#it's infuriatingly ok | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

garoujo · 2 years ago

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✩ ˛˚ . INTERRUPTED ; — you find your alone time with multiple tokyo revengers characters being interrupted.

FEATURING: sano shinichiro, hanma shuji, haitani rindou, sano manjiro + sanzu haruchiyo.

warnings: f!reader, exhibitonism, bonten!timeline, shin owns his bike shop, phone calls / being walked in on, cock-warming, sort of possessive behaviour in sanzu’s, ch-oking. note: hewo :3 i am v happy w how these turned out i think so i hope u guys enjoy hehehe <3

✩ ˛˚ . SANO SHINICHIRO

shinichiro could never fucking say no to you, you just had to give him one of your pretty little looks from underneath your lashes and he was like fucking putty in your hands.

it’s like you knew exactly how to get to him, made just to tease and test his own self control and fuck—turns out he hasn’t got any at all, because now your usual little afternoon visit to see him at work has ended up with his hips pressing flush and tight against your own as he sinks his cock into the warm hug of your pussy.

it wasn’t normally something that bothered shinichiro, but when it’s only 2pm on a friday afternoon and he’s just heard the bell on the front door of his bike shop ring to alert him of another customer. he’s pretty sure they might find a problem with the fact he can’t deal with them because he’s balls deep in you in the back shop.

you feel the deep press of your boyfriends cock against the sweet spots inside of you when his next thrust stutters, followed by another languid withdrawal of his hips before he’s rolling them back into you at an even slower pace. but he swears he feels you squeeze even tighter when the sudden ring of the bell at the front desk rips you both from your blissful, hormone-drunken state.

“just a sec..” shinichiro calls as his fingers squeeze almost painfully at your hips and he’s pulling back to give you a lidded look from under the messy mop of black hair framing his flushed features. you shudder when you feel the cool metal of his chain leave your too hot skin but he still doesn’t pull himself away when your hands tighten in the fabric of his shirt. “f-fuck, angel, gotta let me go.. quit squeezin’ so tight.

“but shin, ‘m so close.” you babble through your pouty lips and even the fucking sound only seems to lure him closer as he offers you another stuttered thrust and he grits his teeth. another ring of the bell accompanied by another sinful squeeze of your walls around him and shit— he wished he’d just closed up for the day. god he is fucking whipped.

“mmm—fine, angel. shit— jus’ gotta make it quick, alright? make it up to ya later.”

✩ ˛˚ . HANMA SHUJI

your trip to hanma’s office had started somewhat innocent, it was always down to him when you ended up spread out on his desk atleast — not that you can be blamed when he’s so infuriatingly handsome, amber lidded gaze never once leaving yours as soon as you enter.

it’s the same look that he’s giving you now as you sit spread out for him across the paper work that he couldn’t give two shits about right now. he’s still dressed apart from his unbuttoned slacks — just enough to free the heavy strain of his cock but still a stark contrast to the way he’s stripped you of everything — offered you up to himself like a luxury meal he’s about to devour, and you almost shudder with how exposed you feel before you melt at his touch again.

“you miss my cock that much, babydoll?” hanma goads, smirks as one of his large palms, sin squeezes at the flesh of your thigh so he can push you wider. you can barely offer him words with the way your desire weighs heavy on your lungs, a weak little nod that only makes his grin twitch even wider as he wraps your thighs around his hips.

“such a helpless little thing, can’t cum without me doing all the work.” it was almost uncharacteristic for him to give into you so easily, he liked you begging — crying for him to finally fuck you but any suspicions soon melt when the fat head of his cock finds the entrance to your flexing pussy.

you gasp and hanma growls as he sinks carefully up inside you, punishment taking its usual place around your throat as he squeezes lightly at the sides — he always said it was your prettiest fuckin’ necklace afterall. his other hand on your hip pulls your hips closer to his as your back arches and his cock feels like it sinks into you forever. he was long and thick, curved upwards and warm and it glides so sweetly past the spots inside of you that make your whole body twitch against the wood, your pussy tightening harder around him the deeper he goes.

but just as you find yourself floating into a blissful state, almost consumed completely by him — you jolt when there’s a sudden, sharp knock on his office door and his fingers around your throat squeeze a little tighter before he chuckles.

your wide-eyed as you look at hanma but he doesn’t stop, he looks amused and there’s something dark, wild in the same familiar amber that looks over you when the next knock is accompanied by him forcing your walls to spread open wider for him. “s-shuji.” you try, a small plea for him to tell him he’s busy — to do something, anything.

but then you only feel him press into you deeper, looking at you from over the frames of his glasses before he’s urging your head to tilt back — palm pressing tight against the middle of your throat as he drags you along his cock with the other.

“came here to cum didn’t you? better tell ‘em.. or. else.”

✩ ˛˚ . HAITANI RINDOU

rindou is fucking late, he knows as he gives the watch underneath the expensive fabric of his suit a lazy, lidded look from underneath his lashes. it’s not that he was stuck in traffic or anything, hes at the venue for the executive meeting atleast — hes just far too fucking obsessed with the way you’re bouncing on his cock as he sits in the front seat of his fucking car to actually leave.

ran’s definitely going to kick his ass, he thinks before it’s replaced by the next particularly sharp connection of your hips — warm hug of your pussy reducing him to low grunts and growls as every thought in his head is consumed by only you instead.

“fuck sake, i gotta go princess. but shit, got the sweetest lil fuckin’ pussy.” rindou hisses through gritted teeth as he lets his head fall back against the headrest — his violet gaze heavy underneath his mused bangs as it focuses on the way your pretty tits jiggle everytime you sink back down onto his heavy cock. he’s gotta go, but why can’t he bring himself to fucking move.

“so close rin!” you whimper through pouty lips, your mind cloudy with how well hes fucking you and it does wonders at drowning out the way his phone is vibrating in the passenger seat — his hands preoccupied with dragging you along the length of him instead.

“yeah? lemme see how fuckin’ pretty you look when you cum ‘round my cock, gorgeous.” the ragged tone of rindou’s words feels like it drips through you as the muscles in his well trained body shake beneath you. his pace is unrelenting as he begins to meet each of your thrusts with heavier ones of his own, fingers squeezing tight into your hips so he can push his cock even deeper into you with every wet connection.

“you been thinkin’ ‘bout my cock, princess? already made me fuckin’ late, gotta make it up to me.” rindou groans and your walls reward the thick spread of his cock with another needy twitch. your pussy squelches, wet and messy as the sounds echo around the walls of the car and fuck— he wants to ruin you. but his next harsh thrust stutters when there’s a sudden knock against the drivers seat window that makes his head twist quickly, because despite the dark tint and the condensation from you both — he knows who it fucking is.

“oh little brother? hm, don��t make me drag you in here.”

✩ ˛˚ . SANO MANJIRO

you think it’s warm, comfortable when you’re curled up in mikey’s lap — a place that had become one of your favourite despite how many people feared him. but he was different with you, softer as his slender fingers trace up the length of your spine — making you shudder as his cock rests inside the intoxicating hug of your walls.

it was a nice sort of routine, like a little ritual than always seemed to keep him grounded and it was some of his favourite moments with you — sacred moments with you. you pull back to give him a pretty, drowsy sort of look and you almost melt completely when it earns you a relaxed sort of expression in return followed by a small smile. “manjiro.” you begin and he swears the use of his full name from between your lips makes him shudder as something warm licks at the base of his spine.

“hm?” it’s low the hum that mikey offers you but you only sigh contently before you’re urging yourself closer, letting yourself bask in his hold as his arm around you proceeds to tighten as his lips rest against your temple. “it feels good, you’re warm.” he drawls and the whispered affirmation makes your insides ache before the next squeeze of your walls is pulling a shuddered breath from the man beneath you.

but just as you get comfortable in the blissful atmosphere in the room, it’s interrupted suddenly by the harsh wrap of knuckles against his office door before a particularly scared looking gang member scurries in after. he opens his mouth to speak but the cold look your boyfriend gives him seems to make the words die in his throat before he cuts him off completely.

“i’m busy.” mikey’s tone is blunt, ragged and a stark contrast to the softer one that he seems to reserve only for you as his fingers continue their ministrations along your skin. but you find yourself tensing when his words aren’t followed by the sudden unwanted company leaving, something that your boyfriend picks up on when instead they proceed to try again as they stutter out something unintelligible.

“didn’t you hear me?” there’s authority in the sharpness of his tone this time and it leaves no room for argument — only an apology as the gang member bows before leaving, probably mentally preparing himself for the visit he’ll be receiving from sanzu later no doubt. but you find yourself relaxing into manjiro’s embrace again as soon as you’re both alone again, hearing him sigh before it’s followed by a sudden, deep kiss of his cock as he shifts beneath you.

“so annoying. i’m comfy.”

✩ ˛˚ . SANZU HARUCHIYO

“haru..” you gasp from where sanzu has you hips pressed tight against his desk — swiping his fingers softly through your folds as he drags the pad beneath the hood of your clit, rolling the sensitive bud until he can see the way your thighs twitch. it was insane, the way he’s toying with you — playing with your pretty cunt like you’ve got him fucking hypnotised.

“i know, angel. just real pretty.” he hums before he’s deliberately pressing down onto your puffy clit harder, eagerly, until you’re wet enough for him to push two fingers inside. he rewards you with a sweet little kiss against the puffy bud when he’s not met with much resistance, grinning at the even sweeter little whine it pulls from your pouty lips.

“such pretty sounds, perfect fucking pussy.” sanzu’s fingers are long, long and thick enough for you to hiss at the stretch but you feel something blissful flutter in your tummy with the soft affirmation from his scarred lips. it was intoxicating to see a man so dangerous turn to fucking putty when he was between your legs and gazing up at you from under long lashes.

his warm breath rolls over your slick folds as he pants, his crystalline eyes transfixed and shining on where his digits sink into you, until his head lowers and his tongue is curling against your clit before he’s dragging it back up — complimenting every twist of his wrist with kitten licks like you’re the sweetest thing hes ever fucking tasted. it was rare for you both to get some alone time, he was a busy man afterall being bonten’s number two and you forget just how fucking good he makes you feel — making your toes curl from where they rest over his shoulders so easily.

but just as you let yourself melt back onto the heavy wood behind you, fingers smoothing through the bubblegum roots of sanzu’s hair before you pull — you’re jolted from your blissful state by the sharp ring of his phone in his pants. you hear him click his tongue before he’s spitting out a curse, but he continues to sink his fingers into you as he struggles with the device, swiping at the screen as he swirls tantalising circles into your clit with his thumb.

“what the fuck is it?” he spits and fuck— you swear the sudden boom of his voice makes you even wetter as your walls squeeze tight around his fingers, making his scarred lips twitch into a wild grin as he hums. you can tell he’s barely listening to the caller, not important enough for his attention so you know it’s not mikey, but his attention remains on you despite the way he addresses them. “fuckin’ do something about it then, im busy.”

you’re so fucking wound up, moans muffled behind your lips despite the way sanzu’s so desperately trying to drag them out of you before he’s resting the phone face up on the desk beside you. you’d assume he was done, but you can still hear the faint voice on the other end and the hooded look he gives you is dark before he’s suddenly burying his face into you, drinking up everything you offer to him despite the way his sharp gaze cuts up into you as he grumbles out a warning.

“keep that pretty mouth quiet, angel. those sounds are for my ears only, wouldnt want to have to kill that sorry bastard for hearing what’s mine.”

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theonottsbxtch · 4 months ago

Note

Ok so… 🌧️☁️🔥 - Lewis Hamilton.

Could u base it off the trend, dark curls and water colour eyes.

Thanks Queen

WATER COLOUR EYES | LH44

an: this is totally not based off of nico rosberg, no why would it be? also this was written in an hour and is NOT proof read.

summary: lewis' and his teammate have been treading a thin line between love and hate, so when one of them gets into an accident. surely it changes everything.

wc: 4.3k

warnings: car crash

The air in the garage was thick with the familiar scent of oil and rubber, the rhythmic thrum of engines in the distance like a heartbeat. You were stood at the far end, methodically reviewing your race notes, eyes tracing over each figure with sharp precision. Focused. Composed. Untouchable.

But you could feel him there—he was always there, lingering just on the edge of your awareness, never saying anything but always watching. The weight of it made your jaw clench, your muscles tighten in a way that annoyed you more than you’d cared to admit.

Lewis was leaning against the wall across from you, arms folded, his posture lazy and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. You could hear him breathing. You didn’t have to look up to know he was wearing that same infuriatingly relaxed expression, the one that somehow made you feel like he was waiting for you to slip up.

Minutes passed, neither of you speaking, the silence between you thick with something unspoken, but heavy. The team buzzed around you two, but your world was much quieter—tense, a slow-burning friction that had been there since the day you had both signed on.

Finally, you chose to break the silence, not out of need to acknowledge him, but to break the weight pressing down on your chest. "Do you ever plan on doing something useful?"

Lewis didn’t answer right away. Instead, you heard the soft shift of his weight as he stood straighter, footsteps crossing the short distance between you, slow and measured. You didn’t look up. Not yet.

"Are you always this charming before a race?" His voice was calm, casual, the subtle bite behind his words only evident to someone who knew how to listen for it.

You exhaled slowly, setting your notes down on the table in front of you. Only then did you meet his gaze, your cerulean eyes locking onto his, steady and unwavering. His eyes were dark, tension brewing within them, and the way they met yours now—unapologetically, searching for something—only made your guard go up further.

"I’m focused. Maybe you should try it sometime," you replied, your tone even, though every word was a small act of defiance.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t a friendly one. It was the kind of smile that said he was amused by you, that he liked getting under your skin.

"I am focused," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "Just not on what you think."

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Lewis didn’t like that they were racing today, there was far too much rain. Every practice session since they had gotten to Zandvoort felt wrong, every time he got into the cockpit of the car, he wanted to get back out.

The race was chaos—engines roaring, tires screaming as they hurtled through corner after corner at breakneck speed through the rain. Every move had to be precise, every decision calculated, and he was good at it. No distractions, no second-guessing.Even though he didn’t want to race today, Lewis lived for this.

But today, besides the race, something else was off. He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head. Even as he fought for position, his mind wandered—always back to you. To the way your eyes flashed when she spoke to him, the way you never backed down, never let him in. You were supposed to be teammates. Rivals. So why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

He shook it off, pushing harder, focusing on the track ahead. But then he saw it.

Your car, just ahead in the pack, spun out. It happened so fast—a sudden twitch, then a violent swerve. His breath caught in his throat as your car skidded sideways, slamming into the barrier with a sickening crunch of metal.

Time slowed. Everything else—the race, the other drivers, the screaming radio in his ear—faded away. All he could see was your car, mangled and still, smoke rising from the wreckage.

"Bono, is she okay?" he breathed, panic clawing at his chest.

He was supposed to keep driving, follow protocol, and wait for the safety car. But he couldn’t. Lewis’ hands moved on their own, wrenching the wheel to the side, veering off the racing line. The pit radio crackled, Bono’s voice screaming at him to stay focused, to stay in the race, but he didn’t care. He slammed the brakes, pulled the car to a halt on the side of the track, ripping off his steering wheel in one swift motion.

Before anyone could stop him, he was out. Feet pounding against the asphalt, he sprinted toward your car, every second stretching painfully, his heart pounding in his ears. His mind was racing, filled with worst-case scenarios he couldn’t shut out. You had to be okay. You had to be.

As he reached the wreckage, marshals were already swarming the scene, but he shoved past them, his pulse roaring in his veins. The front of your car was a crumpled mess, the cockpit barely visible under the bent metal and debris. He could see your helmet, your still form inside, and the sight made something twist violently in his chest.

"What the fuck happened?!" His voice was raw, frantic, his hands reaching for the cockpit, trying to pry it open. "Someone help me for fucks sake!"

One of the marshals grabbed him, pulling him back, but he fought against it, his whole body trembling with the need to see you, to know you were okay.

"She’s unconscious—" one of the medics started, but he couldn’t hear the rest. His world had narrowed down to you and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He’d never felt fear like this before, not on the track, not anywhere. It gnawed at him, made his hands shake as he stood there, helpless.

His mind screamed at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to you.

When the medical team finally got you out, he saw your chest rise and fall—shallow, but steady. Relief hit him like a wave, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to hear your voice, needed to see you open those damn eyes and tell him off like you always did. He needed you to be okay.

