when calming your lungs after a scene.

“That’s not— Why are you asking me this?” Your voice catches on the word asking, shredded by surprise and an edge of hurt.

“Because I have to know that it’s not me you are afraid of,” he says, the calm cracking, earnest spilling through. “Please, answer me.”

The room tunnels to the two of you. “No,” you breathe, shaking your head hard enough to sting. “You haven’t.”

Viktor exhales, relieved. He folds one palm under his armpit as if bracing. “All right. Pretend last week never happened, no fallout, clean slate.” His eyes search your face, naked hope and a flick of self-contempt for needing it. “When you look at me now—what’s the first thing you want to do?”

Your lips part, stall. “Viktor, I—” Words snarl in the doorway of your mouth. “Can you at least tell me what you’re doing?”

“Can you trust me?” he says, voice dropping. “Even if it’s the last time.”

You swallow, feel the answer rise from somewhere behind bruised ribs. “I… I want to kiss you.” The confession is barely sound, but it rolls through the quiet like thunder far off, undeniable and alive.

Viktor’s fingers drum once on the rim of his cup on the table, then still. The question leaves him quiet-voiced, almost casual, but his gaze pins you where you stand. “Why don’t you?”

You shift, mug clutched to your ribs. “Because I’m—” You clear your throat, cheeks hot.

A single brow rises. “Yes?” The prompt is gentle, but it presses.

“Because I’m… scared.” The confession tastes metallic on your tongue.

He inclines his head, trying to catch your eyes. “What are you scared of?”

Your stare skates off to the cluttered fridge magnets. “That you don’t want me to.” The admission is a featherweight thing.

“If I don’t, I’ll tell you,” he says, tone even, patient. “And you’ll respect it. What do you want?”

Hands tightening, you force the syllables out. “I want to kiss you.”

A slow breath lifts his shoulders. “I don’t want you to kiss me now.” He watches the words hit, then adds, softer, “How does that make you feel?”

“Rejected.” It slips before pride can dam it; you feel the flush climb your throat.

Viktor nods once, as though logging data. “Do you understand that love isn’t expressed only through physical affection?”

Heat spikes behind your eyes. “Did you come here to play mind tricks on me?”

“Not at all.” He rolls the crutch in his hand, so his palms face you, empty. “I’m trying to show you something—and I thought if speaking’s hard, answering might be easier. Do you know that touch isn’t the sole language of love?”

You huff, a brittle laugh. “Viktor, I’m not a child. Of course I do.”

“Then why,” he asks, voice threading with quiet urgency, “do you think I don’t want you to kiss me now?”

“Because,” you mutter, heartbeat loud in your ears. With a small hop you settle onto the counter, knees knocking together, “you’re angry with me.”

Viktor shakes his head. “No.” His tone stays even, but the tremor in his fingers betrays strain. “If I let you kiss me, I’ll fold. Then I’ll fuck you, things will feel fixed, and we still won’t talk. I need the talk, or we lose this.” He takes one step closer, palms open. “That’s a boundary—it’s healthy, necessary. I’m telling you because I respect you, not because I’m angry.” His voice drops. “I told you once: I don’t get angry at you. Only at myself.”

“That’s worse,” you whisper, scrubbing at your eyes. “You make me feel even more guilty.”

“I’m not making you guilty; you’re doing that yourself.” His shoulders sag; he exhales through his nose. “I’ve every right to be angry with my own complacency—my fear. Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because… I—I fucked it up.” The confession rips out on a sob; tears slip, hot and sudden, dotting the sweatshirt where your fists knot in the fabric. You hunch tighter, as if you could tuck the sound back inside your ribs.

“Don’t cry.” He says your name, firm but gentle, and reaches for your hand, fingers threading through yours. “Look at me—breathe. Now: why do you think you ‘fucked it up’?”

“Because I’m scared,” you repeat, voice thinned to wire. You feel him wait—utterly still, utterly patient—until the words can walk.

When he asks again, “What are you scared of?” it lands different: not interrogation, but invitation. He eases closer, bends so only he can hear, and the kitchen hush feels like an operating theatre—your chest cracked open under white light.

Exhale. “That I’ll… depend on you.” The admission quivers in the space between his mouth and your ear. “And you’ll leave when I fail you.” Saying it feels like pushing bone through skin; your pulse roars, colours bloom behind your eyelids. Viktor draws a trembling breath of his own—recognition, relief, a hint of something like awe—because he knows this is the marrow, the place it actually hurts, and you have rested it in his bare hands.

You balance on the lip of the counter, legs dangling. It feels like confessing on a precipice. Viktor’s close enough that the heat of his body raises a prickle along your shins, but he doesn’t touch—only waits, eyes steady, as if holding out a cloak for whatever jagged thing you’ll hand him.

He brushes a strand from your cheek, knuckle barely grazing skin. “Fail me how?” His voice is paper-soft, but the question lodges in your chest.

“By not making time.” The words scrape out, one by one. “By working too much—by putting the work first. By…” Your shoulders cave, breath hitching. “I don’t know—just by being the way I am.”

“What did I tell you that first morning?” The volume drops again; you feel it more than hear it.

A long exhale. “That you’d take only what I give.”

“And you don’t believe it?”

“I have no idea,” you whisper, throat closing. “I definitely don’t deserve it. Or rather—you deserve more.”

Viktor’s mouth quirks, pained. “Maybe I’ve been too lax with you,” he muses. His eyes study your face, as if reading footnotes in the dark. “The week without you was—hard. I shouldn’t have come unannounced.”

You draw breath to protest, but he lifts a finger. “Let me finish. Parts of me—important parts—are dependent on you. That’s normal. That’s human.” His palm comes up, cradling your jaw, thumb resting in the soft groove beneath your ear. “I overstepped. But your silence helped it grow teeth. If you don’t tell me where it hurts, I stumble in the dark.”

“You didn’t make a mistake,” you insist. “I panicked.”

“What triggered it?”

Your gaze drops to his chest; words snag on every heartbeat. “I—” You swallow, try again. “I have never broken up with anyone. I’m the one who gets left. And I’m always honest—from the start—about my life. They say it’s fine, they say they love me, but then—”

“They show up at work unannounced,” he finishes for you, voice low and raw.

“Among other things,” you murmur, ashamed.

A beat stretches. Then his thumb brushes the damp track of a tear you hadn’t noticed. “I am sorry,” Viktor breathes, syllables fractured with sincerity. He puts his crutch aside and takes your face in both hands, patient as sunrise. “Sorry I made the old ghosts louder.”

“Viktor,” you plead, voice cracking, tears all back to welling.

“I am,” he murmurs. “And I am sorry for not talking to you for a week. But I have used this week to think about us.” Viktor speaks so carefully, so softly that the word us makes it nearly impossible to honour his request not to kiss him.

“And the only thing that came to me is”—his forehead rests against yours as he draws a bracing breath—“that I love you more than anything you could do wrong.”

This—this right there, a secret ingredient that no one else figured out, only him. The vocal acknowledgement of your flaws being a reality, and then the reality of being loved despite. Somehow this means more to you than all the praise and all the confessions, because you find yourself truly believing him.

Breath arrested, tears sliding down your cheeks from eyes open so wide your socket muscles begin to ache, you breathe—

“Why?”

“Because, you are,” Viktor stammers, closes his eyes. “You are very good,” he says through a nervous chuckle. “But you need to talk to me, or this won’t work, do you understand me?”

“I’m so sorry.” Finally you find a way to animate your arms. They come to wrap around his neck and pull him so close you can whisper into his ear, “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Don’t.” He cradles the base of your skull and rocks you both. Bodies fit as though made for the groove: his hips between your thighs, his nose buried into the safety of your clavicle. “We’ll get through it, but you have to work with me, yes?”

“Yes,” you nod, resting your head on his shoulder. Silence pools. Then: “What about you?”

“Are you asking my weak spots?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly: not knowing things,” Viktor admits, smile tilting. “Being out of control,” he adds, fingertips tracing the back of your neck.

You pull away just enough to look him in the eye. “And what is your mundane solution?”

It’s Viktor’s turn to stare. His hands still and he blinks a few times. It’s now or never, he tells himself. Test the theory, check the virtue of his genius and affinity for simple answers to complex questions. He draws a breath and whispers into your mouth, “Move in with me.”

To his utter terror, you freeze completely. Lips part and Viktor worries he just gave you a stroke, by the look on your face. It’s blank and perilous, so he fumbles for further explanations to support his plea. “It’s... less commuting. And we would still have evenings together. Or nights. Islington is closer to Southbank than Hackney, and you already… oh, you don’t like the idea?”

“Viktor,” you manage.

“What?”

You cradle his face with both hands. Trembling fingers trace his features—his brows, cheekbones, mouth, as if you have just discovered him. “Why are you so good? Why are you so good I—” you mumble, utterly stunned, “I can’t be this good, I don’t know how—”

“You are good,” Viktor says, seizing your hands in his, kissing your knuckles. “Shh—come here.” He draws you in until chests meet.

“I love you,” you say, fisting his jumper. “I’m so, so scared.”

“What of?”

“Of all this”—you bow your head, looking down—“I am ashamed to take all of this”—your palms flatten on his chest, heartbeat obvious underneath—“all that you are giving, I—”

“No, don’t be,” he kisses your forehead. “Tell me what you need. Don’t ask for it, just tell me.”

“Love me,” you breathe into his mouth, opening for a kiss that brings life, “love me and,” tongue out, an offering, when you tell him, “don’t leave me, I beg you don’t leave me.”

“My darling girl,” Viktor exhales, “where would I go?”

You snort a phlegmy chuckle. “God, I missed you so much. It hurts to be without you.”

“I know. It hurt me too,” he says, taking a long whiff of your skin. “What is it going to be, then?”

“Christ, yes,” you hug him tightly—legs locked around his hips, arms around his neck. “I’ll move to Islington for you.”

Viktor draws a breath through this full-body shackle as if he’s just been born. “Ah, there she is,” he manages through the squeeze. “Working-class girl convinced to move to a nice neighbourhood,” he teases, but it’s all fondness. “Tragedy in three acts.”

“Not forced,” you raise a finger. “Convinced.”

You release him and look properly for the first time this evening—his face tired but relaxed; eyes wider since he stepped inside; forehead lines softened, smile lines deeper. You see him as he is: benevolent and tender and firm. And so utterly in love. “You can do anything you want with me,” you tell him.

“Anything?”

A slow nod, eyes locked.

“Kiss me.”

You brush your nose against his, hover—lips a hair’s breadth from each other. At first it’s the dry whisper of mouth on mouth, a shared breath. Viktor’s palms find your waist, thumbs dig into soft flesh of your sides. You part for him by degrees, letting the warmth bloom—his lower lip caught between yours, then released; the soft scrape of stubble grazing your chin.

He deepens it by tilting your head, tongue asking, then tasting. Your fingers slide up the back of his neck, thread into hair; you anchor there, answering the coaxing pull with a languid stroke of your own. A sigh—yours, or his—spills into the curve of the kiss.

Viktor’s hands slide lower, cupping your ass, steering the angle until you feel the slow, sure roll of his hips. Heat gathers where his fingers press; the kiss lengthens, each seal and part a promise: deeper, slower, more. When you finally break, breath mingling, the room feels newly mapped—its centre fixed wherever your mouths might meet again.

“I want to make love to you in your bed,” he breathes, eyes closed. “Spit in your mouth. Manhandle you. Humiliate you a bit.” His tongue flicks out to wet the drought of his mouth. “Fuck you while telling you how much I love you. How much I missed all of you,” he says, leaving a slick trail along your jaw. “Your beautiful mind.” A hand closes around your throat. “Your sweet cunt.” Another teases between your legs. “Your heart next to mine.”

Your hips buck into his, palms come to rest on his chest—two parts of you fighting against each other. “I should shower first,” you whisper, timid.

The smile that slices Viktor’s face is merciless. “No, no.” He shakes his head, wicked. “I want you dirty,” he mutters, licking a stripe of hot adoration into your throat. When you wince, he scolds, “I wasn’t asking. Take me to your bedroom.”

“It’s upstairs,” you murmur.

Viktor hooks his crutch under one arm, threads his free fingers through yours. The climb is slow, narrow-stair slow: one step, plant the crutch, draw breath, next step. You stay beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, pretending it’s to steady him when really you’re steadying yourself.

He scans everything—posters layered like sediment, snapshots of Jayce and Mel, a younger you tucked between parents who look startled by the flash. Diplomas, framed reviews, a chipped trophy from some long-ago youth festival. He drinks it in, and you feel sixteen again, smuggling a boy up to your room in Staines, terrified he’ll see the mess and think less of you.

The bedroom is exactly that mess: clothes puddled, books stacked in geological strata, duvet kicked halfway to the floor. Viktor’s gaze lingers, soft with recognition. Eclectic, chaotic, principled chaos—a traveller’s camp you try to make home when hours allow. He loves it; you can tell by the way his mouth almost smiles.

