#practising for being a lecturer

[hivemuthur]

The Ugly Thing

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! smut, love confessions, D/S dynamics (if you squint or if you know what I'm talking about), pinning, dom!viktor (but also not, if you squint, something something), Viktor-centric, AU college/university + modern era (again, you have to do some squinting for it to be relevant)

word count: 4,9K

summary: Yet another self-indulgent one-shot of Viktor and Reader. It's just an exploration. I want to believe this is erotica, but you tell me. Subspace/Domspace if you squint. Just squint, alright?

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Viktor was, at the very least, difficult. That was what he had called himself, and he relished the label, as it allowed him to be all things at once—sweet, shy, bold, cruel, smart, oblivious, observant. He walked through life making observations and turning his conclusions into actions, placing people exactly where he needed them, ensuring they couldn’t place him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

His relationships were fleeting moments of leniency—sometimes even kindness—offered only when he felt inclined. Occasionally, the kindness transpired twice, or three times, but never more, as the risk of forming a one- or double-sided attachment was undesirable. Viktor’s desires lay elsewhere, and in his pursuits, he indulged the weakness of the flesh while keeping his ultimate goal—recognition of his brilliant mind—crystal clear.

Always polite, so that nothing could hurt him. His armour of politeness and astute behaviour shielded him from the lingering hands that sought to cradle him through the night, from the tender offerings of morning coffee, and from the quiet intimacy of shared silences. Viktor didn’t crave these things. He made sure his politeness was cold, detached, and practised—a skill perfected to keep others at bay. There was no warmth in it, no invitation to linger.

From time to time, he indulged in fleeting encounters, moments where he allowed himself to surrender to the pull of human connection—physical, but never emotional. Emotional, but not lasting. It was a necessary recharge, a way to quiet the body’s demands, but he was always one step ahead. He ensured his partners understood that whatever fragile universe they built together in the night would dissolve with the first light of morning, leaving no trace beyond the cooling embers of his skin.

All that was left was being polite—a polite smile in the hallway, a pencil lent during a lecture, an elevator held for his perishable lover rushing to class. Their names never forgotten, but their warmth never wanted again.

Until you. Until you invaded his orbit and refused to be erased. Until you befriended Jayce, making it easy to keep meeting him, keep looking at him, keep exchanging amusements and something more than politeness—exchanging kindness. Until it turned out you were smart and driven and managed to scare him once or twice by pinning him with your joke.

Until he had slept with you, giving you his mediocre self—not the calculated, observant one, but the needy, touch-starved, pathetic one that moaned your name and groped you with begging hands. All during a completely unorchestrated evening in your dorm room, still half-clothed, just lustful and impatient. Just really fucking hungry in your mutual understanding, though you understood absolutely nothing. Oblivious to the ugly thing in him. Oblivious to the concept of boundaries. Oblivious to the need to protect yourself from prying eyes that might see the truth of what they were.

And the way you stared at him afterwards, gave your body a long stretch, and your limbs flopped back onto the mattress. And the way you said, “It’s ok if you want to go,” an understanding smile cracking across your face—yet you understood absolutely, utterly nothing. A way out he craved, but he wanted to carve it out for himself with his politeness, not with this—this knowing, wise look in your eyes that came from nowhere, because you knew nothing. He almost wanted to stay, just to spite you, but found himself only nodding, scrambling to his feet to fetch his brace and cane, and bidding you goodnight with a polite nod.

And the way you remained friendly. Not friendly—the way you two remained friends. The long nights spent in study groups, pulling straws to determine who was doomed to coffee duty, your head slumped in sleep on Jayce’s shoulder, his head resting on Mel’s. Your bare, cold feet stretched out, toes brushing against Viktor’s thigh, sending ice through his veins—and the way he didn’t mind. The way he contemplated cradling your feet in his palm, warming them against his better judgement.

The way your touch lingered on his arm when you grabbed him in the corridor to show him something funny on your phone. And the way the thing on your phone actually was funny—a picture of Jayce passed out in the library under a mountain of plastic cups balanced on his shoulders. The way his own laugh startled him, made his chest shake and his face lean in close to yours.

The way you would fall asleep in the common room, watching old horror films, your throat vulnerably exposed on his lap. And he just wanted to grab it, squeeze it tight, choke the confession out of you—that you lingered because you wanted more, because this friendship was unthinkable.

The way you got upset when he was mean, and the way he went out of his way to apologise with a childish, shit-eating grin. His arms reaching out for you, your palm pressing his face away in that same friendly gesture.

When he flushed his system with alcohol, all he could think about was fucking you senseless. And when your gaze lingered on him, burning all the way down into his ugly thing, you would ask what was on his mind, and he would say, “Physics.” And you would laugh his lie out.

The way, once, he gave you a lingering kiss on your doorstep and stopped himself. But seeing the question poised on the tip of your tongue, he sunk back in, turning the kiss into a sloppy, drunken mess, so you would be the one to push him away. A gentle pat on the shoulder, sending him off with the unspoken instruction to come back sober. And how he never came back for that.

All of this made him so fucking angry. His carefully mended self, constructed from sweetness, shyness, boldness, cruelty, wisdom, and oblivion, was crumbling under your pensive eyes—and the way you floated atop the pissed-off ocean of his mind.

And oh, he loathed himself on that evening, loathed the way his feet carried him to your room because he was feeling vaguely sad and distracted. He loathed his feet for doing so, loathed his finger for pressing the elevator button, loathed his knuckles for placing a quiet knock on your door. It was all so gross, so out of character, and he loathed it all.

And there you were, opening the door, your face full of dinner, hair messy, cheeks puffed out as you curled them into a closed-mouth grin and gave him a wave to come inside. A quiet “hi,” followed by a chuckle as you tried to swallow before chewing—and a cough when the gulp was too massive for your throat.

“Are you busy?” Viktor found himself blurting out, scanning the room. Your flatmate was gone for the weekend—her bed made, her shoes and coat missing. Observed, concluded. His eyes flicked over to the other bed: messy but cozy, notes scattered across it, a steaming cup on the bedside table, and a laptop propped in the leg area playing background noise. Studying, of course.

“I am always busy,” you grinned at him, your teeth bare and beautiful like the rest of you, as you dropped your dishes into the sink and put the kettle on. “Watching Dexter and studying. Do you want tea?”

“Maybe,” Viktor mused, biting his lip. He negotiated silently with himself, wondering what it was he hoped to find in this room that might sweeten his sour mood—and why his mood was sour in the first place. His hand wobbled on his cane, the traitorous thing, and he leaned against the doorframe to deflect, refusing to decide whether to step fully in or out.

“Okay, what’s gotten into you today?” you huffed, picking a mug you deemed suitable for him. Good Vibes Only, with a middle finger printed on the bottom of it, seemed fitting.

“Meaning?” Viktor cocked an innocent eyebrow, feeling the burn of your inquisitive gaze. Oh, to yank that lovely head by the neck and shove it between his legs, to ease the torment in his mind.

“This is the third time you’ve bothered me today. It’s the weekend. You usually work on the weekends. You’re being vague but resistant to probing. Did something happen?” The countdown of his sins, and it was only the count of one day. Nothing had happened, and that was the issue.

“I suppose I’m feeling… down?” He shrugged, the movement worn down, defeated. His brain ached, and he felt lonely. It had started to feel indecent to pursue others—and for that, you deserved a whack as well.

“Do you need a hug?” A mocking snort reached his ears. A long pause as the scales tipped between a ‘no’ and a ‘yes.’

“Yes.”

Another long pause, as you blinked and scanned him for any signs of a sham, your expression still uncertain. You had to make sure again. “Do you need a hug now?”

“No, in fifteen fucking minutes.” His undignified huff earned him a pair of raised eyebrows from you, and a remark already rolling off your tongue—but he cut it short. “Yes, now. Come here.” His head hung low, and only his hand made a beckoning gesture.

You smiled, disarmed by the black cat of Viktor, finally trying to scramble into your lap after months of teasing and playing around—head bumping and blinking at each other from afar. You walked up to him, your hands hesitant, as if this open display of need was unthinkable.

Before you could settle, Viktor snaked himself around you, his cane propped by the door, his frame bent and draped over you, leaning his body weight forward. It was the grabbiest, the neediest hug he had ever given—or that anyone had let him have. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, smashing his nose against your skin, and inhaled you deeply, through both mouth and nose.

His palms, open and wide, raked as much of your body in one go as they could. They slipped under your clothes, seeking the taut skin stretched across your back and shoulders. He wanted to go lower but could only squeeze.

You weren’t hugging him; he was hugging you. Caging you in his grip, controlling when the hug would end—and as far as he was concerned, not ever. You stilled under his touch, your hands resting obediently on his chest as he rubbed his face on yours, purring like a cat.

“Viktor?” Your voice was barely a whisper, bouncing off his mouth, an inch away from yours. “Would you like me to kiss you?” He sang his swan song in that moment, almost asking permission, granting you the illusion of control, the illusion of choice—when in truth, it was him silently begging for the kiss to happen.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Of course. A deflection. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for.

“I asked you first.” A cruel blow, almost childish. He pulled his face back a few inches to watch you wrestle with the indignity of the situation. The whine you tried to suppress at the loss of contact didn’t go unnoticed, and the snake in Viktor’s belly coiled its head up, smug and poised.

But then you did the thing he didn’t expect—twisting the serpent’s head off and tossing it aside with quiet defiance. You moved closer, nudging his chin with your cheek, your wide eyes pleading for his plea. His resolve shattered instantly.

He held you in place, his lips hovering just above yours. His whisper was longing, desperate. “Can I kiss you?”

A silent ‘yes.’ He only knew it was a ‘yes’ because he felt the movement of your lips on his—but he didn’t let you finish. He sank into your mouth with a disturbing, possessive urgency, pressing his tongue inside, licking your beautiful teeth, biting your beautiful skin.

He kept you locked in, pressing you down under the weight of his kiss. His mouth drooled into yours obscenely as he breathed heavily through his nose. It was the ugliest kiss he had ever given anyone—the ugliest anyone had ever taken from him. And yet, it was taken with such grace, such gratitude, that he wanted to give you everything else.

With inhuman strength, he pulled you both apart and placed his thumb on your lower lip, still glistening with his saliva. He traced it lazily, transfixed by the shimmering reflections on your skin. His heart swelled as he observed the redness blooming around the spots he had bitten. He wanted you bruised by his love—for everyone to see.

“What are you doing tonight?” Another plea, another promise, fell between you. Viktor cursed himself for being so open, so exposed. Because even though you knew nothing, you would understand this question.

“Watching Dexter and studying,” you said in an absent voice, your eyes following his, following the path of his thumb. The silence stretched between you, taut, until you felt the need to fill it. “Do you want to watch Dexter and study with me?”

“No.” The word escaped him in a croak, sung low and jagged, as if he had only just realised this wasn’t what he wanted at all. “Are you wet?” was all he wanted to know.

“What?” The word escaped you, surprised, almost appalled. Viktor braced himself for you to pull away, so he tightened his grip—but you didn’t. You just stared at him with those beautiful eyes on your beautiful face, your pupils dilating at the vulgar perversion of his question.

“I think you heard me. Are you wet right now?” He leaned in to whisper the filth into your ear, feeling his snake grow out a new head at the full-body shudder that went through you.

“What if I said no?” you asked shyly, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

“I would demand proof,” he murmured, holding the sides of your face as he poured his poison straight into your ear, his voice so quiet and rude that your eyes fluttered closed.

“What if I said yes?” You found some bravery in yourself, tracing your fingers along Viktor’s neck, just under the line of his hair. You smiled at the feeling of goosebumps rising under your fingertips. He couldn’t have this, of course.

“I would demand proof regardless,” he responded, his lips grazing the shell of your ear before licking it, slow and deliberate. He craned his head back to look at you. You appeared frightened and excited all at once, and if Viktor had no restraint, he would have run his fingers through your hair to soothe you. Instead, he placed a flat palm on your stomach, fingers pointing down, waiting for your permission.

He received a timid nod, but it wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

“You can check.” You closed your eyes and exhaled, as though allowing yourself to be judged for your crime. And as the crime was that of lust, Viktor, somewhere deep down, knew he didn’t really need proof, and that your punishment would be light. Because he didn’t truly want to punish you. He wanted to love you in an ugly way.

He slid his hand down, down beyond the waistband of your pants, down your lower belly straight to your womb, palming your cunt through the underwear and gasped, “Oh lásko, look at you.” His chest fluttered at the first touch, with joy and accomplishment, but also because he was right, when he slid the fabric to the side and ran his finger through your slit. Warmth dripped onto his fingertips, and he felt himself grow hard beneath the restraint of his own clothes.

“Do you really like me this much?” he cooed, so pleased that just one ugly kiss had managed to drench your knickers and make you feel so ashamed you nearly flinched away.

“Viktor—” You looked at the floor, your brows furrowed, your face burning from being so exposed, so naked. And you looked so, so beautiful.

“I am not mocking you,” he murmured, placing a reassuring hand on your cheek and caressing it gently. It was almost a praise, though he dared not say it yet. “What makes you want a cripple so much? Is it your heart that longs for me, your mind that thinks you can change me, or just your body?” he mused, revealing too much merely by asking.

You looked almost offended by how blunt he was about knowing what you wanted, just not knowing why. His fingers now parting you, playing at your entrance, teased you but you wouldn’t flinch. You just searched his face hesitantly and as Viktor grew tired of waiting, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them, mercilessly bumping your wall, forcing you to flinch. He really wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, and he really wanted to hear his name distorted by a breathy moan.

“Which… would be the worst?” Your breath fanned his face as you steadied yourself on his shoulders. Truly, you weren’t ready for any of the options to be soured.

Viktor thought for a moment, his fingers slowly retreating, almost absent-mindedly. When his answer was found, he pushed back in, smiling innocently, his face moving close to yours. “The first. The second,” he mused, another slow, unbearably so, thrust. “I could fuck out of you. The third, well…” A gentle kiss on your lips, almost loving. “I see no fault in the third.”

“Of course, you don’t,” you scoffed, your grip on his shoulders tightening with each minute. “And what brings you back to me over, and ah,” a gasp escaped your mouth when Viktor brushed his thumb over your clit. You closed your eyes and evened your breath. “Back to me. Heart, mind or… body?” you asked, your brow furrowed in concentration against Viktor’s efforts to throw you off course.

“Which would be the worst?” He quirked his lips against yours and chuckled at another concentrated huff. He could feel your unrelenting grip on his shoulders, was convinced that it would leave a mark, and it made his cock twitch in his pants. To be marked by this gentle creature, a dream.

“Any of them, without the others,” you quipped, your eyes shut. Viktor’s movements stilled at that. You had managed to surprise him. Again. Of course, you would want to devour him as much as he wanted to devour you. Eat you whole, spit out the bones and build a shrine out of them. Ugly.

He retreated his hand and chuckled at the muffled whine that followed. He licked his fingers clean once your eyelids fluttered open, making sure you were watching. Rude. But he was going to kiss you with this mouth.

His hands snaked back up your spine, your body pliant against his, providing him with warmth. His teeth and lips got back to work on the swell of yours, and you fell right into it, mouth open, when his tongue pushed itself down your throat as Viktor began his meal. “I will die if I don’t fuck you,” he rasped. So fucking dramatic over nothing, over just a kiss and some unfinished fingering, and a clipped conversation about what he wanted.

He could abandon it here. He could walk out; he could sit on your bed and just study and watch Dexter. He could drink his tea, already cold, he could make you blush all evening, bid you goodbye and go back to his grimy room to jerk off and fuck off. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please, I’ll be so good to you,” he prayed to you, your hands so warm on his waist as he kissed you till he was out of breath. “You don’t know what you are doing to me.” Pathetic, moronic wail escaped him. And he knew you only grew wetter and wetter, your lips getting hotter on him. Panting, you pulled him by the belt and walked the two of you over to the bed, leaving Viktor with no other support than yourself.

He had never rid himself of his clothes so fast. Everything he had on, tossed and crumpled by the bed, next to your own little pile. All the layers of the second, the third skin abandoned, his brace, his pants, his boxers, embarrassingly soaked with sweat and precum, when he crawled on top of you just to keep kissing you and biting your neck, leaving nasty marks everywhere. He panted, his own breath betraying him as your skin came in contact and Viktor whined simply at his cock rubbing against your thigh and he wanted more.

“If you want to stop, tell me.” Another raspy, absolutely dishonest, but a proper plea, asking for the complete opposite. Please, never ask me to stop. “Do you understand?” You nodded, again—not good enough. Your eyes so wide, he could barely see the colour. When you were splayed flat below him, he could see your heart twitching, your chest contracting. A minuscule movement, but he could see it.

“Words, I need to hear your words, lásko,” he growled, stunned by his own impatience.