"She’s breathing," one of the medics reassured him as they loaded you onto a stretcher, and he nodded, but it felt like a hollow victory. Lewis wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But as they carried you away, all he could think was that he’d break every rule, throw away the whole damn race, just to hear your voice again.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The quiet hum of the air conditioning did little to settle the nerves that still buzzed under your skin. You sat on the edge of the small cot in your driver’s room, staring blankly at the wall. Your body ached—nothing broken, they’d told you, but the crash had rattled you more than you had wanted to admit. Your helmet sat discarded on the floor, and the sound of the accident still echoed in your head, the screech of tires, the crunch of metal.

There was a knock at the door, sharp and insistent. You knew who it was before you even heard his voice.

"You in there?"

You closed your eyes for a brief second, already bracing yourself for the confrontation you weren't ready to have. He hadn’t left you alone since the crash—hovering around the medical tent, pacing outside your room. You’d heard him through the walls, arguing with the team, demanding updates. He was relentless. But you didn’t want his concern. You didn’t need it.

The door creaked open, and Lewis stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Typical. He always pushed his way into your space, never asking, never giving you a chance to breathe.

"You shouldn’t be here," you said, your voice low, your eyes still fixed on the floor. You didn’t have the strength to look at him, not yet. Not when your emotions were too close to the surface.

"I was worried," he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it, and that only made you angrier. "I needed to see for myself that you were okay."

You laughed, a bitter sound, shaking your head. Finally, you forced yourself to look up at him. His usually confident posture was gone; he looked tense, his shoulders tight, his dark eyes clouded with something you didn’t want to name. Guilt? Regret? You didn’t care.

"You were worried," you repeated, your tone mocking, though the anger bubbling inside you was anything but playful. "Since when do you care about me, Hamilton? You’ve made my life hell from the second I signed with this team."

Lewis flinched at her words, but didn’t move, didn’t back down. "I—" He stopped, searching for something to say, something that wouldn’t make it worse. But you didn’t want to hear it.

"You don’t get to be scared for me." You stood up, your body protesting with every movement, but you ignored the pain. Your emotions were a live wire, snapping and sparking in the small room. "Not after everything you’ve done. The comments, the looks, the way you treat me like I’m just some obstacle in your way."

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening, but you weren't finished. "You’ve been trying to tear me down since the day I got here. You’ve questioned my skills, doubted my place on this team, made me feel like I don’t belong every single chance you get." You took a step closer, your voice rising, cracking with the intensity of everything you’d kept bottled up. "So don’t stand there now and pretend you care. Don’t act like I’m something worth worrying about."

He didn’t move. He just stared at you, his face a mask of tension, like he was holding something back—something he wasn’t sure how to say. His eyes flickered, just for a second, and you saw it: the same fear you’d felt when your car slammed into that barrier. It confused you. It infuriated you.

"You think I wanted this?" His voice, rougher now, cut through the thick silence. "You think I planned to be this way with you? I don’t—" He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know how to do this. How to deal with you. Because you—"

"Because what?" you snapped, cutting him off. "Because I’m a threat? Because you can’t handle the fact that I’m as good as you? Better, even?"

"Because you scare the hell out of me!" he shouted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. The room fell silent, his confession hanging in the air between you, raw and jagged.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the admission hitting you harder than you wanted to admit. But you didn’t let it show, couldn’t let him see how his words affected you.

"You scare me," he repeated, his voice quieter now, like he was admitting something to himself as much as to you. "The way you drive, the way you push yourself—you’re fearless, and it’s terrifying. And today—" His voice cracked, and he looked away for a second, composing himself. "Today, when I saw you crash, I thought—I thought I’d lost you."

Your breath caught in your throat, but you swallowed the emotion rising there, forcing yourself to stay strong. To stay angry.

"You don’t get to care about me," you said again, quieter this time, but with the same fire. "Not when you’ve spent months trying to break me."

Lewis opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. For a moment, you just stood there, the distance between you feeling both impossible to cross and too close. The tension, the unspoken things that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long, it all hovered between you, crackling like electricity.

Finally, he took a step back, his gaze falling to the floor. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice rough, but sincere.

You didn’t know what to say. Part of you wanted to scream at him, to push him further away, to tell him that his apology wasn’t enough. But another part of you —a part you weren’t ready to confront—was scared by how much you’d wanted to hear him say it.

So instead, you stayed silent, watching him leave, your heart still racing, your mind reeling from everything that had just been said—and everything that hadn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. Your body felt heavier now, the adrenaline from the confrontation seeping away, leaving only the dull ache of exhaustion and the weight of his words lingering in your mind.

You scare me.

You ran a hand through your hair, still trying to make sense of it all. He was the one who had made your life hell, the one who pushed every button, who treated you like you didn’t belong. And now, he was saying he was scared? That he cared?

You paced the room, the silence gnawing at you, your mind spinning in circles. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were rivals—always had been. He was the enemy on your own team, the one who made you want to scream every time he walked into the room. But today, when he stood there, looking at you like he was terrified of losing you, it had felt… different.

There was a part of you that had wanted to stay angry, to keep that fire burning between you. It was easier that way. Safer. But another part—the one you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge until now—was starting to unravel, slowly, painfully, as if everything you thought you knew about him was coming undone.

You sighed, sinking back onto the cot. Your body ached, but it wasn’t just the crash. It was everything else—the confusion, the pull you felt toward him, the tension that never seemed to leave you two, the way he looked at you like you were both his greatest threat and something he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

You don’t get to care about me.

You had meant it when you said it. But now, alone with your thoughts, you wondered if you had been pushing him away because you didn’t want to admit the truth to yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to stay away. Not anymore.

Before you could second-guess it, you stood up, heart pounding in your chest. You weren't sure what you were going to say, weren’t even sure why you were doing this, but your feet carried you out of your room and down the hall. His room was just a few doors down, the quiet hum of the team in the background doing nothing to settle the storm raging inside you.

Your knuckles hovered above the door, hesitating for just a moment before you knocked, your heart in her throat.

It opened almost immediately. He stood there, still in his race suit, his room a mess and his eyes shadowed with the same exhaustion you felt. He looked surprised to see you, but there was something else there too—something raw, vulnerable, that made your chest tighten.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid. Finally, you broke the tension, your voice quieter than you intended.

"I shouldn’t have said what I did."

Lewis didn’t respond right away, just watched you with those sharp eyes that always made you feel like he was seeing straight through your defences.

"I didn’t mean it," you continued, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "I mean… you didn’t deserve that. You cared, and I shouldn’t have thrown it back in your face."

He looked down, exhaling softly. "I’ve given you plenty of reasons to hate me," he said quietly. "I get why you reacted the way you did."

For a moment, neither of you moved. You were about to say something else, but then he looked up again, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat.

"It’s foreign to me," he said, his voice low, his words deliberate. "Liking someone like you. Someone I’m not supposed to like."

Your breath caught in your throat, the air between you suddenly feeling too thick, too charged. The heat from the room, from him, seemed to close in around you, making it hard to think straight.

"You drive me insane," he continued, stepping closer, his voice rougher now. "You challenge me in ways no one else does. And I hate it. But I also…" He stopped, his eyes locking onto yours, his next words barely more than a whisper. "I can’t stop thinking about you."

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The tension that had always been between you shifted, growing heavier, hotter, more intense. You could feel the pull, the unspoken thing that had been simmering beneath the surface for months.

Your throat was dry, your body betraying you. "You’re not supposed to care about me," you whispered, but there was no anger left in your voice. Only confusion, and something you weren't ready to admit yet.

He took another step closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to hear the slight hitch in his breath.

"I know," he said, his voice husky, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "But I do."

Your pulse thundered in your ears as his words lingered in the air between you, charged and crackling like static. Every second felt stretched, like time was holding its breath, waiting for what would happen next. The tension between you had always been palpable, always simmering just beneath the surface, but now, it was unbearable—thick, electric, like the split second before a lightning strike.

You knew you should say something, break the moment before it went too far. You should push him away, remind him of all the reasons this couldn’t happen, why they couldn’t cross this line. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you found yourself frozen in place, the walls you’d built up around him crumbling. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, and you felt something inside you shift, like a wire snapping loose.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in, just the smallest movement, enough to close some of the distance between you. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the space between you shrinking until it felt like the air itself was suffocating, pressing you together.

And then, he moved.

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, his touch feather-soft, like he was testing the moment, unsure if you’d pull away. Your skin tingled where his hand touched, sending a shiver down your spine, and for a brief second, neither of you moved. His thumb gently grazed your jawline, and the touch was so tender, so unexpected from him, that it made your chest tighten.

When you didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, something shifted in him. The tension snapped like a taut string, unravelling all at once. He closed the gap between you in a heartbeat, and before you could think, before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was urgent, messy, like he’d been holding back for far too long and couldn’t control it anymore. His lips pressed against yours with a hunger that matched the heat between you, a raw, desperate energy that made your knees weaken. It wasn’t gentle; it wasn’t careful. It was a release—months of pent-up frustration, confusion, anger, and something else that neither of you had been willing to acknowledge until now.

Your body responded instinctively, your hands moving to his chest, gripping the fabric of his suit as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His body was warm, solid beneath your touch, and you could feel his heart racing just as wildly as yours. You pulled him closer, needing more of him, needing this as much as he did.

The kiss deepened, and his hand slid from your cheek to tangle in your hair, pulling you even closer. Your mouths moved together in a rhythm that was both frantic and intoxicating, as if you were both trying to make up for all the time you’d spent fighting this. Every brush of his lips, every shift of his hands made your pulse spike, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. You could taste the desperation in his kiss, feel the tension still lingering in the way his body pressed against yours.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, tangled in each other, caught in the whirlwind of your own undoing. But when you finally pulled apart, gasping for air, your foreheads pressed together, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Your breaths came heavy and uneven, the world spinning around you as you tried to catch up to what had just happened.

Your mind was a haze of emotions—confusion, relief, frustration—and yet there was something undeniable settling deep inside you, something you couldn’t push away anymore.

You felt the warmth of his breath against your skin, and your heart was still racing, but now, instead of fear or anger, there was something softer, something that scared you just as much.

"I’m still angry with you," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. But there was no heat behind your words now, just the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, like you couldn’t quite hold it back.

He let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating between you as he brushed a thumb along your jawline, his touch lingering, as if he didn’t want to let go. His eyes softened as they met yours, the usual sharpness replaced by something you weren't used to seeing in him—vulnerability.

"I wouldn’t expect anything less," he murmured, his voice low, rough with the aftermath of what had just passed between you. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your skin, sending a fresh wave of warmth through you.

His forehead still rested against yours, and the air between you was thick with the unspoken things that hung in the balance. You could feel his breath mingling with yours, could still taste the remnants of his kiss on your lips. The tension hadn’t disappeared—it had merely shifted, becoming something new, something more dangerous. The line between you was gone now, blurred beyond recognition, and you didn’t know how to navigate it.

His other hand came to rest on your hip, the touch firm, possessive, pulling you just a fraction closer. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, and you didn’t stop it this time. You didn’t want to.

His lips hovered just above yours, teasing, tempting, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you. You could feel his breath, hot and heavy, his eyes searching yours for permission—for something more. And in that moment, you realised that you wanted it, too. Wanted him.

the end.

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improbable-outset · 15 days ago

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📄 𝐀 𝐙𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬

Jayce Talis x gn!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k

𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐖: very slow burn, flirting, unresolved romantic tension, open ending, Zaun and Piltover dynamics, light angst

𝐀/𝐍: Ok I know I said no more tumblr, but I had to share this…if it reaches the Arcane audience, cool. If it doesn’t…ah well at least my moots see this

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: As a Zaunite inventor, you don’t trust uninvited visitors in your sanctuary, especially from Piltover Councillors. But Jayce Talis isn’t like most people. Persistent, curious, and infuriatingly charming, he keeps showing up to your workshop, refusing to back down. And neither are you…

An earthy tang hit the back of your throat as you swept the concrete floor, each stroke of your broom sending swirls of dust in the air. The dust particles caught the setting sunlight spilling through the open doorway, casting a golden glow inside your workshop.

It wasn’t a huge space, but it was yours— clattered with shelves of spare parts, half finished projects, and various tools.

The main door stood propped open, letting in the faded sunlight and occasional cool breeze.

The wind slowly brushed past you as you continued to sweep, the sound of the wind charm that hung outside of your property tinkered in the air. Its delicate sound was a contrast to the mechanical hum that usually filled the space.

Your routine was as steady as the machines you built. Each day was just as predictable as the last. Sweep the dust, sort out spare parts, tinker with inventions that no one would use— or buy.

Most of your work came from the Chem-barons, commissions for complex weapons or gear that promised devastation in the right hands.

They didn’t visit often, but their demands could keep you busy for days. Then, when the work was done, the stillness returned.

No one came unless they needed something done, and you prefer it that way. The fewer interruptions, the fewer chances for someone to stick their nose where it didn’t belong.

And everyone seemed to respect that.

You paused mid-sweep, the broom still in your hand, as you felt a prickle run up the back of your neck.

The air in the Undercity was always thick with pollution and smoke, but now it felt heavier— like the weight of a storm waiting to break.

The usual hum of your machinery seemed muted, and even the wind chime faltered, the tinkering notes faded into the background.

You told yourself to ignore it, brush it off like it was nothing more than a stray thought. But then you heard it again— a faint shuffle, just outside.

It sounded too deliberate to be from the wind, and too hesitant to be a usual runner.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, stepping into the dim light of your workshop. It didn’t take long to figure out who it was— his attire was too clean for this side of the bridge.

He moved with purpose, pausing a few metres before your doorway like he’d stumble upon something precious.

You didn’t flinch, broom still in your hand, watching. You’d learn that speaking first was usually a mistake— it only gave the other person the upper hand.

The man looked at you, his stare caught somewhere between admiration and the detached curiosity of someone staring at an animal behind glass.

His height and physique could naturally draw attention. But even without that, his clothes did most of the talking.

The gold trim on his suit caught what little light filtered through the smog. His boots polished to a shine and echoed softly in the quiet streets— just loud enough to announce his arrival.

“You lost, Talis?” you asked, finally breaking the silence.

Your property wasn’t exactly on the map, it was tucked away in the maze of the alleys. Only locals could navigate these paths.

That’s why seeing someone from Piltover standing outside your doorstep caught you off guard.

His name had the desired effect, setting alarm bells in him. His posture stiffened, his expression flickered with surprise with his eyes darting back to yours. “You…know who I am?”

You leaned your broom against the wall and crossed your arms.

“Everyone in Zaun knows the Golden Boy from Piltover.” Your tone was flat, like you were stating a fact. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Exit’s that way.”

“I’m not selling anything,” he said quickly, his hands coming up in a half-hearted gesture of surrender. “I just came to see your work.”

“My work? Why?”

Jayce Talis— a name rang out in both Piltover and Zaun. His face was everywhere— on posters, merchandise, and in carefully curated photos plastered across every surface in the city.

You always knew the pictures were crafted to perfection. They had to be. The Man of Progress couldn’t afford a single flaw.

Still, seeing him in person was…something else. You hated to admit it, even to yourself, but the pictures didn’t exaggerate much.

His hair was slick back just enough to look effortlessly polished. His thick brows and light stubble framed his features that were far too symmetrical to your liking.

And then there was his outfit— his crisp white jacket with gold pieces tailored so perfectly it felt like a statement itself.

It wasn’t overly tight, but it clung in the right places, hinting at broad shoulders and accentuating a physique that made heads turn. Each time he shifted, the fabric pulled slightly against his muscles, as if barely keeping itself together.

Even his eyes seemed to sparkle more up close in the low light, a reflection of his boundless confidence and a sign that he didn’t belong here. Not in your space.

“I’ve heard words about you going around and I was curious.”

“So what? You’re gonna give me a gold star? Show off my work at the Piltover parties?”

“No, no. I mean—” he hesitated, the words fumbling for footing. “People say you’re brilliant, and I wanted to see for myself.”

Brilliant. Of course. You’ve heard that compliment being tossed around before, along with other sweet talks from people trying to butter you up before hitting you with some impossible demand.

But he wasn’t fumbling entirely, there was still a smooth air about him. One that came naturally to someone that’s used to speaking to a room full of people hanging onto every word.

Even so, there was something different up close. Was he trying too hard? Nervousness beneath his charm?

“You think I’m gonna perform for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his voice dipping lower to a more soothing note.

You narrowed your eyes, holding back a scoff. So he thought a change in his tone would win you over? Clearly, he hadn’t met enough people like you.

But the real question still nagged at the back of your mind. How had he found you? It still baffled you. Your workshop wasn’t the kind of place you could just stumble across— it was hidden by design

So how had Jayce Talis done it? Had he bribed someone for directions? Pulled strings with someone that owed him a favour?

Or had he stubbornly worked his way through the Undercity on his own, pretending to look harmless?