At the threshold you turn, heart hammering.

“What do you want?” he asks—voice low, searching.

Your palm cups the swell behind his fly. “I want to—” you swallow, heat rushing up your neck—“lie down? I want to—”

For a moment there Viktor forgets who he is and considers splaying himself flat on the floor so you can have your way with him. But seeing your expression he rules with this kind of willingness he can extract nothing but absolute obedience from you and the opportunity is just too tempting. “You can do that from your knees,” he says, tone warm. His crutch rests against the wardrobe; he waits. “Colour?”

“Green.” Your knees meet carpet, toes curled under, the crooked soles he’s kissed and cherished tilting up behind. Fingers work his belt—leather hisses, buckle clinks. You pull it out of the loops and hand the strip of it up; he takes it.

Tug trousers and briefs together; fabric slides. His cock spills free, half-hard, glossy at the tip. So pretty already. You nose the soft heft of his balls, mouth him in that in-between state—soft enough to coax wider, firm enough to make your jaw stretch. Tongue traces the seam of his balls; his groan drops through his body like a stone.

“Fu-huuck.” The sound shears from Viktor—half-laugh, half-groan. His palm brackets the back of your skull and eases you in until the musk at his root ghosts your breath. “Just look at you,” he husks, hips rocking. “From a polite ‘not opposed’… to this.” A belt dangles from his fingers, lazy threat, gleaming promise. “Wilful creature.”

He drags the leather across your nape like a ribbon of heat, then lets it hang—a dark medallion—while his other hand tilts your chin. His voice frays to a slur. “Do you trust me to keep you?”

Your eyes swim. You hum around him—yes, yes—throat vibrating along the thickening length. The pulse of it kicks against your tongue, punches a helpless curse from his chest.

Outside observers would take this snapshot and swear it’s deviant: the lover arriving unannounced, interrogating, then pinning the other to their knees. They’d never taste the sweetness threaded through the shame. They’d never grasp how twin flames, chipped by distance, flare brighter the moment they collide.

You’ve longed for this: the raw scrape of carpet under your kneecaps, the tomorrow-bruise at the hinge of your jaw, the ache in your throat that no fever can mimic. But mostly you’ve missed the way Viktor looks down at you—like every fragment of you finally makes sense under his gaze.

Gag. Breathe. Gag again. Each choke is a Morse-code confession: I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. Your nails ruck the skin at his hips, begging More of you. All of you. Now.

And Viktor reads your touch like a language only two of you speak. Belt hung from your neck, his spine bows, shadowed muscles signing. Fingers gentle at your cheeks, he feeds himself deeper, slow, until your nose meets the soft thatch at his base and your lungs drink in the warm salt of him. Home.

He crumbles—dissolves on your tongue—trying his best to keep it together, but your heat nearly lacerates him. “No taps?” he rasps, hoping for a reprieve. Then, steadier: “Come, my love.” He reaches for your hands. “Undress me.”

You comply, slow and ceremonial. The jumper lifts first; dragging soft wool over his raised arms; static snaps his hair into stray halos. Buttons follow—each tiny pop exposing more pallor, more rise-and-fall of ribs. You nudge trousers and briefs to mid-calves. Viktor’s eyes flutter, the dark of them gone nebular with want.

His patience breaks. Fist curling in your sweatshirt, he peels the cotton up and off in one long tug. Before the fabric clears, his mouth claims the underside of your breast—teeth, tongue, a sting that turns molten as you arch. Fingers tunnel through his hair, pulling him closer. A hand slides down the front of your shorts, spreads flat over soaked cotton, middle finger easing seam to skin.

A pleased hum vibrates into your chest. “So wet already,” he murmurs, voice like split velvet. “Have you been leaking for me all week?”

“How could I not,” you manage, pulse thumping at your throat “when you’re so damn breathtaking? Not that I’m doing much breathing around you.”

“Smart mouth.” A sigh, then: “always knows where to cut.” He chuckles, low and menacing, though boyish blush peppers his cheeks. “You know where smart-assing gets you, hmm?”

“Fun places?” You gamble, rocking into the heat of his palm.

“Hm.” Viktor eases the belt’s tongue back through the buckle, tightening it snug enough that you feel every slow drag of leather. He’s tired, you hear it in the sanded edges of his breath, but his cock twitches, half-hard, bobs and drools, still glossy from your mouth’s work. “Fun for me,” he goes on, lifting your chin with the leash until you meet his gaze, “and we’ll see how fun three hours of edging is for you… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” There’s pout in it, but the sound breaks on quiet relief: he isn’t leaving.

“Tomorrow,” he confirms, tugging until you’re nose-to-nose. “An installment plan for brats. Tonight I’ve planned something else.”

The word planned makes you soften; you press your face to his, hands smoothing up his chest, tenderness sneaking in.

He shudders, the simple touch nearly enough to crack whatever discipline holds. “What’s this?” he whispers, catching your wrist. “No more attitude?”

“It’s not gone,” you murmur. “Just…moderated.” The admission earns a soft laugh you feel in the cage of his ribs.

Fingers trace your cheek, reverent and teasing all at once. Then, sweet as a lullaby: “Bed. All fours.” A playful slap lands on your ass, sending heat skittering.

The rest of his clothes fall in a careless drift. You kick free of your shorts, shuffle onto the mattress, knees and palms planted firmly, leaving you all exposed for him. Your pulse climbs, the belt swings between your breasts, warm from his hand.

Viktor draws his trousers down, cock hanging heavy, but pauses. He just watches, drinking you in, as though every freckle and bruise is proof he’s home. The sight alone makes him throb; he closes his fist once at the base to calm the ache. Bed springs sigh as he rests his crutch within reach and sits behind you. When you arch, expecting him to slide in, he only trails knuckles down the centre of you, feather-light, maddening.

Both hands spread as he kneads your ass, sinks his teeth into the swell until you gasp. “Do you have any idea how many brat points you’ve racked up?” His breath skims the bite.

You risk it: “I don’t know—fifty?”

A hoarse chuckle. “It was three. Now it’s four.”

“Four spanks? That all you’ve got?” you taunt, dropping to your forearms, cheek to the sheet, gaze dragging back to meet his.

“Not spanks,” he murmurs, teasing the end of the belt. “Orgasms.”

“V—” The name breaks into a whine as his mouth seals to you. It isn’t the quick reclaim of a starving man; it’s slow savouring, a litany of little nuzzles and licks, as if every second apart must be kissed away one taste at a time. Shame prickles up your spine; your hips try a timid retreat, self-conscious of sweat, of your skin being scented with a whole day of bed-rotting.

Viktor breaks for a breath, lips slick, eyes dark. “Are you worried you’re too dirty for me, my girl?” He reaches between your legs for a playful tug on the belt looped at your throat. “Let’s fuck that shame out, shall we?” He dives again, tongue flattened, dragging from the swell of your entrance to the fluttering pulse below. Between strokes he plants small, sloppy kisses—wet pops that make you jolt. “You are so sweet anyway,” he murmurs against swollen flesh, the words a vibration that buzzes straight to bone.

You feel the softness of his tongue eager for solace, his exhaustion in the tremor of his breath, his devotion in the way he holds your hips like a priceless thing.

Your breaths hitch, then stabilize—trust settling in your muscles—and with each pass of his tongue you give up a fraction more of the fear that chased you all week. Beneath you, the bed smells like detergent and dust; behind you, Viktor smells like his shampoo and the warm musk of man who’s been missing you too hard to sleep.

Two fingers slide in beside his tongue; the stretch spears a moan from deep in your throat. “Sorry,” you gasp, startled by your own volume.

“Don’t you dare,” he chides, lips shining. “I want every sound.” He crooks those fingers just right, just there, and the apology melts to a raw, fractured cry. Heat spreads, slick pooling; his palm grows wet as he rocks, pads brushing that hidden knot again, again, until nerves spark white. Your cunt grips, pulses; he groans into you like it’s sustenance, letting your slick run over his knuckles, down his wrist.

Pressure builds—blissful and destructive. You plant your forearms, spine arching, crown of your head sinking into the quilt as your body bows. A single, high keen rips loose; hips buck, chasing the last perfect drag of his tongue. Release hits—full, grateful—muscles clamping around his fingers while your chest sinks into the mattress, breath punched out in ragged bursts.

And Viktor doesn’t fucking stop. “That’s one,” he warns softly, voice gravelled with pride and promise, lips brushing where you beg for a break. He kisses your lips as if they were your mouth. Torn between enduring and wriggling away, you whimper into the sheet, and he finds some mercy in him. It’s shaped like three fingers and the loop of the belt tightening around your throat, but his tongue finally leaves you.

As soon as you become fuller, hunger rears its ugly head up again. You’re reminded what it is like with him—what it is like to have the fat of a muscle claimed by his teeth, his fingers plunged deep and wide, and from every touch devotion bleeds. He fucks you slow with his hand and tightens the leash. “Tap the bed if you need to breathe,” he says, thumb brushing your abused clit.

And so it goes, the ritual of taking you apart and putting you back together. Viktor is a careful engineer. He enjoys the process more than the finish line and understands that perfecting it will be his life’s work. He thrusts straight in and out, spreading his fingers once deep inside, coaxing slick to drool out of you. Control in all aspects, acute to every shiver of skin, he watches: the side of your face reddening from the collar up, your mouth hanging agape drawing shallow breaths, sweat pearling the well of your back. The scent of your heat, sweet and cloying on the walls of his throat, he memorizes.

He feels like a god, having something so fierce yielding to him, and he hasn’t even had to use his cock yet. “Má sladká lásko,” Viktor coos, sweet love dripping off his tongue. “Podívej, jak se mi rozpadáš v rukou,” he mutters, all to himself—Look at yourself, how you fall apart in my hands—as if you could observe your own undoing.

One palm wrapped with the belt twice, he prepares to release you—trying to time another influx of pleasure with allowing you to draw a full breath. He watches your hands fisting the sheet, anticipates. Wrist working itself to exertion, thumb a steady pressure on your clit, Viktor drinks in the sight of you coiling and writhing with eyes wide open, wicked smile on his face. “Come for me,” he says, letting go of the leash, and you break for him so hard your knees slide and mouth drools. Lovely, Viktor thinks.

Your whimpers dissolve into nonsense—small, frantic vowels that even you can’t translate. Viktor strokes the side of your thigh, thumb light on your pulse.

“What do you need from me, my dear girl?” His voice is velvet-rough, half command, half concern.

“Please… I’ve been good,” you breathe, though the words blur behind a hitch of want. You have no idea what you’re asking for. Just him, just something him, anything him.

A low hum in his chest. “Have you?” His brow lifts, reminding, reproving. “Last time I saw you, you were quite mean to me. Are you sorry?”

“Yes,” it rushes out, raw and immediate. “I’m so sorry. Please—I need you close, please.” You roll onto your back, arms reaching, palms open like a child asking to be lifted.

He comes, slow, knees sliding between yours until the length of him hovers, heat to heat. “I haven’t even fucked you yet, moje děvče,” he murmurs, smug curved into every syllable—yet the moment he sees your face, hubris softens. Eyes huge, mouth parted, you look breakable in the lamplight: all trust, all ache.

Something in him buckles. Viktor braces on his elbows, caging you without weight, forehead brushing yours. He breathes you in—sweat, salt, traces of himself—and lets the exhale fall across your lips like confession.

“I love you,” he says, voice no bigger than a sigh, shaking with candour. “I love you so terribly.”

You make a sound, soft and pained, and shackle him with your arms and legs. The missing part of you returns—Viktor’s weight on your chest and stomach, his hips digging into yours, his ribs pressing dents into your skin. Now you can breathe. “I love you,” you tell him, all trembling. “Můj milovaný.”

Viktor’s eyes fog with water and he laughs to cover the stumbling of breath, but the cackle lands too high-pitched to hide anything. “What are you doing to me?” he mutters into your neck, squeezing his lids shut. Můj milovaný. My beloved. He’s had you in his chest already, and somehow you’ve just found a way to crawl deeper.

You nudge him with your nose. “Fuck me. Please, I feel so empty.”

He huffs an exhale and reaches down to the hinge of your knee, guiding your leg up. Your calf presses against his shoulder and his hip is cushioned on the back of your thigh. Clever contraption, like only Viktor can devise. With gravity working in his favour, he fists himself at the base and drags the whole length of his cock through your wet core.

“Well, of course,” Viktor says, trying to sound unbothered. “We are still two orgasms short, I believe.”

But you’re so sex-drunk you don’t rise to the tease. Your fingers slide into his hair—tender, wanting—and you kiss him so sweetly Viktor sighs into your mouth and slides his cock right inside you with a punched-out groan.