“I understand.” A kindness in your voice enveloped him. He slid you down the mattress by the ankles, his cock rested against your slit. With clumsy hands he put on a condom, stole a pillow from under your head to support his bum leg and adjusted his crooked crouch. You had the audacity to chuckle at the commonality of his movements and he bit your calf in response.

Absolutely unhinged, you hooked your foot behind his neck, and he immediately loved the weight that pulled him down, steadied him, as he teased your entrance. You held a breath; he had forsaken the privilege of air long time ago.

The first thrust was just blissful. He could feel the crease on his forehead relaxing, his mouth opening, his jaw hanging heavily, just joy and warmth, him awash in it. He felt so full, so complete, yet it was you who was full of him as your bodies slotted together easily, differently to the last time, which left him feeling awkward and ashamed and unfinished.

You rested your hands on his hips, gripping the sharp angle of his bones, your fingernails leaving crescent marks that he would run his fingers over in the morning. “You are doing so well,” he whispered in awe, and it was honest, and you loved it, he felt it in his cock getting squeezed in a silent gratitude.

He felt his ugliness leaving him with each pump of his hips, each sloppy sound of your bodies bumping against each other, his cock twitching inside you, and he needed one more thing to make this even less ugly.

He brushed his thumb over your clit, stretching it, teasing you and taking in all your huffs and puffs, your contorting stomach muscles, your tightening walls. A longing look and an echoing question followed. “Do you love me?”

“Viktor, don’t be cruel,” you answered so fast, he almost retreated. How could you think so? A childlike curiosity creeped onto his face.

“I am not. I really ought to know. Just say yes or no,” Please, just say yes. He felt you twitch at the question, and it made him think he was right. But he could have also been completely deranged. Brain burnt by lust and all the ugly things.

“Viktor—” you pleaded at the loss of his thumb on you.

“I can feel you. Yes or no?” A hard thrust, right up your guts. You yelped, and he could see the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and the sight was something to behold, keep in the palace of his mind forever.

“Then, why are you asking?” You were ready for filth. For his erotic weirdness, for his awkwardness, for all the want he would suppress every time you interacted. You felt it all in his fleeting touch, in the warmth of his thigh when your naked toes rested against it idly, unintentionally, though very intentionally. But this was how you coax a cat. And this was not how cats responded.

“You will see,” he promised, more to himself. “Do you love me, now, in this moment, when I’m fucking you? Yes or no?” Another twitch of your cunt at ‘love’. He left himself unguarded, shielded only by the mould of your womb.

“Yes.” A tiny, shy ‘yes’. But it fell right into Viktor’s heart and there it grew into a big promise, and he would keep it and take care of it and cherish it.

His body bent in half, his mouth seeking yours. A sloppy kiss, painful, with teeth at your tender lip. Another, earnest, slow and careful. Another, quick and fleeting, before he found your ear. Between them, “I love you,” whispered back like a secret, like a prize for your struggle.

Your breaths grew frantic, you wanted to keep him close. You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging him in, so you could lick the sweat from his neck, bite it and claim it. Your leg slipped onto his hip, and you curled it around him, his bone digging into your thigh.

“Do you see? How it feels?” he rasped into your ear, gripping you tight. “To be loved while being fucked? Tell me how it feels.” Viktor moaned with each of his thrusts, holding back getting harder and harder. His cock getting more swollen. Your walls getting tighter.

“Amazing,” you whispered, pulling his mouth back to yours. “I love you.”

Viktor’s eyes rolled back into his skull. He slumped onto you, his hands snaking behind your waist, and he could feel your sweat merging with his as your chests pressed together. “I love you,” he cooed weakly. “You can come now, lásko.”

He felt your thighs clutch on his hips, a long spasm twisting your spine underneath him. You came with an orgasm wrenching breath out of your lungs, leg bending, blinding. The ‘I love you’ falling from your lips over and over again, and Viktor could finally let go and spill all his ugliness out. He came with a loud moan seconds after, his brain fucked out, his heart swollen, as he came loved for what he was.

He held you tight through it, chests heaving, when he felt a quiver and wetness on his cheek. “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

You sobbed onto his chest, hands caged in his arms as you tried to release them and wipe the tears away. “No, no,” you shook your head. “What is this… feeling?” It had no name. For Viktor, it was a dumbing bliss. He could cry too if he wasn’t so warm.

“How do you feel?” He wanted to know what it was like on the other side. No one ever told him, no one ever shared this with him.

“Hollow. Ah… fuck. Empty,” you struggled to find the words, trying them out on your tongue, but they felt wrong. “I feel like you took something… bad from me. And now I don’t know what to do with the space left—” you gasped between sobs as Viktor rolled you to the side and pulled your hair to expose your neck.

You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder. Tears fell on their own, and Viktor wanted to drink them and cry them out himself. When the sobs transformed into clipped breaths, and clipped breaths transformed into one long exhale, you asked carefully, “Viktor, you don’t really love me, do you?”

“Well, do you really love me?” His chest was swollen, his head heavy. He was triumphant. He was so invincible he had it in him to love you.

Silence, for a while. Viktor nudged you gently with his chin and whispered a soft command, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll be here.”

You looked at him, the practicality of it spreading a strange warmth in your belly. Wordlessly, you got up and disappeared, still naked as day, and Viktor watched your feet shuffle in the creak of the bathroom door. He got up, put on his underwear, and drank his cold tea in one go.

When you got out, a relief glimpsed through your face, as if you were expecting him to be gone. He waited for you with a cup of tea and a clean sweatshirt, beckoning you to slide into it. Once you both had a singular piece of clothing on, he pulled you back into bed and cuddled sweetly into you. “How do you feel now?” he asked, running his fingers through your hair.

“I feel… like I really need you to love me right now,” you let it slide out. Even though your sweatshirt shielded you from the chill of the room, your soul was still completely bare and shivering. And Viktor loved this nudity, the weirdness of it, the feeling of belonging it gave him.

He found that is was his hands that were lingering now, that the tender thought of the morning coffee was no longer distorted by fear, the quiet and the silence became comfortable in a good way. He felt so wanted, so beautiful in your eyes. He felt all the right things and none of the wrong things. His ugly snake was skinned and turned into a beautiful object. In this beautiful space only beautiful words seemed fitting. “I really do love you right now.”

[reignpage]

Piercer!Geto

Manx Norton: going over the limit

Contents: 18+ mdni, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, blowjob, deepthroating, throat fucking, swallowing, marks the end of their pre-relationship story

“We need to talk,” you say. 

Geto looks up from his journal, slow and steady like he knew you would come here and at this time. He sets his pen down. His hair is tied up completely today and there are dark bags under his eyes that you can’t bear to look at, so you don’t. Instead, you settle into the seat, without being asked, and you cross your legs and your arms. 

You mean business. 

“Good afternoon, pretty. You look gorgeous.” 

Sighing, you ignore that fluttering in your stomach. There’s no point in getting carried away by his charm; it’s his instinct to be sweet, otherwise he wouldn’t have as many clients as he does. But you’re aware, faintly and right at the very back of your mind, that his words have a bite to them — they’re complimentary whilst also accusatory. 

“I need an explanation, Geto,” you state firmly. 

His left eye twitches. It’s not a flicker or a nervous tick, it’s a flinch. You have the power, just like your sister said, when you were throwing her shoes out of the window, and she was offering advice as a means to fight your murderous intent off. It didn’t work.

There’s always something shifting between you, something unstable, and it’s been difficult to manage — you’re new to relationships, so new to venturing outside your comfort zone that you’ve relied so much on him to guide you. But you’ve also had to step up and make decisions for yourself. 

Your friends weren’t very helpful; they insisted you quit or bring a new man to the studio to make him jealous, and as tempting as it is to be petty, you know they wouldn’t solve anything. It’ll just make you feel bad and icky. 

So, you’ve chosen the high road, providing him the opportunity to share his side, to explain why he let you down once again and why everything between you had been built on a lie.

Nodding, he opens a drawer and takes out a familiar sheet of paper. Then, in a conversational tone, he asks, “What do you see?”

“It’s my CV,” you answer. Truthfully, you have no clue what game he’s playing; there’s something in particular he’s looking for but all you see is the whites of the paper and the lines of ink. 

“Look at it from the perspective of an employer looking to fill a hole in their establishment,” is his reply. 

You’ve heard that tone often, every day, in fact. It’s the tone he uses on clients when he needs to go over payment plans, or on suppliers when he needs to negotiate a new contract. But he’s never used it on you. Distant and devoid of attachment, it makes you feel uneasy. 

Fiddling with a loose thread on your sweater, you furrow your brows as you read over the paper. Geto is leaning back on the chair, hands folded on his lap, the pinnacle of confidence. That used to be so attractive. Now, you’re just a little peeved off. You were supposed to be the confident one; you came here on your own volition, even prepared a speech you practised with your sister.

You should have known he’d sweep the rug from under you. 

Frustrated, you groan and smack the sheet. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to see! I have no time for this.”

Smiling reassuringly, Geto doesn’t bat an eye at your outburst and instead, begins a lecture, “What I saw was a CV lacking in relevant work experience. In fact, you had very little experience. Your most recent job was in high school, when you worked as a librarian’s assistant for a day. The other things on there were debate club and a certificate for being a neighbourhood ‘sweetheart’, and I’m not even sure what that means.”

“Oh.”

To your embarrassment, he laughs. A blush is growing on your face and suddenly you’re very aware of how some strands of hair are sticking to your forehead uncomfortably, how the sweater you’re wearing is a little scratchy and that maybe, just maybe, you’ve overreacted terribly.

Maybe you should have confronted him sooner. Perhaps just as soon as you overheard him tell Miguel that your sister owes him a favour for hiring you. However, in your defence, you were feeling a little hurt from having been left at the restaurant — you waited for an hour, watching people pass by and give you sympathetic looks as you sent text after text to a man too busy with a client to realise time passed by. 

A week has gone by since then, and you haven’t come to work at all, you dodged every text and call from Geto and ignored him when he showed up on campus and had the nerve to get upset that you’re hanging out with a classmate. Your sister tried to defend him, and herself, but you weren’t willing to hear her out. On many occasions, you’ve told her to butt out, to leave you to make mistakes and get hurt, because it’s your prerogative. 

She can’t protect you from everything and the more she tries, the harder you all learn that lesson. 

“Okay, fine. So, my CV sucks a little,” you huff, “but you should have never hired me under the pretence that I was good enough when the real reason was because my sister asked you. It’s unfair on me. I wanted to earn this job on my own and you two went behind my back to manipulate this whole situation!”

The man sighs and leans forward. You smell his cologne and it’s muddling your mind a little, so you lean back, away from him. He notices. “I understand you’re upset. And I’m sorry to have colluded with your meddling sister. But it really isn’t what you think, pretty girl.”

You hate how patient he sounds, like you’re the crazy one. And maybe you are. You don’t know anymore. In fact, you’re starting to think you know nothing at all. 

“Yes, it’s true she asked me to give you a job. But all I promised her was that I’ll give you a chance, like everyone else. And when you came for the interview, I thought a lot of things. One was that you are so different from your sister. Different from the people that tend to come through the door, from me. You’re much brighter, much warmer and lighter than everyone I’ve ever seen.”

There’s something in his eyes, a sincerity that makes you breathless. All the air has left the room and you’re leaning in without even realising it. Everything that he says is entrancing, he’s a pied piper playing a tune that fills your soul with a fire you can’t put out, and he’s leading you closer to him, away from everything you’ve ever known, away from safety and reason. 

You’re not afraid. 

“I had a look at your CV and thought, there’s no way I would hire you, not even if she begged or blackmailed me — I take great pride in my studio, I turned it from a little backroom space with flickering lights to what it is now. My clients trust me to provide quality service from beginning to end, and I will not let a woman, no matter how beautiful, get in the way of that.”

Geto reaches for your cheek, like he can’t help himself, and you let him. His hands are slightly calloused but otherwise smooth and soft. And that smile, the polite one he always wears, is gone. In its place is something that reflects how you feel, how you’ve both been feeling for a long time now. A frustration against the distance between you, the boundary that’s erected itself between employer and employee, boss and receptionist, and a man who’s seen it all versus a girl who knows so little. 

You aren’t meant to be. Everything about this relationship is wrong, it’s inadvisable, foolish, like Hades and Persephone, or Eros and Psyche. It’s a tragic love story doomed from the very beginning, the kind people talk about centuries later with a mix sense of awe and pity. You know all about it, have read so many variations of the same story with the same individuals who think they know everything, who believe they’re different, special and that the Fates will smile fondly on them. 

Except neither you nor Suguru are under the impression that you’re different, that this will turn out differently and that the cards you’ve been dealt are from a separate, fresh deck. You both know you’re playing a dangerous game. 

Neither of you care. 

“But then I talked to you. And you were so witty, so undeterred by my unrelenting questions, and so willing to learn as you go. You had the confidence of someone who’s worked a thousand jobs, who’s met a thousand people that, despite knowing better, I wanted to hire you on the spot.”

Carefully, with your eyes fluttering shut at the tentative touch of your skin, you breathe out, “Suguru, we shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

When your eyes open, you see his gorgeous, tortured eyes fall to your lips and you know what you want. 

Your lips meet his.

This kiss is so similar to the one you shared that night, but oh so new. It seems so long ago now, and when you feel his plush lips devour yours it feels like this is new to both of you and it urges you to push in further. His tongue touches yours and you don’t hesitate to intertwine it, to explore all that he’s laying out for you. 

Gasping for breath, you pull away with little success before he’s grasping the back of your neck and urging you over the desk, kneeing the papers there and hearing the pens and stapler fall to the floor with a dull clatter, you sit onto the desk and you hear his chair slam against the wall when he stands to press himself closer to you. He kisses you again. 

“Things work differently with me,” he says in between pecks to your lips. 

Whilst his mouth moves to your jaw, sucking at the skin by your ear, you giggle. “I know. My sister says you like control. Something about Christian Grey.”

Chuckling in your ear before nipping you there, he admits, “I’m not as insane as him. In truth, I don’t really know what I am, but I know it’s more intense than what most men ask for.”

“That’s okay, Suguru. We can work it out together, step by step.”

He kisses your pulse point. You moan. Goosebumps are rising along your arms; your back is arching to press as much of you closer to him. You’re barely capable of creating a single train of thought, you feel so lightheaded you don’t register how your legs are wrapping around his hips. 

“My smart girl,” Suguru muses against your skin. 

Your legs are wrapped around his hip, pulling him close until you can feel the bulge there push against your core. With a roll of your hips, the zipper of his jeans nudges your bundle of nerves. You gasp. And you seek out that pleasure again with slow, gradual grinds. 

Breathlessly, you say, “Suguru…”

He’s scraping his teeth against your pulse point, one hand kneading your thigh and the other holding himself up. Filling your senses, all you can think about is him and how there’s a growing pressure within that’s dying to be released. 

“Go on, pretty girl. Take what you need.” Tightening your legs around his hips, you grind harder, frustrated that there are layers between you. Your arch your back, chest rubbing against his. Like he knows what you want, his hand finds your breast, squeezing and groping. “No bra? Are you sure you came here to talk, angel?”

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, you cry out, body tightening as that coil inside snaps. You spasm, grinding hastily to draw out your pleasure. It’s much better than you any could have given yourself and you’re addicted. Hand flying to his hair, you thread it through, brushing out his hair tie until his silky hair cascades down.

He groans. 

In a blink of an eye, you’re being pulled and pushed down onto your knees. You grip his thighs, blinking fast as you desperately try to regain your bearings. 

“You’re asking for trouble, sweet thing. Can you handle it?” Suguru asks, a challenge glinting in his eyes as he smiles down at you. 

You bite your lip, thighs squeezing to subdue the regrowing aching there. With a sudden bravery, your hands make their way up, revelling in the marble like strength in his muscles before they find his zip. 

Hesitating, you feel something holding you back, an instinct within awakening. Awkwardly, you question, “May I?”

His smile widens, surprise flickering in his eyes, and then he’s threading his hands through your hair. It’s a rewarding pat, one full of warmth, and it’s empowering. 

“Such a good girl. You’re a perfect little angel, aren’t you?” He coos. “Of course you may, my pretty girl. Go on, go at your own pace.”

Nodding, you unzip his jeans, tugging it down with his boxers. And what springs out leaves your mouth watering. It’s huge and intimidating. It’s bad enough that he’s well-endowed, but nothing about him is typical. He’s different to the average man in every way. 

Starting with the metal piercing the underside of his dick, emerging through the head. 

Seeing the horrified look on your face, he chuckles, the hair soothing your head delving down to pinch your chin. Unperturbed by your reaction, likely expecting it, he explains, “I got it done a year ago, mostly as a dare. It took around nine weeks to heal and yes, it did hurt.”