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. He looked glaringly out of place. And yet, he stood there, looking like he genuinely cared about your answer.

Not that it mattered. You learned not to trust a nice tone or an earnest expression.

Before you could tell him to get lost, his eyes flickered past you. He stepped forward, just slightly, but enough for the air between you to shift.

“Is that…a chem-powered stabiliser?” Jayce asked, pointing past you.

You froze, following his gaze to the machinery perched on the workbench. He even had the cheeks to step closer and peered through the doorway to get a better look.

“I’ve never seen one so compact before. How did you—”

“Don’t touch that!” you snapped, stepping in to block out his view. “These aren’t for you to admire.”

He pulled his hand back immediately, fingered curling to his palm, but his eyes were still glued to the device.

“Is this some sort of new hobby? Charity work for the poor Zaunite researchers? You think you could waltz into the Undercity, slap a few compliments, and go back feeling good about yourself?”

You see him deflate a little, genuinely taken back by your words. For the first time, you saw his brows furrow as your words seemed to sting. “That’s not why I’m here, I just—”

“Then why are you here? I don’t need your approval, councillor.”

The title landed a sharp jab, but instead of retreating completely, Jayce straightened his posture.

“Fine, fine— I’m going.” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But your work is incredible, even if you hate me for saying it.”

His expression softened, his gaze flickered between the stabiliser and you. For a moment, he looked like a wounded animal, retreating quietly but with a trace of stubborn determination in his eyes.

“Don’t come back, Talis.” you called sharply, already turning your back to head inside.

“Can’t make any promises.” he smiled faintly, disappearing back into the shadows of the alleyway.

The muted hiss of the soldering iron filled the quiet. Your hands worked with precision, the glow from the tool casting flickering light across the delicate gears in front of you.

It had been almost a week since Jayce’s unsolicited visit, and you haven’t had a single visitor after that. Days like this weren’t unusual— visitors were rare, and you were accustomed to that.

Despite the chaos of the Undercity, it always felt distant here, muted by the walls and your deliberate isolation. Your workshop was designed to block out the clamour of the outside world.

The only sounds were the occasional clink of metal and the crackle of circuitry.

You adjusted your position, leaning closer to your work, and ran your tongue over your slightly chapped lips as you steadied the gear. The solder melted, releasing a soft wisp of smoke that carried a sharp metallic scent.

With the rare visitors and social interactions, your tools were the only thing keeping you company. They didn’t have any demand explaining or carrying expectations. They only required patience and precision.

The silence gave you room to think— sometimes too much room. After days without a single visit, you felt the weight of it begin to press on you. It wasn’t something you dared to admit to anyone— not even yourself— but you felt the toll of it.

The lack of noise sharpened your senses, as if your ears were always straining to fill the void. You heard every creek of the floorboards beneath your feet, every shift of machinery in the room, every distant echo from across the streets.

Sometimes you could even hear the faint thrum of your pulse in your ear.

And that’s why you heard them before you even saw him.

Boots.

Not the mismatched kinds that the locals wore. These sounded like it came from a clean sole that didn’t stick to the streets. A confidence that you didn’t hear often.

You paused mid-solder and tilted your head slightly, listening carefully. The sound grew louder, sharper, and irritably more familiar. It was the same stride you heard a few days ago.

Placing the iron down, you turned towards the doorway. A shadow lingered in the dim light before a figure emerged.

And there he was, flesh and blood.

Again.

“Still not lost this time,” he announced.

He carried the same easy warmth, light but steady, that seemed to sweep into the room and disturb the peace you cultivated.

Except now, it was more infuriating than the last. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” you asked, glancing at him briefly.

“You did,” he admitted, unfazed. “I have a habit of not listening.”

Your gaze dropped briefly to his boots, taking in the faint sheen leather material that hadn’t been scuffed by Zaun’s grime.

“You really got some nerves, Talis.”

Of course he hadn’t learned. Why were you even surprised? Of course he thought he was entitled to walk back in here, as if the first time wasn’t enough.

“What do you want, Talis?” Your voice was a blade against steel. “You don’t belong here.”

“What, and you do?” He arched his brow, as though he caught you in a contradiction. “Doesn’t seem like you get a lot of visitors.”

“I like it that way.”

Usually, your words were enough to send someone packing. Your cold indifference was a shield, and most people didn’t push past. But Jayce didn’t flinch.

Instead, his expression softened, giving you a steady gaze. There was no mockery. Just…patience.

You didn’t know what to make of that, like his warmth stonewalled your annoyance. You stared, half expecting him to make some sort of patronising comment. But he didn’t.

It dawned on you that he really wasn’t going to give this up.

You opened your mouth and closed them again, struggling to find the words before you finally hear yourself speak again.

“You might as well come in since you came all the way down here…again.”

The words left your mouth before your brain could catch up. Part of you wished you could snatch your words back, but it was too late now.

Jayce had already stepped closer, his broad shadow loomed across the threshold. His boots scraped against the uneven floor. His steps felt measured, like he was testing how far he could go without setting you off.

The workshop always felt just the right size when you were alone— a perfect balance between cramped and cozy. But now it suddenly felt stifling. The creek of the floorboard under his weight and his shuffling steps sounded amplified in the quiet. His height alone made the walls feel closer.

Even his presence had some volume.

The glow lamps casted a soft light around the room. The workshop area had a few overhead lamps with exposed bulbs that threw harsh lighting over the workbenches, drawing attention to every imperfection.

“You know,” he started, his voice carrying a light teasing to it, “most people are at least a little polite to unexpected guests.”

“You’re in Zaun. Niceties get you robbed,” you shot back.

“Good thing I’m not carrying anything worth stealing.”

“Those boots say otherwise, Councillor.”

You didn’t wait for his resort, turning to glance around your workshop. To an outsider, the area probably looked like a disaster— grease stains on the wall, loose screws and scraps of metal littered the workbenches, and half finished work lay abandoned in various states of progress.

But to you, it’s an organised chaos. Everything had its place. You could locate a specific bolt buried under a pile of blueprints in seconds.

If anyone even dared to call it a mess, it wouldn’t bother you. Their opinions didn’t matter.

However, you’d never have a Piltovern in here. Not until tonight.

You didn’t have to look at him to imagine the look of disdain he must feel. A poorly lit workshop that reeked of oil and soldered metal wasn’t part of his orderly world.

Surely the grime and chaos would send him scurrying back to his prestigious lab in Piltover.

But when you turned to face him, the look in his face stopped you short.

Jayce leaned casually against one of the shelves, carefully avoiding anything breakable. His eyes scanned the room like he’d just stumbled upon a treasure trove. The faint glow of the lamps reflected in his eyes.

It only made you stiffer. Was this real awe, or just another layer to whatever act he was putting on?

People didn’t come here to admire your work. They came with demands and offers, often laced with ulterior motives.

His sincerity didn’t fit. It was foreign and dangerous. You weren’t used to it and you weren’t sure if you wanted to be.

And you certainly didn’t trust it.

“You made this?” he asked, picking up the small contraption with surprise care. The device whirred softly in his hand. Despite the scrubby appearance, the mechanism was fine and intricate, every piece deliberately placed.

You frowned, folding your arms across your chest. “Do you always just reach for anything that fascinates you?”

“Sorry I just—” he set the device down, as if it burned his skin. “I guess I got too curious.”

His sheepish tone irritated you more. It was easier to deal with people that were openly arrogant.

He turned his attention past you to the wall-mounted shelves stacked with material. Tools hung from hooks in neat rows, their placement a product of necessity rather than decoration.

Space was limited, so you had to think vertically, every inch of the walls serving a purpose.

Jayce stepped closer, his movement slower and more mindful. His gaze was glued to the tools, taking them in as though each one was a masterpiece.

“These tools look amazing, I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Well, I’d hope not. Because I made them.”

“You made them all yourself?”

“Most of them.”

The words came out clipped, but his reaction wasn’t what you expected. If he was fazed by your snarky attitude, he didn’t show it. Maybe he braced himself this time, expecting your hostility, or maybe he found it amusing.

“How long…how long did it take you?” he asked softly.

“Depends on how complex it is.”

“It’s incredible,” he said. “People back in the Academy spend months trying to get this kind of precision…and even they don’t come close”

For a moment you faltered, your eyes twitched at his words. His praise sounded genuine, and you knew it. And that’s what nerved you.

Compliments always came with strings attached.

You quickly deflected. “Flattery won’t work. I’m not one of your lapdogs.”

“Good, I don’t want lapdogs,” he replied, his grin disarming. “I like inventors who can outthink me.”

The casual delivery of his words struck you unexpectedly, leaving a hairline fracture in the armour you’ve built around yourself. It was a small blip in your radar. You didn’t know why you trusted him enough to stretch the conversation this far.

For now, you allowed the unfamiliar feeling to linger, watching as he wandered through your sanctuary.

Jayce’s gaze combed through the shelves and your unfinished project with childlike wonder. At this point, you truly couldn’t decide if this was an act of not.

People didn’t come in here to admire your work— they came to collect it. Usually they would mutter a few pointers about what needed tweaking, toss their payment on the nearest bench, and leave without so much of a second glance.

You were used to that rhythm— content with it.

But, now you weren’t sure.

Having someone appreciate your work felt foreign, and the way he handled your creation with care left an uncomfortable knot in your chest.

You silently cursed yourself for noticing the subtle curve of his smile when he discovered something particularly interesting.

It was only his second time here and for some reason you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He was already threatening to throw you off balance.

A week hadn’t past before you heard his footsteps again, cutting through the tinkering of the wind chimes, as familiar as the beat of your own pulse.

“Is this going to be a routine now?” you asked, arching your brow inquisitively.

He stepped closer, his voice almost teasing. “As long as you allow it.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead you turned, stepping back into the workshop without looking back. You knew he’d follow; given his last visit. Though you never made it easy for him.

But despite the lack of warmth in your welcoming, the air between you was different now. No hostility, no tension. But no comfort either.

It didn’t take long for Jayce to settle into the rhythm that grated your nerves in the worst way— calm and unhurried. It wasn’t just that he was an inventor, too. It was how he saw things with such fresh eyes, as if the clutter was all just a puzzle for him to piece together.

But there was still an odd feeling that tugged at the back of your mind.

Piltover men didn’t linger; they demanded, bargained, gloated. Then left without looking back. They didn’t come back three times, and they certainly didn’t waste their time applauding your work like it came from some exhibition.

It made you bristle. Not because he was here, but because you couldn’t figure out why.

You’ve already cycled through the possibilities, and none of them made sense. If he was scouting for talent for Piltover, why not send an envoy? If he wanted to commission something from you, surely an assistant could’ve handled it. And why three separate visits, at irregular intervals?

Your thoughts spiralled tighter, refusing to pinpoint and answer that fit. Then, a thought you didn’t dare to acknowledge emerged.

It couldn’t be that, could it? The possibility— absurd, offensive, ridiculous— settled in your mind like a splinter.

Your throat tightened, a heat rising up your neck. You shouldn’t entertain it. But the only way to gain some clarity was to confront him about it.

“You’ve been sulking around my workshop for the third time now…” your voice came out sharper than intended, but you didn’t regret it.

You let him linger around in your threshold once already, and this time, you were determined to figure out what he wanted.

“Yes..” his tone was annoyingly steady. “I just wanted to see your work.”

“Please. I know men like you. You act interested, then expect me to fall into your lap.” You stepped closer, crossing your arms over your chest. The next words edged with frustration. “If that’s what you’re here for, you can save both of us the time and get lost.”

The word tasted bitter, even when you said them. You weren’t sure why you mind went to that possibility. But it felt like the only way to shatter the weird tension that you were feeling when he was around.

Jayce froze. And then his face grew flustered at your words, like you’ve just crossed a line he hadn’t even considered.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked softly, before his voice gained conviction. “I don’t care about…that. I wouldn’t be that selfish. I wanted to see what you’ve built because it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. I don’t have an ulterior motive, I swear.”

You wanted to snap back, to call him out on what you assumed was an elaborate excuse, but you couldn’t find the words. You felt embarrassment cross your form.

The moment of stillness filled the space, the absurdity of your accusation sinking in. A Councilman slinking into a Zaun for…something improper. You almost wanted to laugh at yourself.

He’d never once cross a boundary. His posture was careful and his steps were measured. His gaze on you was momentary, but it never strayed too far from your workbench.

“Hmph…you’re persistent I’ll give you that.” You muttered, your voice far quieter now. “Most people don’t make it past the first visit.”

The corner of his lips quirked up to a bashful smile. “So I’m not most people?”

Your lips twitched before you quickly smothered it, fixing him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Golden Boy.”

Despite the harshness in your tone, you felt the lingering awkwardness pressing at the edge. Your accusations made your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore, not that you ever tried before. But now it felt different.

Jayce, on the other hand, redirected his attention back on your workbench. He offered a few offhanded comments, his tone deliberately casual. You could tell he was trying to smooth out the tension, though you barely registered his words.

Just a few weeks ago, you’ve done everything in your power to push him away. Sharp words, cold stares, anything to make him leave and never come back. All proven futile.

But now, you weren’t sure if you wanted to ruin…whatever it was between the two of you.

Having someone like him around brought a spark of something you hadn’t realised you missed.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes. His broad shoulders seemed almost out of place in your cramped workshop— like an elephant in a china shop. But his presence didn’t feel intrusive now.

His eyes scanned over your blueprints and half-finished projects with genuine interest. There was a strange sense of pride that washed over you, one you tried to ignore.

Knowing that someone like him valued your craftsmanship, took the time out of his day to see your work, was almost unsettling. And you didn’t want to think too hard about why.

“This joint,” his voice cut through your reverie, drawing you back to the present, “it might seize under pressure. Have you considered a pivot here?”

You blinked, following the direction of his finger on the diagram. “It works fine as it is.”

“I’m sure it does, but it could work even better.”

He wasn’t backing down. His voice wasn’t condescending or dismissive. But something else that made you tense, and you didn’t want to acknowledge it.

He continued to offer feedback and suggest adjustments, but you weren’t fully listening. His words were slipping through your focus, weaving around you. You were too distracted but his voice. The way he said things. The way his presence seemed to fill the room.

You felt your heart stutter, and you realised you hadn’t heard a word from him for the past minute. All you could focus on was how close he was, making your skin feel tight, his hands moving over the blueprint.

“You know,” you said, leaning back slightly, “you’re kind of cute when you ramble.”

“What?”

“I said you’re cute,” you repeated, shifting your weight and hoping he hadn’t noticed the flush creeping to your face. “You’re not deaf, are you?”

“I— uh— I’ve never had anybody describe me as ‘cute’ before.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“You know, I’m a councillor. You are aware of what that status means, right?”

“Being a councillor doesn’t spare you from being cute. Or are you implying that councillors are above compliments?

Jayce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, letting out a chuckle to conceal something deeper— maybe nerves, perhaps. “I guess it’s a change from the more…superficial compliments I get.”

“Superficial?”

“I get a lot of ‘handsome’ and ‘charming’ and all the usual words.“

“That’s because they’re boring.”

A small shift seemed to pass over him— maybe he hadn’t expected that response. His gaze lingered before he looked away, as if your words had an effect on him more than he let on.

You hadn’t known Jayce for long— not personally, at least. But the more you were around him, the more you realised he wasn’t as unreadable as you first thought.

You’ve seen glimpses of him, like fitting together different parts of him that made him who he was.

The defeated look he wore when you first shut him out of your workshop. The awe that lit up his face when he stepped inside and took in your projects for the first time. The stunned silence after your accusation, as if the words had thrown him off balance.

And how he was flustered— caught completely off guard. His mouth twitched into a hesitant smile, and he quickly covered it with his palm, as though trying to shield it from you.

This was your favourite expression by far.

Something about watching him internally stumble, seeing him stripped off his usual poise struck a chord in you. It wasn’t just satisfaction— but something softer. As if you weren’t the only one out of your depth for once.

After a few heartbeats, Jayce cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence like pebble tossed in water.

“Well, I should probably let you get back to it,” he said.

His usual confidence faltered as he turned to the door, muttering something along the lines of “cute” under his breath. The door opened to reveal the darkness of the night, with the flickering glows of the street lights.

You rolled your eyes and suppressed a grin as he stepped outside. “Don’t get used to the hospitality, Talis.”

He glanced back with a smirk, a mix of shyness and mischievous. “Wouldn’t dream of it…”

Then he was gone, disappeared into the night, leaving you alone again with your tools.