“Oh god, yes.” The words hiss out like steam, all you’ve ever wanted condensed to this single ache of being filled. Your heel digs into the small of his back, urging him deeper; Viktor answers with a shaky laugh, delighted, overwhelmed.

He loosens the leather loop—decides he wants the work done by his own hands. One palm wraps your jaw, thumb pressing your chin down. “Open,” he murmurs. You do, obedient as breath. He spits—warm, dull salt—and it lands on your waiting tongue. “Swallow.”

The command coincides with a slow surge of his hips: he sinks to the root, holds, rolls. Each grind drags his navel across your clit, sparks flaring back to full fire. Your folded thigh meets your chest; leverage tightens the fit until you can feel his pulse inside the walls of you.

He kisses you then—no finesse, just need—tongue sweeping flat, tasting his claim. Two fingers hook past your lower lip, keeping your mouth open as he begins the rhythm: draw back, drive in, grind. “My gorgeous girl,” he rasps, breath fanning your cheek, “how I love you.” Another thrust, deep, just deep. “I’ll fuck it into you,”—a stronger drive—“until it’s the only truth you know.”

The rhythm turns to wet thunder—thick, dragging glides that end in a roll so devastating you jolt on the mattress. Every push rocks your ribcage against his, every withdrawal sears a band of raw need up your spine.

Viktor’s fingers stay hooked in your mouth, lips stretched wide around them. His other hand collars your throat—pulse trapped under the pad of his thumb—squeezing soft, releasing, squeezing again. Air and blood flutter; the world tunnels to the throb where he lives inside you.

For him it’s gut-wrenching bliss: the slick heat of you gripping, unclenching, tugging him back from the brink only to fling him closer the next stroke. Sweat drips off his jaw onto your chest; each tremor in your walls makes him grunt, helpless, a low gravel that vibrates through your sternum.

Your neck arches—an offering without thought—mouth opening wider as he rocks you up the slope of one more climax. Pleasure skitters along every raw nerve, almost too sharp. You try to shake your head, words garbled around his hand, vision blurred with tears. “I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he coos, voice molten gravel. “One more. I’ll let the last one slide—just give me this.” The promise lands like heat on bare skin.

He feels the tell-tale flutter, tightens his hand, drives in hard and stays, pelvis grinding your clit in ruthless circles. “Come on, my darling—let me feel it, show me.” His mouth finds your ear, spills filth dipped in sugar.

Body protesting, your brain soaks every syllable like a sponge, a neural rewire. “Miláčku,” he whispers, “you get so tender with me. Is it only for me?”

“Yes,” comes a mouthed breath, barely making it out through your throat cinched tight. Cunt squeezes, chasing that high, almost there, you can almost feel it, almost touch it.

“Ano, just like that—” Fingers corded at your throat stroke the frantic beat. “Milk me, show me whose girl you are,” he says, and to enforce it he slides deeper, the glide greedy, grateful.

You bend to his will—muscles tightening, trying to pull him farther inside. Viktor’s laugh roughens, small and stunned.

He rocks, measured torture: out, in, the burn of fullness followed by relief and back again. Palm slickened by your mouth skims down, thumb circling the slick crest of your clit until your breath breaks against his lips. “Ah, fuck—” he sighs, strained, control fraying, “naplním tě až po okraj.” A ragged thrust punctuates the promise. “Tomorrow you’ll walk with me sliding down your thighs,” Viktor breathes along your jaw, lips hot, scorching your skin.

The words hit that excruciating spot the same instant his cock does, and the coil snaps. You seize around him, a sob ripping free as everything locks then shatters—heat rolling out in brutal waves. Your hands flail, then slide down his damp face to clutch his chest, nails slipping on sweat-slick skin.

Viktor moans—loud, raw—eyes rolling back while your aftershocks pulse around him. He rides it out, hips jerking through the clutch of your orgasm, desperate to empty every ounce of himself into the quaking hold of you, until the room is just harsh breath and the wet sound of bodies finally, blissfully, spent.

Your throat gets released and the way he moves, it threatens a loss. Before Viktor can lift, you cling to him with a soft whimper. “No,” you whisper. “Stay. Stay, please.”

“Darling, I need to sit. Wait,” he tells you, and you let go in an instant, neediness battling reason. He eyes your face, and it becomes clear that it would be the greatest tragedy for you if he pulled out now. So, with massive effort—humouring your fragile brain—Viktor guides you to roll over onto him, bend your legs, and sit up to straddle his hips. You pull his arms to help him, wrap your legs around his waist, and glue yourself to his chest. Pleased that he has managed to stay inside, you purr into his shoulder.

“How are you?” Viktor asks, smoothing damp strands from your temple and ridding your throat of the belt.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to four,” you murmur, your mouth shaping apology against the hollow of his collarbone.

“You were wonderful,” he answers, tilting your chin until your eyes meet. The look you give him is all glaze and afterglow, yet his brow still knits—double-checking. “Are you dropping?”

“Mm-mm.” You shake your head, fingers combing back through his sweat-dark curls. A breathy laugh slips out. “I think I dropped and got yanked right back up in the middle.”

His own chuckle rumbles through your ribs. “Sorry about that.”

“No, no.” You trace the angle of his cheekbone, feather-light. “Viktor, you are amazing.” He mirrors the gesture, thumb skating your bottom lip, eyes vacant. “Are you all right?” you ask him. He nods, pressing two fingers past your lips, letting you taste the salt and musk of what you just were.

“Yes,” he murmurs while you suck softly, and it’s all just so gentle. “Just stiff—and tired.” His eyes stay on yours, half-dazed, as though the simple act of your tongue licking at his knuckles is a lullaby. The moment hangs, tender as damp linen.

You release him with a quiet pop. “Will you stay?” It lands between you, fragile. You tuck your face against his jaw and clarify, barely louder than a breath: “For the night. With me.”

Viktor’s grin flares—wide, unguarded, all teeth and relief. He nods, keeps nodding as his mouth finds yours again—slow, sealing the promise. “Yes,” he breathes into you. “Yes.”

You stay joined until his pulse ebbs and the heat inside you cools. When the first tremor of exhaustion shakes your thighs, you push up onto your knees. Viktor’s softening cock slips free with a wet gasp, and you whine at the emptiness. He follows the sound with his hands, palms wide, smearing the thick mix that leaks from you down the curve of each thigh.

“So pretty,” he croons, thumb painting lazy crescents in the mess. The praise punches straight to your chest.

“Shower?” you ask, half-hopeful, half-bashful.

“That depends,” Viktor says, eyebrow hitching. “Must I conquer those stairs again?”

You snort, stepping off the mattress on unsteady feet. “Relax, old man. This establishment boasts two bathrooms. One’s right down the hall.”

“In that case—” He eases upright, and you offer an arm; he leans on you the way a weary pilgrim leans on a shrine, scoops up his crutch, and lets you guide him across the landing—both of you naked, flushed, ridiculous with contentment.

The upstairs bath is a time capsule: tiny flower-print tiles, avocado sink, plants crowding a fog-filmed window. While you unstack fresh towels, Viktor drifts, touching everything like a blind man mapping Braille. A squat perfume flask catches him; he pops the cap, inhales, and for an instant you watch Soho flicker behind his eyes—angry neon, jealous whiskey, the way he’d fucked you open against the cold sink. All so different now.

“Already snooping?” you tease, hip nudging his.

“Just preparing,” he answers, dry, replacing the bottle. “I’d like to know what I’ll smell like when I emerge from this very girly bathroom.”

You roll your eyes—but when you slide the shower door open he discovers the real evidence: the same shower gel he uses standing at attention among your bottles. He lifts it, brow arched in gentle accusation.

“What?” you mutter, cheeks hot. “I… missed you.” For a moment Viktor looks like he’s going to disintegrate right there.

A spike of worry flares—you can almost see the picture forming in his head: you alone, bathing in his scent, listening to a robotic voice reciting I love you in Czech while you cry yourself to sleep. Not far from the truth, and the shame prickles under your ribs.

But he only melts, stupidly lovestruck, blind to the pathetic tableau you fear. “You,” he says, voice thick with fond disbelief, “are so unbearably sweet.” Water beats down, rolling off your joined foreheads as he kisses you—slow, drowning, the steam wrapping two bodies into one.

Back in the bedroom, you lie tucked beneath his shoulder, Viktor’s fingertips drawing idling paths across your temple, his mouth occasionally brushing your brow.

“Shit,” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums, already half-asleep, a wordless hm?

“We’re really going to live together.”

“Having second thoughts?” A lazy smile ghosts his lips.

“No. Just—” You huff a breath. “I’ve never lived with anyone. Not properly. Parents, then uni dorms, but that’s different.”

He nuzzles your hair. “It’s like living alone, but there’s one more person.”

“You don’t say, genius.” A helpless laugh slips out.

Viktor chuckles, chest rumbling under your cheek. “We’ll figure it out, lásko. One cupboard at a time.”

You close your eyes, heart settling. “One cupboard at a time.”

Sleep takes you mid-sentence, the two of you poured together like cooling metal: limbs heavy, breath slow, nothing left to dream.

Dawn pries a crack of light across the ceiling. You surface alone—sheet strangled round your waist, cheek mashed to the mattress. When your hand reaches sideways it finds only cool linen. Panic snaps you upright, the world still syruped with sleep: it didn’t happen, you imagined him, he left.

You stumble naked toward the doorway, vision grainy, heart clanging. The hallway tilts—until Viktor steps through, hair messy, crutch tucked under one arm, a glass of water in the other.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

Air rushes out of you. “Oh, thank god.” You clamp around him, forehead to his collarbone, arms locked. “I thought… I thought you weren’t here.”

He wedges the glass onto the dresser, frees his hand, sets the crutch aside. Long palms coast to your shoulders, firm enough to anchor. “I’m here. Bathroom run, that’s all. I have you.”

You shiver, half-awake, a raw black-hole pull of need you have no name for. Viktor tips your chin, checks your eyes, then turns his hands palm-up, inviting.

You place yours against them—curled, shaking—and he begins the silent mapping. Thumb tracing the life-line in your left hand, fore-finger wandering the tendons of your wrist, up the warm, secret channel of the inner forearm. Slow, careful cartography: pulse points, freckles, the faint ridge of an old stage burn. He never stops looking at you until your gaze wavers, lids lowering under the weight of it. Then his eyes close too, and the sight of you is traded for a study in touch alone.

Faces drift together until brow brushes brow, every breath shared. Blind now, you read him by fingertips: knuckles grown blunt from canes, the pale silvery rope of a childhood scar, the stubborn rise of tendon over bone. Your hands skim higher, relearning the gentle slope of deltoid and the tense narrow column of his throat. With each pass you feel the flutter of his swallow, the quiet vow that he’ll stay right here—anchoring you spine-deep while panic leaks from your ribs like steam.

For Viktor the moment is pure privilege, a holy unbuttoning done with feather-light strokes. Each line your searching fingers draw across his chest is a sentence in the language only the two of you speak: I missed you. I trust you. I know you. Miluji tě. He answers in the same tongue—thumb circling the delicate knobs of your vertebrae, two fingers dipping to trace the curve where hip meets belly. You imagine a thread running from his nerve endings to yours; every place he touches tugs you up from the undertow of fear, breath by careful breath.

By the time your palms settle flat to his heart and his to yours, the room has stilled. Outside, sparrows fuss in the guttering; inside, two heartbeats strike the same slow meter. You rest your forehead to his and exhale. Nothing more is required—no apology, no eloquence—just skin humming against skin while dawn irons the last wrinkles from the night.

—

Darling, please tell me you’re at least on the way? 

Viktor thumbs the text beneath the linen-draped table, half-listening while Salo reenacts his latest fallout with Lucian in widescreen detail. A bead of saliva arcs off Salo’s lip, sputters on Viktor’s phone like a bug on a windshield.

Based on the last eighteen months Viktor can proudly say his solution has almost worked wonders. He has learned quite a lot—most of it stitched straight into daily life, plain as laundry. First: you are constitutionally late, but never disastrously so. If it’s just the two of you, you keep it under fifteen minutes—hard-won knowledge after two brat-point debacles that finished with your knees shaking and his hand stinging. For parties he grants a wider margin; tonight you’re twenty minutes behind and counting.

He’s learned you’ll skip meals until someone—usually him—hands you a plate, that left to your own devices you subsist on caffeine and air, and when you do brave the stove your cooking style is sacrificial: vegetables flung to their deaths in a scorching pan and declared done in sixty seconds.

He’s learned the mess you leave isn’t chaos but code: stacks of scripts here (urgent), clumps of orphan socks there (ignore), a drift of marker-scribbled Post-its everywhere (essential). He’s learned that moving house ranks up there with death and divorce for sheer psychic carnage, and he never wants to test the top two if he can help it. He is convinced you two will stay in Islington until you both die or England falls apart.