“B-but I-I can’t,” you stammer and shake your head, adding, “there’s just n-no way.”

Suguru sighs, thumb grazing your cheek. “You don’t need to. I understand this is too much too soon, but I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. You’re more than capable.”

You don’t want to disappoint him. And you want to prove you can do whatever you set your mind to. Recalling one of your sister’s drunken admissions, you know the trick is to pinch your thumb, so you don’t gag, to breathe through your nose and take a little at a time. 

“Okay, okay. I can do it.”

He gathers your hair and keeps them out of the way. Slowly, you wrap your hand around the base, gasping at the way your fingers barely touch. With no particular method in mind, you explore his length, thumb following a vein from bottom to top. He’s hot in your hand, almost burning, and the tip is shining with what you know to be pre-cum. 

It’s pearly white and you can’t wait to know what it tastes like; you lean in and scoop up the drop with your tongue. You both groan. 

Salty, you mull the taste over. It isn’t bad. And suddenly, you no longer feel scared. Your tongue fiddles with the bent metal barbell, surprisingly not minding the cold sensation against your hot tongue. 

“That’s it,” he groans, grip on your hair tightening. 

You widen your jaw, suckling the head, tongue pressing against the slit before it circles around, grinding the barbell back and forth. He groans louder, deep breaths vibrating through the room. 

When you push in further, you make the mistake of doing it too fast. You gag, eyes tearing up. 

“Slowly, pretty. Slowly. There’s no rush, okay?”

Coughing, you nod weakly, feeling embarrassed. Recovering your breath, you go back in, slower. Eventually, you work up a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, taking more and more of him but never quite making it further than halfway. 

Both hands on your head, he soothes your tears away with his thumb before he advises, “Relax your throat, sweet thing. I’ll guide you, is that alright?”

You tap his thighs twice in a yes. 

And then he’s pushing in, more and more until he’s filling your throat, muscles stretching to take him in. Tearing up once more, you mentally swallow that panic rising, the claustrophobia within forcing your nails into his bare thighs. 

“You’re doing so well, angel. So good -ngh- for me, hmm?”

Suguru pulls back, the piercing scraping your tongue. And then he pushes back in. Again and again, he builds up to a rhythm, allowing you to get used to it, before he gives you more of him. 

This is so overwhelming, the feeling of his piercing bumping at the back of your throat, the ache in your jaw at the stretch, and the salty taste filling your senses. All you can see and feel and hear and taste is Suguru. You can’t get enough of him. 

So, when he bottoms out, your lips tickling his skin, your eyes roll to the back of your head just as his do. 

“I’m going to cum, pretty. Do you want to pull out?” He asks, pleasure written all over his face, the veins in his arm bulging at his barely constrained urge to fuck your throat freely. Knowing that he’s so in control, so concerned over you, when he could use you how he pleased, could take what he wants makes you so wet. 

You blink rapidly. 

“No? Are you sure you -ha- can take it? I won’t let you spit it out,” he warns. 

Sucking your cheeks in, you suction him closer. His cock head is rubbing the back of your throat, piercing burning, and with a shallow thrust, he’s cumming down your throat. 

Hot liquid fills your mouth. 

Suguru pulls out and you swallow the thick cream he leaves in your mouth. Your head slumps against his thigh, gasping for breath, heaving like you’ve just ridden a rollercoaster. 

Hands tucking themselves under your arms, he lifts you onto his lap just as he sits back on his chair, boxers pulled up before you even realise what position you’re in now. 

He rubs your back, muttering encouraging words about how perfect you were, how amazing you did, and how he knew you’d do well for him. 

“Open,” he orders, bottom lip pulled down by his thumb. He inspects your mouth and smiles at what he sees. “Good girl.”

And then he’s kissing you, tasting both yours and his essence. 

“No wonder Miguel gave me a funny look when I asked how many piercings you have,” you whisper against his lips, a high pulsing through your veins. 

Suguru chuckles. “He’s a good guy, did all my piercings. Eased all my concerns every time and I knew I wanted him in my studio.”

You nod. 

Your eyes are heavy and you’re hiding your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, and pondering the change between you. You’ve accepted that you’re entering an unconventional relationship, that he’s going to introduce you to a world none of your friends had seen a glimpse of, but you won’t be navigating it by yourself. 

He’ll lead you just as he had when you first started working here. 

Softly, gently and with so much patience, you’ll be free to stumble as often as you need until you know who you are, what you want, and what you need to be.

“Get some sleep, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

Is the last thing you hear before you fall deeper into sleep in his arms.

[romerona]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it).

However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, setting the stage for a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: kids being kids.

The second encounter.

Cregan Stark lingered by the sweets spread, trying his best to fade into the carved wooden panels that lined Dragonstone’s grand banquet hall. The lavish celebration for Prince Aemond’s second name day was in full swing, the chamber brimming with lords and ladies draped in silks and velvets. Overhead, crystal chandeliers cast dancing lights across the polished floors, while the mingling scents of spiced meats, honey cakes, and salt-laced sea air reminded Cregan just how far he was from the North.

He would not have chosen to be here of his own accord—his father, Lord Rickon, had insisted upon it. The North had to show deference to the crown, and so here he was, a wolf trapped among gaudy southern birds. The swirl of vibrant fabrics and the swirl of conversation grated on him, making him feel more foreign with each passing moment.

He absently picked at an apple tart, gaze drifting around the hall. Laughter rolled in waves, bright silks shimmered, and voices overlapped like waves against a rocky shore. Then he saw you.

You, just eight summers old, stood on the dance floor, your silver hair braided and held in place by glittering dragon clips. A genial lord—perhaps one of your father’s many courtiers—guided you through a stately dance, each step practised and careful. Your gown of pale red silk, shot through with gold thread, flared as you twirled, catching the light as if it were spun from Dragonfire. Beside you, Princess Rhaenyra clapped politely, regal and composed, yet it was you who drew every eye, all luminous joy and childlike grace.

You seemed taller than he recalled—though still slight in that dainty, southern way. Everyone knew that you and your elder sister were the King’s favorites, and your presence commanded a sort of reverence. Lords angled for a moment of your attention, ladies curtsied and cooed with honeyed compliments. It was as though the court revolved around you.

From her seat by the King, Queen Alicent watched you dance and laugh. Her mouth curved in a careful smile, but even at ten, Cregan could sense it was a mask. The queen, he suspected, did not relish sharing Viserys’s affections with the daughters who stole so much of his warmth.

He glowered at the thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Honestly, what made you so remarkable? You were willful, well-pampered, prone to speak your mind, and insufferable too, if anyone were to ask him. You weren’t that special. Plenty of other children had those traits, too. And yet—no matter how he tried to turn his attention elsewhere, his gaze kept straying back to you, spinning in the lord’s gentle arms, your soft laughter rising above the music as if it had a life all its own.

Cregan stiffened the moment you approached, his posture snapping to an almost militant straightness as though he were preparing for a lecture rather than a conversation. The mischievous gleam in your lilac eyes immediately set his jaw tight—it was the same infuriating spark that had earned him countless reprimands from his father for failing to act with proper decorum around you. You sank into a delicate curtsy, the motion practised and graceful, yet the teasing quirk of your lips betrayed any semblance of genuine respect.

“Princess,” he greeted you with a curt bow, voice clipped. “What an unexpected honour.”

Your tone dripped with feigned gravity as you replied, “The honour is all mine, my lord. Stumbling upon the northern wolf lurking beside the sweetmeats… One might almost think you’ve been tamed.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed in irritation, a flash of defiance sparking in his grey eyes.

“A wolf doesn’t require taming, Your Highness,” he countered. “I stand exactly where I choose.”

You tilted your head toward the table piled high with sweetmeats and pastries, your voice light with false innocence. “And this is where you choose to linger, Lord Stark? Tell me, do the pastries in Winterfell rival these in quality?”

His retort was clipped. “They’re simpler, yes—but far more to my taste than this… southern absurdity.”

You drew a theatrical gasp, hand pressing over your heart. “How you wound me, my lord. Are you implying that life in the North eclipses all else?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “I do not imply. I state fact.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief, your voice carrying an air of mock civility. “Well, I ought not to take this as an offence. After all, it’s remarkable that you manage the common tongue so gracefully, considering your… brutish northern customs. Tell me, Lord Stark, do you and your kin still howl to your old gods beneath trees, hoping for a reply?”

Cregan’s hand tightened around the tart, the edges of the crust crumbling under the force of his grip. His jaw locked, and his stormy gaze fixed on you with a warning glare. “Since we’re trading such pleasant observations, Princess, perhaps we should turn our attention to dragons—or rather, your conspicuous lack of one.”

The teasing light that danced in your lilac eyes extinguished instantly. Your expression sharpened, the flush of indignation colouring your cheeks.

“What did you say?” you demanded, your voice like the edge of a blade.

Cregan didn’t flinch, folding his arms as he leaned slightly forward, his tone steady and deliberate.

“I said,” he repeated, drawing out each word with an almost casual air, “that a Targaryen princess without a dragon… is painfully ordinary.”

Your entire body stiffened at his words, and your hands curled into tight fists at your sides. Your face burned, the flush deepening as you glared up at him with fiery intensity.

“You will take that back,” you hissed, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

“I will not,” he replied simply, meeting your gaze without so much as a blink. It was a standoff, the air between you crackling like kindling set alight, neither willing to back down.

Before he could utter another syllable, you thrust both hands against his chest. The force of the shove made him stagger backwards, one heel catching on the table’s wooden frame. In a desperate bid for balance, he reached out, only for his fingers to catch the trailing hem of your fine silk gown.

The sound of ripping fabric tore through the air, followed by a cacophony of disaster as you both tumbled backwards onto the table. The grand centrepiece—a towering, intricately decorated cake—collapsed under your combined weight, sending frosting, crumbs, and sugar flowers flying in every direction.

For a moment, the hall was silent, the music grinding to a halt as every pair of eyes turned toward the spectacle. The only sound was the slow, steady drip of frosting onto the polished floor.

Cregan blinked up at the chaos, realizing he was sprawled awkwardly amid a sea of ruined confections. Beside him, you were similarly dishevelled, your silver hair streaked with frosting, your gown torn and stained with layers of cream and crumbs.

“You… absolute… oaf!” you hissed through clenched teeth, scrambling to sit up, your lilac eyes blazing with fury. With surprising agility, you scrambled onto him, flailing your small fists in a chaotic flurry.

“You shoved me!” Cregan barked, raising his arms to fend off your flurry of tiny fists. Your attempts to pummel him were more chaotic than effective, but you were determined.

“You insulted me!” you countered, your voice sharp with indignation.

“And you called me a brute!” Cregan retorted, his voice rising in frustration as he seized your wrists, halting your frantic blows.

“That’s because you are a brute!” you snapped, wrenching your arms free with a sharp tug. Your small frame trembled with indignation as you raised a tiny fist, ready to land what you clearly thought would be a devastating blow—but before you could make contact, a broad-shouldered knight, Ser Harwin Strong, intervened.

In one swift motion, he scooped you up and hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of grain, preventing any further skirmish while you continued to struggle, your fury undiminished. His expression was caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Unhand me, Ser Harwin!” you demanded, still reaching out in an attempt to land your blow, your face aflame with indignation. But Ser Harwin only tightened his hold, keeping you securely aloft as your small fists flailed at empty air.

“Cregan.”

He froze the moment that familiar voice reached his ears—low, firm, and unmistakably displeased. Heart thudding, Cregan scrambled upright, hastily brushing crumbs and frosting from his tunic in a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of dignity, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he prepared to face his father, Lord Rickon Stark, whose stern grey eyes were now fixed on his son’s every move.

And then, beyond the circle of onlookers, came the voice of King Viserys. The instant he called your name, your thrashing ceased as if a spell had been broken. One fist remained clenched mid-swing, but the sound of your father’s stern summons froze you in place. You wriggled once more on Ser Harwin Strong’s shoulder before going limp with a huff of frustration, clearly aware that further resistance would only make matters worse.

The great hall seemed to hold its breath as King Viserys stepped forward, his frown deepening at the sight of the battered dessert table and his frosting-smeared daughter. Guards and courtiers parted to let him pass, and in the stillness that followed, every eye was fixed on you and the young Stark lord who stood before you, equally dishevelled.

The King’s gaze swept over the scene: the shattered remnants of the centrepiece cake, frosting streaked across the floor, and two children—one caked in sugar and silk, the other in crumbs and frayed northern dignity—standing stiffly before him. His expression shifted from confusion to thinly veiled disappointment as the whispers around the hall grew.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried the commanding weight of the crown. “What in the Seven Hells is the meaning of this?”

Ser Harwin carefully lowered you to the ground as though handling a volatile brew. You straightened your spine as best you could, brushing futilely at the frosting streaked across your gown. Despite your bedraggled appearance, you jutted your chin up stubbornly, attempting to smudge away stray frosting with all the dignity you could muster—though you succeeded only in spreading more crumbs along your sleeve. You shot a fiery glare at Cregan, who still looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Lord Rickon Stark chose that moment to step forward, clearing his throat. “Your Grace, my son—”

Viserys raised a hand, silencing him without a word. All eyes were on the King, and he, in turn, focused on the two of you with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance.

“Princess,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You will speak first.”

You gave an indignant huff, shooting another scornful glance at Cregan before reluctantly turning to face your father.

“He insulted me grievously, Father—told me I was ordinary because I do not yet ride a dragon!” Her lilac eyes flashed, and she swiped another glob of cake from her hair with a wrinkled nose. “So I merely defended my honour.”

“Aye, by launching yourself at me,” Cregan muttered, though he tried to appear calm, there was no hiding the stiff set of his shoulders—or a dollop of frosting sliding down his cheek. “And need I remind you, Princess, that you provoked me first by comparing my prayers to… howling at the moon?”

A chorus of hushed snickers rippled around them. Viserys’s brow lifted, and for a brief moment, it seemed he fought off a faint smirk.

“I see,” he said, folding his arms. “So, if I follow correctly, you have reduced a royal banquet to a frosted battlefield… because of a few sharp words?”

At that, you set your jaw stubbornly. “Words are not so harmless, Father. They carry weight, and his were particularly unkind.”

“And what of your words?” Cregan interjected, his chin lifting in quiet defiance. “They were none too gentle either, Your Grace.”

You flicked your gaze back to him, a sharp retort already on your tongue. “Oh, do hush, northern brute. I’d not have wasted my breath if you hadn’t been so—”

“Enough.” Viserys’s voice rang out, firm and commanding, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. The authority in his tone stilled you both, silencing further outbursts.

“You are both of noble blood,” he said, his gaze hard as it swept between the two of you. “This—” he gestured at the ruins of the cake, the scattered fruit, and the stunned courtiers “—is not how nobility ought to conduct itself. Especially not before half the realm’s finest lords and ladies.”

Your cheeks burned hotter than dragonfire, but your pride refused to crumble entirely. “Father, I—”

Viserys’s gaze hardened, silencing your protest before it fully formed. “You will each apologize. Properly.”

Your mouth opened to argue, but his iron stare left no room for negotiation. Your teeth clenched, but with a long-suffering sigh, you turned to Cregan, your lips pressed into a thin line.

“It seems,” you began, each word forced through your stubborn pride, “I owe you an apology.” Your gaze flicked to your father, then back to the northern boy. “By the King’s command, of course.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he met your glare. He gave a shallow bow, his voice measured and formal.

“And I apologize for my words, Princess. However,” he added, unable to stop himself, “they were not spoken without reason.”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as though you might lunge at him again. But instead, you stood straighter, fixing him with a withering look. The silence stretched between you, heavy and sharp, until your father cleared his throat pointedly.

Both of you turned away at last, but the exchange between your gazes spoke louder than any words: I despise you.

And his? The feeling is mutual.

Helloooo, I hope you all enjoyed this one mess lol. But Oh, do I love making this. Also, thank you so much for the support, the likes, comments and reblogs, you all really make me have so much motivation.

<3 Thank you so muchhhh.