#★— ayrus writes #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x you #jayce talis x y/n #jayce talis x gender neutral reader #arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis arcane #jayce arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane jayce talis #jayce x reader

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sirenedeslily · 3 months ago

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𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 ‎𐦍 𝐦atthew 𝐬turniolo

(⊹ֹ 𝐢𝐧 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 ) ──── ⟢ it’s the 2000s, and in stars hollow, rebellious matt sturniolo, tattooed and brilliant, somehow needs tutoring sessions. yn greenaway, somehow gets pulled into his world of distractions, leaving them both questioning what they really want.

you step off the bus, the cool air of stars hollow brushing your face, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and coffee from luke’s diner. the orange leaves crunch beneath your boots as you make your way down the street, your thoughts wandering. it’s autumn, your favorite time of year. the kind of day that feels like it’s plucked from a movie—a you’ve got mail kind of day. sophie—or soapy, as you call her— is waiting for you by the bus stop, her usual smile in place, earbuds in, head slightly bobbing to a beat you can’t hear.

“hey!” she calls as she pulls out her earbuds, falling into step beside you. she’s wearing a smashing pumpkins t-shirt under a plaid flannel and looks like she just walked out of a 90s grunge concert. classic soapy.

“hey yourself,” you respond, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “what are you listening to?”

“just some early radiohead. you know, getting in my ‘i’m too cool for mainstream music’ vibe,” she teases.

“of course. how very ‘ok computer’ of you.” you grin, tugging at your scarf. “i’m still stuck in the mazzy star phase. i think i’ve had ‘cry, cry’ on repeat for days.”

sophie gives you a mock serious nod. “that’s some deep emotional territory. you planning on staring longingly out a window while it rains?”

“maybe,” you joke, nudging her. “but first, i need to catch up on the weirdness that is stars hollow high. chris apparently got into a fight yesterday?”

“yeah, hockey drama,” she says with a casual wave of her hand. “it’s chris. the guy’s basically made of punches and sports equipment. it’s a wonder he doesn’t just carry around a hockey stick as an accessory.”

“where was matt during all of this?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

sophie shrugs. “nowhere to be seen, as usual. you know matt—here one minute, gone the next. probably off in some corner reading kafka or something, being all mysterious.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. matthew sturniolo has a way of occupying your mind without even being around. the fact that sophie hasn’t seen him at school recently doesn’t surprise you. he’s always been the brooding type, always disappearing into books, into his own world.

“so, any big plans for today?” sophie asks as you both turn the corner near the town square.

“just the usual. i’m heading to the bookstore later with nick, and then i’ll probably drop by luke’s for cherry danish day, my favourite day! what about you?”

“band practice. dave’s got this crazy idea for a new song that’s somewhere between the smashing pumpkins and the strokes, so… we’ll see how that goes.”

you both laugh, the conversation drifting into casual chatter about school, music, and soapy’s band. eventually, you part ways—she heads to meet her band, and you find yourself walking toward the bookstore.

as you round the corner of the alley that leads to the bookstore, you spot matt sitting on a bench, a paperback in hand, legs stretched out lazily in front of him. his arm, the one covered in tattoos, is draped over the back of the bench, his rings catching the late afternoon light.

you hesitate for a moment, watching him. he looks up, catches your gaze, and smirks in that infuriatingly charming way he does.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, closing his book without bothering to mark the page.

you cross your arms and approach. “not disappearing into thin air for once? i’m shocked.”

“ah, i have to keep some mystery alive,” he replies with a grin. “besides, i’m right where i want to be.”

his words hang in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken. you swallow and sit beside him on the bench, trying to ignore the way your heart picks up speed. his presence has always done that to you—ever since you first met him.

“so, what are you reading?” you ask, gesturing toward the book.

he glances down at the cover and smirks. “on the road.”

you snort. “of course you are. trying to live out some kerouac fantasy?”

matt chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “it’s not fantasy, greenaway. it’s more like… preparation.”

“for what?”

he looks at you then, his gaze steady, a little too intense. “for whatever’s next.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you change the subject. “chris got into a fight at school yesterday.”

matt shakes his head. “yeah, heard about that. not surprising. chris has always been a hothead. someone probably looked at him wrong.”

you laugh softly, and for a moment, it feels easy—just sitting here with him, like old times. before the weird tension, before you started noticing the way his voice softened when he said your name, or how he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

“i should get going,” you say, standing up and brushing off your chilton uniform. “nick’s waiting for me at the bookstore.”

matt stands too, stuffing his book into his jacket pocket. “don’t stay away too long, greenaway.”

there it is again—that weight in his words, something that makes your heart skip. you nod, unsure of what to say, and walk away, feeling his eyes on you until you disappear into the bookstore.

later, when you get home, sophie is already there with her band, setting up in the living room like it’s her personal practice space. dave rygalski is tuning his guitar, and you catch the faint scent of takeout wafting through the house.

“soapy, you’ve officially turned my living room into a recording studio,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.

“you’re welcome!” she calls over her shoulder. “we’re just waiting for your mom to get back with food.”

as if on cue, elle walks through the door, juggling several bags of takeout. “dinner is served!” she announces, smiling in that casual, effortless way she has.

you help her set the food on the kitchen counter, chatting about your day as sophie and the band argue over the tempo of a song. it’s loud, chaotic, and yet it feels completely normal.

not long after, your dad, spencer, walks in, his usual stack of books tucked under one arm, glasses perched on his nose. “what’s all the noise?”

“band practice,” you say, smiling as he surveys the scene. “it’s always band practice.”

spencer nods thoughtfully, like the existence of a band in his living room is something he’s fully prepared for. “well, carry on.”

dinner at the reid-greenaway household is filled with laughter and teasing, as it always is. elle asks about school, spencer throws in the occasional trivia fact, and the noise of the band practicing in the background creates a comfortable soundtrack to the evening.

eventually, the night winds down, and you find yourself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the memory of matt on that bench. his words echo in your head, mingling with the soft hum of ‘fade into you’ that plays in the background.

it’s saturday morning, and you’re walking down the familiar streets of stars hollow with “there she goes” playing on your old walkman. the sun’s just breaking through the clouds, bathing everything in a golden autumn glow. the crunch of leaves under your feet sets the rhythm as you make your way to luke’s, where a coffee run is a sacred ritual.

the bell jingles as you push open the door, and the warm, coffee-scented air greets you like an old friend. luke’s is bustling with early risers, and you make a beeline for the counter where luke is busy pouring coffee.

“mornin’, yn,” luke says in his usual gruff yet familiar tone, already reaching for three to-go coffee cups. he doesn’t need to ask what you’re ordering—three coffees to go is basically your weekend tradition.

“morning, luke,” you reply, slipping off your headphones. “you know the drill. extra caffeine. life-saving, consciousness-reviving levels of caffeine. honestly, i should just hook it up to an iv at this point.”

“you kids are gonna od on this stuff one day,” he mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

lorelai, seated at the counter, overhears and gives you a mischievous grin. “ah, the youth of stars hollow. running on pure caffeine and dreams. it’s like watching the next generation of me.”

you smirk. “i prefer to think of it as highly efficient multitasking.”

luke hands you the first cup of coffee. “you mean procrastinating on real work?”

you give him a mock-serious nod. “luke, when have i ever deceived you about the importance of procrastination?”

lorelai leans over, clearly entertained. “see? she gets it. chilton pressure plus caffeine equals survival.”

“don’t encourage her,” luke grumbles, handing you the next two coffees.

“too late!” you and lorelai say in unison, laughing.

with the tray of coffees in hand, you wave a quick goodbye. “thanks, luke! see you tomorrow for round two.”

as you step back outside, the cool air hits your face, and you continue your walk, heading toward the bakery. the sign above the door reads sweet street, the sturniolo family’s cozy little spot. as you approach, you hear the familiar sounds of sophie in deep debate with jimmy.

“i’m telling you, ‘siamese dream’ is the smashing pumpkins’ best album. it’s got the perfect balance of angst and melody!” sophie insists, her eyes wide with passion as she gestures animatedly.

jimmy, leaning against the counter, raises an eyebrow. “i don’t know, ‘mellon collie’ has its merits. it’s more experimental, shows growth.”

you push open the door and walk in, shaking your head with a grin. “if i had a nickel for every time i walked in on you two arguing about music…”

sophie turns, her eyes immediately locking onto the coffee tray in your hands. “you got my coffee, right? precisely how i like it?”

you hand her the cup with a deadpan expression. “in our years of friendship, when have i ever deceived you?”

sophie smirks, taking a sip. “true. you’re as dependable as jimmy’s music takes.”

“thank you for that… i think,” jimmy mutters, rolling his eyes but smiling all the same. he grabs a bag from behind the counter and hands it to sophie. “here, muffins for the road. you two are going to need fuel for your record store adventures.”

“jimmy, you are a saint among men,” sophie says dramatically, clutching the bag to her chest.

just then, marylou emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. her eyes light up when she sees you. “yn! i’m so glad you’re here. got a second?”

you exchange a glance with sophie, who raises an eyebrow. “uh-oh, that sounds ominous,” she says.

“i need a favour,” marylou says, leaning against the counter with a sigh.

you set down the coffee tray, immediately wary. “what kind of favour?”

marylou glances at soapy, who’s now munching on a muffin, before turning back to you. “it’s about matt.”

your stomach drops a little. “oh boy.”

“he’s been skipping school,” marylou says, her voice lowering. “a lot of school. stars hollow high is threatening to kick him out if he keeps it up.”

you blink, trying to wrap your head around it. “but he’s… matt. he knows more about hemingway and faulkner than half the population.”

“i know,” marylou says, exasperated. “but he’s not showing it in school. his grades are tanking, and… i thought, maybe, if you tutored him, you could get through to him. he listens to you.”

you glance at sophie, who’s smirking over her muffin, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation. “why me?” you ask, incredulous. “i’m not exactly on matt’s top ten list of people to hang out with.”

marylou gives you that mom look—the one that’s equal parts pleading and expectant. “he only seems to care about what you have to say. plus, you’re brilliant. you’re like your dad.”

you squirm a little under the weight of the compliment. “i don’t know, marylou. i mean, tutoring matt? what if he doesn’t even show up?”

“please,” marylou says, her eyes wide with hope. “you’re the only one i can trust with this. i’m running out of options.”

before you can say anything, you hear footsteps from upstairs, and nick comes down, his camera slung over his shoulder. he spots the coffee tray and grins. “ah, lifesaver! thanks, yn,” he says, grabbing his cup.

“ready to hit the record store?” sophie asks, stuffing the last bit of muffin into her mouth.

nick nods. “yeah, if we leave now, we can catch that new shipment kirk was talking about.”

you’re just about to grab your stuff when marylou gives you one last look. “yn, please. just think about it sweetheart, okay?”

you bite your lip, feeling a little torn. “i’ll think about it, i promise.”

with that, the three of you head out of the bakery, the cool autumn air swirling around you once again. as you walk, the conversation shifts to records and music, but your mind is still on matt, skipping school, and the weight of marylou’s request hanging over you like the last leaf clinging to a tree.

as you, nick, and sophie make your way through stars hollow, the crisp autumn air fills your lungs. leaves scatter across the street in shades of amber and crimson, a constant reminder that fall has fully settled in. the three of you are bundled up, coffees from luke’s in hand, weaving through the familiar streets toward your destination—the record store.

“tutoring matt,” soapy says, breaking the comfortable silence with a dramatic scoff. “i mean, it’s like trying to give life advice to a james dean character—lots of sulking, a cigarette somewhere, and an existential crisis about algebra. or better yet it’s like asking me to explain quantum physics to kirk. it makes no sense.”

nick lags behind, fiddling with his camera, capturing shots of the early fall leaves against the old buildings. “honestly, matt might actually listen to you. i’ve tried the whole ‘big brother’ speech, but he’s slippery.”

“too busy with his ‘rebel without a cause’ routine,” you quip. “i get it, geometry’s the enemy.”

nick chuckles as he snaps another picture. “it’s not just that. it’s like he’s checked out. he doesn’t care anymore. chris has his hockey, i have my photography, but matt… matt just floats.”

“floating,” sophie repeats, swirling her hand in a swooping motion. “that’s the sturniolo brand.”

you smirk but feel the weight of it. “and i’m supposed to ground him?”

“exactly, baby!” sophie says, throwing her arm around your shoulders.

nick snickers, adjusting the strap of his ever-present camera. “i mean, it makes a little sense. you’re the one who got him through that faulkner essay freshman year. and let’s not forget, matt knows more about ‘the sun also rises’ than our actual english teacher. he just doesn’t care about school.”

you shake your head, still trying to wrap your mind around Marylou’s request. “yeah, but tutoring matters is different. the guy reads moby dick for fun but won’t show up for class.”

sophie rolls her eyes. “maybe he’s like, secretly a genius. he’s too cool for high school, but deep down, he’s panicking that he won’t get into a college for misunderstood literary bad boys.”

you laugh. “that doesn’t sound like him. he’s more like ‘i don’t care about anything because everything is boring.’ why does it have to be me? he probably doesn’t even care about my existence.”

nick raises an eyebrow, giving you a knowing look. “are we talking about the same matthew here? because he definitely cares about your existence.. about you. he literally asked you about your thoughts on nietzsche last week, and we all know that’s basically his way of flirting.”

you blink at him, flustered. “that’s not flirting. that’s matt being… well matt.”

sophie grins, walking backward in front of you, her boots crunching against the fallen leaves. “oh, please. the guy’s got that ‘i’m too brooding for feelings, but maybe i’ll make an exception for you’ thing going on. i bet tutoring him will be just like dangerous minds but with more existential angst.”

you roll your eyes, taking a sip of your coffee. “you both are reading way too much into this.”

but before you can dwell on the idea of matt being interested in anything—or anyone—you approach the familiar, worn-down exterior of the stars hollow record store. the place smells like old vinyl and nostalgia, and as you push the door open, you hear the familiar chime of the bell above.

kirk is manning the counter, diligently arranging records in alphabetical order with the concentration of someone assembling a nuclear bomb. “ah, the trio returns! i assume you’re here for your usual eclectic mix of ‘stuff kirk doesn’t understand but pretends to be into.’” he greets, barely looking up from his work.

you smile as you make your way over to the bins. “you know us so well, kirk.”

sophie immediately makes a beeline for the indie section, eyes gleaming with determination. “i need some early pixies or maybe sleater-kinney. jenna—uh, someone i know—said it’s life-changing.”

nick raises an eyebrow at her slip. “you can say her name, you know. we all know you’re obsessed with jenna ortega.”

sophie, blushing but undeterred, begins flipping through the records. “i’m not obsessed. i’m… highly focused.”

you and nick exchange a glance before bursting into laughter. “highly focused, huh? you’ve been strategizing your next run-in with her for days,” you tease.

“she works at the theater!” sophie defends herself. “i’m just doing recon. casual recon. my plan is flawless—show up during the Friday night rush, bump into her, spill my drink—oops!—and then heroically offer to replace it. classic rom-com setup.”

nick shakes his head, grinning. “yeah, because nothing says ‘i’m interested’ like spilling soda all over someone.”

“you’re one to talk,” sophie shoots back. “mr. ‘i shared ice cream with dave at the founder’s day picnic and still haven’t made a move.’ what are your plans pretty boy?” nick’s face flushes immediately, and he ducks behind his camera, pretending to take a picture of the counter. “no moves. no plans. nothing.”

soapy cackles. “liar! you totally like him. what was it he said to you during the stars hollow harvest festival? something about ‘nice camera work’?”

nick groans. “he said he liked my composition, okay? it’s not a big deal.”

“right,” you tease, pulling out a talking heads record. “and then he asked you for your favorite lens, which is basically code for ‘i think you’re cute.’”

nick rolls his eyes. “that was… nothing. plus it’s complicated i mean lane literally dumped him not too long ago and not to mention the fact that it’s the early 2000s. i don’t even know if he’s into guys. i mean, what am i supposed to do? just ask him out at the town square while taylor’s running the pie-eating contest?”

you sigh rummaging through the sundays records. “just don’t overthink it, okay? dave’s cool. you’re cool. stars hollow’s already the weirdest place on earth, so who cares?”

nick lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “it’s not that simple. what if i make a move and it ruins everything? we have a good thing going right now. i don’t want to screw that up.”

sophie claps a hand on his shoulder. “just go in there with a plan. spill a drink, offer to replace it—works every time.”

kirk, who’s been listening intently while alphabetizing records, chimes in, “i once spilled milk on lulu’s book at the library. now we’re dating. so, yeah, maybe it works.”

the three of you exchange bemused glances before bursting into laughter. “thanks for the tip, kirk,” you manage between giggles.