The flat—your flat now—has taken the lesson too. Viktor’s sparse geometry has sprouted life: framed production posters bloom along the corridor, a leaning tower of paperbacks colonises the living-room corner, your grandmother’s chipped sugar bowl keeps his glucose tabs company on the coffee table. No walls repainted, no furniture swapped—just strata of you laid tenderly over him.

Somehow—without a single wall knocked through—the flat has begun to look settled. Your watches line the hall table beside Viktor’s neat tray of keys; mismatched mugs crowd the open shelves; rehearsal scripts lean against his engineering journals, their spines tilting together like late-night conspirators. His canes stay tucked, orderly, in the wardrobe, but your sewing box sprawls under the window, a half-strung guitar propped beside it. 

Hackney’s old clutter always felt like you were camping—here today, packed tomorrow—while Viktor’s Islington had been all practical lines. The two halves fuse now into lived-in disorder with an underlying logic: your softness over his structure, his order under your mess. Together they give the rooms what neither place had managed alone—not a way-station, not a showcase, but the unmistakable warmth of something finally, confidently called home. The place exhales warmer, as if a second heartbeat started in the night and the rooms decided to keep it.

Sweat is already percolating through the back of Viktor’s shirt, sketching a perfect, almost-tubular outline of his spine.

I’ll be there in a quarter tops. Is Salo giving you a hard time, my love? you text while elbowing through the Friday evening crowd on the tube line stairs.

Like you wouldn’t imagine. Let’s say Lucian is with us in spirit at all times, comes Viktor’s text and you huff a laugh that bounces off the tile walls.

A year and a half of a fully functional relationship is not a line you ever expected on your résumé. You moved to Islington in February last year, right after locking next season’s programme. There were casualties: Viktor demanded a sacrifice pile of ‘stuff you don’t need’ since ‘his flat isn’t a warehouse.’ After one spirited duel for independence—and several theatrical farewells to Hackney’s dubious prestige—you obliged.

Living together turns out to be mostly co-existing: breathing beside each other at desks, in the kitchen, on the sofa. Jayce and Mel adjusted without commentary (saving any shock and triumph for private debriefs) and now remain civil during double-dates. You haul half your paperwork home. Sex is better when you don’t have to sprint to rehearsal straight afterward—when you can roll from lying on the desk to sitting at it, even if sitting hurts. No sex is also better when there is a warm body next to you in the bed.

You’re getting bolder about sharing, though unprompted honesty is still a work-in-progress. You did manage to stage a tiny community-branch run of The Memorandum just for Viktor; he snorted through Act One and nearly pissed himself laughing in the front row through lesson scenes, then gave you the best head of your life in the lighting cupboard afterward.

Showers are an alternating ritual—sometimes long, soapy reverence under one stream, sometimes brisk solo scrubs with the door left ajar so a hand can snake in and tug a laugh from the other. The day you brought home a folding shower-chair Viktor balked—until you rode him on it hard enough to snap its leg. (He grumbled all the way to the hardware shop for a sturdier model; you still keep the splintered one, a trophy, behind the wardrobe.) 

Nights begin braided together, limbs knotted tight, his nose in your hair, your calf over his hip; ten minutes later you’ve drift-rolled apart, only to reach back and lace fingers in the dark—a slack little promise that the anchor’s still there. Meals are non-negotiable now: if he isn’t at the table you forget to eat, and if you forget, he appears with toast and orders. 

Exact obedience remains elusive—baiting him is half the game—but when you push too far he retreats, cool and quiet, a punishment that always stings him first. The détente comes quickly: a hushed apology brushed across his collarbone, his answering growl of “lesson rescheduled,” and—before you can gloat—Viktor decides the quickest way to re-establish order is with your ankles over his shoulders and his cock teaching the curriculum instead. Through all this, you’ve learned a fair amount of Czech; sadly, none of Viktor’s go-to phrases are suitable for starting a casual conversation at the bar.

When you surface at Camden Town, the air is so hot and thick you could chew it. Thunder broods; sweat glues your thighs together as you trot the cobbles toward The World’s End. Last year Mel’s fancy Fitzrovia birthday dinner was a flop, so she decreed the cult pub—site of your first spark with Viktor—her permanent venue. If it birthed one miracle, maybe it holds more.

Inside, you press a finger to your lips; Mel grins and shuts up. Viktor sits with his back to the door, a dark sweat-halo on his shirt. You weave between tables and wrap him from behind—damp cotton to damp cotton.

“I’ve come to rescue you from your misery,” you murmur against his ear.

He tilts his head, nips your earlobe. “How thoughtful. Sit between me and this clown or there’ll be manslaughter by blunt object,” he hums, twirling the cane like evidence. You kiss the corner of his mouth, circle the table, and present Mel’s gift—while Viktor’s eyes track you the whole way, glowing like you’re the only cool breeze in the room.

Conversation wraps around all of you. Small interrogation and a few drinks in, Viktor stretches—trying to look casual—and drapes an arm across your shoulders. “I’m melting, I think I’m going to step outside for a moment,” he says, all nonchalant.

You stroke the inside of his thigh. “I’ll come with you.”

Mel arches a brow, glass poised. “Trying to flee, lovebirds?”

“Just grabbing a breath of lovely Camden air.” You grin. “We’ll be right back.”

Wind gathers; the first drops spatter the pavement as you and Viktor step outside. In a heartbeat he props the cane against the wall, loops his arms around your waist, and pulls you into a sloppy kiss. “Much better,” he murmurs into your mouth. Beer and sweat salt his lips; damp curls cling behind his ears; his eyes spark gold in the street-lamps. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore two years ago.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, teasing.

“Nothing,” you say innocently. “You look pretty today.”

“Pretty?” He raises a brow.

“Yes, pretty.”

“Good.” He noses along your cheek. “I’ll need every advantage I can get tonight.” Rain thickens above the tiny stripe of metal roof, beginning to drip through holes in it, heat bleeding into petrichor and the smell wet asphalt.

“What’s happening tonight?” you ask, lips brushing his.

“Do you know what day it is?” Viktor’s kiss goes deeper.

“Mel’s birthday?”

“Mhm,” he hums, “and?”

You break the kiss but stay close, tapping a finger to your mouth. “Oh, do you mean… I’ve read that it’s World Plant Milk Day, is that the one?”

“Brat,” Viktor laughs, biting your lip. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” You kiss him back. “You love me—madly, absolutely, helplessly.” Your hands roam his chest and neck, settling to cradle his cheeks, thumbs stroking the prominent bones. “You are completely obsessed with me.”

“That I am,” Viktor says, smoothing your hair, palms landing on your shoulders. “Tomorrow will be the anniversary of our first date,” he adds, quieter now, face suddenly serious. “And I thought…”—he steadies himself with a breath; you watch, pensive—“I thought it’s all going… quite well, despite not always being perfect. And, eh—”

“What do you mean it’s not always perfect?” you tease.

He hovers under the little shelter of corrugated tin, weight shifting as though the ground keeps tilting a degree left, a degree right. The sound of him clearing his throat cracks. 

“Oh, stop it, will you,” he chuckles—nervous, papery. His thumb strokes your neck as if permission lies there.“I thought—” a sharp breath through his nose, and then—

“—would you like to get married? To me?”

You freeze: dropped jaw, eyes blown wide, clogging with water in an instant. All the noise on Camden High Street seems to rush out past your ears.

Viktor’s pulse hammers in his palms; you feel the tremor of it. He fills the silence, words tumbling. “You’d be mine on paper, and I’d be yours… I thought it romantic, no?” A slanted smile that doesn’t quite settle.

You just look at him. Lightning flickers behind the clouds, and for one long breath you’re back at this doorway two years ago: same pub sign buzzing, same rain-thick air, same man pretending nonchalance while his heart rips stitches. Then, it was trying on the casual skin. Now it’s Viktor offering everything, and the circle closes like a clasp.

He waits, shifts—nervous—because you still haven’t answered. Fingers flex on your shoulders, almost pulling away, and his brows pinch as if bracing for the fall.

You nod, once, and a tear slips down your cheek. With that small overflow, your body animates itself and you cling to him, rain slanting everywhere but the narrow space you share under the awning. “Viktor, you insane bastard—did you plan this?” you whisper, crying.

“Yes,” he laughs, breathy. “I even have a ring.” He reaches for his pocket, but you seize the hand and kiss his knuckles. “Which is why it was imperative that you show up,” he finishes, slightly stunned.

“What if I wouldn’t step outside with you?” You smooth his rain-damp shirt, voice tight, still counting the heartbeats it took to hear those words.

“I’d feign near collapse and demand your assistance.” Viktor answers all abashed, as if the plan had been rehearsed a hundred times inside his skull; his thumb skims the water from your cheekbone.

“You want to be my husband?” Breath wavers through your lips; you cup his face like fragile glass, searching for any hint of jest and finding none.

“Very much so. Do you want to be my wife?” His eyes hold yours, bare and solemn, the storm-light catching on lashes.

“God, yes,” you exhale. “Yes, yes, yes.” Your arms circle his neck, clinging, and Viktor exhales—shaky, grateful—before folding you into the hush beneath the shitty roof.

You’re gone far longer than a breather. You’re gone until it’s obvious the awning is a decoy, offering no rain protection, so sweat mingles with the downpour and your clothes cling wetter than before. You’re gone until your lips ache from kissing and all that’s left is standing there, holding him—right up to the moment Mel texts to ask if something has happened.

To stand here—rain threading your hair to his fingers, his heart drumming steady against your ribs—is to understand the old riddle at last: love and knowledge are the same bright blade, two edges meeting in a single gleam. Viktor learned the map of you—every deadline-frenzied tic, every tender ache you never named—and instead of recoiling, he sharpened his devotion on those contours until it rang truer, cleaner; you, in turn, traced his hollows and hinges, the brittle places he hides behind humor and steel, and discovered that with each secret exposed your hunger to keep him grew. 

What binds you now is not blind adoration but the fierce, ordinary miracle of recognition: the more intimately you’re known, the more ferociously you’re loved; the more ferociously you’re loved, the safer you are to be known.

“I love you so terribly,” you breathe against the damp collar of his shirt.

“Moje snoubenka,” he answers, kissing the corner of your eye. “Moja milovaná.” A brush to your nose. “Moje děvče.” The last word is promised into the curve of your jaw. He cups your face, sets a long kiss on your forehead, and—voice rough with relief—murmurs, “Don’t be such a sap.”

—

okay, these two didn't make it into the text (the rest you should know already!) naplním tě až po okraj - I'll fill you up to the brim moje snoubenka - my fiancé :')

[kanaria-a]

hiii~

i loved your recent fic with everyone’s tropes!! for lillia i would think reincarnation is a really good one :)

❝Just think a minute, this might be destiny❞

part two of this…

ft. Lilia and Jade

$LILIA VANROUGE - Reincarnated Lovers

You stand before the ancient oak that has witnessed centuries pass like fleeting seasons, its gnarled branches reaching toward a sky painted in twilight hues. The familiar weight of déjà vu settles upon your shoulders as crimson eyes regard you from beneath silver lashes, and you know—without understanding how—that this moment has played out countless times before. "You have returned to me once more," Lilia Vanrouge speaks, his voice carrying the weight of accumulated lifetimes. The fae's eternal youth masks the profound weariness that touches his features as he steps closer, each movement deliberate and reverent. "Though you bear a different face, wear different clothes, speak with an accent I have not heard in decades past, your soul remains unchanged." You should question his words, demand explanations for the impossible recognition that sparks between you. Instead, you find yourself reaching toward him with trembling fingers, drawn by an inexplicable magnetism that transcends rational thought. When your skin meets his, memories that are not memories flood your consciousness—flashes of other lives, other times, other versions of yourself that loved this same being with devastating intensity. "I remember," you whisper, though the admission feels torn from some deep place within your chest. "Not everything, but enough. The soldier who died in your arms during the war of roses. The scholar who spent decades searching for you through ancient texts. The merchant who traded everything away just to glimpse your face once more." Lilia's composure cracks like aged parchment, revealing the raw vulnerability he has carried across centuries. His hands frame your face with infinite gentleness, thumbs tracing the planes of features that have changed with each incarnation yet somehow remain fundamentally familiar to him. "You remember the pain as well, do you not? How each life ends with separation, how fate conspires to tear us apart just when we have found each other again." The truth settles between you like a blade—sharp, undeniable, cutting. You have loved him through countless lifetimes, and in each one, circumstances beyond your control have wrenched you from his side. Wars, illness, duty, misunderstanding—the methods vary, but the result remains constant. You are mortal; he is eternal. You are bound to the wheel of death and rebirth; he is condemned to remember every loss. "Why do you continue to seek me out?" you ask, though your hands betray the question by tightening in the fabric of his coat. "Why endure this endless cycle of finding and losing?" His smile carries the bittersweet weight of too much knowledge. "Because even one day with you outweighs centuries without. Because hope is both blessing and curse for those who love beyond the boundaries of single lifetimes. Because your soul calls to mine across the void between death and rebirth, and I am powerless to resist its song." You understand then that this love is both gift and punishment—a testament to something so profound that not even death can diminish its hold. Each reunion brings ecstasy tinged with the knowledge of inevitable parting. Each lifetime offers the chance to love more deeply while knowing that depth will only magnify the coming anguish. "How long do we have this time?" you ask, already knowing the answer will be insufficient. "However long fate allows," Lilia replies, pulling you closer until you can feel his heartbeat against your chest—steady, patient, enduring. "We shall love as we always have: completely, desperately, without reservation. And when the time comes for you to leave me again, I shall memorize every detail of this incarnation to sustain me through the dark years until you return." You close your eyes and surrender to the inevitable, allowing yourself to fall once more into a love that transcends time itself—beautiful, tragic, and utterly inescapable.