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[slowd1ving]

STRESS, STRAIN: THE TALE OF YOUNG MODULUS AND A FORLORN PHYSICS STUDENT ゜゜・BLADE DRABBLE

Dealing with a stalker roommate? No problem, Kafka's got the perfect solution: staying with the unapproachable and cold Blade. Teetering the thin line between sleeping on the streets and facing his rumored wrath, it sure is hard keeping your balance when the engineering student is anything but civil. gender-neutral, physics major reader paired with college au + band au (will come into play in another part I swear) see here for some basic designs for them warnings: some violence? consumption of alcohol, arguments, blade being a dick, college au wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✧ Perhaps it’s lucky that your acquaintance Kafka finds you at your most dire of moments, or perhaps it’s your Achilles-level misfortune finally catching up to you. Dorm changes aren’t particularly infrequent, sure—but dealing with a stalkerish, obsessive roommate is definitely story-material for when you’re downing shots. Literature major Kafka isn’t one to turn her magnanimous back on whom she considers a friend, even if said friend is currently wallowing their sorrows away by complaining about the lack of available dorms to make the switch and drowning in hard liquor.  ✧ Saviour Kafka, who plays for notorious metal group Stellaron Hunters (she’s a suave electric violinist), finds this a perfect opportunity to help out the cute guitarist from the rival Trailblazers! Her deft fingers are already sending a message to her pinned contact and drummer: Bladie, finally found you a roommate. Respond. It should be okay to put two college students (in bands infamous for their tense rivalry on– and off–campus) together in the proverbial lab rat cage; after all, neither of you are aware of who the other is behind the elaborate masks. It’s not like there’s a deficit of music groups at the Astral Institute—so who will ever know? Don’t ask how she knows the face behind the pretty Venetian mask. She won’t ever tell.   ✧ Honestly, she’s not sure how the bad blood started (she helped spread the rumours). All she cares about is doing you a solid!

“You think the streets will accept me for who I am?” Even with your head slumped over your forearms and the smell of cheap vodka clinging to your clothes, Kafka thinks you look naively charming in the dim amber lights of a bar pretending to be upscale. And by naive, she means very naive—for real, how can a physics major be so gullible as to not question their roommate’s deranged tendencies until it’s far too late? It’s hilarious. 

She’d dissect how this mood is perfectly, pathetically fallacious to your situation; yet her mind is too honed in on the buzz of her phone as Blade finally replies to her text. 

“Kafka,” you bawl into a stack of papers you’d salvaged from your ransacked dorm. “What if the asphalt doesn’t like me when I’m sleeping in the streets?”

21:48 > ok. 

Kafka, being an expert at metaphorical and allegorical interpretation, translates Blade-speak easily: let’s discuss this tomorrow, please and thank you. 

“Found you a roomie,” she murmurs delightedly, watching with her hawk-keen eyes as you sit up drunkenly. 

“That was fast, even for you,” you wipe your eyes cautiously—still wracked with the occasional hiccup. “Who is it?”

“Blade. You know him?”

✧ That sobers you right up.  Of course you know him. Nicknamed Blade for how cold and unfriendly he is, you’ve personally seen him in engineering lectures: making people shiver from just his gaze alone, and on one notable occasion, making his project partner cry after his infamously harsh criticism of her proposal. It’s common knowledge that he practises various martial arts, but the rumours that circle around him like vultures whisper of how he uses them on the streets. But whilst you doubt the reliability of the latter talk, it’s hard not to picture his hands dripping sanguine when his eyes glint the same shade.  ✧ Honestly, how bad could it be? It’s not like you have any other options unless you want to wake up with your roommate standing over you while you sleep again. After her, you doubt he’ll be any more of a walking nightmare.  ✧ Perfect!—Kafka is a bit too enthusiastic at your reluctant nodding, but you cast it from your mind as you pack your stuff with Caelus and Stelle standing behind you like a pair of twin guard dogs. One good thing about this is that you can finally take your guitar with you (rather than storing it safely at Dan Heng’s room) to the apartment—because of course he’s too good for the dorms. Though, after experiencing your batshit roommate, you really can’t blame him for avoiding this area.  ✧ Maybe, just maybe, the rumours about him being insane too are false and you can finally have a peaceful night’s rest without fearing for your life. 

Yeah right. You hate him. You genuinely hate the man over in the room next door. The passage of time on your phone indicates it’s only been a week since you showed up with five boxes of belongings and a nervous smile on your lips—but the agony you’re going through prolongs this mental period to eternity. 

Sisyphus embodies futility for evermore; as do you when you’re knocking on his door for the nth time to beg him to quiet down on his drums. The timings are so meticulous and calculative that you’re sure you could work out a linear sequence to this situation if you tried. 

Exhausted from the laboratory job you’re juggling on top of band practice and reading on Dirac notations? No problem—Blade’s busy expressing how you feel in terms of loud crashing and banging that you hate to admit is (very technically) skilled.

Recalling your first encounter—your nervous smile and his cold indifference as you moved into the room next to his—it’s not hard to imagine that he’d be inconsiderate of you. Those red eyes had slid right past you like oil on water: judging you to be not worth his time to even greet properly. In fact, it’s like he’s trying to chase you out so you leave him alone for good. 

The deep mahogany door swings inward, and you’re left facing an unimpressed, scowling Blade. With the way he’s clutching those drumsticks, you’d think he was about to skewer you—but you’re a bit too preoccupied with how he’s only sporting a pair of loose navy trousers that cascade languidly from his hips. 

“What do you want?” Laconic as ever, he gets straight to the point with his question—as if he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve come knocking. Just like this morning, just like last night, the night before, the night before yesterday’s—every damned night is a problem. 

“For you to invest in soundproofing,” you scowl back, too tired to keep up the fragile facade of politeness. At least when you practise with the electric guitar, you can easily hook it up to a pair of headphones and protect the sanctity of silence elsewhere. Actually, you don’t think he even knows your guitar exists with how considerate you are of your asshole roommate. 

“Why should I?” he crosses his arms, looking directly down at you. If you looked closely, the slight stretch of his lips resembled a smirk—but you’re definitely mistaken, since the man never so much as smiles. The cold expression accompanying his crude words sums up his thoughts: if you don’t like it, beg Kafka for whatever other solution she has. 

His inky hair sways from where it’s tied back, and you resist the urge to yank it until he sees sense. 

“For better quality of life,” you grit out. 

Those eyes turn into sardonic crescents. “I’m good.”

And the door is shut. 

✧ Fortunately, you’ve managed to fall asleep in the middle of the practise room before on countless occasions; tuning the heavy thumping comes easy after a while when you’re exhausted and practically dead on your feet. The problem is during the day—doing your assigned reading and writing up results from practical work comes much harder when you’re constantly accompanied by the rhythmic percussion of a madman who favours metal. It gets so rowdy that you seriously consider whether he’s part of the Stellaron Hunters and knows you’re a Trailblazer—it would make sense, after all, if he was just feeling extra spiteful. However, from the trembling students claiming to be his previous roommates, this is just common treatment: him basically telling them to beat it and never return.  ✧ Two can play at that game. Upon complaining to Kafka of his (rage-inducing) musical tendencies, she suggests that you get back at him with your electric guitar. Don’t ask her how she knows, no she’s not trying to instigate and watch the chaos—Kafka attempts to reassure you. You don’t trust the shady writer one bit, but both Data Analysis major Dan Heng and Environmental Studies student March 7th give the plan the go ahead. If you’re not mistaken, you can hear a touch of personal grief in the normally composed Dan Heng’s voice—something so poignantly irritated you wonder what the story between them is.  ✧ Contrary to his nonchalant attitude, it’s clear he’s annoyed by the loud chords that buzz through the apartment. As soon as he picks up his drumsticks, you plug the guitar to the amps and thoroughly mess with him. You know enough from Caelus’ repertoire to place each genre of music Blade starts to play (which is limited to metal). No problem—you play various styles that decidedly aren’t metal and are so discordant with his own tempo you can’t help but keep a grin on your lips. He’s much too stubborn to knock on your door, but the irritated twitch of his eyes in the kitchen belies just how aggravating this is. And when you know he’s scrawling down notes for his classes, that’s when you’re practising your metal riffs and playing around with the fretboard. If you’re feeling particularly nice, you’ll play along to some darkwave gothic music—something relatively more calm—but these occasions are few and far between. 

Chromatic eyes pierce your back while you deftly chop vegetables for your dinner. Really, now’s the best time to do work: when you’re busy with cooking and not insistent on plaguing him with jarring melodies. For someone so logical when it comes to his meticulous classwork, he sure doesn’t seem it as he leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen—sipping water and just staring at you while you Julienne an onion. 

You shoot him a withering glance as you toss the slices into a bowl on the side, and he glares at you with a matched fervour. If it weren’t for the fact that you literally don’t have anywhere else to go—Caelus doesn’t even have a couch for you to sleep on—you’d have moved out a long time ago. 

It’s a rustic space: sage green cabinets filled with charming, mismatched plates and cups; glossy white counters that house various herbs and the occasional plant; a lacquered table in the middle that has a vase holding a singular dried flower. An orange lily—still retaining a vibrancy that conceals just how long it’s been there. You wouldn’t have expected this style of decor from him, but at the same time, you doubt it’s his influence so much as Kafka’s. 

“Do you have a problem?” you probe icily, turning back to where you’re slicing a carrot into thin matchsticks; if there was a god somewhere, you’d hope it could transfigure the man behind you into the root vegetable you’re enthusiastically chopping. 

“No.” And when he speaks again, he’s right behind you. There’s a sink to your left, but he’s much too close as his breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. Affronted, you turn around; only to watch as his eyes widen minutely, glass of water slipping out of his grasp and spilling down your front. 

“You dickhead.” Your hands angrily grab at his collar—unheeding or perhaps uncaring of his reputation for violence as you feel the cold seep into your skin. You’re seething; for someone with such good reflexes, this is a new level of low in attempting to chase you out. Or perhaps it’s revenge for finally getting under his skin. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

It’s a little too late when you realise the position you’re in: skin showing through the translucent material, breathing shallow from your infuriation, face glaring right up at his. 

“Sorry.” His voice rings out insincere—and there’s that damn faint smile still toying at his face as he looks directly at you with that heavy gaze. “My hand slipped.”

You shove him back, too disgusted to acknowledge him any further. Maybe if you turned back around, you’d see the tiniest pricks of red on his face as you tossed your soaked shirt into the washing machine—leaving you in a damp vest while you continued cooking for yourself. Maybe if you looked back at least once, you’d see the amusement in his eyes as you maul the bok choy on the cutting board. 

Those are maybes.

There’s particular things you know for certain. One, you despise him and his existence. Two, he abhors you and your entire being—because why else would he be so insistent in making you leave out of your own volition?

✧ It’s the time of year that you hate: joint engineering classes so you can cover the materials aspect for your physics studies. Well, it’s not like you hated it from the very beginning—you’ve hated it ever since you realised that once again, you’d have to be in the incorrigible presence of Blade. While he did finally install some soundproofing in his room, he’s taken it upon himself to linger wherever you’re present. Typing up your notes on the deep maroon couch with a mug of lavender tea perched on the coffee table? He’s in the window seat, looking over a thick reference manual for tensile strengths. Going to meet bassist Dan Heng so the two of you can play around with various lines for your next song? He’s at the convenience store you briefly stop at, gazing at you before he glares at your friend. Practising a slow solo in the living room (it’s really got the best ambience)? He’s tapping out a beat that you can very faintly now hear—one that surprisingly goes with the electrifying chords.  ✧ Point is, you’re ignoring him and his presence—while he’s inching ever closer. It comes to a head at the lecture hall; you decide to sit in the third row, since it’s both far from the back (where he usually frequents) and it doesn’t make you look like a beg. When you glance at his predestined seat, it’s empty—unsurprisingly as he’s there usually a minute before the professor—while the seat next to him is taken by a girl you’ve seen before. Despite his horrible personality and the (probably true) rumours surrounding him, there’s a few stragglers who genuinely want him. And you genuinely want those people to seek help because it’s clear something went wrong in their lives for them to be thirsting over a man who looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.  ✧ He comes in late, as you expect, but you freeze as he places his bag down next to you. Aghast, you can’t help but stare; yet for once he’s not meeting your eyes, and it’s far too late to make a scene and move elsewhere—not when the professor’s just arrived and is keen to start the lecture for materials. He doesn’t talk much, but you’re so distracted by his presence pressing slightly into your sides that you forget that today the professor’s deciding on the pairs for your projects—mouth agape, you stare in shock as she assigns them based on who’s sitting nearby. To be generous, she says, yet there’s nothing generous about this arrangement as his mocking eyes meet yours. He knew, you seethe, storming out of the hall right as the class wraps up. 

“I hate him.” Your molars grind bone-against-bone as you harshly press angry chords into the fretboard. “I hate him so so so so much.”

“Who are you talking about?” March 7th—in charge of the synthesiser—glances first at the bassist to your side, then back at you. Her eyes are wide in sympathy, yet it’s useless in the face of your despair. 

“Blade.” Poetically, the word is accompanied by the deep twang of Smoke on the Water as your fingers move mindlessly on your precious baby. What, your roommate?—she queries. No, a pet fish—Caelus responds, but you tune them both out. 

“He knew the professor would assign groups like that,” you groan. “That’s why he sat next to me.”

“He’s definitely trying to get you to leave his apartment out of your own will,” Dan Heng’s smooth cadence is somewhat soothing—and his conjecture is one you’ve come to yourself—but the accompanying baseline he’s playing to the song makes his theory sound comical. “But he won’t screw up his own project like that.”

You sigh, and the melody falls apart as you bring it to a grinding halt. 

“Believe me, I know just how much he values his projects.” Your head throbs upon thinking about that poor girl sobbing, and the bassist coughs to stifle a laugh. 

“What did he say that one time? ‘Your vapid idea would be better used on death row than as a functioning building’,” Stelle—the vocalist and also the only Psychology major you know who doesn’t unnervingly stare at you—imitates the deep reverberations of his voice, and you’re astonished at how it’s recalled verbatim (down to the exact adjective).

“I’m surprised it got round that far,” you suppress a smile—after all, it’ll be your head on the chopping block next. “You should’ve gone into theatre like Caelus did.” 

What a waste of talent, you shake your head mock-ruefully, which quickly turns to true woe as you realise just the predicament you’re in. 

✧ It’s not a complicated assignment. Well, it shouldn’t be: designing a sound structure based on the whims of the architectural class (whom you loathe); except that Blade is notorious for being a severe critic for civil engineering partnerships—like seriously, out of all hills to die on and it’s civil engineering. You begrudgingly create a new contact for him in your phone; a digital space just for him, which almost makes you throw up at the thought.

(+2 unread messages) <Dickhead> (new contact) 10:11 > library.  10:11 > east block, 20 minutes.

You stare incredulously at the chat, which is neither phrased as a question nor a request but an encrypted demand. The fuck? Infuriated, you take the break between your reps now rather than later, swilling down water while you irritably type out a reply. 

No can do. < 10:15 I’m busy. < 10:16

The reply comes less than a minute later; three dots animating themselves into existence while you wipe the sweat off your face with a towel. This prick. Well, it’s not so much a reply as an acknowledgement of your words—because he doesn’t reply, but rather your phone starts buzzing and you fumble while looking at the expletive lit up brightly on the screen. 

You’re sorely, sorely tempted to press the red receiver on the device. 

“What do you want?” you scowl, and you hope it translates through your voice that you’re revolted by his mere radio presence. 

“Where are you?” He ignores your question; voice vibrating low through your headphones, and you can’t help but shiver, just a little. Even through the thick towel, you can still feel crescents being formed in your palm from your nails—you sincerely wish you were throttling him instead. 

“None of your business.” 

There’s a budding migraine blossoming to life in your temple as you finally hang up. You think that’s the end of it—after all, it was literally yesterday that the groups were assigned. 

But when you shoulder the gym door open—skin still damp and warm from your shower, clean clothes sticking ever so slightly to laved skin—there’s a sleek car parked outside, and you frown when Blade opens the driver’s door. 

“I’m going to report you for stalking,” you grit out, pressing your body to the cool glass of the building. “How the fuck did you know where I was?”

“Kafka,” he replies simply, and of course, that crazy woman was the one who viewed your private story and sent it to him. “I’m picking you up.”

“No you’re not.” Seriously, he thinks you’re that easy to convince—

“I’ll shut the fuck up with the drums for these two weeks.” 

It’s almost miraculous how quickly you slide into the passenger seat. 