“maybe. i don’t know. i guess i’m just not as bold as soapy over here with her grand schemes.” nick exclaims going back to their previous conversation.

sophie waves him off, pretending to be absorbed in her record search. “don’t worry. when jenna and i are dating and being all adorable together, you’ll be inspired by my brilliance. we’ll double-triple date! me and jenna, you and dave, yn and matt. picture it.”

nick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. “right. because triple dating with jenna ortega and my triplet brother sounds so realistic.”

“dream big, nick. dream big,” sophie replies, holding up a copy of surfer rosa triumphantly before heading to the counter.

kirk glances at the record soapy’s holding with raised eyebrows. “sleater-kinney isn’t for everyone, you know.”

“oh, trust me, it’s for me,” sophie responds, placing it on the counter with a grin.

as she finishes paying, you and nick continue to browse, flipping through records more for the vibe than anything else. but as you shuffle through the vinyls, you can’t help but think back to your conversation about matt. nick and soapy’s teasing aside, you know that tutoring matt could be… complicated. but there’s something about the idea that draws you in.

nick, picking up a fleetwood mac album, glances over at you. “so, are you going to do it? tutor matt, i mean.”

you sigh, half distracted by the thought. “i don’t know. it feels like a lot. he’s barely in school as it is, and i’ve got chilton, my dad’s constant pressure, and now this. i’m not even sure he wants help.”

nick shrugs, putting the record back on the shelf. “maybe he just needs someone to push him. and let’s be real, you’re probably the only person in town who can.”

“yeah, because ‘pushing’ matt sounds like a great idea,” you mutter. “it’ll probably end with him dropping out entirely and moving to paris to write nihilistic poetry.”

sophie returns from the counter, bag in hand, still riding the high of her record purchase. “look, yn, you’re the only person who even remotely gets matt. and if he’s not showing up to class or trying in school, maybe that’s because no one’s ever made it interesting for him. you’re different. you could get him to care.”

you let out a laugh, though it’s tinged with uncertainty. “or he’ll make my life miserable.”

nick smiles gently, a rare seriousness in his expression. “or maybe he’ll surprise you.”

you glance at your friends, feeling the weight of their encouragement, but still unsure. the idea of spending more time with matt is… intimidating, in more ways than one.

“i’ll think about it,” you say, but deep down, you already know your answer.

heading back from the record store, you spot dave rygalski crossing the street. nick freezes for a split second before quickly pretending to adjust his camera, but it’s too late—you and soapy already noticed.

“there’s your chance,” sophie whispers with a sly grin.

nick groans. “goodbye, ladies,” he mutters, clearly flustered.

you and sophie exchange a laugh as nick hurries off, and after a few more jokes, you all say your goodbyes and head your separate ways. by the time you’re alone, you’ve made up your mind: tutoring matt might not be so bad. worst-case, he throws a few sarcastic comments, and you both call it a day.

that evening, after a quiet dinner with your parents—spencer lost in some case files and elle chatting about her day at the bau—you head up to your room, prepared for a low-key night. but, as you’re about to settle into bed with your latest book, your phone buzzes.

it’s a text from matt.

still up for tutoring me?

you stare at the message, momentarily stunned. somehow, the fact that he’s actually asking you makes it all feel a little more real. a little more personal.

yeah, when? you type back, fingers moving faster than your brain can catch up.

tomorrow night?

you chew on your bottom lip, considering. tomorrow’s Sunday—usually a good day for catching up on homework, so why not?

okay. my place?

a pause. then, sure. see you at 7.

you toss your phone onto your bed, your heart doing that weird thing again—the fluttering thing it does when matt’s name pops up on your screen.

the next day passes in a blur of homework and chores, but by the time 7 p.m. rolls around, you’re sitting at your desk, textbooks and notes laid out, waiting for matt to show up. you tell yourself it’s just tutoring, nothing more. just helping out a friend who, for some reason, can’t keep up with school. simple.

but when the knock comes at the door, and you open it to find matt standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, you feel anything but simple.

“hey,” he says, his voice low, his eyes flicking briefly to your stack of books before landing back on you.

“hey,” you manage, stepping aside to let him in. he brushes past you, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—something subtle, but distinctly matt.

“you sure about this?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow as he glances around your room. “i’m kind of a lost cause.”

“don’t be dramatic,” you say, rolling your eyes as you sit down at your desk. “you’re not a lost cause. just… distracted.”

“distracted,” he echoes, a hint of amusement in his voice as he drops his bag by the desk and sits on your bed, looking far too comfortable for someone who’s supposedly in need of academic help.

you shoot him a look. “yeah, distracted. now, come on, i’m serious. we need to figure out why you’re failing.”

he shrugs, leaning back against your headboard, one arm draped casually across his lap, the other—the tattooed one—resting on the bed beside him, fingers playing with one of the many rings he wears. “what can i say? school doesn’t exactly hold my interest.”

you sigh, exasperated but not surprised. “okay, but if you don’t pass, it’s going to cause all kinds of problems down the line. you’ve got to at least pretend to care.”

he gives you a half-smirk. “maybe i need someone to make me care.”

the comment is so typical of him, and yet, the way he says it makes your heart skip a beat. you stare at him for a moment, unsure whether he’s being serious or just trying to get under your skin. it’s always hard to tell with matt.

“well, i’m not here to play therapist,” you finally say, flipping open his english textbook. “so, how about we start with the great gatsby?”

matt groans but swings his legs off the bed and drags himself to the desk, pulling up a chair beside you. “fine. but only because i like gatsby.”

you raise an eyebrow. “oh yeah? what do you like about it?”

he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and looks at you with that intense gaze of his. “i like that gatsby’s not really a hero. he’s flawed, but he’s still this larger-than-life figure. everyone’s drawn to him, even though he’s broken inside.”

there’s a beat of silence after he speaks, and you feel the weight of his words, like he’s not really talking about gatsby at all. you look at him, but he’s already flipping through the pages of the textbook, like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest ache a little.

you clear your throat and focus on the book. “okay. well, let’s talk about the symbolism in chapter four—”

but matt interrupts you. “do we have to? i mean, do you really think fitzgerald was sitting there, thinking, ‘i’m gonna put a green light in here to mess with students 70 years from now’?”

you laugh despite yourself. “yes, actually. i think fitzgerald lived for that kind of thing.”

he smirks, leaning back in his chair. “‘course you would.”

you nudge his arm playfully, trying to ignore the way his casual smirk makes your heart race. “focus, sturniolo. we’re here to get you passing, not to debate the merits of literary analysis.”

“right, right,” he says, but his tone is teasing, and he seems more interested in distracting you than actually working.

for the next hour, you try to guide him through his homework, but matt being matt, he keeps finding ways to sidetrack the conversation. one minute, you’re talking about nick carraway’s unreliable narration, and the next, he’s asking if you’ve ever been to new york, spinning some story about how he’s planning to move there one day, maybe open a bookshop, maybe just live in some crummy apartment and write.

“you could come with me, you know,” he says at one point, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

you laugh, shaking your head. “matt, you don’t even know if you’re going to graduate.”

he grins. “details. minor details.”

by the time you finally get him to finish one of his assignments, it’s already late, and you’re more frustrated than you care to admit. matt’s leaning back in his chair, watching you with that same infuriating smirk, and you can tell he knows exactly how he’s been pushing your buttons.

“you’re impossible, you know that?” you say, crossing your arms as you stand up, glaring at him in mock-annoyance.

he stands up too, but instead of backing down, he steps closer, closing the gap between you. “i thought you liked a challenge.”

your breath catches in your throat, the teasing banter suddenly shifting into something heavier, something more charged. he’s so close now that you can see the faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the curve of his lips as they quirk up in that signature smirk.

“i do,” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

the space between you seems to shrink, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you. and then—he does.

it’s soft at first, almost tentative, but then his hand finds the small of your back, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens. your heart races, your mind spinning as you kiss him back, losing yourself in the moment. his lips are warm and sure, and everything about it feels so right, even though you know it shouldn’t.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, and matt’s looking at you with something like surprise in his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting this either.

“i—” you start, but you don’t know what to say.

“don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low. “don’t ruin it.”

you nod, still caught up in the haze of the kiss, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you’re standing on solid ground anymore.

matt pulls away then, running a hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. “i should go.”

“yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “okay.”

but as he turns to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted between you—something big, and irreversible.

and somehow, you know things between you and matt sturniolo will never be the same again.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ gilmore girls au how we feelin?!?! i really tried to make the dialogue and energy as similar to the show as possible so please don’t ask me about half of the references cause i just went on google fr 😭😭 5.1k wc and i know not much really happened but idc i live for the trio :3 pls talk to me in da inbox

❝ 𝟐𝟐𝟐 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @eternaldecisions @elizabebabe

❝ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @l34n @sturniolossss @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @mattscoquette @chratts-left-ball @jetaimevous @angelesqve @starlace111 @fawnchives @starkeyszn @etherealval @slut4chriss

#sirenedeslily ✶ ˖ ࣪#gilmoregirls!au ☕️⁺˖ ⸝⸝#matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo headcanon #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo blurb #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets x you #sturniolo triplets x reader

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fungifanart · 3 months ago

Text

Checkmate?

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Grim, Yuu!reader, male reader

Cw: Chess *horror movie scream*

Word count: 1.9k

Notes: Look! It's my piece for the @princes-uprising zine! It's been an absolute blast working with everyone, so I hope y'all enjoy our work!

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

Life is one big chessboard.

This is the mindset that Leona has abided by ever since he was young.

It's the easiest way to make sense of the world around him.

People are forever bound to positions given to them upon birth with no hope of changing, such as how a pawn has no hope of becoming a king.

Everyone has a finite amount of actions they can take, which are clearly defined, leaving whether or not they succeed as a matter of skill.

Which also means that luck, too, is calculable and thus, predictable.

Or at least, it should be.

That is, until the school's spelldrive tournament happened and everything fell apart like a harsh wave crashing into a sand castle.

And because of such a stupid plan, too. To this day, Leona is mortified that he got blindsided by such a ridiculous plan, thought up by a magicless herbivore, no less.

Well, there's no way he'll let himself get played like that again.

Much like he did with Azul, Leona decides to observe how the herbivore strategizes.

His plan for knocking the Octavinelle housewarden down a peg gave Leona some good initial insights, such as how he places a LOT of faith in the people who have the shallowest reasons to help actually pulling through. He should consider himself lucky that Leona had a deeper reason to help than what he gave.

But that's not enough for him. Being lucky is not a strategy and clearly not the only factor at play letting a magicless nobody pull the wool over the eyes of TWO separate housewardens. It baffles him to think that both him and that octopunk actually got suckered in by those schemes.

Ok, now Leona's getting angry.

Simple observation isn't enough this time. There's only one way to get to the bottom of this irritating little conundrum.

Portable chessboard in hand, Leona begins the trek to the place the herbivore almost lost with that gamble of his, otherwise known as Ramshackle dorm.

After knocking on the door, Leona hears a ruckus on the other side and the sounds of both the Prefect and his feline companion yelling before the sound of footsteps approaches the entrance.

The door then opens, revealing the Prefect in his infuriatingly enigmatic glory.

"Oh, Leona! Hi! It's great to see you!" He greets the lion warmly, "What brings you here?"

'Figuring out what makes you tick.' Leona thinks to himself, but what he actually says is, "I was bored and thought you'd be able to amuse me with a game of chess."

The simplest of lies, one that any other person at this school would see through and reject instantly, but the Prefect smiles nonetheless.

"Well, I don't know if I can really provide the mental stimulation you're looking for, but if that's how you want to spend your afternoon, then why not, I guess." He responds while stepping to the side to allow Leona in.

Leona pulls up a chair to the table in front of the lounge couch and starts setting up the board as the Prefect rushes to the kitchen for refreshments.

After coming back with water and snacks, the Prefect takes his place on the couch in front of the white pieces leaving Leona with the black.

"Myeh! So how does this 'Chess' thing work, anyway?" Grim asks while hopping up beside the Prefect and shoving chips in his face.

*crunch*

"Well, both players take turns moving one of their colored pieces at a time across the board in an attempt to capture their opponent's king piece. And each piece has its own way of moving to account for," The Prefect answers while picking up one of his pawns and moving it forward one space, "For example, your pawn can usually only move one space up, down or to the side at a time."

"Mm." Leona adds, having already shifted into his focus mode and moving one of his pawns two spaces forward.

*crunch*

"Hey, wait! You just said the pawns can only move one space!" Grim complains between bites in that irritatingly shrill voice of his.

"Pawns can move forward two spaces when it's the first time you're movin' 'em. Next question." Leona explains bluntly while trying to refocus on the board.

"Yeah, what Leona said." The Prefect agrees before picking up his bishop and using it to capture Leona's first pawn, "Next is the bishop that can move as far as it wants, but only diagonally."

Tch, why did he move his pawn there?

*crunch*

The next few turns involve the moving of pawns, but, just when Leona had them lined up to leave the other man's bishop open to his queen, he quickly moves his bishop back to its original spot.

Is that so?

*crunch*

Moving another pawn forward to capture one of his opponent's, Leona then finds said pawn captured by the Prefect’s knight, "Next, we have the knight, which can only move in an L shape in any direction, but is the only piece that can jump over other pieces in its path."

"Whoa, that's cool!" Grim comments before shoving a whole pawful of chips into his mouth, making a loud crunch that makes Leona's ear twitch in annoyance.

"Herbivore, can ya get the furball outta here?" He says, slightly rubbing his temple while sending his rook out to capture the Prefect's rightmost pawn.

"Don't be mean, Leona. Grim's not hurting anyone." The Prefect responds before using his other knight to capture Leona's first rook.

With a slight smirk, Leona uses his other bishop to capture the knight that was left exposed.

*crunch*

The Prefect's eyebrow twitches and Leona notices the kind, calm gaze he'd held since his arrival lose its warmth, becoming more calculating.

Looks like the kid gloves just came off.

*crunch*

The Prefect moves his pawn.

*crunch*

Leona moves his other rook directly downwards.

*crunch*

The Prefect captures said rook with his other bishop.

*crunch*

Leona moves his queen into place--

*crunch*

The Prefect moves his pawn.

*crunch*

Leona uses his queen to capture the other bi--

*crunch*

The Prefect moves his--

*crunch*

Leona captures--

*crunch*

The Prefect moves--

*crunch*

Leona--

*CRUNCH*

Leona pounds his fist onto the table in great frustration at the unceasing sounds of that DISGRACE of a feline chomping away at his chips with no regard for the people trying to focus, "Will ya just can it, ya little runt?!"

"It wouldn’t kill you to be nice for once, you know! The game's almost over, so it doesn't matter much anyway." The Prefect protests, making Leona's eyes widen.

"What...?" He responds before quickly looking back at the board.

Wait.

What?!

Well into his side of the board stands a single white pawn, clear as day, which the Prefect moves into Leona's first rank, setting it up for promotion.

"Well, well. I think I'll be promoting my pawn to a queen." The Prefect says, his face a twisted mirror of the smirk the lion himself had worn not too long ago, "And I do believe that's more or less checkmate!"

Scanning the board again, Leona realizes what the other man means.

He'd never moved his original queen, which left her poised to shut down any attempts to retreat on Leona's part and even if he did escape at first, there's no outrunning two queens with so few pieces left on the board.

He's well and truly trapped.

Begrudgingly accepting his defeat, Leona sighs, "Fine. I surrender."

"Yay!" The Prefect pumps his fist in the air, looking very pleased with himself before reaching into the bowl of chips the little runt had been devouring, finding it empty, "Grim! You know it's rude to eat all of the food meant for everyone! Go to the kitchen and get some more for me and Leona."

The direbeast complies with a disgruntled look on his face as Leona goes over the match in his head to figure out what went wrong.

How did he let himself get cornered like that?

"It’s called 'Misdirection', dearest." The Prefect says smugly, no doubt after reading Leona's expression, "When you keep someone's attention on one thing while you're busy doing something else under their nose?"

"Ok, but when did ya 'misdirect' me, as you so eloquently put it?" Leona fires back, rapidly losing patience.

"Well, technically *I* didn't do anything beyond trusting in those powerful beastman ears of yours." He answers in a way that makes everything click in the lion's brain.

"You had the furball eat those chips so loud that it would distract me from the game?" Leona asks in slight disbelief.

"Yes and no. I really wasn't confident that I'd win on a completely level playing field, so when Grim jumped in, I thought I'd play along and see where it would go." He answers matter-of-factly.

Leona can't believe what he's hearing, "So you're tellin' me that you based your strategy around the whims of a CAT?"

"Isn't that a mark of a good leader, though?" The Prefect tilts his head, "Being able to improvise and pull through when things aren't going as planned, I mean.”