$JADE LEECH — Forced Proximity

You discover the true meaning of claustrophobia when the Mostro Lounge's storage room door clicks shut behind you, trapping you in the cramped space with Jade Leech and several dozen cases of rare vintage wines. The mechanical lock's decisive sound echoes through the confined area, followed by an silence that feels heavier than the ocean pressing against Octavinelle's glass walls. "How unfortunate," Jade observes with that perpetually serene smile, though you detect the faintest glimmer of something unreadable in his mismatched eyes. "It appears the automatic locking mechanism has engaged prematurely. We shall be required to wait until Azul or Floyd discovers our predicament." You press yourself against the far wall, hyperaware of how the narrow space forces you within arm's reach of your enigmatic colleague. Working alongside Jade for months has taught you to interpret his subtle expressions, to read the dangerous currents beneath his polished exterior. Yet proximity has never been this inescapable, this suffocating in its intimacy. "Surely someone will notice we're missing," you venture, though your voice betrays the uncertainty that gnaws at your composure. The lounge operates with clockwork precision, but the evening rush has everyone focused on their assigned stations. "Perhaps," Jade concedes, adjusting his position with fluid grace despite the cramped quarters. "Though I suspect Azul is currently occupied with that rather demanding group of Pomefiore students, and Floyd..." He pauses, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Floyd is likely pursuing whatever has captured his mercurial attention this evening." The implications settle between you like stones dropping through deep water. Hours, potentially. Trapped in this space where every breath carries Jade's subtle cologne, where every movement risks accidental contact that sends inappropriate electricity through your nervous system. "You seem distressed," Jade observes, leaning closer with predatory curiosity. "Are you perhaps uncomfortable with confined spaces? Or is it the company that troubles you?" You force yourself to meet his gaze directly, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. "I simply prefer having adequate room to maneuver. Some of us value personal space." His laugh is soft, melodious, and entirely too knowing. "How curious. I have observed quite the opposite during our shifts together. You gravitate toward proximity when you believe yourself unobserved—lingering near my station when delivering orders, finding excuses to brush past when the walkways are perfectly clear." Heat floods your cheeks as mortification wars with indignation. "Your imagination appears to be more active than your actual observational skills." "Is that so?" Jade's tone remains conversational, but he shifts closer, eliminating another precious inch of distance. "Then you would not object to a small experiment in proximity tolerance?" Before you can formulate a response, he extends one gloved hand to rest against the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in place. The gesture appears casual, almost accidental, yet you recognize the calculated precision behind every movement Jade makes. "Your pulse has accelerated," he notes with clinical detachment that fails to mask the satisfaction in his expression. "Fascinating. Do you suppose this reaction stems from claustrophobia, or perhaps something more... personal?" You struggle to maintain composure as his free hand rises to adjust an imaginary wrinkle in his vest, the motion bringing him close enough that you can count the subtle variations in his heterochromatic irises. "You're reading too much into involuntary physiological responses." "Am I?" The question emerges as barely more than a whisper, his breath ghosting across your ear as he leans in with the pretext of examining the lock mechanism behind you. "Then explain why you requested additional shifts whenever my schedule aligned with yours. Why you memorized my preferences for tea preparation despite never being assigned to beverage service."

The accusations hang in the air like accusations, each one precisely targeted to dismantle your carefully constructed defenses. You open your mouth to deny everything, to dismiss his observations as narcissistic delusion, but the words dissolve under the weight of his knowing smile. "I notice everything," Jade continues, his voice carrying the patient certainty of someone who has already won a game you didn't realize you were playing. "Including how you watch me when you think I'm occupied with other tasks. How you've never once complained about being assigned to work closely with me, despite your obvious wariness of my intentions." The storage room seems to shrink further with each revelation, until the space between you becomes charged with unspoken tension. You realize with dawning horror that your careful attempts at professional distance have been transparent to someone whose hobby involves dissecting the behavioral patterns of interesting specimens. "What do you want?" you ask finally, abandoning pretense in favor of direct confrontation. Jade's smile deepens, revealing just a hint of sharp teeth. "Merely to satisfy my curiosity about whether proximity will finally compel you to acknowledge what we both know to be true." The lock chooses that moment to disengage with a soft click, but neither of you moves toward the door.

See i told yall i couldn’t write for Jade

why df he rlly hit that:

[webbvidd]

So, having finished Worm, here are a few of my thoughts written down. WARNING THAT I’m not a skilled media analyst or anything like that lol! I like drawing and thinking about stories, but I’m definitely not a wordsmith or the best character or plot understander there is. I’m just another guy

The way I kept describing this story to my friends is that it truly is a story where Everything Can Always Get Worse, and IT WILL. consistent levels of destruction of human and Natural life on unimaginable scales, since the very beginning of the story, since before leviathan even. You can have different opinions on it, but it does take balls to call the bluff and actually hit the Nuke Everyone button when you set up a world ending threat. It was just always always upping the stakes, the intensity always getting higher, but never empty threats because shit would always actually go down. Which is very different than what you typically see in mainstream media, where dangers are largely empty promises and often are Too Big to feel like they would actually happen.

Maybe worm went to the other extreme end, where human life was traded away a little too willy nilly, without a real moment to sit with the consequences of just how far reaching the effects of every single death extend, let alone on a scale that big. The closest is a moment where, I think it was Theo or Taylor contemplating a little ski resort town that was completely wiped off the map by the SlaughterHouse Nine after they awoke from hibernation, where they took a moment to think about the scale of it. Where even if it’s one tiny town in the middle of nowhere, so much of the population all over the earth at least knew someone who knew someone who died here, because at the end of the day it’s still an Entire Town, and people are so interconnected. I don’t know, maybe I think it needed a few more moments like that, to really feel the gravity of the destruction. Maybe Ward is more that kind of story, I don’t know. I’m told the sequel is slower paced and more focused on the slow grueling recovery aspect that happens after Disaster, so maybe it’s just that the sequel is what completes it in that sense.

Regarding Gold Morning: I appreciate how when Taylor went to panacea to ask for all the limits of her power to be removed, there was no like. Moment of pause where Taylor stopped to contemplate, hmm damn I’m really about to do this? Or to think in depth about the risks. Like, almost casullly before anyone notices she’s doing it, she irreparably changes her physiology and breaks her mind. I like this, because of course Taylor wouldn’t take a moment to breathe before pulling the trigger. It’s all been forward momentum since the moment she came to terms with the facts she’d have to sacrifice everything way back in the graveyard with her mom. She’s Known and been Prepared to fuck up her entire life and even other people‘s for the greater good, so her just going for it really hammered in that feeling of non stop tunnel vision for the End Goal and that, oh, everything has been building to this actually.

Kephri was outstanding. The execution of it, everything. I’m not sure I have much to say that isn’t already present in the text: how the transformations took away everything important to her, her ability to understand language when being well read in English is so fundamental to how she views the world, her ability to recognize the people she loves, her humanity, her peace. Just watching a trainwreck in slow motion.

Epilogue was able to sneak in a last few gut punches, of course. Brian’s death. I kind of was vauguely spoiled that he would die, but to know it was on the oil rig and that him coming to visit Taylor on her sick bed was a lie by Lisa did Hit Hard, I’ll have to admit. Because I personally was really really comforted by that thought, of, oh he still came to visit her and then he retired. It was so calming. And Khepri protecting that cabin with all her might and just.. ugh.

Okay. Hopefully I don’t get shot by firing squad for this, but I don’t think I would’ve minded if Taylor had just died. Like, no epilogue, Contessa sniped her, she’s done. It’s horrible, of course, but I think I was very at peace with it narratively. Not because of any moralizing opinions of her deserving it or death being better or any edgy stuff like that just. It would have been sad and that’s exactly the kind of story Worm has been. Tragic, and having sacrificed her life in every way a life can be sacrificed for something bigger than her, you know? Just, laying down in the hole she dug for herself, for the sake of this goal, that she actually pulled off. At the cost of a lot.

THAT BEING SAID. For all that I’m sadistic to my favorite blorbos and seem to prefer when they suffer, Thematically I’m so so glad she did get that chance of retiring peacefully with her dad. That even after all the horrors, she does get a shot at normalcy and happiness, actually. Weather she deserves it or not. that even after something as fucked as that, people aren’t monsters and can deserve recovery and healing. It’s a much better moral in the message it trasmits to an audience, rather than just an Epic Tragic Doomed Inglorious Death In Battle ending. So it’s important she did get her chance at Real Life.

More overall…. I like worm. Like, the world of it. I like its expansiveness and the wide cast of characters. I’ve always preferred stories that have A Lot of characters, where each of them feel Real and Interesting with their own internal reasons for being the way they are. If I have any gripes, it’s mostly with the writing style or execution of the story, but the Plots and Characters and Ideas are all mostly solid to me.

If I’m honest,I don’t think there’s a single character in worm I can honestly say I hate. The worst I can say if that some of them are less fun to me than others, like for example Jack Slash’s a little trite, but i genuinely have a great appreciation for all of the cast. Some with empathy, I can understand where they come from, and at the very least I find them captivating in that Car Crash sort of way. I think a lot about Emma and Sophia, I can appreciate the human ego and attempt at redemption in Defiant, I think of Amy and Bonesaw and Doctor Mother and so many more just. Idk I really can’t name any character given more than a few paragraphs of development that I have Hate for, which is feel is a testament to good characters that almost none of them are too one note, and are all interesting in some way.

(Okay, wait, E88, The merchants and heartbreaker and all of them, I do have distaste for, but they’re so superficial Bad Charcaters they’re really not worth thinking about to me. I dislike them, sure, but they’re not complex or prominent enough for me to Hate. They’re just Evil Filler, so to speak.)

one thing I will say is that I have questions. So many. Like for the entirety of the serial. Some big overarching plot questions, but just moment to moment in the individual scenes i kept experiencing this general confusion about what was happening. Maybe my English has degraded in recent years, but I feel like Wildbow’s prose and way of describing things is so needlessly convoluted and vague so much of the time. I kept experiencing this feeling of, okay, I don’t understand what is happening or what is being said, but I trust that eventually things will become clear and elaboration will be provided. And sometimes it did! Sometimes the POV character would realize what was going on and things would make sense in retrospect, but a lot of times they WOULDNT. and I'm not entirely sure if that's because Taylor is meant to not have understood them , or just I as a reader didn't get it.

And then Ward complicated things, because I’ll now read the wiki for clarification without fear of spoilers but this is still all gibberish to me. But I'm noticing that maybe I'm not the only one, and people kept asking for clarification from Wildbow, but then no one actually respects what he has to say 😭 which, fair

I still have a few lingering doubts or opinions, but worm is So Fucking Big that I’ll have to sit on it more. This is just what I thought regarding the ending that I can remember right now. So if anything I said is not fandom politically correct, kindly remember I’m just a tiny baby and don’t tear me to pieces too bad for it. But to close. I really loved worm !!!! Obviously because I can’t stop fuckin drawing it lol. And I’d love to talk to more people about it !

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

Hope you all had a lovely pride month! There are so many shows airing right now and more to come. Some tough decisions will need to be made. But Japan has finally woke up from its slumber and I'm thrilled. As usual, spoilers and opinions below, read at your own risk.

QL - Currently Watching

🇯🇵 Ayaka Is in Love with Hiroko 2nd Stage [1/6] - I like these characters but I’m not crazy about this storyline. 

🇹🇭 Boys in Love [11/12] - I really liked this one until about halfway through but now it feels a bit repetitive, the two young couples just seem to be repeating patterns, which I guess since they’re young it kinda makes sense but it’s boring me now. I wished we had more of the teachers but to be fair I'm glad we have as much as we do.

🇯🇵 Depth of Field [3/6] - Welcome back angsty Japan. How I missed you… I like everything about this show except the length. Only six episodes??? Why must you be this way? I love Hayakawa. The way he puts on those fake smiles wrecks me every time. I wanna know more about Konno, so please Japan, do not let me down and give me the change in POV that you do so well.