✧ You’ve never been in such close proximity to him before (if you don’t count that day in the kitchen). At least, voluntarily. When you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest, you can smell the faint, woody scent of his cologne. It’s different from the putrid tide of Axe the average engineering student drowns themself in—rather, it’s got the deep undertone of oud and something sweeter. You don’t expect it; maybe if he smelled like first impressions, he’d stink of blood and a dumpster fire.  ✧ Don’t fall asleep—he remarks, and you can feel his eyes on you briefly. Eyes on the road, prick—you retort, but your own lids are still tightly shut. Therefore, you don’t see how his gaze traces the remaining water droplets from your shower: how his hands linger on his gear stick so he can feel the emanating warmth from your damp thigh.  ✧ He freezes. Gross. He doesn’t like anyone, and only tolerates the rest of the Stellaron Hunters since they’ve seen him at his lowest and yet still find ways to bug him. And you. He wasn’t expecting you to last as long as you have. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to irritate him in your own way, and actually manage to aggravate him enough to force him into soundproofing his room. Actually, he still doesn’t know why you did that. He doesn’t know why his heart picked up slightly at the sight of you in that soaked shirt. And in the end, he still doesn’t entirely know why he chose to sit next to you for that lecture instead. It’s to annoy you, he decides. No point in deliberating too much about it.  ✧ It’s surprising that the two of you don’t immediately argue over the project; some eco-facility for sports that surprisingly was chosen unanimously by the pair of you. Eyes flitting to each other and back, it was a miracle you both had the same idea somehow. And it’s surprising when despite your lack of experience in civil engineering like this (you usually opt for mechanical on projects like these), you carefully consider the missing parts in his outlines—security cameras, sound systems, and tiny edits to the structure to really amplify the architecture.  ✧ He doesn’t mind your presence. That’s what shocks him. As you doze off with your head pressed into the crooks of your elbows, he doesn’t reprimand you like he would with anyone else. Instead, he places the material reference guide down and stops considering cement foundations. Before he gets the chance to poke your forehead, your phone buzzes against the table—lighting up with a name he didn’t think he’d see.  ✧ Dan Heng. He knows you’re friends with the guy, but there’s a burning sensation as his eyes watch the pop-up turn into another message, then another. What does he want? In real time, there’s a particular irritation that blossoms with each new notification. 

<Dan Heng> 20:19 > Are you still up? 20:19 > My roommate’s going to move in with his girlfriend, so you’ll be able to…

The message is cut off, but Blade isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what the implication suggests, and there’s a certain coolness in his eyes as he stares the message down. Isn’t this what he wanted? Yes, this is precisely the ending he hoped for: you moving out and him getting his space back to himself. 

But the issue stems from Dan Heng. He can’t have that. He can’t have you moving in with that man of all people. Anyone else would be fine, he insists to himself. 

Dan Heng. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. 

There’s a certain hypothesis he’d like to test. With your guard down like this, he snaps a photo of you with the drool leaking onto your sleeve—sending it directly to you. Just like clockwork, your phone lights up once more with a message. It’s not ‘Blade’ that’s texting you. 

<Dickhead> 20:20 > [photo.jpeg attached]

He grits his teeth, clutching his textbook until his fingers ache from the strain. No, he won’t give that bastard the satisfaction of taking his roommate like this. 

He’ll play nice. When you find someone who works this efficiently with you, while managing to hold their ground under his intimidating gaze, it’s hard not to want them to not scurry away. 

Eat shit, Dan Heng.

✧ Somehow, mercifully, you manage to complete the project with that weirdo. It’s strange—he’s surprisingly more cordial than ever. And with his inky hair pulled into a loose bun, glasses perched on his straight nose—it’s hard to imagine he’d ever made that poor girl cry in front of everyone like that, but you’d witnessed it yourself. So with a sigh, you remind yourself that he’s just as much of an asshole as the rumours say. But, staring at him so relaxed like this, these two different Blades are hard to ever merge.

“Something on my face?” He’s still writing with his glasses sliding down his nose. He sounds irritated, as per usual, but the tiny smirk painting his face lets you know that no he’s not irritated, he’s just being an arse just as always. 

“Yeah, pen,” you mutter, looking away as he finally glances up at you. When you glance back at the desk where your laptop precariously shows the still-unfinished presentation slides, he’s gazing up at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes. 

It almost puts to rest the image of a dickhead. 

“There’s no pen, though,” he purrs, voice low while he rests the manual back on the table. “I’ve been reading all morning.”

Nevermind—he’s as much of an asshole as he regularly is. 

“Who knows,” you comment offhandedly, slowly sliding a blue biro your way as soon as he looks back down. There—you attempt to inch forward to draw on his face, but he catches your wrist from across the table between you. 

You freeze. Shit, you screwed up. With how relaxed he is, it’s getting easier and easier to forget the rumours of his bruised knuckles that follow him like a shroud. His eyes glance coolly at you, then at the incriminating weapon within your fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Maybe he’s the questions first, beat up later kind. 

“Getting revenge.” Shameless, you think, but definitely not as shameless as getting told to effectively shut up with the drums yet having the audacity to keep going louder. 

His lips part, and your eyes nearly stray to the pink colour of them. Then, he smiles—something so cynical and disturbing you can’t help but shiver and twist your arm out of his hold, all so you can watch him askance. 

“I can see why people find you scary,” you shudder, tapping your biro on a square notepad. 

“And you don’t?” An innocuous question, but one that almost sounds accusatory. 

“Nah,” you make a disgusted noise, like you’re trying to suppress vomit. “You’re just a prick.”

In the end, that same prick ends up rolling his sleeves upon your request so you can litter blue ink upon his forearms. With how pale he is, it resembles delicate ceramics painted with cerulean landscapes. And while you do include etched illustrations and swirling designs, you make sure to include several phalluses dotted around—just so he lives up to his contact name. 

“Wow,” he remarks sardonically. “Maybe you should quit physics and join the liberal arts programme.”

You ignore him, taking a few shots of your handiwork and sending them to Kafka, captioned I feel like this truly reflects his personality and making sure all the tiny dicks are in full focus. 

“Maybe I should,” you shrug. “Then I wouldn’t have to deal with you, at least.”

“Likewise,” he responds, but it’s not as satisfying to think about you quitting as he thought it would be. 

It’s stupid. He finds that he doesn’t want the ink to wash from his arms, not so soon. 

When you log into your account to touch-up the presentation, you spot the comment he left back in the library on the presentation slides—timestamped to the exact twenty past five. 

17:20 > Maybe if you stopped staring at me, we’d be done sooner. 

It’s the longest sentence he’s ever typed out to you—but that’s exactly what makes it so galling. 

go fuck yourself < 22:31

22:31 > ooh you want me so bad aha

You pause, staring incredulously at the text, then to where the bathroom’s situated. The water’s definitely running.

… < 22:32 damn this idiot’s really getting scammed and hacked < 22:33 crazy < 22:33 [feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:33

22:33 > on the daily lmao 22:34 > same two old man passwords for everything

Types like one too < 22:34

22:35 > right?? 22:36 > we should be friends btw 22:36 > [Blade.] sent contact silver-W

Dang he really put a period after than name too < 22:37

22:37 > top ten edgelords 22:37 > [Blade.] sent laughing emoji

[feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:37

It’s not until the morning when he’s looking over the (surprisingly well-done) slides that he finally notices the string of (highly unprofessional) messages that he definitely did not write. 

His head throbs and his eye twitches as he reads through them—burning holes through the wall separating him and you. He hopes you receive the subliminal nightmares he’s so graciously sending you. 

It’s a fiercely deliberated decision. With a heavy heart, he finally presses [backspace] on the typo next to his nickname. 

He only hopes you won’t notice. 

(Silver Wolf notices—immediately screenshotting the new handle [Blade] and sending it to you.)

✧ Good things come in threes. Getting through this project, not getting beat up by that nerd, and getting through the presentation smoothly. By that, you mean you do most of the speaking while Blade clicks through the slides. However, contrary to all expectations, his voice comes low and rich—neither stumbling through the knowledge nor forgetting the important parts. It’s so shocking you can’t help but stare at him; something he definitely notices, judging by the self-important smirk he sends you.  ✧ Perhaps a little too good. The pair of you leave the lecture hall separately—after all, it’s not like you want to be in his presence any longer, and he doesn’t particularly want to be in yours either. But you do want the sweet energy drink that’s been chilling in the shared fridge for the past few days: as tantalising as the very nectar of the gods.  ✧ It’s when you enter an alleyway shortcut that you witness her—your old roommate. Vaguely, you recall she used to have a crush on Blade (a match made in heaven if there ever was one); perhaps that’s why she’s inching towards you with a pipe that is tetanus’ wet dream—so grimy you think you’ll immediately die if you’re struck by it.  ✧ All this over him?—you think with disgust as you try back out of the alleyway, only to collide with the towering body of her boyfriend: some guy unfortunate enough to be entrapped by her pretty face and definitely not her personality. She doesn’t want you, and he (aforementioned: Blade) doesn’t want her either. It’s rather tragic, but woefully you can’t spare any pity for them: not when you’re about to get beat and for what? A successful presentation with Blade?  ✧ They’re amateurish enough that you manage to evade them for a minute, but the alleyway’s too narrow to slip past them, and you’ve never been in a fight like this.  ✧ You’re cornered when he appears: some twisted knight he is.

“You’re late,” you heave, bruises on your knuckles and that man’s face. 

“You…” Blade trails off as he sees the blood spatters on your clothes, and his expression twists into one he’s glad you can’t see—not when his broad shoulders face you in an impenetrable wall. The two idiots—Tweedledee and Tweedledum, judging by how disturbingly gullible they are—stiffen immediately upon his timely arrival. 

He’ll handle it like he always does. 

But it’s certainly strange. Why does he feel so much angrier than he does normally?

✧ It’s late afternoon: dusk barely kissing the rooftops of the city, stars just about peeking from the violet firmament. You didn’t ask questions when he made enough space for you to slip out the alleyway: heart lodged in your throat as you quietly sat down at the local café with blossoming pain in your ribs and fists. Stupid, you were stupid to think that crazed girl would ever leave you alone.  ✧ Maybe it’s counterintuitive to feel safe when he steps into the small building. He smells faintly of blood: a terrible, metallic odour spilling onto his clothes and flesh. But beneath that, there’s a lingering scent of that woody oud—you can’t help but sink into it.  ✧ They won’t bother you ever again—he murmurs as the door jingles behind both of you. You didn’t kill them, did you?—you mutter back, half-sarcastically. No, but it probably hurt quite a bit for them—he shrugs. “Let’s go home.” ✧ Home. He says that, but there’s still that offer from Dan Heng to move in with him—one you’ll probably accept. Blade may have saved you, but he’s still a dickhead who has made numerous attempts to kick you out. 

“Ow, fuck,” you hiss as he dabs antiseptic on the various cuts on your hand. It’s well into the evening now, and you’re currently sitting on the bathroom counter with your injuries on full display. 

So infuriating. You glare at the man standing in between your legs—unscathed completely. Worst of all, there’s a smug smile on his lips; whatever worry he might have had over you has completely dissipated. 

“You couldn’t let them hit you once?”

“Bitter much?” he returns easily, swabbing another cotton ball with alcohol and pressing it against the large cut on the side of your forearm. It stings, but you grit your teeth and bear it—much too annoyed with him to show any more pain. 

In this position, the resentment you feel towards him turns faint; a veil seems to obscure the burning sensation. 

“You talk too much,” you seethe. “What happened to the prick who kept his mouth shut and ignored me?”

Tendrils of his jet-hued hair brush your cheek as he inches forward. “If you like, we can go right back to that—playing at my whim included.”

He hasn’t felt like this in years—back when he was still a boy named Yingxing and unmarred by the burdens life would eventually place on his shoulders. 

“Let me do it myself,” you argue back. 

“Nah.” Silver Wolf will pay for calling him an old man. “You won’t do it properly.” 

Another brief kiss from the alcohol against your bloody knuckles, and this time you can’t hide the slight wince on your face. It takes quite a lot of self-restraint to not dent the tweezers—he should’ve done so much worse to the two who tried this, besides beating the shit out of them and getting Kafka to land them behind bars. 

“That rod probably had tetanus on it,” he shrugs, rummaging around in his disused first-aid kit for plasters and bandages.

“Yeah, I thought that too,” you shudder. It's this moment of casual, same line thinking that strikes you as being far too strange. He's so close you can feel each puff of air when he exhales: practically scalding the bare skin stretched over collarbones. Too close—and if he keeps talking like this, as if he’s no longer disgusted by your presence, you won’t be able to deal with it. 

“What’d you do to her?” he questions, but it’s not the ‘no wonder she attacked you’ tone—rather than that, it’s like he’s trying to prompt you into distraction. 

“This is actually your fault,” you scowl, irritably casting your mind back to when she used to talk your ear off about the man standing here. 

“How so?” Nonplussed, he starts rolling the bandage across your arm—evidently, he’s experienced with this sort of thing. 

Stalker roommate. Stalker roommate has crush on engineering maniac. Stalker roommate sees that your new roommate and engineering maniac are one and the same—you summarise, too tired to give the specifics. He sees the way your lids flutter closed from exhaustion; for once, he’ll use Kafka to get more of the information you omitted. 

“Honestly, you two freaks would be perfect for each other,” you murmur absentmindedly. At that, he pulls the bandage tighter against your skin and you draw in a pained inhale. 

“You should try stand-up.” His voice is thick with revulsion, and it’s quiet for a few brief moments as he gets started on patching up the scrapes left on your back. You’re sitting on a stool now: unable to see his face but awfully mindful of how his hands brush over the skin layered over your scapula. 

“You still haven’t thanked me.”

“Thank you, my aggravating saviour,” you say, much too insincerely. “But that reminds me that I’ve got good news for you. That should suffice as a symbol of my gratitude.”

What is it?

“One of my friends has a room free, so I’ll probably be able to move out soon.”

The worst part is, he knows exactly who this friend is. His hands freeze on the band-aid he’s smoothing on your skin; too absorbed in his murderous thoughts to notice how you stiffen at the prolonged gesture. He’s not jealous; these are merely stirrings of friendship—this ugly, amorphous thing writhing in his gut and condemning him to senseless anger. 

“That’s not good news,” he breathes, and it’s a little too quiet as he finishes wrapping the final bandage around your bruised ribs. 

For the first time ever, Kafka receives a text from Blade that doesn’t consist of just one word. 

<Bladie> 20:33 > I need advice. 

Oh, this is interesting. 

What are friends for?—she coos, making sure to show Silver Wolf the glaring achievement in Blade’s range of text vocabulary. 

He’s clearly been on the rear end of bad news; while for her, on the contrary, this just means her scheme is moving along very nicely.  

[bluecanvasshoe]

platonic!Arthur Morgan & teen!fem!reader

reader being female is only mentioned, like, once at the very start, rest of the story has virtually nothing to do w it

based around the end of the game!!

Arthur notices you’re upset after some sulking around, so he takes you fishing.

warnings: slight rdr2 spoilers, a little smidgen of misogyny, maybe ooc? idk, no beta reader we die like MEN 🔥, little bit of angst, comfort, NO ROMANCE‼️‼️‼️, …….lazy ending, I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK OKAY

word count: 1.5k

Part 2 !!!!! (link is fixed!)

——————

For the past couple months, it’s felt as if nothing you have done has ever gone right.

When carrying hay-bales to the horses, your arms grew tired. Micah laughed as you dropped the feed and breathed heavily. A few months back, Hosea reminded you that, as a child, you weren’t expected to do any of the more challenging work. However, the urge to prove yourself triumphed over his lectures.

Then Ms. Grimshaw approached you in camp, reprimanding you for your insistence on doing the more “manly” tasks. As a girl of the camp who was yet to be an adult, you, unfortunately, were not saved from her pressing you about your future in the gang.

Afterwards, while practising your handiwork with a needle, you pierced your index finger. It drew blood, so Strauss gave you a bandage and a disapproving look.

The gang slowly dwindled in numbers, leaving your already fragile state of mind in a bit of a crisis. Small things piled on small things that piled on big things, and you soon found yourself dreading chores, which turned into dreading every day that followed. The feeling of thinking you were actively disappointing every living being ever drowned out any sense of reasoning.

On a clear morning, you woke up groggy. All seemed well until you were punched in the face with the realisation that you had to actually get up.

Instead of wasting the early morning away, wallowing in the sadness of your flimsy canvas tent, you sat at the dying campfire. Your heart felt heavy in your chest, and your mouth subconsciously pulled down into a frown.

Arthur, ever the early bird, awoke not long after you and sat down on the next log over. His worn and muddied boots crunched on the gravelly terrain, interrupting the chirping of birds. The sun hadn’t yet risen, shrouding everything in a dusky glow.

“You uh… sleep well, kid?” said Arthur, holding onto a steaming cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” you replied simply, staring at the fire. Strauss told you not to drink coffee; he said it was “bad for a child’s development.”.

Arthur sighed, turning his head over as he propped his upper body up, an arm supporting himself by pressing on his knee. “You’ve been acting’ strange,” he commented, “we’ve all noticed. Is somethin’ botherin’ you?”

Your voice caught up in your throat, the words that formed in your head fighting to escape and pathetically losing. “No…just tired.”

The man next to you coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “You…uh, you wanna go fishin’? I oughta' bring some food back to Pearson.”

Fishing? Now there’s something you haven't done in a while. Maybe you could get out of the camp.

“Okay,” you fidgeted with the fabric of your sleep bottoms, your eyes darting from Arthur and back to the fire. It seemed Arthur hadn’t expected you to agree, as he hesitated to find a response.

“Alright, then. Be ready in...about half an hour.”