"Ya say that like it's some failsafe 'Get out of jail free' card." Leona says, slightly irritated, "Ya came up with some halfway decent plans in the past, but no amount'a 'improvising' would've saved ya if they went south."

"Wh– says the guy who fell for one of those 'halfway decent plans!'" The Prefect counters, hitting the scar in the lion's pride dead-on, "Look down on my strategies all you want, it doesn't change the fact that they worked!"

"Only because ya skated by on dumb luck!" Leona stands up from his chair, thoroughly offended, "At least I have the sense to not leave the crux of the plan up to chance and 'improvise' if it doesn't work!"

"Well, at least it's better than shutting down and giving up once something goes wrong like you did just now! Like you did at the Spelldrive tournament!!!" The Prefect stands up as well, unyielding to the lion's gaze.

"ARE YA CALLIN' ME A QUITTER, YA MAGICLESS NOBODY?!" Leona practically roars, shoving his forehead against the other man's, uncaring of personal space, but the Prefect stands his ground all the same.

"BETTER A MAGICLESS NOBODY THAN A COWARD PRINCE!!!" The Prefect yells while pushing back and maintaining eye contact.

"WHAT'D YA JUST SAY?!"

"YOU HEARD ME!!!"

"Hey, Henchman! Turns out that was the last of those chips, so I made popcorn instead--" Grim says as he walks in on what may well have turned into a fistfight, "U-uh, what're you guys doing...?"

The Prefect quickly breaks away and sits back down, taking a deep breath to calm himself, "Nothing, Grim. Just a little discussion between friends. Right, Leona?"

"...mm." Is his sole response before sitting back down with a huff as well.

“Are ya sure?? You guys looked like ya were ready to throttle each other!” Grim says while cautiously walking forward and placing the bowl of popcorn on the table.

“Don’t worry, Grim.” The Prefect reassures his companion with a headscratch, “We were talking about what strategies we might use for the next match, isn’t that right?”

‘The next match, huh?’ Leona thinks to himself, initially not interested, but eventually deciding to “see where it goes.”

This was his thought after the first match.

And the second.

And the third.

And the four-- oh, screw it. He's having fun.

He can't really explain why, but playing with the Prefect has caused a fog he didn't know was there to lift from his mind.

It's made Leona realize something he should've known from the start.

A pawn has no hope of becoming a king, but with time, effort and some luck, he supposes, it can still become a queen, which is more than enough to win the day.

"Checkmate.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #leona kingscholar #twst leona #twst grim #twst mc #twst yuu #why is this mushroom writing fanfics?#twst fanzine #the princes uprising #twst x reader #twst x male reader #twst x yuu #twst x you

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ilovewrittingsmut · 5 months ago

Text

Nanami as your work crush

Wc: 3406

Content: coworker nanami, I hate capitalism,co workers to lovers😩😩😩😩, FLUFF,confessing love, nanami being the best man on earth

A/n: pls don’t make it flop 😔😔😔😔😔😔😔

Despite hating this job with every fiber of your being, you still find yourself waking up at 5 a.m., eager to get ready for work. Why? Because there's this one random blonde guy who makes your heart race more than it should, his mere presence glowing and shining like moonlight.

He often shows up in the most mundane clothes, his face lifeless, only smiling when he absolutely has to. Yet, on some mornings, he arrives with two coffees in hand—one for himself and one for you. You shamelessly admit to yourself that you enjoy this special treatment from him.

"I hate this job."

"Me too."

This is the usual exchange between the two of you, always ending with one of those faint smiles appearing on his handsome face, which inevitably does something to you.

"Actually, I don't hate it that much. There's still something good about this stupid work."

"Besides getting paid?" you ask jokingly, unsure of what he's trying to say.

"Hmm, yes?" He flashes that infuriatingly charming smile before walking away, returning to his work.

——————

During lunch breaks, you, he, and other coworkers usually head out to grab a meal at the coffee shop. You try not to read too much into it, but it seems that whenever you're in a group, he always makes an effort to sit next to you, walk beside you, and engage with you the most. It’s like fuel for the fire, making you fall for him more and more, beyond your control.

"You like pasta?"

"Yep, why?"

"You always order it."

"Yep, I love pasta."

"Me too. You know what, I can cook the best pasta ever."

"I don’t believe you."

"I can cook it for you… if you want."

The idea of eating something your crush has made for you sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"That’s an honor."

"How about tonight, at my place, if you don’t mind?"

Of course, you don’t mind at all, but the thought of being alone with your crush at his place tonight fills you with a nervous anticipation.

“That sounds great. “

“See you after work then.”

After that, your heart doesn't stop pounding against your ribs for even a second. You know you can’t focus on work now because your mind is too busy daydreaming about what might happen tonight, just you and him, alone, on a cute pasta date.

No, it’s not a date, you quickly remind yourself, trying to erase those fluffy thoughts and ground yourself in reality. You push through the rest of the day, working until 5. (with him as your only motivation)

——————

"Let's leave."

It’s only 4:30, and he's already texted you with this message. You hate yourself a little for thinking that he’s as eager for tonight as you are, but you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. Normally, you’d overwork yourself and stay late, but today, you choose to be kind to yourself and call it a day earlier than usual.

"Ok."

"Great, I’ll pick you up, and we can walk to the parking lot together."

"Ok."

There are countless words you want to scream out of excitement right now, but all your fingers can manage to type is "ok."

And within a minute, he's right behind you, and you can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, so scarlet, so bright. You can only hope he doesn’t notice.

"You’re red, are you sick?"

For god's sake, he never fails to make you flustered.

"I’m good," you reply with a smile and a forced giggle.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, let’s go," you say, your voice overly cheerful.

You try to keep everything seeming normal, as if you're not secretly dreaming about kissing his lips right at that moment.

—————

"Is it too cold?" he asks as you settle into his car.

"No… not at all, everything is perfectly fine."

God, you sound like Mickey Mouse right now, trying so hard to conceal your nerves that it comes off as unnatural.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

No, not at all…not really. The word "uncomfortable" isn't the right fit, it's more like "nervous." He makes you so nervous.

"No, I’m okay, really. Please stop worrying."

"How can I not worry about you?" he murmurs, his voice soft as he throws his arm behind your seat to back up the car. You catch a glimpse of those veins, and WOW who could blame you for daydreaming about this big, gorgeous man?

"Why? What is it about me that makes you so worried?"

"You’re always so hard on yourself, working too much and doing OT almost every day," he says, and you’re genuinely flattered by his concern. Little does he know, the reason you stay late is just to spend more time in the workplace with him, the hardworking man who makes the long hours bearable. And yes, he's also right, you’re always so tough on yourself, trying to prove that you're good enough to be here, to be working there.

"You’re always overworking yourself too, Nanami," you reply, and little do you know that he does it for the same reason. He loves to watch you from afar while you’re absorbed in your work. He cherishes the midnight coffees with you, making even the harshest nights feel like a dream.

“I guess it would be best for us if we stopped overworking and had more homemade dinners like this,” he suggests. Is he asking you out?

“Sure.”

“I hate seeing you drink five cups of coffee a day instead of having a proper meal. I can cook a lot, and I’m really good at it.”

“Are you talking a big game?” you tease him, his words always find the way to make you genuinely laugh.

“I can cook for you every day. You deserve to eat something good for your health and taste.”Now, your stomach is doing the thing,not the rumbling with hunger, but tickled with overwhelming butterflies. You feel like you might burst if you don’t get a handle on it soon.

“That’s really sweet. Thank you, Nanami.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You can call me Kento.”

He’s older than you, and you hold a deep respect and admiration for him. Using just his name feels like it brings an intimacy you’re not sure you can handle, and you’re terrified that you might not be able to keep your feelings in check any longer.

"No, I can't."

"Yes, you can."

You try to resist, knowing you might actually die from blushing too hard.

"I prefer you to call me by my name.” “Kento Or Ken, your choice."

Your entire insides feel like they're about to explode. Why does he have to be so cute? You want to be the one who gets to call him "Ken," such an adorable name. And "Baby" or "Honey" would sound amazing on him too. You long to be the only one who gets the chance to call him those sweet names.

"Kento…" you whisper, so softly that you can barely hear your own voice. The only thing echoing in your ears is the sound of your racing heartbeat.

"That’s... I like that. It sounds great coming from you." Is he trying to kill you or something? You might actually get a heart attack if he keeps being this cute.

—————-

As you arrive at his house, you're greeted by a beautiful garden filled with flowers. The sight is so sweet, making you smile as you take it all in.

When you step inside, you immediately sense warmth and comfort. His home is impeccably organized and tidy, what an ideal man.

"Make yourself at home," he says, guiding you to the living room. You sit on the couch as he turns on the television for you. Then, he heads to the nearby kitchen and begins preparing the ingredients for your dinner. The whole scene feels surreal, like you’ve stepped into a dream where everything is just perfect.

"I can help," you say, getting up from the couch and following him into the kitchen.

"Let me, please. You have just one job is to sit, wait, and enjoy our dinner."

That's probably the hottest thing a man could say, and you can't help but feel greedy, wanting him all to yourself. The thought of anyone else having him makes you irrationally jealous. You can only hope that everything he’s doing is because he likes you too, at least half as much as you're falling for him.

"Can I watch?"

"You can," he replies with a smile.

You giggle a bit as he chops the vegetables. "Enjoy the view?," he adds.

Very much, you think, though you only say, "Probably..." with a playful smile lingering on your lips. You want to kiss him so badly right now.

Little do you know, he's doing his best to focus on the knife and the vegetables because it's nearly impossible for him to tear his eyes away from your pretty little face.

He needs to kiss your lips so badly, it can actually kill him.

——————

After an hour of talking and exchanging glances filled with unspoken tension, the two plates of pasta are finally served. Yours is carbonara, and his is pomodoro, both look incredibly delicious.

He doesn’t stop watching you as you take your first big bite.

"How’s that?" His voice is filled with anticipation.

"Ummm," you murmur, savoring the taste. "I think this is the best pasta I’ve ever had in my entire life."

At your words, he smiles and laughs, as if he’s just won an Oscar. But to him, it’s not about the pasta…it’s about you. You’re bigger than any prize on earth.

As the hour passes, you find yourselves gossiping about coworkers, chit-chatting about random things, talking about work and food, and eventually landing on a more serious topic…

"Are you seeing anyone?" he asks, and your heart rate skyrockets.

"No," you reply, trying to stay composed, as if you’ve never dreamed of being asked this question by him.

"Are you interested in dating?" he continues.

Yes, yes, fuck yesssss only for you, you think, but instead, you ask, "Why do you ask? Are you trying to flirt with me or something?" You mean it as a joke, not really expecting an answer.

"What if I say yes?"

Your pupils widen at his response. "What?" You are so shocked, can’t really comprehend anything now.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, I think I heard you wrong."

"No, you didn’t… but if you’d rather stay just friends, I’ll understand and respect that."

“I think…no, I know I love you. I’m sorry if this ruins our friendship, but if you don’t feel the same way, just tell me, and we can go back to how things were.”

His gaze is so soft, unlike anything you’ve ever seen from him. He hesitates for a moment, licking his bottom lip quickly before speaking again.

“I love the way you always show up with a genuine smile, even though I know you hate working here. I love how you joke around just to make people laugh, how you make fun our boss, how incredibly smart and beautiful you are. I’m nothing compared to you.”

He pauses, searching your face, trying to read your expression. “You make me want to live like a normal salaryman. I’m on top of the world every time you say, ‘See you tomorrow’ because I’m the one who gets a chance to see you tomorrow and another tomorrow and every other single day. I want to come to work every day just to spend as much time as I can admiring you, being next to you. I want to be the one who takes care of you. You make my ordinary life feel so special, and I love you…most ardently.”

Is it the wine you’ve had? Are you dreaming, or is he really confessing his love to you?

“Are you drunk?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly, still in disbelief at what you’ve just heard.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Hell no, I’m not,” he replies, his voice steady and sincere. His eyes lock onto yours, full of a quiet intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

“I truly love you.”

The words hang in the air between you, so heavy with meaning that it feels like the world has paused. You can feel your heart racing, pounding against your chest as you try to process everything. The warmth of the room, the soft glow of the lights, and the remnants of dinner, all of it fades into the background. All you can focus on is him, as he’s standing up from his chair and pouring his heart out in the most genuine way.

His expression is earnest, a mix of vulnerability and determination. This is the man who, just moments ago, was making you laugh with casual banter, and now he’s baring his soul to you, leaving himself completely exposed. You can see the slight tension in his posture, as if he’s bracing himself for whatever might come next, yet there’s also a softness in his gaze that you’ve never seen before.

He takes a step closer, reaching out as if he wants to touch you but stops himself, respecting your space. “I’ve thought about this for so long,” he continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Every day, I’ve held back, afraid of ruining what we have. But I can’t keep pretending that my feelings aren’t there. You’re all I think about, and I can’t stand the idea of not telling you how I feel. Even if it means risking everything.”

Your mind races, trying to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you as you can feel the way his breath hitches slightly as he waits for your response, the subtle tremor in your hands as you try to steady yourself.

This is real, you realize. He’s not joking, not exaggerating. He’s laying his heart at your feet, hoping you’ll pick it up and keep it safe. And in that moment, you know that this is a turning point, a moment that will change everything between you.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice, trying to navigate through the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “I…” you start, but the words catch in your throat, too tangled up in the disbelief and joy and fear all mingling together.

“I’m sorry, you must be so uncomfortable right now. Let me get you home… It’s already late, and I can’t let you go alone.”

No, he’s got it all wrong. You’re not uncomfortable you’re just too overwhelmed with joy that you can’t find any words to describe it . But he doesn’t give you a chance to explain, assuming the worst.

“Okay,” you respond, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Maybe it’s because a small part of you wonders if he’s actually drunk, that maybe he didn’t mean to say those things and now regrets it. Maybe he just wants to get you home and forget this ever happened.

But you can’t let it end like this. “You can walk me home. It’s 15 minutes from here, no need for a car,” you say, trying to break through the invisible barrier that’s suddenly risen between you. You’re lying it’s almost 45 minutes away but you just want to be with him a little longer, to figure out what’s really going on.

“Really,never know that you live around here.” Of course he doesn’t know. “Doesn’t matter let’s go.” he agrees, giving you a soft smile, though there’s a sigh that escapes him, as if he wants to say more but is holding back.

—————

As you both step out into the cool night air, the silence between you is thick with unspoken words. He falls into step beside you, the warmth of his presence just a breath away. The tension from before lingers, but there’s also a tenderness in the quiet moments as you walk side by side, neither of you in a hurry to reach your destination.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable tonight. I just… I couldn’t keep it in anymore. But I’ll understand if you need time or if you want to pretend none of this happened.” Finally, he speaks again, his voice gentle but firm.

“No,” you blurt out, the word catching in your throat as you stare at him. “Ken…” His name falls from your lips, soft and gentle, as if it caresses his heart.

“Listen to me,” you continue, holding up a hand before he can respond. “Don’t say anything right now. Just… let me get this out.”

You take a deep breath, the weight of your emotions bubbling up inside you, and you decide the only way you can say this is through a story, a safe distance between you and the overwhelming truth. “I’m going to tell it in the third person, because saying it directly feels too embarrassing.”

He tilts his head slightly, waiting, but his eyes don’t leave yours. You press on.

“There’s a woman,” you begin softly, “the most ordinary woman. She got this job a year ago, and everything changed. She had to move away from her hometown, didn’t know anyone here, and for a while, she felt so alone.”

Your voice trembles slightly as you continue, but you push through. “Then she met this man. Just a regular, normal guy. He hated the job, just like she did, only doing it to pay his bills. But there was something about him…something about his smile, about how he always showed up when she needed someone. And that smile, no matter how much she tried to ignore it, never failed to drive her insane.”

You risk a glance at him, and his expression has softened, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. You swallow, continuing your story. “They became close, coworkers, friends. But she wanted more. She needed more. So she started working overtime, just to have a little extra time with him.”

“And today,” you say, your voice lowering, “it’s like a dream come true for her. The man she’s been in love with since she started working here…he feels the same way about her. But it’s so hard to believe, so good that it doesn’t even seem real. She doesn’t know what to say, so her silence makes him think she’s rejecting him, even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

You finish, the last words hanging in the air between you, fragile but full of meaning. You look at him, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure of what he’ll say.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, his lips curl into a gentle, knowing smile. “So… what happens next in this story?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, turning your head just enough to avoid meeting his eyes. “You tell me.”