🇯🇵 Even Though We're Adults [10/12] - This continues to be such a weird show. I wouldn’t call it a ql, more like a family drama and I can never tell what the characters will do next and what their motivations are. 

🇯🇵I Became the Main Role of a BL Drama S2 [3/6] - I love that I get to see Robin be funny and chaotic. This show continues to be a blast, but I really wish the couple would actually couple.

🇹🇭 Knock Out [8/12] - It’s fine. I don’t wanna rain on anyone’s parade so it’s fine.

🇹🇭 Memoir of Rati [2/12] - This could be such a good show if only gmmtv spent some money and cared about things like historical accuracy and a plot that goes beyond couple moments. Since that's not the case, I'm here for the actors and the scenery. It's all very pretty.

🇹🇭 Reset [5/10] - Armin, you are really pretty but you need to chill. Like, we get it, you have your reasons but be careful that your future this time doesn’t become a self fulfilling prophecy. Ok, so here’s the thing, I love the concept here and lord knows I am shallow enough to watch just for the pretty, but I’m getting increasingly convinced that the reset bit was nothing but the trigger and this is going the way of other high concept thai bls where it doesn’t take its concept seriously enough and instead will focus only on developing the romance and the timey wimey stuff is just flavour.

🇨🇳 Revenged Love [4/24] - Unhinged, everything and everyone. This cannot be overstated. But I am not bored. I am partial to the side couple though. 

🇹🇭 Suntiny [3/10] - I am living for Max in this. He looks incredible. This is just a fun show and I don't expect them to go too deep into the bigger stuff, but the body swap is actually a clever way for our couple to get closer, literally putting them in each other's shoes to understand one another.

🇰🇷 Sweetheart Service [8/12] - It’s cute but ultimately kinda shallow and uneventful.

🇹🇭 The Bangkok Boy [10/12] - Not that there aren't enough of those, but if ever a BL boy needed to kill their father, it's Peace. That man should be taken from the earth. I feel rage emanating from me whenever he's on screen. I love our mains and when they are tender with each other, it's like I can breathe again. But that never lasts long. I need them to be happy. Like really, it's a need at this point.

🇹🇭 The Ex-Morning [5/10] - Not a fan of the fact that they got back together already. It's really hard for me to root for them without knowing what happened. Phi apparently forgave him but I don't have to, not yet. I need an explanation before I'm fully on board.

🇹🇭 The Next Prince [8/12] - What a mess. The show has lost the plot and I am getting increasingly bored by whatever is happening every week. There's too much happening, so threads are dropped and picked up randomly, and I'm losing whatever connection I have with any of it.

🇹🇼 The Promise of the Soul [2/12] - If anyone had told me I would love this one and even be lowkey obsessed with it, I would have called them as bonkers as the premise of this show. And yet, here we are. I adore them an unreasonable amount. And I mean that. There's no reason I should like this show as much as I do, but they are so precious to me already and I am completely ignoring the bonkers bit and just shutting my brain off because they are so freaking cute and I wanna see more of them.

QL - Finished

🇰🇷 Ball Boy Tactics - First four episodes I was ready to put this one next to Semantic Error and Dating Sim as one of the better kblss out there, and then they dropped the ball. The conflicts felt contrived, we never had any insight into Jiwon's internal monologue, and so the resolutions felt rushed. I love them but I don't know if they actually will make it in the long run. I can appreciate the fact that people love a long nc scene, and to be fair, it was beautifully executed on all sides, but in a show with this length those seven minutes could've been used to just make the story a bit tighter. Or you know, let the sides make out. Whichever.

🇹🇼 Fight For You - It was good. It wasn't perfect but it was good. The mains had amazing chemistry and I'm happy I got them happy for a full episode complete with proposals and oh so many kisses. I wish we got a bit more on the sides just because it felt like an afterthought.

🇨🇳 Moon and Dust -  It’s all just so chinese bl. But at least nobody died. Small victories. 

🇹🇭 Sweet Tooth, Good Dentist - A mess all the way through. This show never really knew what it wanted to be and I feel bad we finally got Mark in a main role just to have it wasted here. He did a good job all things considered, but this was very disappointing. Honestly I already forgot most of it.

🇨🇳 Trapped in Osaka - I need them in a full show this instant! I know it was short but the ever-present tension was delicious. They were very good together and broken boys are my weakness, and these two were so beautifully broken.

QL - Dropped / On Hold Will binge when finished - 🇹🇭 My Sweetheart Jom [4/12] 🇹🇭 My Stubborn [6/12]

Non QL - Finished

🇯🇵 Tengu's Kitchen S2 | 🇰🇷 Mercy for None | 🇰🇷One: High School Heroes | 🇰🇷 Oh My Ghost Clients | 🇰🇷 Squid Game S3 Upcoming - July 03/07 - 🇯🇵 Stay By My Side After The Rain MDL | Teaser 05/07 - 🇯🇵 10 things I want to do Before I Turn 40 MDL | Trailer 12/07 - 🇨🇳 Desire MDL | Trailer 13/07 - 🇯🇵 The Proper Way To Write Love Trailer [no eng subs] 14/07 - 🇹🇭 Dating Game MDL | Trailer 18/07 - 🇹🇭 Only You [GL] MDL | Teaser 20/07 - 🇹🇭 Doctor's Mine MDL | Trailer 25/06 - 🇹🇼 Secret Lover MDL | Trailer

That's all for now. Will update if there are more announcements. My inbox is always open. Happy watching!💜

[firestorm09890]

so sad when someone is a very funny person but has terrible opinions on your favorite media and/or characters. get well soon 😔

[cathymee]

ok. i guess

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[im-smart-i-swear]

Does Jiro has ghost like abilities (possession, ability to levitate things, etc etc) or does she just live in Shiro's head?

when i created this au, i thought the best option would be for her to be unable to interact with the physical world in any way(including possesion), beacuse i really wanted to lean into her isolation and how it affects her....... and while thats something i still want to emphasise here, lately ive been toying with the idea of jiro being able to impact the physical world somehow(though it still being fairly limited). i think letting her have some control could have a lot of potential! buuuut i also have no idea what abilities i want her to have lol

For now i think im not gonna give her any telekinetic abilities, bc i feel like it would be giving her too much power......... if she could throw shit, shed go APESHIT with it. it would made things too easy for her. i'm sorry babygirl but i'm NOT giving you the possibilty to throw knives and other sharp objects, i dont trust you to not kill someone:/

i really like the idea of her being able to temporarily posses her old body in certain circumstances tho- maybe when shiros uncouncious?? or like when hes is very tired or heavily injured she can kind of 'squeeze through' and take control back for a few minutes???? idk. i think this could be a very cool ability to give her- it cant be frequently used but can also be very helpful, and also theres so much potential for ✨shenanigans✨here>:) oh god i could put these fuckers in so many Situations with this..........

uhhh. so basically i think all of her influence on the physical world are through shiro. shes here bc of her connection to her old body, and thus its the only way for her to interact with anyone besides him- and shes NOT HAPPY about this(neither is shiro).

[nexus-nebulae]

watched mamma mia the movie for the first time last night and i cant stop thinking abt the directing. have not seen a movie in a long time where i INSTANTLY see the director's style and fuck with it immediately its so fun

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

[quickestgold]

1) Love your writing and cant wait to see more!! 2) For the prompt inspiration, what about something along the lines of Jack's girlfriend, that Dana and Robby don't particularly like, shows up seriously injured at the Pitt?

Someone New: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: After witnessing the fallout from Jack's failed marriage, Dana and Robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. But when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of Jack’s feelings, their perspectives shift.

Warnings: Canon-typical depictions of trauma; traffic accident, death, injuries, mentions of a failed marriage, divorce

Word count: 1.9k

A/n: LMFAO guys, most of my requests rn are for injured readers are we okay? Anyway... enjoy xoxo (also, thanks so much for the compliment!! messages/comments like these are super motivating <3)

Mistress. Homewrecker. The Other Woman.

You’ve called yourself worse a thousand times. The guilt over how things started with Jack weighs on you. And though his love feels sweet and pure, it offers little comfort in the face of their judgment.

You wish you’d met under different circumstances. Started things the right way.

But in your heart you know it’s real. Even if they don’t.

The truth is, Jack’s marriage was over long before you came into the picture. They were separated when you met, though the divorce wasn’t final.

So you let others believe that it was your fault. Made little effort to dispel the rumors. To introduce yourself properly.

Maybe you were embarrassed.

Definitely ashamed.

Perhaps they had a point and you destroyed a perfectly good relationship. Or at least got in the way of Jack and his ex trying to salvage what was left.

But it doesn’t matter now. Not anymore. Nothing does.

“Female. 30s. Car vs. pedestrian. In and out of consciousness. Possible head injury. Probable femoral fracture”, the EMT presents.

The cold metal of the gurney beneath you makes you shiver, harsh sterile lights flickering overhead.

“Woah. What happened?” Dana’s voice is laced with concern.

“I’m fine", you murmur, but your voice betrays you, weak and unconvincing. “Just a bit sleepy.”

Why is everything spinning?

“You hit your head?” Robby's voice is sharp and suddenly close, the light of his pen so bright it feels like it’s burning through your skull. He instructs you to follow his finger. You try, but your vision is distorted, like shattered glass. You can barely manage to focus.

“I- I’m not sure”, you confess, struggling to catch your breath, your lungs burning.

“Someone pushed her into oncoming traffic", the EMT continues, calm and clinical, part of his routine. "A bicycle hit her head-on and a car slammed into her hip."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut and your stomach twists with horror.

You can't remember any of it.

You try to move, to sit up, but your body refuses.

Why is your face wet? You beg, pray, it’s just tears. It has to be.

But it’s thick and warm. And the familiar, metallic smell makes your head swim.

“J-Jack… I-“, you plead.

Robby’s movements are faster now. His commands sharp and alert. He gestures to Whittaker, who immediately reacts, moving swiftly, as he rushes out of the room, a quiet urgency in his steps.

Everyone knows about you and Jack. Though it feels like no one approves. Almost no one.

“Y/N, it’s okay. Just keep your eyes open for me, alright?” Collins’ voice is warm, grounding. She takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. You’re thankful. Thankful for her presence. To see a friendly face amidst the chaos.

But you can't shake the quiet fear that maybe... it’s the last one you’ll ever see.

Heather is one of the few who welcomed you, made an effort to get to know you.

You’ve become friends.

You meet up for coffee, chat for hours about the boys. And though her and Robby’s relationship ended, you can tell there is unresolved sadness between them. You wonder if either of them will ever admit it.

“Heather… I-I’m…” Your voice is barely audible now. You're slipping. Slipping fast.

You fight to stay awake. To hold on. Just a little longer. At least until you see Jack.

Until you get to say goodbye.

But your eyes grow heavier by the second, something pulling at you, each blink slower than the last.

You can hear yourself saying something. But it’s far away.

You’re shaking. Why is this hospital so goddamn cold?

Before you can say another word, everything fades to black.

“Male. 20s. Cyclist vs. pedestrian. Unconscious. Blunt force trauma to the head. Multiple fractures", another EMT announces, as they rush the gurney into Trauma Two, the team prepared and ready to work in perfect sync.

Jack's moves are quick, methodical. Driven by one clear, urgent goal: to stabilize the patient first, then assess for further injuries.

“Dr. Abbot?” Whittaker’s voice is tentative, his gaze flicking nervously between Jack and the patient on the table. He hovers just inside the doorframe, not quite sure whether to disturb Jack or not.

Jack glances up briefly, his hands moving over the patient's chest, steady and determined.

Whittaker hesitates, his voice shaky. “We need you in Trauma One.”

“I’m a little busy.” Jack mutters. “Get Robby!” His voice laced with authority. An order, not a suggestion.

He isn’t finished with this patient yet, not ready to be pulled away.

Whittaker hesitates, before he nods and steps back. Jack watches him go, but there's no time to think about what might be waiting in Trauma One.

His focus is here, the young patient's life literally in his hands.

“Abbot?” Robby growls, frustrated at Whittaker’s failed attempt.

Whittaker shakes his head, his expression tense. “He’s treating the cyclist in Trauma Two”, Whittaker answers, almost apologetic.

Robby curses under his breath, his eyes flashing to Dana.

He knows Jack will never forgive them if something happens to you and they didn’t tell him. If Jack doesn't get to you in time.

Dana knows, too. She knows that this isn’t just about the accident. It’s about what they owe Jack and what they owe you.

“Hold compressions.” Jack orders.

Everyone’s eyes are fixated on the monitor, but the flatline continues.

“Okay." Jack’s voice drops. "That’s it.”

“Time of death: 10:35”

Jack takes a minute of silent reflection. He’s been here before. Too many times. But it never gets any easier.