As promised, you were dressed a quarter after six; at least that’s what your pocket watch you pickpocketed forever ago said. Hopping up onto the pony you used on rare outings, you waited for Arthur to saddle up too.

“You got all your stuff?” He asked, storing away his fishing rod and hoisting himself up, grabbing hold of his horse’s reins.

You look at your saddle bag one last time before turning to Arthur, nodding. “Yeah. ‘Been a while since I've gone fishin’, though.”

“Don’t worry about that; I'll give you a refresher.” Arthur shifted his weight before clicking twice, lightly jabbing his spurs into the side of his mount.

Following his movements, — except spur-less, as you don’t do nearly as much riding as the other men in the gang — you began to move, your horse huffing gently.

You caught up to him thanks to his slow trot, swatting away a couple mosquitoes in the process. “Where’re we goin’?” you asked, your voice raised.

“Well, you ain’t too familiar with his area,” he quickly wiped his nose with his free hand, sniffling. “But it ain’t far. There’s a nice little spot on a lake nearby. You oughta' get a couple bites.”

“Uh-huh,” you sighed, looking down at your hands. Arthur was holding onto his horse’s reins with one hand. You had trouble steering your horse with two.

Arthur slowed once he approached a patch of gravelly sand, getting off his horse with you following. He took out his fishing equipment and walked over to the shore.

“Here,” Arthur reached into his brown satchel, pulling out a block of cheese wrapped in brown parchment paper. “Use some a’ this.” Reaching over, you broke off a small chunk and murmured a hushed ‘thank you’ in return.

“‘M guessin’ you remember what bait is and how to use it, right?” he remarked, preparing his rod. “I think I got it,” you muttered, fumbling with the fishing pole but eventually hooking the cheese onto the sharp point.

“Careful there. Don’t wanna poke your finger.” Arthur joked snarkily, waiting for you to get into a similar position to his, his fishing rod held in front of his body. The bandaged finger he was referring to was sliding the small bit of bait onto the hook clumsily. “Shut up,” you grunted, getting a good grip on the pole and holding it out in front of yourself. The water moved lazily, quietly washing up and down on the sand. The calm surface showed the fish that swam underneath. Minnows dashed around quickly, the small groups of fish moving together.

Crickets still chirped in the distance as birds were beginning to sing, too. The air smelled fresh and felt dewy, a light breeze turning trees into calming windchimes.

“You wanna hold it like this,” he said, tapping his index finger against the line. You attempted the same hold that he had, but with the limited information given, you didn’t immediately get the hang of it.

“No, like- like this, with your index on the line. Should be pressin’ against the rod.” Arthur peered over your shoulder as you adjusted your fingers, pressing the thin string against the wood of the rod. Arthur nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Now pull back the bail.”

Now, you hadn’t a clue what the bail was, but that hardly mattered. Matching Arthur’s movements, you pulled a semi-circle piece of metal back and over the line spool.

“Alright, now be careful here; don’t wanna take out an eye. Draw back your rod over your shoulder, but not too far. The farther you draw, the longer the cast,” he advised, drawing the pole over his shoulder. You mimicked him.

“Now, you throw it over your shoulder and straight forward,” he instructed, watching your movements. The bait landed about 3 metres away from the shoreline, splashing pathetically before bobbing up and down.

“Just like that. Now, you pull back the bail and wait.”

Silence filled the space between you two—a suffocating, invisible force.

Deer galloped across the lake and within the thick brush. One stopped, a buck, and stared at the two fishermen across from it. His ears twitched before he joined the others.

Loons sang, their eerily beautiful calls travelling across the calm waters. Frogs croaked in the distance, and clouds languidly drifted overhead.

“Look, I… I haven’t a clue what you’re feelin’. But just know that you ain’t alone. We’ve all been stressed. I can’t imagine what you must be feelin’.” said Arthur, turning briefly to face you.

The sun peeked over the distant treeline, slowly casting a calming light over everything in the vicinity.

“I feel like I can’t never do anythin’ right.” You croaked, voice catching in your throat and a painful ache creeping up to your jaw.

“Aw, kid… whad’ya mean?" Arthur had never been great at comfort. He could do it, of course, though he certainly had his favourites when it came to his affections.

You stared off into the lake, your reflection looking right back. “Everythin’ I do feels like a failure. There ain’t a single thing I’ve been able to do right recently.”

Arthur sighed, reeling his line back in and casting it again.

“That ain’t true. You’re a kid. You’re learning. You aren’t… supposed to be great at everythin’, and nothin’ you do is supposed to be right; it’s just supposed to teach you something. This’ll go away; trust me.” He chose his words carefully, coughing to the side before continuing. “Now I know this probably ain’t what you wanted to hear. Feelin’ sad feels... nice sometimes. But it’s true. Basically everyone in this gang is an adult, ‘cept for Jack, so don’t go comparin’ yourself to anyone, you hear? We’re all goin’ through hard times; none of this is your fault, and you ain’t a failure for anythin’.”

The sun steadily rose, framed perfectly by the view in front of you. Your horses huffed occasionally as geese flew above, honking distantly.

He was right; you didn’t want to hear this. You don’t know what you want to hear. Maybe something about how awful you are, or maybe something about how great and amazing you are. You felt conflicted, confused, and even a smidge defensive.

“But I-” “but nothin’, kid. Do with that what you will, but just... think about it. Maybe see things from a different perspective.” He rasped, clearing his throat. “Or don’t; it’s your choice. But just give it some thought.”

Silence settled between you two again, leaving your conflicting feelings to dissipate.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, watching as your bait bobbed on the water’s surface. The chill of the north was soothed by the warmth of the sun, and everything, in that moment, felt okay.

—

Part 2

[samkerrworshipper]

suffer in silence | barca femeni x reader

warnings: self harm, depression, mentions of abuse, alcoholism, angst, fluff, anger, treatment of sh scars… i don’t proofread so sorry if theirs typos xo

“Y/n, can we talk to you for a minute?”

Your attention was captured by Alexia, who was flanked on either side by Lucy and Mapi. You kept your eyes centred on the ball at your feet, you didn’t want to talk to any of the olderwomen, you wanted to continue your shooting practice.

“Can’t I talk to you after this?”

It was a deflection, one that was well overused by you at this stage, normally you would deflect until the women forgot about it or you had enough of an opportunity to slip away from them.

“No, come with us.”

Alexia’s voice was as cold as Antarctica, like a cold piece of ice pressed against your skin, brutally freezing you to your spot on the pitch.

“I’m good.”

It was stupid for you to try and defy the woman, she was terrifying. Alexia’s jaw locked itself, your eyes unable to meet the older woman's cold ones. Mapi reached out, clutching down onto your bicep hard enough to make you wince, her practised fingers bearing down on your skin and yanking you towards them.

“Not a smart idea little girl, we were going to be nice and let you have a say in this but now you’ve gotten yourself in trouble.”

You were dragged behind the older women, some of your other teammates that were still on the pitch watching as you kicked your heels down on the ground in which you were being hauled along. Mapi’s grip was inescapable though, her iron-like grip on your bicep so tight that you were forced to her hip, having nowhere near enough strength to stop her from walking you directly towards the tunnel. She walked behind Alexia, letting the captain lead the way into the locker room. Once Lucy had closed and locked the door behind you Mapi pushed you down onto one of the benches, her arms falling to your shoulders to stop you from trying to escape the women.

“I’m pretty sure this is kidnappery.”

Your voice was a low murmur, you were teetering on the edge with Alexia and you knew it, you knew that one little push would have her hurling over the cliff, a storm of anger pushing her.

“What in god's name made you think it was okay to behave that way on the pitch?”

You knew Alexia had been nothing but disappointed with your conduct recently, she’d been on your ass about getting your shit together and you’d been ignoring her, for a multitude of reasons. This week though, it had all gone downhill for you. You were currently on a six day bender, something you were not exactly proud of but didn’t really have any intention of ending. Today though, everything had been so much words and early on in training you’d gotten in a tussle with Ingrid that you weren’t exactly proud of, which had then resulted in a fairly heated interaction with Frido which had ended in Keira dragging you away from the older woman to prevent anything serious happening.

“Ingrid was being pushy.”

It was a lie and you knew it, the girl was a complete golden retriever, she couldn’t hurt a fly if she tried and she’d been nothing but nice to you, for some reason she’d just been getting on your nerves today for some reason.

“No she wasn’t and even if she was that is hardly an excuse to be so aggressive to a teammate.”

Alexia’s voice was brutally harsh, beating down on you with no mercy.

“Nobody was hurt.”

Your words were even meeker than before, your confidence shrinking as the minutes went by.

“She very well could have been if Keira hadn’t managed to get to you in time.”

Alexia’s voice was pointed, she wasn’t accepting your weak attempt at an excuse.

“Okay, I’m sorry, can we be done now?”

The last thing you’d wanted after that training session was to be sitting down in front of a very angry Alexia, Lucy and Mapi on the flip side of a lecture that you were aware was probably overdue.

“No, we’re not done. Aitana talked to me this morning.”

Aitana was your best friend, your roommate, and you weren’t exactly sure what she’d told Alexia but you knew from the facial expression she was giving you that it couldn’t have been good. You racked your brains trying to think about what Aitana could have told her, she knew more about you then anybody else, she was like your sister and you were a little bit worried about what she could have told your captain.

“Aitana doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

It was another deflection, because there was a very small, niggling chance that she was bluffing and that small chance was enough for you to stay defiant. You tried to keep your eye contact with Alexia, but momentarily averted it when the vulnerability of the conversation became too much.

“She seemed to know quite a lot this morning when Salma found her balling her eyes out in the bathroom. It took a good half an hour to get her to calm down before she was coherent enough to tell us what had her so worried.”

You bit down on your lip, you still weren’t exactly sure what Aitana had told Alexia, and you weren’t stupid enough to give away information that hadn’t been revealed, so you let the sentence mellow out in the room, trying to figure out what there was for you to say.

“Aitana is antsy about the Ballon D’or, she’s hardly been sleeping lately, let alone thinking straight.”

Alexia’s eyebrows rose almost up to her hairline, her right one cocked at me, silently asking me if I was really lying to her right now. One thing Alexia hated was lying, it was her pet peeve. I didn’t think that I was blatantly lying to her right now though, just avoiding telling the truth.

“I agree, she is antsy. But she’s also an observant girl, and she’s a strong one, she doesn’t get worked up over nothing, that’s why I was so perplexed when we found her having a mental breakdown. To her credit, it took quite a lot of work from our end to try and get to the bottom of it, but she cracked eventually.”

This whole situation, Mapi’s hands secured on your arms to stop you from moving from the bench, Alexia looking down at you from her spot standing above you, Lucy standing by the door like a security guard. It was screaming interrogation, screaming some kind of intervention and it was making you feel sick to your stomach, because whilst you’d been in a fair amount of trouble over the years with Alexia and your teammates, it had never quite looked like this.

“Aitana does not know what she is talking about.”

Your words were forced out between your gritted teeth, you weren’t sure what she’d told the women, but based off of their facial expressions it really wasn’t good, the mixture of anger and concern written all over their face enough to tell you that their dismay stemmed far further than your actions on the field.

“She seemed to know what she was talking about when she told us that you’ve hardly been spending any time at home, that you are out every night, gone far before she’s in bed and home long after she’s awoken. She says that you’ve been binge drinking, and that you’ve been engaging in some other self soothing behaviours that are hardly disconcerting.”

This was the point where you could try and reason with Alexia, or you could flat out lie. You felt like you were at a crossroads, a part of you wanted to just break down, let her know just how much pain you’d been experiencing for the past few months, but you weren’t going down without a fight.

“Aitana’s full of shit.”

Your voice was nowhere near as confident as you wished it to be, you felt like your body was being washed out to sea, like you were floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean and just slowly drifting out of reach.

“Aitana has never lied to me, you however, do not have as good of a track record. I would give you the benefit of the doubt, but the shakiness, excessive sweating, clammy hands, dilated pupils, agitation and tremors are a pretty sure sign that you're coming down from a pretty bad hangover.”

You purse your lips, and ignore the way that Mapi’s hands had now released themselves from your arms and she’d seated herself down next to you, one of her palms coming down to rest on your knee. The whole approach was very different to the one that she had with you a few minutes ago, her harsh grip transitioning to one that resembled comfort.

“C’mon cariño, you can tell us what’s been happening, we’re here for you.”

Mapi’s voice was practically cooing at you, so gentle, like a piece of silk. You kept your facial expression stock still, trying your very hardest to keep up your shields that you’d been holding up with your bare hands for weeks now.

“Nothing’s happening, I’m fine.”

It was a flat out lie, so much had been happening, so much stuff that you’d never wanted the light of day to see, things that were making you feel anything but fine.

“Take off your shirt y/n.”

You felt your whole body jolt at the question. Alexia had probably seen you thousands of times without a shirt on, hell you’d probably seen eachother naked hundreds of times. But something about the nature of the request, the intention behind it, made it feel so wrong to you, especially with three sets of eyes beating down directly onto you.

“Excuse me?”

There was worry behind your words, a different kind of worry that stemmed from the pit of your stomach, a worry that Alexia knew more than she was letting on.

“You say that Aitana is lying to me, then prove to me that some of the things she’s told me about you are untrue and I’ll start believing what you are telling me.”

Parts of your body tensed up that you’d never felt tight before. The coil in your body winding itself up as tightly as it could, your whole body stilling at Alexia’s words.

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you lying to me, so make your decision.”

Alexia’s voice was so harsh, so protective, fired backwards at you with anger. You knew that most of the anger came from her overwhelming protective tendencies that she had for you, you were like her daughter, or younger sister, a responsibility that she took very seriously. Sometimes she was overbearingly protective, if anybody did as much as touch you on the field they were dead meat, and almost guaranteed to be on the receiving end of a brutal tackle the next time the ball came anywhere near them. She loved you like a sister, and loved you enough to have realised that right now, you were driving yourself to the edge of a cliff and she wasn’t sure how far off you were from going over the edge and she would be damned if she let you go overboard without putting up a fight.

“I’m not lying.”

It was a weak argument, one that you knew Alexia would struggle to believe, an argument she would just brush off like a piece of lint on her shoulder.

“Okay then, show me that.”

Your jaw stayed locked, Alexia mirroring the same face, neither of you wanting to recognise the others argument.

You didn’t know what to say or do, because you knew what you were hiding, and Alexia did as well. But something about airing it out, admitting it, showing her it, made all of it so much worse, like it wasn’t just something you were struggling with, it was going to be something that the three women were aware you were struggling with and that made it so much worse for some reason that you couldn’t explain.

“Come on hermosa, you don’t have to hide from us anymore, you can show us, we’re here for you.”

Mapi’s words struck your heartstrings, pulling and tugging at them intensely, bringing tears to the back of your eyes. It was like a good cop bad cop type situation, the two contrasting Spanish women taking up all of the room in your brain.

Mapi tucked gently at the sleeve of your Barcelona hoodie, a gentle reminder of what it was that they were asking of you.

“You won’t be mad?”

Alexia’s brick wall of a face dropped a little bit, the sternness and toughness on her face dissipating enough for her to give you a little reassuring smile.

“Never.”

You let out a deep breath, tugging strongly at the bottom of your hoodie and beginning to tug it over your head slowly.

Underneath you were wearing nothing more than your sports bra, so as soon as the material was removed from your body everything that you’d been working so tirelessly to hide was on reveal and it made you just a little bit sick to your stomach. What if they hated you? What if they didn’t understand? What if they thought you were crazy?

Alexia took in a deep breath, sucking in a decent amount of oxygen as her eyes darted across your upper body and stomach, raking across your skin.

“Lucia, can you please retrieve the first aid kit, it should be in the medical cupboard.”

Lucy nodded deftly as Alexia, surprise clear on her face as she took a look at your body, her eyes popping just a little bit out of her eye sockets as she looked all over your body.

Alexia, after taking a proper assessment of your body, seated herself down beside you on the bench, sandwiching you between her and Mapi. Alexia’s hand fell down to your thigh, rubbing a little circle against your knee as she awaited Lucy.

Lucy quickly returned, retrieving the medical kit that Alexia had requested and handing it over to her before sitting herself down on the floor of the rooms, directly in front of the three of you.

Alexia very quickly dived into the kit, picking out a few items before handing the kit back to Lucy and looking down at you, a lot of emotions passing through her eyes.

“I’m going to treat these, and once I’m done we are going to sit down and talk about it, alright. I’ll apply some burn cream and disinfectant, just to stop infection, it’s going to hurt but the last thing we need is you getting some form of infection, so hold Mapi’s hand and just take some deep breaths for me.”

You nodded at Alexia, taking a look down at your abdomen only to be faced with the scattered self inflicted burns and scars that littered your toned stomach. It wasn’t something you were proud of, but it also wasn’t something that you were scared of.