He gently reaches out, his hand warm as it grazes your knuckles, and slowly your fingers intertwine. “He takes her hand, just like this,” he says with a tenderness that makes your heart race. “And he realizes he's the luckiest man on earth.”

Your breath hitches as he continues, “He’s so happy, now that he gets to hold the hands of the girl he adores.”

You look up at him, his gaze filled with a warmth you’ve longed to see for so long. “What happens next?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“He kisses her,” he says, leaning just a little closer before adding, “Only if she wants that.”

Your soft giggle fills the space between you. “Yes, she definitely wants that.”

He smiles, closing the remaining distance between you, his hand gently cupping your face as his lips meet yours in a tender, lingering kiss. The moment feels unreal, yet more vivid than anything you’ve ever known. The night seems to glow, not from the moon or stars, but from the way he makes your world brighter.

In his arms, love no longer feels like a distant mystery… it’s here, in the touch of his lips, in the warmth of his embrace, in the quiet joy that fills your heart. And suddenly, being a "normal" person in the ordinary grind of life seems more than enough because now, you have him.

How wonderful life is, even in the mundane, when it's shared with someone like him.

#kento nanami x reader #nanami #nanami fluff #nanami kento #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x fem!reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jjk x reader #nanami headcanons #nanami x you #nanami x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk #nanami x y/n #nanami my beloved #nanami a man you are

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claymoresword · 6 months ago

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The Queen And Her Knight | Chp: 8

Alicent Hightower x Knight Fem!Reader

Summary: Alicent Hightower against her better judgement, falls in love with her sworn protector. Can she bear to fight her feelings or will she finally just give in?

Pairing: Alicent x Reader

Wordcount: 2.5k

Disclaimer: angst, masc/butch coded reader, alicent is a mess, aemond & y/n, otto is a scheming little prick

Note: honestly idk if it's writers block or just a general lack of motivation but i could not for the life of me convince myself to sit down and write this story lol i'm very sorry for the delay

this chapter doesn't move around too much as it focuses on the events directly after Storm's End. sorry if it's boring... but I really hope it isn't! ok that's it, love y'all

Taglist: @blackbirdv98 @flaiire1805 @alicentfangirl @memarrymilf @thegayassbit-ch @vantestark @hauntedfictionland @livinginafantasysposts @baddie-on-a-mission-xx @evolutionsglory @darthtargnister @dxrewclf @rozmrazaradelfinow @wlwfanfictionss @karsonromanoff

You are jolted out of your slumber with the feeling of Criston's rough hand on your shoulder. "Council meeting, Lord Commander. you have been summoned."

In your half asleep state, you open your eyes just enough to squint at him, a grimace covers your features.

"What? Why can't you take the watch, Cole?" You question, rubbing your face in frustration as you sit up in bed.

You feel a breeze through the open window, it is still noticeably dark out. Nowhere near first light; your expression twists further in confusion. "What hour is it?"

Criston doesn't respond to your inquiry, his jaw is set in a way that always makes him appear mad at the world. "The dowager queen has sent for you, specifically."

At the mention of Alicent, you quickly tug the blanket off your frame, rising from your bed. "Very well, Ser. I will be out in a moment, just let me dress."

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You observed as Otto Hightower paced the length of the small council chambers, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. His stare is pensive, but he is anxious– despite his meager attempt to conceal it.

Alicent wears a similar look on her face, although instead of pacing she repeatedly brings her fingers up to her lips, gnawing at the skin around her nails.

The sight makes you grimace. Every time you allow yourself to believe she has abandoned the horrid habit, it resurfaces ten fold.

Alicent would manage to chew her fingers until raw and bloody unless you put a stop to it.

Infuriatingly, now you can only afford to rest both hands on the hilt of your sword. You cannot reach out; too many eyes.

The last thing you want is to be seen touching the dowager queen without her leave.

"Your Grace." You chide instead, your voice only loud enough for Alicent to hear.

The dowager queen looks your way, her gaze distant before her eyes finally settle upon your own.

Your narrowed gaze was enough for her to remove her hand from her mouth, clasping both of them over her belly instead, stifling the impulse.

Something has happened. But what, exactly?

You want to ask, but the words soon die in your throat as the doors to the chambers open.

Prince Aemond enters, dressed in his riding attire. His hand propped on the pommel of his longsword, his head held high.

You manage to catch the way Alicent stiffens at the sight of him.

Something is wrong, very wrong.

"Prince Aemond, I am certain we are all eager to find out what matter is so pressing that it requires our immediate audience at this time of night." Ser Tyland is first to address the obvious issue that's been left unspoken.

The Lannister's annoyance represents that of the other men in the room. It is thinly veiled if not entirely unconcealed.

Though to his luck, it somehow evades Aemond entirely. The prince decides to speak plainly.

"Lucerys Velaryon is dead."

The room falls silent, safe from the crackling of firewood in the hearth nearby– the air so still you can hear the beating of your heart in your ears.

"How–" Ser Tyland tries but Aemond interjects.

"He died on dragonback. Vhagar and I happened upon him in the Stormlands." The Targaryen explains and your eyes widen.

You glance at Alicent on instinct, the dowager queen appears ready to faint, or wretch– you could not say. You remain standing beside her just in case.

Once again there is only silence, even from the Hand of the king himself. Otto Hightower's expression betrays nothing, and it confounds you.

There is certainly no hope for peace now, not when Aemond has just openly declared a war by killing the princess’ own son.

"I do not.. understand–" The words tumble out before you even fully realize you were speaking.

Aemond turns to you then, his expression betrays even less than his grandsire.

"His dragon provoked mine, there was not much I could do.” Aemond delivers the statement with such certainty and indifference, it sends a chill down your spine, destabilizing enough that you have to look elsewhere.

“My Prince, forgive me– As I understand it dragons do not attack others of their kind unless they feel threatened, much less one six times it's own size.” Maester Orwyle verbalizes your own thoughts exactly.

Aemond provoked the boy first.

“It does not matter. The bastard got what was coming to him.” Aemond snaps in return, you observe as Alicent rubs her own forearm, an effort to soothe herself. You notice, whilst the men around her remain oblivious.

The room is flooded with a sudden sense of trepidation and despair.

“The princess will want blood for this.” Orwyle states grimly.

“That she will. and when she comes for it we will be ready.” Otto finally speaks, he steps forward, bracing his hands firmly on the wood-carved table.

��We can no longer expect the princess or her lord husband to bend their knees willingly. They will attempt to take my grandson’s rightful seat by force. We must strengthen our defenses.” He bellows, glancing at every man in the room.

Eventually Otto looks to you, but pays his own daughter no mind.

“I have the largest dragon.” Aemond remarks proudly, like the green boy that he is.

Having a dragon does not make you invincible, lad. You would have warned him, if you had been alone. Afterall, he did listen to you.. most times.

You let out a quiet sigh. The young prince knows nothing of warfare, so naturally he is giddy at the prospect.

His grandsire remains the only one with authority to openly address his statement, and his next words to Aemond are a risk. “Yes, and they are not to forget that.”

“We must first secure the castle, no one unauthorized goes in or out without my leave.”

“Lord Commander, double the amount of guards in the royal quarters. The king and queen's chambers especially.” Otto orders, his gaze now fixed on you.

With what men? You find yourself wondering.

More than half the kingsguard has since fled to join Rhaenyra's cause while your own men grow restless and uncooperative the longer your father took to declare his support for Aegon.

You don't dare utter your grievances out loud, simply nodding at the command.

“Very well, M'lord.”

Otto turns away from you to continue discussing future strategies with the rest of the council members.

It all comes easily to him, as though he had been planning them for some time. As if this was all a part of a larger scheme.

You foolishly mistook Otto's excitement for anxiety. This realization feels so macabre, you could laugh.

The men of the council continue to listen whether they want to or not, whilst you remain standing by the dowager queen. Alicent grows more uneasy by the minute as she listens to her father openly laying out strategies and tactics.

It is all happening so quickly.

Alicent fiddles with her seven pointed star necklace again before rubbing her neck anxiously. She goes to gnaw at her finger but stops herself.

The queen is unraveling right before your eyes, and the sight makes you ache.

Like a pot of steaming water just about to boil over; your lover's next move is sudden.

Alicent takes large strides towards the exit, the men of the council rise from their seats abruptly to see her off, and you fall in next to her dutifully.

“Mother–” Aemond calls out to her, but Alicent does not look back.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Alicent doesn't allow herself to pause until she reaches her bedchambers, Ser Criston inclines his head at the sight of the queen, stepping aside to let her through.

“Return to your quarters, Cole, I will guard Her Grace.” You command, and Ser Criston nods without much reproach.

Most likely eager for the opportunity to return to his bedchambers and resume his slumber.

You replace his spot by the door as he went on his way, soon the knight turns a corner and out of sight. The clanging of his armor grew faint, eventually dimming into nothing.

“Y/n.” Your name echoes through the walkway.

It is Alicent calling for you before the door to her chambers gets the chance to shut fully. Her sweet voice, frail and weary with tears unshed.

You swiftly step inside at the invitation, habitually bolting the door behind you. As you turn, the dowager queen practically throws herself into your arms. It doesn't take you long to return her embrace, your chest constricts as you hear her sob against your shoulder.

“Oh, my love–” You coax, caressing her hair with a much needed tenderness, but you don't get to do it for long as Alicent soon breaks away from you to speak.

“Aemond, he came to me first– woke me to admit what he'd done.” She starts, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, only for more tears to fall.

“But it seemed as though he expected me to celebrate him for it. He looked so proud of himself.” Alicent recounts, her hand now shifts over her belly, as though actively suppressing the urge to be sick.

You watched as she began to pace the floors.

“The indignities of his childhood.. his want for revenge, it has blinded him–”

“It has blackened his heart, twisted him into someone I don't even recognize.” Alicent declares bitterly.

She gnaws at her cuticle again before turning to look at you. Your silence only makes her grow expectant, as though hoping you'll dispute her words. Perhaps even agree with them, but you find yourself incapable of doing either.

Aemond no longer appears the same boy you grew to care for. The boy you have trained and looked out for since he was not much taller than your knee.

A solemn fact, but one that is true.

Even so, you can hardly believe the young prince is capable of cold blooded murder– surely, it must have been an accident, a terrible lapse in judgment.

Dragons have never been so easily tamed, least of all the large and ancient beast Aemond commands.

Vhagar must have acted on her own.

Yes, in the presence of the council Aemond has to pretend. He pretends so his dignity is spared.

Alicent mistakes your silence for agreement, frustration and helplessness quickly overwhelm her.

“What is to become of my sons, y/n? The rotten fruits of my womb.. They are both monsters.” Alicent sobs, placing the blame entirely on herself– a thing she does often and mercilessly.

Another unjust habit.

You feel inclined to disagree. It is not fair that Alicent bears the burden all on her own, it does no good to anyone for her to believe these things.

You realize that your kindness will most likely not be of much use to her now– but you vow to try anyway. “Most men are, Your Grace.. You mustn't– you cannot blame yourself.”

You allow yourself a deep breath as Alicent meets your gaze; she is listening.

“We are a product of our parents, our mothers, that much is true. Still, we are our own person, we make our choices and we live with them.” You approach Alicent steadily, as though not to startle her.

“Aemond made a choice, my love.” You affirm, cupping her face with both hands, silently relishing at the feeling of her seeking out your embrace once more.

Alicent remains silent for a prolonged moment, she welcomes the feeling of your hand smoothing down her back.

“He should have never gone to Storm's End without an escort. Death and destruction awaits anyone who dares mount those feral beasts.” Alicent maintains her revulsion for dragons, now more than ever, vitriol laces her every word.

“This could have all been avoided.” She decides, forlorn.

“Now that poor boy is dead– and Rhaenyra, she– I gave her my word, peace in the realm if she accepted my terms, and I have betrayed that.” Alicent hugs you tighter, and you lift her head off your shoulder calmly as to guide her face towards your own.

“Alicent, what has happened cannot be undone. I dread the consequences as much as you do, but no good can come from blaming yourself.” You render, still you decide to continue even as the older woman averts her gaze.

“There was no way to anticipate this. I am certain prince Aemond himself did not plan on meeting Lucerys with his dragon.”

“Sometimes things simply happen. For better or worse.” You finish, in truth, unsatisfied with yourself.

Words are wind, there is only so much you can say in a situation as dire as this, in the face of impending war.

“It is not your fault. Do you hear me?” You insist, the pad of your thumb caressing Alicent's cheek as you catch a glimpse of her warm brown eyes.

At last, she hears your words and she accepts them. Alicent nods.

“Not my fault.” The dowager queen finally utters in return, uncharacteristically withdrawn and almost docile in your arms.

You continue to handle her carefully, as though she were made of glass. “That's right.” Relieved, you place a lingering kiss upon Alicent's forehead.

A welcomed stillness fills the air as you hold each other, in the quiet of the night, but as with most good things as of late– it is short lived.

A knock on the door startles you both, a familiar voice can be heard from the other side.

“Mother?” Aemond says as he attempts to enter, but the bolt you had placed on the handle prevents the door from budging.

Alicent escapes your touch, she threads her fingers through her auburn locks in visible distress. She makes the effort to step even further away from the door as Aemond knocks again.

“Tell him to leave me, please. I cannot bear to look at him just now.” Alicent pleads in a frantic whisper, and you nod, gesturing with your hand, at an attempt to remind her to calm herself.

As Alicent moves to her bed, you straighten out your doublet, approaching the door. Subsequently, you retract the long wooden panel barring it shut.

Aemond's features are twisted in visible confusion as your eyes meet. You school your own expression in turn, ignoring the way in which your shoulders tense at the sight of him.

“The dowager queen is abed, my prince. She is not to be disturbed.” You explain with an intended air of indifference and Aemond simply grimaces. He stubbornly tries to peek into the room as you remain blocking his view; to no avail.

“I don't understand, why does my mother not wish to see me?” He asks, his growing frustration evident.

“She is abed, the hour is late.” You repeat, not unkindly, though your hand rests on the pommel of your sword on instinct.

Aemond searches your face, and soon his own expression twists abruptly, bristling when he finds nothing within your gaze that would work in his favor.

The young prince just as quickly dons a look that fills you with a familiar sense of unease.

He turns on his heels, his cape flourishes as he storms through the dimly lit gallery, eventually disappearing into the shadows.

Aemond Targaryen left for Storm's End a brilliant and obliging boy, and he returned a Kinslayer.

#alicent hightower #alicent hightower x reader #rhaenicent #alicent x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen

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akirathedramaqueen · 2 months ago

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CBT and Exposure Therapy: Blitzø Showcase

An important (really, don't skip) disclaimer

If you are contemplating whether or not you would benefit from any kind of therapy, consider consulting with your medical provider first. While I did my best to validate all the points made using publicly available resources, I am not a medical professional. At the very least, I strongly advise that you do your own research and not take some amateur's opinion about a character from a silly demon show for granted.

"Everyone in this show needs fucking therapy STAT!"

We hear fans screaming into the void every now and then. Me too. I plead guilty and I willingly put myself in custody. But I am not taking these words back.

Especially often it is being said with Blitzø in mind, who, as hinted earlier and clearly shown in the latest episode, Ghostfuckers, is not doing okay. Not in the slightest.

Which is . . . yes. Indeed, trauma-ridden Blitzø is a major problem for both him and those around him. Yes, we see him reaching his lowest point now exactly because he left these gaping wounds untreated for so long.

But the tricky question is—how, though? What to do? Will a good talking to a confidante help? Or, maybe, some kind of shock would snap him out of the spiral?

I've been pondering on this topic for more than 4 months, and, as the Ghostfuckers came out, I finally got all the data I need to prove a point. The show did all the job for me and effectively made Blitzø go through improvised versions of two popular therapy techniques. And, before I even start, I want to say—I am so glad with what we ended up with. What they did, and, more importantly, didn't do, aligns well with how it would likely happen in real life.

So buckle up, and let's see where it gets us!

Therapy # 1. Cognitive-behavioral therapy, or CBT

This is, in essence and with some corrections, your good old talking. Here you can find more information about it, so, if you're not familiar with the topic, I recommend following the link first.

But, very shortly: CBT is an extremely common approach to be tried while you're dealing with anxiety, depression, and a number of other mental disorders. What it aims to do is to help you get past unhelpful thinking (distortions) and learn not to act on it.

Looks like it fits the bill, right? Blitzø has a lot of issues with self-fulfilling prophecies, infuriatingly stupid assumptions, poorly thought-out actions . . .

But he's not like, you know . . . w-we're not, like . . . we're not doing a . . . w-we . . . what's betw— It's a transactional fucking, you see.