He steps out into the bay, taking a breath. His eyes search the nurse’s station, which is unusually empty.

Javadi almost crashes into him, gripping a blood bag tight to her chest. Jack steps back, putting distance between them.

“Slow down. If you trip and fall you’re no good to anybody.” Always the teacher, calm and collected. “Where’s Robby?”

Javadi stumbles over her words, struggling to catch her breath. “Trauma One, a- a pedestrian got hit.”

“Shit." Jack mutters. "I just called it on the cyclist.” His brows furrow. “Need any help?”

“Not sure… it’s not looking good.” And with that, she rushes back in.

Jack watches her go, making sure she doesn’t run into anyone else. His gaze flicks to the glass doors of Trauma One, catching Robby’s eyes. He's pressing into someone’s chest with practiced ease.

But there’s something else. Panic.

Jack’s alarm bells go off. He moves, quickly.

But before Jack reaches the door, Dana steps into his path. She places her palm against his chest, gently pushing him back.

“Jack”, her voice calm but firm. “You can come in, but we need to do this the right way, honey.” Her eyes soften, full of compassion. “Robby’s doing everything he can.”

In that moment, Jack catches a glimpse of the patient’s face. Your bloodied, gorgeous, beautiful face. The woman he loves.

Multiple hands are on you, your own dangling off the side of the gurney.

His eyes lock on the delicate ring he gave you only a few days ago.

The one that was supposed to be forever.

“What the fuck”, Jack tries to push past Dana, but Langdon and Matteo are already there, hands on his arms, holding him back.

“Dana”, Jack’s voice cracks.

“I know, hon. Take a breath”, she rubs soothing circles on his chest, then steps back. “We’ve got her!”

The sincerity in her voice, comforts him, if only slightly.

The fact that he just called his patient’s death a few minutes ago, tells him everything about the severity of your injuries.

There's a deep ache in Jack’s chest as he follows Dana into the room. He steps to your side, his hand brushing gently over your forehead, the way you like it. The way he’s always calmed you.

“I’m here, baby”, he whispers, his voice raw. “I’m here.”

He watches Robby and the team work, each movement calculated, each second agonizing.

He knows his place. He won’t overstep. His only focus is you.

Like many times before, Jack finds himself on the rooftop. Each inhale of the harsh midnight air a painful reminder of you in that hospital bed, fighting for every breath.

Jack feels someone approaching, doesn’t have to turn around to know who. “Who pushed her?” Jack's voice is low and raw with pain.

“They’re…-" Robby pauses, scratching his neck nervously. "They're still looking.” His tone is soft.

Jack nods, but the corners of his mouth turn downward. “You’ve been too hard on her, man.” He exhales sharply.

“I know, brother.” Robby's words are filled with guilt and regret. He wants to make this right. Needs to.

Jack's gaze hardens. “She was afraid, you know. Felt like you were judging her… more than me.” He huffs out a humorless laugh.

Robby’s remorse is palpable. “We were worried about you. Didn’t want to see you get hurt. We had no idea it was serious between you.”

“Does it matter?” Jack’s voice cracks on the last word.

“I- I suppose not.” Robby shakes his head. “I’m so sorry.”

Jack nods. He doesn’t need Robby’s apology. You do.

“She gets it. She gets me.” Jack's looking straight at Robby now, barely bringing himself to say the words. “I wish you’d had the chance to get to know her. You would've loved her…” He tries to hold in a strangled sob, but it escapes anyway.

Robby steps closer, placing a hand on Jack's back, voice gentle and reassuring. “I still can… If she’ll let me.” He realizes he needs to carry that hope for both of them right now.

Jack isn’t convinced, but Robby’s belief gives him a moment’s peace.

The door to the rooftop suddenly slams open. Jack and Robby both turn instinctively.

Dana stands in the doorway, her pulse racing. “Jack.”

Jack is terrified to hear what she has to say, assuming the worst.

The midnight air suddenly feels suffocating.

“Jack?” Your voice is barely a whisper, fragile and tired, the effort of speaking taking all of your energy.

“Hi, gorgeous.” He moves closer to your bed. “Are you in pain?” The concern in his eyes certainly isn't helping, it hurts to see him like this.

You shake your head, but it’s a lie. You know it and Jack knows it too. He doesn’t hesitate, moving swiftly to the IV to adjust the meds with practiced hands.

Warmth floods you and you exhale slowly. The deep physical ache subsides and your thoughts clear. Only now, you can fully appreciate that you’re alive. That Jack’s here.

“I’m here," he repeats, more to himself than to you and for a second you wonder if you said the words out loud.

Jack's hand is gentle against your skin, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Robby and Dana feel badly about how they’ve treated you.” The words heavy with sorrow.

“They shouldn’t.” You're exhausted, but you mean it. “They don’t even know me.” You give him a smile, weak but genuine.

“Maybe it’s time we change that?” Jack leans in gently stroking your forehead, like he always does. Like he always will.

His other hand traces the space where your ring used to rest. You realize it’s no longer there. It was taken off during the chaos of saving you. But Jack knows where it belongs.

With a tender, deliberate touch, he slides the ring back onto your finger, a symbol of the forever he’s promised.

Hahahah aaall the fluff!! It was needed after so many angsty requests lol Pls comment/share your thoughts below. ♡

[meo-eiru]

Since I'm busy working on a valentines day drawing I thought we could do something different until I'm done with that. Trivia night! I'll be writing what's basically a compilation of fun facts we've already established or haven't learned yet. We will also learn more about their backstories.

For tonight we have Silas

Silas has a mom and dad but isn't close with neither of them

As a child he was quite needy compared to other elven kids

Elves almost never stray too far away from the elven village but Silas liked to play in the depths of the forest

He learned about humans from a story book he found while playing in the forest

He was amazed by the colorful imagery and the familial relationship depicted in the book and wanted to have the same, which kickstarted his human hyperfixation

He's currently the most knowledgeable elf in humans within the village

His house is located quite far away from the village, he can still reach there by walking but it's not somewhere where the other elves can just stumble upon

He likes sweet things like fruits or honey but dislikes the taste of meat so doesn't feed it to you much as well

He, just like the other elves, while natural with most other living things, hates all demonic creatures

He's very nice and sweet with you but wouldn't glance twice at other forest creatures and is actively hostile towards demons

Of course he would never let you see him make that kind of face

He thought of using magic to make you live as long as he does but it feels like tempering with your humanity so if you die he's planning to die with you

He's actually not that good at magic compared to other elves, he just knows the basics and relies on books for the rest

He's average height for an elf

He doesn't like leaving bite marks or hickeys on your body because it feels like dirtying your perfect form

But he really likes it when you mark his skin, whether they are hickeys or wounds

While more compassionate than other elves, Silas does have a bit of a superiority complex like them

For example, unlike other elves he does see the intelligence of humans but would still say elves are smarter

He doesn't have any ill intentions with it, to him it's just like saying a unicorn is be better than a horse

He doesn't like eating carrots because he thinks they look like elf ears

He loves learning more about you but dislikes hearing about your family

He doesn't want you to have pets, only the two of you are allowed inside his house

He does have a bathroom in his house but it's just a replica of what he saw in books and isn't actually that functional

If you want to use the bathroom for your baths instead of the river like he does, he just carries the water from the river to his house then uses magic to make it rain on you like a shower head

Even if you don't allow him inside the bathroom he still watches from the window

He has a diary where he writes everything you do in a day, from what activities you did to how many times you blink on average

If you offered to live in a human city with him he would refuse, while he likes humans you are his utmost priority and it's better for you to be inside his house away from everyone's reach

[stellasdrafts]

Girl Dad Headcanons - Arthur Morgan

“[Mr. Gillis] treats his daughter like a possession to be mistreated and abused as he sees fit. Strange creatures, men. I don’t know.”   -RDR2, Chapter 4, Fatherhood and Other Dreams

Notes: I was playing RDR2 the other day and his journal entry (above) after seeing Mary for the second time stood out to me. I think his relationship with women and feminism in the story is worth writing about. afab reader. 1.1k words.

Thinking of Arthur Morgan’s reaction to you birthing his little girl. It’s a surprise, naturally, given the time period. He isn’t disappointed by any means – God, no. He considers himself a blessed man as long as the little one looks like you. He’s concerned. Terrified of the world his little girl will have to live in, of the hardships she will be forced to face.

It isn’t something he’s thought of in such depth before. Sure, he’s had conversations with the women at camp -  he’s not naïve. Prejudices never even made logical sense to him.

Arthur, who didn’t bat an eye when Mary Beth told him she wanted to be a writer. He got her that pen without thinking twice because why shouldn’t women be able to write? Ain’t they people just like everyone else?

Arthur, who didn’t question Tilly for a second when finding out she killed that Foreman. He was told the asshole deserved it and sided with her in a heartbeat, assuming she had acted in self-defense. He would speak to her like a friend, too. Not like she was some inferior woman.

Arthur, who considered marrying Abigail when John left, because no woman should be shunned for being an unwed mother when it’s a deadbeat man who left in the first place. He always thought John took her for granted.

Arthur, who was always in awe of Sadie’s raw courage and determination, and who didn’t question her lead when she asked him to come along on her escapades. A good idea is a good idea, and a good shot is a good shot, no matter whom it comes from. She was a better fighter than most of the men in the gang, anyway.

Arthur, who saw Karen’s femininity as a strength rather than a weakness. She was clever and ambitious. She knew how people perceived her and used that to pull off outrageous heists. Plus, she wasn’t half bad with a shotgun. He never thought anything about her was weak.

Arthur, who despite enjoying teasing her, noticed everything Susan did for the camp. It secretly irritated him when he heard the others whining at her when she asked them to do chores because he knew the place would’ve fallen apart within days if it weren’t for her leadership.

Arthur, who immediately discerned when Molly started acting off. He checked in on her even when the rest of the camp villainized her as this spoiled, ungrateful girl. Sure, she had made mistakes, but most of the men had done worse.

A wave of dread washes over him as he admires his daughter, her little fingers wrapping around his finger, and he feels sick. He shouldn’t feel like this. He should be overcome with joy. Well, he is, but his upbringing will never allow him to be immersed in a moment without thinking of the harsh realities surrounding it. He looks at you and the fragile baby bundled in your arms. His whole world sits in the bed before him. Everyone and everything he values most in this miserable world – are women. Women who have and who will inevitably be mistreated and underestimated, despite having the power to create literal life. Despite being ten times more rational, intelligent, and kinder than almost all the men he’s known even with the challenges thrown at them. He makes a vow to himself the minute his daughter is born. A vow that he’ll never let anything happen to her or you as he did Eliza and Isaac. He’s never known his purpose in life, but from that moment on, he knows exactly why he was put on this earth – to care for the two of you, his family.

Arthur, who overheard how Micah would speak to and of the women at camp, and never so much as entertained his delusions.

Arthur, who always offers a hand to help women off or on their horses and wagons.

Arthur, who excuses himself when he bumps into women, as opposed to telling off men when he does them.

Arthur, who rides around Rhodes some weeks after your daughter was born, searching for any women he might recognize from the suffrage protest he crashed with Beau all that time ago.

Arthur, who stops in his tracks when he hears the voice of the woman in Saint-Denis who pickets for her voting rights – the same voice he’s heard twenty times before, but it feels different now. He drops a few bills into her hat because he’s never been a particularly political man, but he’ll be damned if his daughter doesn’t get a say in the kind of world she’ll live in when the time comes.

And you can be sure he’ll teach her how to handle a firearm when she’s older. It brings back unpleasant memories, and he wishes for a better life for her than what he had, of course, but he knows the type of men there are out there. Hell, he used to run with them.

Arthur, who sees the two of you as his redemption.

He doesn’t know how he’s been handed such goodness. Surely, he was undeserving after everything he’s done? But every time he lays eyes on his precious baby girl, he grants himself a smidge of forgiveness. Something all bad couldn’t produce something so perfect, right?

He listens to her babbles and he can’t understand a thing. He thinks back on every good thing he’s ruined in his life – he’s a destructive man. He destroys everything he touches, but his baby reaches out to him with a sleepy smile and the utmost trust. When she looks at him, she sees her father, not a killer but rather safety, not the blood of every man he’s killed but a warm embrace. She’s his, not in the sense of Mr. Gillis treating Mary like his property, but in the sense that he now has the privilege of having the responsibility to love, protect, and care for this angel of a being.

He's scared shitless. His father hadn’t stuck around much, but he’s determined to be the best version of himself for his little girl. He would never leave like his dad did. He would never give up on her as Dutch did him. He would teach her to be clever and to think on her toes, like Hosea did – without all the deception, of course.

Arthur, who starts a second journal to write solely about his girl, just to have something to leave her when the time comes. Until then, she’ll never know how good of a writer her father was.

He would gladly be a soldier one last time. One last time to give you and his daughter the life you deserve.