Alexia got to work immediately, picking up the cream and pressing a little dollop to her finger before very gently beginning to work it into the tattered skin across your abdomen. It wasn’t pretty, and you winced as the disinfectant seeped into your skin and burned.

Mapi clutched onto your hand, rubbing circles into your palm with her thumb whilst whispering sweet Spanish nothings in your ear. You clutched onto her, as Alexia continued her process, not faltering once even as you cried out and whined, she knew that she had to do this and stopping every time you exhaled was only going to make the process so much more stretched out and painful.

Once she finished with the disinfectant she moved on to a burn cream, which hurt less but still stung all the same. She gently worked it into the markings, taking time with every one to focus individually on them. Her brows furrowed deeper with every single mark she located, you wondered if she was taking a tally, it was something Ale would do. She wasn’t exactly a worrier, but she was an empath and the kind of person that took responsibility for everything, and internally you knew that this would just be another one of those things that she’d think was her fault and you hated that, because it couldn’t be any further from the truth.

The process of watching Alexia finish up with cleaning the wounds was more painful than anything else, listening to her exhale as she tucked the cream tubes back into the first aid kit and looked up at you, a unsure frown on her face. It wasn’t a deep one, not the kind that gave you frown lines, the kind that quirked the corners of your mouth up and didn’t fully reach your eyes. An anxious frown, not a sad one.

“How about we go back to my house? We can talk about this over some dinner, how does that sound cariño?”

Whilst Mapi had phrased it as a question, you knew it actually wasn’t, she knew just as all of you did that in the next half an hour everyone was going to trail into the locker rooms, and whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was a good chance that this whole situation was going to make a scene and none of you wanted that kind of attention.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Mapi looked over at Alexia, her eyes attaching to the slightly younger woman, a silent prayer for her to back her up.

“Sweet, let’s just get you back to Maria’s, and we can sort it out there, yeah? We’re all worried about you.”

You locked your jaw, you wanted to say no, but you also knew it would be pointless, the word no simply wasn’t a phrase that was a part of your vocabulary in this interaction.

“C’mon hermosa, let’s get out of here.”

Alexia pulled her jacket from her shoulders, draping it back over yours and zipping it up to the top, leaving none of your now treated marks on show. Mapi had already reached into your cubby, collecting the groups bags and hauling them onto her broad shoulders, the defenders muscular arms not even looking strained by the weight of your fours bags. Lucy was tasked with getting you standing, a job you thought you could do by yourself, but found to be a struggle when you realised that your legs had sort of numbed themselves, a cloudy kind of bizarreness that had spread itself out across your body. You let Lucy take the reins with you, swinging one of your arms over her shoulder to assist her with hauling you out of the rooms and directly out into the car park.

You were practically dead weight, having to focus all of your energy on putting each foot in front of the other. It was hard work for you, but you were rewarded when you finally made it to Ale’s car, Lucy helping you into the backseat and following you in, pulling you into a hug whilst she tasked herself with getting both of your seatbelts clicked in. As soon as they were, and Alexia and Mapi had taken their seats in the front they began driving.

You let your body relax into Lucy’s, not doing much thinking, just allowing yourself to exist. It was hard work sometimes, allowing yourself to exist. It was easy enough to go through the motions, to just force yourself to do the basic things, but actually existing, actually living, it fucking sucked and it was fucking hard work. When you pulled up at Mapi’s house, Lucy helped you back out of the car and practically hauled you up the stairs and into Mapi’s house. It was harder work than it seemed, you were mostly dead weight, so Lucy was dragging your whole bodyweight. When she did make it to the door, Ingrid was waiting there, with bottles of water and a big fluffy blanket that Lucy very quickly wrapped around your shoulders and with the assistance of Ingrid they managed to lift you up and onto the couch in the middle of the apartment, letting you tuck yourself into the blankets and pillows.

Ingrid was the first one to sit down with you, bringing your blanketed form into her arms and cradling you against her chest. A lot of the time they forgot just how young you were, only just 19. You’d been running with the big girls since you were 14 though, making your debut for both Barcelona and Spain that year. You were still a kid though, you were mature and you were more than good enough to be where you were, but sometimes the women forgot that you were simply just less experienced, and far younger than any of them.

“Jeg har deg vakker, der er greit.”

Ingrid’s words were murmured against your forehead as she pressed a kiss to your hairline, pressing a bottle of water to your lips. You took a few tentative sips, before pushing the bottle away with your face. Ingrid didn’t push you, she just nodded and placed it down on the coffee table before focusing back on you. Ingrid was a good soul, sometimes too much so. Sometimes she just cared too much, but right now it felt like just enough, especially considering just how much hurt you’d been forced to feel over the past few hours. Ingrid was making you feel loved, something that you’d been lacking over the past few weeks.

It was a few minutes later, or maybe a few hours, though you were doubtful over the latter because it was still light outside when Alexia, Mapi and Lucy joined the two of you on the couch. Alexia looked like she’d been crying, something you were not used to, nor expecting and it played with your head, had you made her sad? Was it your fault that she had been crying?

Alexia sat down in front of you, on the floor, finding your hands and taking them in her own, looking you eye to eye. You moved yourself a little bit out of Ingrid’s arms, not fully removing yourself from her embrace, but moving yourself so you could focus more on Alexia.

“Bebita, how long?”

The question was vague, but you knew what she was asking and suddenly it made everything feel so much more real, you couldn’t shove this under the carpet, or try and act like it had never happened, because it was happening, right now in front of you.

“Ale.”

Your words were pleading, she shook her head at you, her face gentle but stubborn.

“No, you can’t pout your way out of this. I’m not going to be mad, or disappointed, I just need you to be honest with me, that’s all I ask hermosa, just be honest with me and we’ll work this out, I promise.”

Your eyes fell to the carpet. You could feel Mapi and Lucy sitting down beside you on the couch, Mapi’s hands coming up to massage your shoulders and Lucy’s falling to your lower back, tracing gentle patterns across the skin.

“Since I was 16, I stopped when I was 17, picked it up after the World Cup, after the trials and what happened with Jorge.”

Alexia’s breath caught in her chest. She knew that she should have tried harder to support you when it was happening, knew that you weren’t fully okay after everything that had gone down at the world cup, especially after it had been revealed how the coaching staff had been treating you, and keeping it a secret.

“Okay, thank you for telling me. You’ve been going through a lot, and it’s understandable that you needed something to compensate for all the pain you’ve been feeling. But this can’t go on hermosa, not when you're harming yourself in the process. It’s not safe for your physical health or mental health. You're dependent on it, and it’s understandable, as a kid you found something that worked for you, that took away a fraction of the pain you were feeling. It helped you survive, I commend you for that, truly. You found a way to live in a world that wanted nothing more than for you to fail, good on you. But you aren’t a sixteen year old girl anymore, cowering in a corner from abuse and hate, you are 19 and you have people around you who love and cherish you, mi amor. You don’t have to rely on the same survival techniques that you used as a kid, because you aren’t a kid anymore. You can live now, go on holiday, wake up at 5am to watch the sunset, and party. You can have fun without other people's permission, you can be whoever the fuck you want to be and not have to apologise for it. That’s the best part about growing up, that you get to be whoever you want, unapologetically.”

Alexia’s words were so honest, so raw, like they were coming from the very depths of her heart. It hit you hard, right in the chest, like a punch to the stomach, because what were you supposed to say to that?

“I don’t know how to do any of those things.”

Your words were murmured from your lips, only just leaving your voice box. It was the honesty of the moment, the honesty of expressing to these women that you’d never done any of those things.

You were fairly certain that honesty was your favourite thing in the world, because it wasn’t easy to be honest. It was easy to hide behind white lies and blurred screens, but you couldn’t hide behind honesty. The best way to love another person is to be honest with them. You’d fallen in love over the years with honesty, with people's honest moments. Their unmade beds, the moments when they were drunk and crying and can’t be anything but honest with you in the moment. The look in a person's eyes when they realise that they’ve just told you something about themselves that is humiliating or not necessarily the norm, or the look somebody gives you when they’ve just woken up and they’ve forgotten where they are, or the gasp they make when their favourite character dies in a movie. You fell in love with people and their honest moments all the time, a slip up of words, smeared makeup, daydreams, breakdown, mourning, anger, laughter. When somebody is honest with you it makes you happier, it makes you more yourself with them because you trust them with you, with the real you. You become the first person that is looked at when something is going wrong, the kind of person that you can be strong for but also exhausted. You can laugh but also talk about trauma. That person for you right now was Alexia, a woman who was lying everything out in front of you and the sheer honesty that she was showing you was forcing you to break at the seams.

“That’s okay, that’s what we’re all here for. We’re going to be here to support you every single step of the way, but that starts with you making the promise that you are going to try. I understand relapse is a part of the cycle, I’m not naive or stupid, I know that you’ve got an addiction, just like any other. So I’m not asking you to stop right this minute, or try and tell you that we’re just going to turn your life around with the snap of fingers, because we won’t. I want you to promise me that you are going to try though, and come to us if you have tendencies. Surviving isn’t pretty, y/n/n, it sucks and it’s fucking hard. I just need you to be honest with us though, just tell us the truth, because there is zero point in bullshitting us when we are going to find out anyway.”

You sucked in a deep breath, nodding at Alexia’s words.

“I’ll try.”

Alexia smiled and nodded at you, taking a deep breath as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. You felt the demon that had been in your head slowly start to silence itself. For you it had always been one more mark, just another one to add the the collection. It was never about stopping, never about caring. Why would you care? You were put on the planet to serve your country, that was your job. It didn’t matter how you got there, just that you did get there. Now you were there though, and it was all coming crashing down on you. There was no reward for the years of abuse, neglect and pain. The damage to your body and soul didn’t matter, nothing did. You were just another casualty, another body left to the pile.

“You deserve a good life hermosa. The abuse, trauma and pain you had to endure, the unbelievable pain that has changed you forever, makes you a fighter. With the memoir of scars, you are a warrior born into the mess of life but you are a brave soul, one deserving of love, if you’ll accept it.”

You felt like there were glass shards pressing to your throat, digging into the skin and your oesophagus. You didn’t know how to explain it but you were angry. Angry that you were being forced to recover from something that you should have been protected from. You were too young to be this ghost of pain, children were supposed to be happy and free and yet that was something that you hadn’t truly experienced in the last five years. You could have been a little girl, and yet the people who were supposed to protect you failed you and no amount of healing would change that. You were never getting your childhood back, or not the version of it that you wished to have. It hurt, from the inside out, knowing that you were never going to have that part of your life to reminisce over, that one day, when you had kids of your own, maybe. You’d never be able to tell them the stories, tell them about your own childhood, because for you it had all been soccer.

“I’m going to try for you, te prometo que.”

Alexia smiled at you, nodding and pushing herself up off of Mapi’s rug and joining your pile on the couch, nuzzling herself into you, essentially sandwiching you in between the four women.

“We know you will tesoro, and if you fall we’ll be here to catch you, we’ve got you from now on, no more hiding from us, si?”

You nodded hopelessly into Alexia’s chest, letting yourself fall into the women and having faith that they were going to catch you, that you didn’t have to fight this battle all by yourself anymore.

[stargirlygirl]

birthday gift

bakugou katsuki x fem!reader ⋆｡°✩ — no quirk college!au, bit of angst, mostly fluff, 2.9k words, this is for you sanrio girlies!

Bakugou, like every other guy outside of the Sanrio-sphere, thought you were a little bit crazy when he saw your My Melody keychains dangling from your denim shoulder bag. When you two were on your first date and you got super excited over the café you went to doing Hello Kitty and Friends latte art, he grumbled and made a mental note that you were definitely crazy. And after you two started dating, and he saw your Sanrio plushie collection and themed slippers, he knew for sure you were insane. But even then, he couldn’t stop hanging around you.

There was something so attractive about you, magnetic. Maybe it was how you giggled so cutely and femininely whenever you teased him, or how beautiful and big your eyes looked when they stared up, into his own sharper and fierce ones. He was drunk on the way your hips swayed ever-so-slightly when you walked, and the way you sucked your lower lip between your teeth when concentrating hard. Even in the exam hall, he found himself stealing glances at you. You who was fiercely scribbling away on your own exam paper, alternating between biting and licking your lip. And of course, who, other than Bakugou, would kiss you better after such a taxing exam?

The point being, he couldn’t get enough of his crazy lil’ girl. You had been on his mind impossibly more since your birthday was coming up this Friday. He was contemplating whether to take you back to the Hello Kitty latte art café or to get you something Kuromi themed. He was overthinking like crazy, blond brows furrowed, mouth twisted into a scowl as he death-stared his notebook during his 11am lecture. What gift would be good enough for his perfect princess?

Bakugou’s frustration radiated off him, rippling in waves that had Denki, who was sitting next to him, leaning away and over to Kirishima. He whispered, “Did I do something or?” The red-haired boy shook his head, stealing a long glance at his clearly annoyed best friend. Denki sat on the edge of his seat, leg bobbing up and down as he and Kirishima exchanged glances. “Stop that.” Bakugou turned to look at the both of them, the command ripping out of his throat like a snarl. Denki squeaked a little in response, his leg stilling. He leaned even closer to Kirishima, whispering in his ear, “It was me! What did I do that was so wrong? Why does Bak—”

“Shut up!” Bakugou almost yelled. Students around the trio were beginning to look over at them, curious as to what had set the ash-blond off this time. Denki seemed to be the culprit in their eyes. Kirishima pushed Denki by the shoulder away, now leaning over him to tell Bakugou to keep his cool because he was making a scene. Bakugou scoffed in response, turning away from the pair and folding his arms across his chest.

For the remainder of the lecture, Bakugou couldn’t focus — not that he was focusing in the first place. Once it hit 1pm, he got up and stalked out of the hall, not waiting for his companions. He fell into into his usual walk, shoulders hunched, books under his arm, hands in his pocket. From behind him, he could hear his friends calling after him, but he ignored them as he usually does and made his way to the soccer field.

Allow me to clarify, Bakugou doesn’t play soccer, and while his friends do, their practice is usually later in the afternoons. Furthermore, you don’t play soccer. But your friend, — and unfortunately, Bakugou’s ol’ high school gossiper — Mina, is the captain of the cheerleading team who are practising on the soccer field for next week’s game. With B1 and B2 running after him, Bakugou comes to the field, spotting the pink-haired girl with her back to him, standing in front of her team. She doesn’t notice him until he draws closer, oblivious to his presence as she gives feedback on the performance run they just finished. “Ochaco, I need a little more enthusiasm from you—”

“OI! PINKY!” Mina turns around, seeing Bakugou stomping his way over to her and Kirishima and Denki puffing hard a few metres behind him. She turns back around, telling her team to take five. The team dissipates quickly, like a school of fish scurrying away from a shark. She sighs, turning around and placing her hands on her hips. “What do you want, grumpy?” She narrows her eyes at the boy as he stops a few feet away. He rolls his eyes, already regretting his decision to ask for her help in picking out a birthday gift for you.

Bakugou scoffs before starting quietly, “I need your help—” “You WHAT?” Mina has her hand behind her ear, half cupping it as if such a gesture would channel the sound of what she thinks the most stubborn grump said into her ear. Bakugou grits his teeth in response, Kirishima and Denki coming right up behind him. “I need your help, alright?! I don’t know what to get [y/n] for her birthday.” It was as if just saying those words released some of the tension in the ash-blond’s shoulders (because it did). A look of relief washed over Denki, “Oh, so that’s what you’re so cranky about. I thought it was because of m—”

“Shut up, nerd.” Bakugou spared the babbling boy a glare that cut through the air like a knife. He turned back to ‘pinky’ in front of him, hands becoming clammy in his pockets. “So?” Mina looked at him, holding back her laughter until she couldn’t any longer. Bakugou scowled as she laughed at him, clearly amused by the entire situation. “How-how do you-how do you not know what to get your girlfriend for her birthday?” By the time she was finished cackling, she was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, saying “That was the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

“You done now?” Bakugou’s hands had left his pockets so that his arms could cross over his chest once more. His foot tapped against the fresh-cut grass. “Yes, okay okay,” Mina giggled as she regained most of her composure. “Why don’t you just get her something that she told you she wants? Like, didn’t she mention anything that she’s had her eye on?” Bakugou sighed. His voice dripped with sarcasm, “Wow, you’re genius. I hadn’t tried that one.” At this, Mina’s brows furrowed and she pouted, “Well, I’m not the one who can’t think of a gift idea for their girlfriend.”

Bakugou felt that this conversation was taking years off of his life. “Are you gonna help me or not?!” He was leaning forward now, eyes staring holes into the girl in front of him. Kirishima’s hand flew instinctively to his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright bro. Just relax. This isn’t very manly of you.” Bakugou shrugged the red-head’s hand off of him. Mina gave Kirishima a grateful look. Even though the two weren’t dating yet, she was glad to know that he would always have her back. At least, when it came to Bakugou’s temperament.