If you don't feel like coming, that's OK! I'm sure I can do without it for one month. :)

Stolas only cares about having a rugged peasant raw-dog him into his matress! It's nothing, ya know . . . it's nothing else.

You . . . no longer have any obligation to see me, to touch me, to bed me . . . You are— you are free of me.

He sees things which aren't truly there.

It's not Stolas giving him space after the disaster in the 'Ozzie's.' It must be Stolas not needing him anymore, getting tired of him.

It's not Stolas caring about Blitzø. He is a royal, why would he care how an imp's day he happened to be fucking was?

It's not Stolas setting Blitzø free and putting an end to a problematic transaction they had with the hope for it to grow into something more. It's him getting rid of Blitzø.

As a result, he ends up hurting himself and the relationship he had with that one sad gay bird he happened to fall deeply for but literally trashed in his own house twice, acting on nothing more than frenetic fear of losing Stolas, but in reality, driving him away even more . . . for good.

I mean, you royal fucks think you can do this every time, like you can just play with our feelings because we're smaller and not as important!

Ha! I'm right, aren't I? You get off getting plowed by people you look down on!

And I can sorry more people, everyone but you! 'Cause I don't owe you dick! Everyone, but you . . .

So, the case's closed? Let someone—say, Millie—talk to him and tell him how wrong he was about himself and the others?

Well, here's the thing. Despite him being infinitely wrong about Stolas's intentions, we can't deny the fact that every one of his beliefs was not, in fact, a distortion. It'd led him to wrong conclusions, yes, but it was built on the information he received and legitimate experiences he had in his life. Here are only some of the facts connected to only this situation with Stolas, but there are other problematic behaviors and other reasons for him acting the way he does.

Fact # 1. The circus fire did happen, and Blitzø was the reason for it. Unintentional, and of course it wasn't his fault, but it still ruined the lives of many people—him included. Blitzø cannot act like it never occurred.

Fact # 2. Hell is divided by class and race. Their situationship with the grimoire was an embodiment of that inequality. A lot of Blitzø's outburst during the Full Moon and later in the Apology Tour was connected to it, to his beliefs that Stolas is the same as the rest of the privileged circle. Beliefs, I stress, justified by the real world. Stolas is more of an exception, and even then, his behavior is only different when it comes to Blitzø. He still acts the same toward other imps.

Fact # 3. We knew about Stolas's intentions all along, but before that fateful Full Moon, what Blitzø saw was Stolas avoiding him and not communicating the issue the Ozzie's date had raised. And before Ozzie's? Stolas did act entitled and inappropriate. He was baby-talking to Blitzø and used derogatory terms while addressing him. The dude literally called him an impish plaything in the Truth Seekers.

Fact # 4. Blitzø's heavily implied (though not officially confirmed by the show) existing conditions—ADHD*, BPD**, PTSD, and dyslexia/dyscalculia***—do affect his life, and while Hell seems to be somewhat receptive of neurodivergence, he still has to deal with it every single fucking day. He is going to be avoidant and afraid to be abandoned at the same time. He is going to hate himself. His learning disabilities are going to make his life harder. No way around it.

Note: *, **, and *** contain links to separate meta-analyses from @timkontheunsure and @tealvenetianmask about the respective conditions and how they show themselves in Blitzø's case.

And my beef with CBT here is exactly that. CBT's goal is to gaslight you into believing your distortions hold no water and suggests you just ignore them. And, as I've shown with Blitzø, these reactions and assumptions aren't baseless. They are legitimate, and, in fact, sometimes help to get by. Even though it's a crooked crutch, you can't learn to walk properly by just throwing that crutch away. You're still going to limp, and oh, will it be painful.

This is oversimplistic and dismissive. Anxiety and depression don't come out of the blue, and with mental disabilities, it's even deeper. The class/disability stigma is alive and strong, and just slapping a "you're fine" bandaid on your traumatized self isn't going to help.

Therapy # 2. Exposure therapy.

Exposure therapy is another approach commonly used while dealing with traumatic past and its aftermath—PTSD, anxiety, phobias, and such. Again, if you're not familiar, there's the link for you, but very shortly—the therapist puts the patient in a safe environment and 'exposes' them to the feared object in question for limited periods of time. The goal is to eventually get rid of the targeted fear and decrease avoidance.

And Blitzø has got some phobias for sure.

The fear of letting everyone down. Again.

And the fear of abandonment. Again.

All of it is a result of self-hatred, sitting so deeply it rules his life and his vision of how others perceive him. Said it himself. Almost.

So, where and how does the show expose Blitzø to his traumatic past?

First, the most recent, and the most obvious one—Rolando and his slideshow of all traumatic events Blitzø ever had in his life.

Second—Blitzø's drug trip in the Truth Seekers. While it does not contain the events of the past as they were, it does force him to face his fears.

Are you worried I might have enough of it one day as well? . . . You're going to die alone! . . . You're going to die alone, Blitzo!

With some stretch, the third one is Verosika's 'Blitzo sucks' party. Where Blitzø was forced to see the consequences of his avoidance and rejection.

Note: to be clear, I do think the party does not show the true extent of Blitzø's actions and how much he'd hurt people. It was exaggerated by Verosika, and here I explain why this is the case.

So, what gives? Or, rather, what gives it not?

It might sound funny now, considering I brought it up myself, but I, once again, say this is not therapeutic, just as CBT kind of 'talking.' If anything, all these three events did more harm than good.

The D.H.O.R.K.S.'s goal in the Truth Seekers was to torture the information out of Blitzø. He was not supposed to overcome it. He was supposed to crack.

The Verosika's goal was to ruin Blitzø's reputation. She was working her ass off to prove he's just a heartless freak.

The Rolando's goal was to fucking kill Blitzø.

And okay, their motivations had nothing to do with helping him, but maybe it did, in its own twisted way?

No. The writers added this to push Blitzø past the breaking point, not to heal him, and to show us more of his lore. Each time he was forced to face his past or fears or consequences, he was only spiraling more.

The only thing which did him some good was . . . well, Millie finally seeing his bravado mask falling off. But the cost of it was way too high. Not worth it.

To the therapy's defense, some points why it would never work in the way it was done in the show:

Blitzø had never given his consent and was not ready to face it. I might be very rude right now, but go and try producing some explosion-like sounds in front of war veterans without letting them know first and see what happens.

The amount of fearful experience exposed was way too overboard. He couldn't possibly digest it in a healthy way.

The environment was not safe. It was straight-up retraumatizing, an intentional one.

So there's that.

But what helped then?

We've briefly brushed over the fact Millie did talk to Blitzø. While I did imply this might be an example of CBT, here are some key deviations from the classic therapy which made all the difference.

Millie didn't sugarcoat all the shit Blitzø did. He was hurting their business. He didn't pay her. He was reduced to Bethanie. It showed her opinion can be trusted.

Millie apologized for not being there for him sooner. She admitted she relied too much on Blitzø being bulletproof, unbothered by everything. She admitted she didn't support him in a way he always did.

While proving she could never hate Blitzø, she used their common story, one he knows and can recall. She used evidence to prove him wrong, not a "it's all in your head" bandaid. And more than that, later she proved it with action—not for one second did she believe Rolando and his shittalk about what Blitzø supposedly was thinking about her. Her unwavering faith spoke more than any words ever could.

Getting back to exposure therapy . . . Metaphorically, she reminded Blitzø he can handle a beating or two. And physically beat the infestor demon out of him, which, as we can see later, didn't really affect Blitzø that much. He wasn't even battered. So, apparently, when the said exposure is done by someone who genuinely tries to make you feel better and knows your limits well, it might just work?

And finally, Millie acknowledged Blitzø's pain. She didn't brush it away. She validated him.

What all of this is about?

Like every treatment, too much of a medicine can become poisonous. So are CBT and exposure therapy.

They might help, and lots of research shows they do in certain cases. But there are limitations to what they can and cannot achieve, and they have to be adjusted to each individual story, to each trauma, and they should not be applied as a way to mend the outcome of the trauma without taking into account the story it comes with. Again, legitimate concerns and experiences cannot be brushed away or ignored.

Actualy . . . we've seen where it leads in the show too. In the beginning, Millie was quite dismissive of Blitzø's worries—all of this over a . . . breakup?

And here it comes full circle.

Only when Millie started taking Blitzø seriously, did it help them progress. And look how quickly we've switched from a complete despair to a glimmer of hope! Isn't that a beautiful closing scene?

As a closing note—we do not need to 'fix' Blitzø. After all this shit he went through, there won't be a day where he wakes up and be like, "Hey, I don't hate myself anymore! And look, I'm not afraid to be abandoned or misunderstood!"

I'm sorry to break it to you, but this is a lifelong battle. Being mentally whole, healthy, and constantly happy is no more than a myth, and everyone has their own demons and skeletons to deal with.

What Blitzø needs is some good support system to pull him back when he's down.

And boy, do I hope that one particular owl will fill in that role of unyielding pillar for Blitzø each time our lizard will fall into that pit again. Look, I love Millie, but there's only so much she can do. She can't be always present, she has her own life . . . and her own disaster of a husband to look after (affectionate <3). Here and here @lost-romantique talks about Stolas's capacity of loving, with me occasionally nodding, ha-ha. But to be short—it's fucking immense. And since he loves words, I do believe he has all the energy to tell again and again and again how awesome Blitzø is. Even if Blitzø wouldn't believe it himself.

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sharkemojis · 9 months ago

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ok i love a big angst with a happy ending love confession as much as the next guy but also. i give you enjolras and grantaire who randomly just start sitting closer and are always touching and hanging out even if half of their conversations are cruel arguments, grantaire gets bored and lonely and goes around to enjolras apartment one day and just?? Never leaves?? And enjolras is cool with it. And then they probably fuck at some point. Start showing up to places as a duo. Share a bedroom. Basically become a couple but literally never not once have the conversation but like... its fine bc they don't have to you know. Everyones like what the even fuck are you guys doing and theyre just like ?? What do u mean? I don't know just thinking about soulmates! ExR and i feel like it would transpire so infuriatingly casually. Courfeyrac was expecting a big bang in the universe, combeferre is in shock partly. Boyfriends that never call each other boyfriends. What do u think

#les miserables #les mis #enjoltaire #grantaire #enjolras #les amis #exr #courfeyrac #combeferre #courferre

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rosanna-writer · 2 months ago

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if i'm not dancing with you

Summary: Rhys and Feyre share a dance at Rita's on their first night out after Nyx's birth. Word Count: ~1.3k

This is entirely the result of that gifset of Rupert and Taggie from Rivals that's been going around (@popjunkie42 it's my turn with our shared braincell btw) + CUFF IT being on my Feysand playlist, ok?

Read on AO3 or under the cut!

Rhysand's fingers tightened on the stem of the wineglass. I nearly missed it, and the raucous laughter on my other side told me that Mor, Cassian, and Azriel hadn't noticed anything amiss. But I was his mate, more in tune with him than they'd ever be; Rhys's devastating smile was a mask, even if only I could see beneath it.

I considered letting it go. Since Nyx's arrival, the five of us hadn't had a chance to all go out together, but Elain had graciously agreed to take him for the night. We all needed this trip to Rita's, a few hours of drinking and dancing to let off some steam.

After everything, we deserved to feel carefree for a little while.

But if I didn't take care of Rhys, no one would. I didn't bother with the bond—the distant look in our eyes would make it too obvious. I'd flung an arm over his shoulder, so I brushed my thumb lightly along his bicep, a quiet signal.

Rhys said nothing, just raised his wineglass to his lips then set it down. His violet eyes still twinkled with mischief as he made some teasing remark about the laundry hamper Mor had once winnowed into when she'd stumbled home late a few centuries ago. As if on cue, I laughed along with everyone else.

There was a lull in our conversation just as the song that was playing ended, replaced by a slower one. Not the sort of upbeat music that dragged even the most reluctant fae onto the dancefloor, but something more romantic and just a bit sultry. Couples cozied up; hands that resting politely on lower backs slipped down to cup backsides.

Rhys, of course, tugged me out of my seat.

I followed, rising all the way to my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He tasted like sea salt and citrus and mate, but not, I noticed, like wine. Odd. I would have expected a hint of what he'd just been drinking. Unless…he hadn't actually taken a sip.

His hand gripped mine just a bit harder than usual as we wound our way through the tables. I brushed his mental shields as gently as I could. In answer, he glanced back over his shoulder and shot me an infuriatingly beautiful smirk. If we didn't have a thread tying together our very souls, I would have fallen for it and believed nothing was amiss.

I slid through the crack he left open for me. What's wrong?

Nothing worth ruining the evening over.

I didn't like that answer. But there was no use in trying to badger him into giving me a better one. I merely let him chart a course through the crowd of dancers until we found an unoccupied spot on the floor.

His other hand settled on my hip, the warmth of his skin seeping through the lace of my dress. I placed mine on his shoulder, letting him lead for once. With so many other dancers around us, we barely had room to do anything besides sway to the music.

As I tipped my head back to study his face, his nose skimmed my hair. The music drowned out the sound of his inhale, but the breath of Rhys's sigh was warm against the shell of my ear. I shivered anyway.

The hand on my hip traveled upwards until he'd splayed it in the center of my back, right where wings could emerge with a flicker of magic. He pressed me to him until we were chest-to-chest. I melted against him, my head coming to rest on the hollow at the base of his neck.

We'd stopped swaying—stopped even pretending we were dancing, really. I felt as if the music were coming from a long way off as we held each other. We couldn't get any closer if we tried.

The hand that was holding mine unclenched, just a bit.

"What is it?" I breathed, my voice so low only he could hear it.

He answered through the bond, in images and feelings. Bubbles in his wineglass catching the faelights as Mor handed the drink to him. Another goblet he'd held fifty years ago, seconds before disaster. Dread souring his stomach. A shadow on my bare leg, the shape so much like a whorl of body paint. Guilt and horror and anger and violation and pain and fear and—

Rhys, I whispered through the bond. It's alright. You're safe, and so am I. We can go home if it's a bad night.

That's not what I want right now.

Then what?

I expected to hear his answer in my mind, but he tugged on my hand. Gentle, but insistent. He stepped back, and despite my shock at the sudden lack of his heat, I let him guide me through a turn.

Our joined hands landed back at my hip. His other arm crossed my stomach, holding me close again. Rhys's lips were at my ear, his chest at my back, and…his groin at my ass.

A do-over. Dance like you did Under the Mountain, not for me this time. With me.

He punctuated it with a slow roll of his hips, enough that I felt every inch of him against my backside. Half on instinct, I arched against him like a cat in heat. Warm, heady pleasure flooded the bond.

Rhys started to move, small steps from side to side accompanied by a swish of his hips. I followed without missing a beat. As we danced in time with each other, the thread tied to my rib seemed to loosen.

My first trip to Rita's after ten months of pregnancy had called for my shortest dress, the one with cutouts at the waist. And to think I'd almost talked myself into something more comfortable, when the brush of my mate's fingers against the bare skin at the bottom of my ribs damn near set me on fire…

Perhaps it was just my relief that Rhys was alright—or, perhaps, it was the shot I'd knocked back with Cassian when we'd arrived. But regardless of why, my good sense slipped away. I bent forward, torso parallel to the floor, not caring how badly my hem rode up as I drove my ass back towards him.

His laugh was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard, a thing of pure joy. I wiggled my hips in a way that I hoped looked inviting. With a light squeeze to my backside, he turned me around, ducking under my arm with an absurdly graceful movement of his head.

We were face-to-face, dancing properly again. He pulled me close, and my leg ended up between both of his. Braced above my thigh, his entire body rolled in a slow, sensuous wave—head then chest then hips then groin, all in time with the music.

If we hadn't started turning in a slow circle, I might have devoured him right then and there.

I loosened my shields, letting the edges of my mind bleed into his as we writhed and spun. Together, in every sense of the word. We each kept a damper on our power, but his darkness slid against mine just as surely as his hands brushed my skin. Everything else fell away as I lost track of where I ended and he began, and we sank into the rightness of being joined so closely.

By the time the song ended, it felt like an eternity had passed. Or perhaps, just a few seconds. My sense of time had gone a bit fuzzy in the haze of it all. I pulled out of Rhys's mind enough to re-orient myself to the crowded dance hall around us.

"Was that…what you needed?" I whispered, strangely breathless. My gaze traveled upward, from the lapels of his shirt all the way to his face.

Yes, he said though the bond. Sometimes the memories come rushing back, and it gets difficult to remember that despite all of it, you still chose me.

I tightened my fingers around his, and our eyes locked as we began to sway again. We had all night, and I wouldn't let go until sunrise.

#feysand #backing that ass up but also getting emotional about it

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