[teaboot]

Sorry if this comes off as rude, or too personal, but how do you still have the mental strength to be like you are, after everything you've gone through? Like, not to make suffering a competition, but from what you've shared, it seems like you've had to deal with so much more than most, and yet you're still able to create, engage in the things you love and enjoy, and even wish better for the people who'd only want the worst for you. As someone who hasn't been able to do any of those for a while now, or feel anything beyond a sticky sense of resentment, I'd appreciate the words of someone who's been in shit miles deeper, if that isn't too much trouble. Sorry if this whole thing sounds weird, and thanks for being one of the weird funny guys on my dash, you've given me lots of laughs when I've needed them.

Oh, wow. Uh.

I think first off- not to minimize my experiences cause my therapist says not to do that- but I have a LOT of friends and loved ones who have been through much worse and are also doing good now, so that kinda helps. Knowing that if they got through things, I can too, and they don’t think less of ME for struggling.

Secondly… I think I used to not be so happy about life. I was really angry, really sharp and ascerbic, and when people who met me matched my energy, they’d be sharp and ascerbic back. And so I’d trap myself in this place where life ALREADY sucked, and then everyone around me was awful, so I’D be awful, and it would turn into this absolute mire of bad feeding bad.

And then one day I think after a long good cry in a public toilet, I just felt… better? Not BETTER, because I still had all my problems, but I think I was riding that post-cry high you get sometimes and the sun just looked brighter, and the annoying kids around me were just… less aggravating. The dumb teen boys being idiots were less “stupid morons with no depth who don’t care and can’t think” were just… regular old dumbasses having fun. And then I said hello to someone with a smile, and they smiled back, and we had this great conversation I never would have had otherwise, and I figured out that people are kind to you when you’re kind first.

Which seems obvious, but like… it’s hard to see anyone else when you’re hurting. And so when people are cruel or rude to me, I just think… wow. People probably see you being an asshole and treat you like an asshole. You probably see your own bad attitude reflected back at you everywhere you go, just like I did, and you probably have no idea. Every stranger you meet is a rude bitch who hates your face, and you’ll never be able to go anywhere that isn’t full of tense, defensive, cranky bastards until you figure out that YOU are causing the bulk of it. Like a dog trying to run from the shit on its tail.

And the idea of living your whole life where nobody is happy to see you, nobody truly enjoys your company, everyone is walking on eggshells and waiting for you to snap on them…. That’s a pretty sad and painful way to live your whole entire life.

So like. I try to treat people kindly, and in return I get to see happy people wherever I go. I try to make them laugh, and listen to them talk, and once they do they aren’t frightening or annoying or strange anymore.

most people, at least.

So like… I don’t think “look on the bright side” is the right answer, but maybe… find something good to believe in, and hold on.

I believe that people at large are good and kind or at least trying their best, and that those who can’t or aren’t are… sort of pitiable.

They don’t know where their pain is coming from, and they can’t make it go away, and it’s been like that so long they probably think the whole world is just LIKE that. So they never really get to experience the good things. And that’s… kind of like a hell, I think, in a way.

I don’t believe in karma. I don’t think I’m religious. I just think that we all want similar things, and we all fear similar things, and the ways we go about getting to or running from those things is different.

….if any of that makes sense.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

This is a biased post—scroll on if astrology opinions aren’t your thing.

To those with water-heavy charts:

You are the soul of this Universe. Never let anyone make you feel inadequate for having an inner world that matters more to you than the rush of this one. Never feel ashamed for being gentle. Never feel wrong for craving depth and meaning.

Protect your heart. The world may not always understand its tenderness—but a few rare souls will. Be patient. Be discerning. And above all, love yourself most.

Self-love is not optional for you; it’s sacred. You are your own greatest lover. Treat yourself like the miracle you are.

To those with fire-heavy charts:

Not everyone seeks adrenaline the way you do. Not everyone moves fast, wants more, or needs to do as much.

You’re not better because you’re in motion. You’re not superior because you can accomplish twenty things in a day. That’s simply how your energy works.

Don’t let your pace become your pride. Everyone’s uniqueness matters.

Learn to breathe between the doing, or you’ll burn through your life and still feel empty. Rest doesn’t weaken you—it grounds you.

To those with earth-heavy charts:

Not everything that requires your empathy is “drama.” Not every achievement reflects the truth of your inner world.

Sometimes you are physically steady but emotionally numb.

A critique isn’t always truth just because it’s yours.

Your tolerance for pain doesn’t mean you’re strong—it may just mean you’re hurting silently.

And not every time you say you’re grounded are you actually grounded—sometimes, you’re just skilled at pretending.

Avoidance isn’t wisdom. It’s isolation. Stop glamorizing it. You’ll miss out on love, joy, and magic—and wonder why you feel so empty.

To those with air-heavy charts:

Being social doesn’t automatically make you a good friend. Thinking a lot isn’t the same as being wise.

Wisdom is also knowing when to pause, breathe, and listen to your heart.

Your need for freedom is valid—but don’t chase love only to abandon it because it asks for presence.

Face your avoidant tendencies. Not everyone is trying to control you.

Getting out of your mind and into your heart isn’t a loss of control—it’s a return to balance.

And just because you talk a lot doesn’t mean you communicate well.

Slow down. Pause. Speak from your soul, not just your thoughts.

[kquil]

REMUS LUPIN | 19:53 — BARISTA BOYFRIEND

SUM. : you suddenly gain a boyfriend after a beautiful but annoying creep flirts with you

TAGS : barista remus ; cafe regular reader ; modern au ; muggle au ; fluff ; very fluffy ; everyone loves hot chocolate ; remus makes great hot chocolate ; protective remus ; secret pining ; creepy but beautiful stranger

LENGTH : 1.4k

NAVI. | MORE REMUS

You’re a regular at a coffee shop that serves a variety of blends, so much so that the air almost always smells of ground coffee and is only slightly entwined with the sweetness of baked goods. However, you weren’t a regular for their coffee or treats, you were a regular for their hot chocolate, made by a specific barista.  

“Hello again,” Remus (the barista in question) greets fondly as you come up to the counter, ready to order. He’s a tall brunette with a gorgeous smile and a talent for making hot chocolate. “The usual?” 

“Only if it’s you’re making it, Remus,” you chirp, smiling up at him as he chuckles—it still astounds you that you’ve become such a regular customer that you’re comfortable calling him by name. You note the incredible length of his lashes as they brush against his cheekbone and admire the faded scar marking his jawline. He’s the perfect model-looking-barista archetype that pulls in customers with a simple glance, and you’re embarrassed to admit that you were one such weak-willed individual: shyly stepping into the cafe for the first time without anything in mind to order until he suggested the hot chocolate, and you were hooked ever since. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t let anyone else touch your hot chocolate, love.” It makes your heart flutter every time he calls you that fond endearment, and you’re sure he knows it too—he probably calls all the lady customers by that name. But no matter what you tell yourself, you weren’t just there for the hot chocolate… “Would you be interested in a sweet treat to go with it this time? Everything’s baked fresh,” he gestures to the array of baked goodies on display, and you try not to drool at the selection openly. Remus has made this offer so often that you don’t think it’s simply him trying to generate more profit for the cafe anymore. But because of his consistent assertions and soft eyes, you finally cave, worn down like the cliff edge by the ocean, sending you crumbling down and into its depths. “I’ll make sure to give you a discount.”

“Alright, alright.” Side-stepping, you lean over to inspect the display case and the delicious array of treats it holds. “It’s kind of a hard choice…”

Remus laughs and nods in understanding, “I don’t blame you. Please take your time, it’s a slow hour.” 

Despite his reassurance, you continue to struggle and soon get anxious over not having made your pick yet. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“Of course!” Stepping away from the coffee machines he preoccupied himself with, Remus gestures to his personal picks, “If you want to satiate that sweet tooth more, you can’t go wrong with our chocolate chip cookies. But if you want something a little less sweet to go with your hot chocolate, our all-butter shortbreads are also a good choice.” With his help, you’re finally able to choose and watch as he selects the biggest, most delectable-looking one in the display—you try not to smile too hard at that; he’s the sweetest. “I’ll have your hot chocolate ready for you soon, love.” Not only did he give you a discount, but he didn’t charge you a single penny.

“Thank you so much, Remus.” He sends you away with a charming smile and your plated treat. When you eventually choose a window seat, you decide to wait until your hot chocolate is done to indulge in your snack pairing and take to observing the city scene outside. 

With a sigh of gratitude, you quietly thank the cafe walls for providing you with such peace. This has become such a safe corner for you in the city that you couldn’t believe you survived so long without it. And it was all thanks to glimpsing Remus’ gorgeous face and sweet nature by chance. The memory made you want to giggle, but you’re soon pulled from such thoughts by the obnoxious clearing of a throat beside you. 

When you turn, you find the source to be the most annoying man you’ve ever met, already introducing himself and quickly beginning to ramble obnoxiously. (What did he say his name was?) He had an ethereal type of beauty with his pale skin, grey eyes and midnight-black hair, dressed in leather like a biker from the 80s, but with a voice that itched your brain in the worst way possible. Was he trying to flirt with you? 

“I’m sorry?” you ask, just to be polite and also to test if this guy was being serious or not about his brazen behaviour. 

“Oh, don’t be sorry, dollface~” he leans in uncomfortably close, “I know I’m a looker, so there’s no need to be shy, you can look at me all you want—all day long if you must.” The stranger flutters his lashes at you, and you swear that you have the most confused and aghast expression on your face. You’re staring at him like he’s grown two extra heads, but he doesn’t stop and continues with his ‘flirting’. “Anyway~ I’m a looker and you’re a looker, why don’t we be lookers together and go for a date?” he wiggles his brows with a smug smirk on his lips, and you try your best not to gag, giving him enough breathing room to continue without an answer. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Before you could respond and politely try to shoo him away, a dark, coarse and almost familiar voice answers for you from where it looms over your figure, “Yes, she does,” Blinking in surprise, your voice gets stuck in your throat with your breath when you look over your shoulder and up to find Remus with a menacing look on his face, one that you couldn’t believe he was capable of ever expressing.

“You’re her—”

“I’m her boyfriend.” Remus reaffirms matter-of-factly, and you try to pretend that your face doesn’t feel like it’s suddenly been set on fire as he turns his icy glare from the stranger and onto you. The instant his eyes met yours, Remus was back to his kind and gentle self, with an additional warmth in his gaze as he placed your hot chocolate on the table in front of you. “Here’s your hot chocolate, my love.” He gently presses his nose against your hair and allows his lips to lightly brush against your temple. “I’m sorry it took so long…I had to redo it.” You don’t know what happened—still spiralling from the dreamy scene happening around you—but the creepy man dressed in leather quickly scampers off. 

Breathing a heavy sigh, Remus sinks into the unoccupied chair next to you. “Th-thanks for that Rem–” to your embarrassment, despite the justified reaction, you let out a small yelp when the barista in question takes the leg of your seat and pulls you closer, his thighs spread apart so you could be as close as possible. When your head was a few inches from his chin, he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable…” 

You wait until your heart rate slows to a normal pace before answering, smiling softly at his considerateness, “I wasn’t uncomfortable at all, not by you at least. Thank you for saving me, Remus.” It was quite adorable how soft he had become, nuzzling into your shoulder to apologise. You couldn’t help but think that he was like an affectionate dog trying to act sweet to express its regret, which you were very weakhearted for. Unable to help yourself, your hand comes up to gently comb through his hair—you can’t believe how soft it is! 

“No. I didn’t save you.”

“What do you mean?”

“...You have to deal with me now…” 

OUTTAKE :

“Remus was so mean, Jamie! And after the sacrifice I took for him!” Sirius whines as James rolls his eyes and shares an amused look with Lily, who sips at her tea while his arm slings over the back of the sofa behind her. “I was only trying to get him together with his lady! It was a success, but I can’t believe that this is the ‘thanks’ I get! Me! The perfect wingman, but glared at, like I’m some sort of villain!” 

“Perfect wingman, more like perfect creep—” 

“Not you too, James!” Sirius shouts, the agony rich in his voice and falls back into his loveseat dramatically, as if struck by an arrow, “I can’t believe you would mock my genius acting like that!” 

“Get over yourself, Sirius.” Lily comments, hiding her smirk behind the lip of her teacup. “What matters is that Remus is finally with his favourite regular.”

“Yeah~ Get over yourself, Sirius~” James teases mockingly, narrowing his eyes at his friend, still smirking in amusement before he drops the jeering facade. “Moony’s with his lady now, ain’t he? He’ll stop giving you the silent treatment soon enough”

Sirius huffs, arms crossed, “I never get any praise around here! A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice!” 

NAVI. | MORE REMUS

A/N : god...i missed writing for sirius XD and remus and james too of course! it's been a while since I've written a timestamp but i hope you darlings enjoyed the read hehe~