Mina raised her hands in defence, “Okay okay, I’ll help you. What about getting her something Sanrio-themed? Like a purse or something.” Bakugou sighed again. He was becoming a man of sighs and frustration-wrinkles over this situation. Why was it so hard to just get his girlfriend a gift? He’s gotten you a few before and you had loved them all. Why would this time be any different?

At his quietness, Mina gave Kirishima a look of “Omg is he okay?” To which he shrugged. “Hey, Baku-bro, you right?” Bakugou blinked rapidly, coming back from the depths of his thoughts. He nodded, his voice raspy as he said, “I was gonna but I don’t know, I already got her a Hello Kitty jersey for Christmas.” Mina smiled, remembering how you had texted the group chat that night ecstatic about it. It was only after a month that you had calmed down and started wearing other tops.

“Trust me, she’s gonna love whatever you think of.”

…⊹₊⟡⋆…

Today was your birthday and you were so so excited! You can’t remember ever having been this excited about a birthday before. It was going to be your first ever birthday spent with Bakugou as you two met shortly after your one last year.

You had just woken up. Checking your notifications quickly after turning off your alarm, you notice a text message from your beloved wishing you a happy birthday. You instantly smiled, clicking on the notification to open up your message app and respond with your thanks. You put your phone down, getting out of bed to make it and drink some water. You settle into your morning routine, going about your morning as you always do. The only thing different was that you kept humming and doing little dances, goofing around. You lived in a college dorm alone while your boyfriend lived with his friends in an apartment close to campus. You were excited for the date that he had planned for tonight.

After making yourself some blueberry pancakes with cookies and cream ice cream (fire combo pls try omg you won’t regret it) and devouring them, you hear your phone buzz. Placing the plate and cutlery by the sink, you grab your phone from the bench, the screen lighting up with text messages from ‘Baby Suki’. You giggle to yourself, reading and replying to them. He’s being so kind and caring to you this morning… Just kidding, he’s being his usual self, brash and direct with a dash of sweetness sprinkles.

You notice some other birthday text messages from your friends and peers. You take your time responding to them, your body leaning against the dining table.

Later in the morning, Mina and Ochaco stop by, giving you the most beautiful bouquet of your favourite flowers. It has you in tears, and you all hug as you cry from joy and they tell you not to cry. They stay over at your dorm for a while. You talk about so many things, from the latest episodes of the show you were watching to your assignments.

Around noon, you hear a knock on your door. You told the girls to stay where they were, Mina protesting about how the birthday girl shouldn’t be working on her birthday, but you paid it no mind. You opened the door, Midoriya standing there holding a homemade charcuterie board.

You squealed in excitement, inviting him inside and leading him to the couches. Once he placed the board on the coffee table, you gave him a big hug. Midoriya returned it with warmth and you told him to stay while you all snacked on his delicious girl dinner.

The three of them stayed with you until it 4pm. You had been so lost in conversation that you hadn’t noticed it had gotten so late. You had stood up frantically, telling them about your date with Bakugou tonight. They looked at you with knowing eyes and left peacefully. Well, everyone but Mina who wiggled her eyebrows at you. But, you would interpret that later.

Now, you had to focus on getting ready for your date. You showered, lathered yourself up in oils and moisturiser, and wrapped yourself in a thick bath robe. You then curled your hair, clipping rollers in so they would set. Next, you worked on your makeup.

Tonight, you were going for a glowy, blush-centric look. The result? It was giving!! You then carefully slipped your dress on. It was a cute maxi dress in your favourite colour that highlighted your waist and décolletage. You had bought this one specifically for your date and you were very excited to wear it out. You finished off by taking out your rollers out and fluffing your hair, spritzing on your favourite perfume, and adding your favourite pieces of jewellery. The clock struck 7pm and your phone buzzed. You ran over to it, reading Bakugou’s message that he was at your door. Weirdo, he usually knocks and then barges in.

You smiled wide, maybe he was just nervous. You strapped on your heels, grabbed your favourite purse with your My Mel keychains attached, and then you were walking to the door. You opened it, Bakugou in a pair of jeans, button-up shirt, and matching denim jacket greeting you. You giggled, immediately crashing into his arms to give him a big bear hug. He chuckled at your affection, one hand around your upper back and the other patting your head. You were in heaven just by being in his arms, inhaling his smoky-sweet scent, and this was just the beginning of the night.

“I missed you.” “I can tell,” he looked down at you, grinning wide. “Wanna get going?” You nodded in response. He had his arm wrapped around you as he whisked you away. Where he was taking you though was a surprise.

…⊹₊⟡⋆…

He parked the car on one of the busy main roads, coming over to the passenger side to offer you a hand out of the car. You smiled, enjoying his act of gentlemanliness. He took your hand and let you down the strip, keeping you closest to the shops and him to the road. You walked for a couple of minutes before Bakugou stopped. You stopped too, arm pulled back by his. You looked up at him and watched as he nodded to something behind you. You turned around, hand still holding his. You saw where he had brought you and squealed in delight. You were so happy and excited that you started jumping up and down and gave him a big cuddle. He laughed, teasingly asking you, “Oh, you like?” You nodded and grabbed his hand tight, practically dragging Bakugou into the newly opened Sanrio Miniso.

You two worked your way around the store, Bakugou holding a basket which you filled with careful deliberation. Cinnamoroll perfume, Kuromi flask and matching bento set, blind box, new My Melody slippers. You were ecstatic as Bakugou paid for your birthday haul and carried the bag. Even so, as you two left the store and walked further down the crowded street. You were in a frenzied dopamine daze. You couldn’t stop smiling and giggling and thanking your boyfriend for being so thoughtful and paying for your new Sanrio goodies.

The night was still young. He took you for dinner and ice cream afterwards. All the while, holding your hand or the small of your back and teasing you sweetly. The night ended with him dropping you back to your dorm, walking you to your front door of course. You drew him into a passionate kiss, hands grasping his button-up shirt as his jacket was around your shoulders. He smiled into your lips, hands on the back of your neck and waist. You could taste the caramel ice cream he had eaten only half an hour earlier. It’s sweetness made you melt into his arms, knees weakening as he drew your bottom lip between his teeth to nip at it.

At last, you two pulled away from each other, foreheads pressed together as you both caught your breath. You breathed out, “Thank you for the best birthday ever.” He chuckled, moving back so he could cup your face in his large hands. He shook his head at you, still laughing a little. “What?” “Nothing,” he smiled. He let go of you, handing you your miniso bag. “I’ll see you later. Don’t stay up too late.” He stepped back. “If I do it’s your fault,” you joked. You turned around, fishing your dorm key out of your bag. Luckily, you found it quickly and unlocked your door. You pushed it open and half-stepped inside before turning to look back at him. He was standing there with his hands in his jean pockets.

“Let me put this down and I’ll give you back your jac—” “Keep it.” And with that, Bakugou walked away. You watched as he stopped at the elevator down the hall and pushed the button.

You dropped your bags inside your door and started running after him. “Bakugou! Wait!” He turned around, eyebrows raised at your enthusiasm and sudden outburst of exercise. You were huffing by the time you reached him. The elevator dinged. You threw your arms around him, your heart beating erratically against his slightly elevated one. The elevator doors opened and closed as you held him and he held you. “What is it?” You looked up at him. “Thanks,” you smiled.

He scoffed and ruffled your hair. “Weirdo,” he said as he pulled away from you. He pressed the elevator down button again and the doors opened. “Go back to your dorm already.” He eyed you as he stepped into the elevator. You giggled and you saluted him. “Yes sir.” The elevator doors shut, taking your boyfriend away from you for the night. You couldn’t stop smiling and excitedly whispering to yourself as you made your way back to your dorm and took your makeup and dress off. Even once you had put your silk pjs on and brushed your teeth, you were still so excited and happy. That night, it took a while for you to get to sleep, but you had the sweetest dreams.

[goddessxeffect]

« INTRO: AWAKEN TO (YOUR)SELF »

A BEGINNERS GUIDE TO ALL THINGS CONSCIOUSNESS

This blog used to be a journal in the process of self realization of it's creator but has yet turned out to be a collection of sources and information guiding you too on your way back to your true Being. It all started with the question: “Who are you really?” and the realization that reality is not what it seems. I'm at a point now where I do not follow any teachings or concepts anymore nor did I consent in strictly deviding law of assumption from non dualism in the past. Nowadays, I see myself as an advocate for Self-realization. That being said, I really want to distance myself from any "new age manifestation/law of assumption" (do this to get xyz) teachings practised on youtube or tiktok.

I did create my own content in the past but stopped because there is nothing new to say and my understanding has deepened. Posts and annotations written by me are easily recognisable by my typical colour code, which is obviously displayed here. I only answer questions for understanding or clarification, guidelines here.

HOW TO START

Advaita Vendata (Non Dualism): an Introduction

Core of non dual understanding

If everything is consciousness, I am everything and everything is me? I still feel like "me", I don't feel like god of my reality How to become aware(ness) How to control the thoughts How to be free from emotions and thoughts Stop concerning yourself with the wants and needs of Ego How to loose attachment to Ego What you really are How to be Consciousness/ Awareness

In the end, the only question remaining should be who you are without all the labels attached to "I am". You will come to discover you do not want freedom from this shape alone, but from all shapes. Be aware of your past being over. "External world shows otherwise? Just be like "for how long do you think it can keep this up when you have nothing to do with it?" @Ada

MY CONTENT/ EPIPHANIES

You can experience pain in your life but you don’t have to ‘suffer’ the pain.”  - Anon I mus

#masterpost, #goddessawakening

» Mosaic » Be yourself first »"Manifesting" » Freedom » Being » Why everbody misinterprets Self concept » Is there a real difference? »Misidentification » Consciousness & Limitation » No others » Question Reality » Missing » Ego & Time

ADDITIONAL MATERIAL

... what to find on my blog through the tags

Advise/FAQs: Koda, Nova, iam-you, Cassie, Bry, Jag, Vesora, Lain, more What is Ego? How it feels to be Self / Awareness All on Self Realization and Detachment All on LOA trough a non dualistic view Books

If you still want to focus on "getting your desires" after been through all the info, search Neville Goddard (all his books and lectures). If you have a hard time understanding Neville, I advise some people who break down his teachings in a short and modern way of speaking: Edward Art (Reddit(Series), Audio), embodythestate, niclasupgradetolife, Josiah Brandt on YouTube

[daichiduskdrop]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚⋆·˚ ༘ *𝙎𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 ⋆·˚ ༘ *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter 12

Pairing: BTS Ot7 X fem! reader

Genre: A/B/O AU, Fluff, Angst, Strangers to lovers,

Warnings: Slight mentions of unhealthy eating habits

Words: 3358

Taglist: @thelilbutifulthings @ilovemoneymorethenmen @singukieee @cherrysainttt @felicityroth @mageprincess7 @lucis-noctiana @danielle143 @osakis-gf @girl-nahh @vintageoldfashion @neverthefirstchoice @juju-227592 @silentreadersthings @i-have-no-life-charlie @everyonehatesshani @iamkookiesforyou @dragons-flare @fangirl125reader @roseidol

Previous:

⋆·˚ ༘ *ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ✩‧₊˚⋆·˚ ༘ *

Smiling at the calming words, you rested fully against the alpha's shoulder, his large hands curling around your upper back, pulling you closer.

Hoseok chuckled at the soft interaction, knowing well that Yoongi was acting against his usual cold and shy nature, just for you. He wouldn't let even the youngest cuddle with him, and that said something.

You were just special for them.

Driving carefully, the car went slowly. There wasn't any snow falling at the current time, but the roads were glistening with ice, and so the alpha tried to avoid any possible accidents.

It didn't take much more than 20 minutes before they were able to see the university building from the main road. Turning on the closest street, Jungkook drove the vehicle to the parking lot available for the students.

When entering the school, along with a few other important documents and cards, all the students received a parking access card, allowing them to save some money.

Not a lot of the people there actually used it; it was much more common for them to just use the train, bus, or anything along those lines. A car was just an expense not many could afford.

Most of the students were betas, or alphas, because the lectures and assignments brought a high stress level that wasn't advised for omegas to endure every day. It was usual for alphas to drive cars; betas most of the time also had the licence, but for omegas, it was fairly unusual.

Passing the tests with the second-gender burden was just unlikely. Plus, even if some lucky ones managed to pass, most likely paid behind their backs by their pack alphas, they wouldn't always actually get the licence.

It wasn't a very honourable act to pay to pass any tests or bypass any important rules, but if a pack omega just so wanted to learn how to drive for whatever reason, would study so well for it, and would be nervous during any of the practise drives, the pack would just eventually soften up.

It was just harsh to see them fail and look so sad after it happened; usually the omegas would end up crying because of it too.

"They wouldn't need the licence anyways," was usually what the teachers at the driving school would say, blatantly obvious with just not wanting to allow them to drive.

Car accidents could end terribly, and a pack that has lost their omega for such things would most definitely carry the burden for way longer than healthy.

It was true, though; the passenger princess privelage omegas held was just too powerful.

And so, the parking lot was mostly empty, occupied in only at very few spots. Getting in the line before the lifting barrier, only a few cars stood before the pack's.

Noticing the driver being let in only after scanning a card, Jungkook turned to look at you, palms still holding the wheel fully.

„Babybun? Do you have card access for the parking lot, sweet bunny?” Nodding, you took your backpack from next to you, rummaging through it until you fished out your wallet.

Going through the many passes you didn't really use, you took out the dark blue card, which had a barcode at its bottom with your information printed out on top.

Handing it to Jin, he gave it to Jungkook's outstretched hand. Thanking you gently, the alpha drove a few metres forward after the last car went through.

Pulling the window down, he let the scan recognise your access, and the barrier pulled up right after. Driving in, he turned to park at one of the bigger slots, making sure not to bump into anyone's car.

Turning the engine off, seatbelts unbuckled, and doors opened, with you also slipping out in time. Yoongi carried your backpack for you and held it by one of the straps.

Zipping up your now slightly opened jacket for you, Jungkook smiled widely at you. „I'll keep the card for when one of us comes to pick you up later, okay, bun?” Rubbing your cheek with his knuckles, his warm and soft eyes settled on your form.

Nodding at it, you didn't have any issue with it. Turning to your backpack, you took out your college ID and hung it around your neck with the strap.

With the time quickly approaching closer and closer to 8, the alphas decided that going from the oldest to the youngest, they would share their goodbyes. With the first alpha approaching you, he took a hold of both of your hands, intertwining your fingers and squeezing them.

„Sweet cub, have fun at lessons today, okay? You can tell me all about them later. Text us if you need anything; we are always available for you. And eat your lunch well; I made it extra tasty just for you.”

Cooing at you, Jin stepped closer to you, his body feeling warm even through all the layers. His chin rubbed softly over the top of your head, scenting you just the smallest bit.

Stepping back, the man allowed his packmates to also say their goodbyes, but even then, he didn't let his eyes waver from your form, watching closely over you.

„My sweet kitten. Have a good day, hm? If anything happens, alphas are always ready to come here and get you. Pay attention in lessons and stay out of trouble, kitty.”

Yoongi didn't show much affection, instead choosing to just scent you, being much less obvious about it. Rubbing his hands around your soft face tenderly, he let his wrist scent glands do the trick.

After making deep eye contact with the alpha for a few seconds, he pulled away, helping you put on your backpack.

Smiling widely at you, the next alpha pulled you to his chest right away, rubbing both of his palms over your sides, being mindful not to bump into your bag.

„Sunshine, have a great day. What is your schedule today anyway?"

„Um..I have to meet my course leader first, since it's Monday. I'll be in the studio until lunch break, and then I should have some lectures and then continue on some assignments again.” You said, thinking about your schedule for the day.

Usually, it was pretty much the same every day, but Mondays were a bit different, with meeting up with the course leader in the morning. They were there to explain and inform you about any upcoming events or assignments for the week, going over all the work you have done for the past week.

„That sounds like a lot, bub. You aren't too tired now, are you? My baby, be careful on yourself, please.” Already getting too worried for any good reason, he wrapped his arms around your head, pushing you under his chin.

Breathing in your scent, he felt his nerves settle down a bit. With his chin gently going over your hairline, he too left a bit of his scent lingering on you. Pursing his lips in disappointment, he pulled away after prolonging the hug for a good few seconds, gently rubbing your shoulders before he stepped away.

„Okay, babypup, pay good attention to your lessons, sweetheart. Make sure you do well in your classes, and if anything happens, tell the alphas right away; we are here to protect you.” Looking into your eyes with his neck bended towards you, you nodded at Packalpha's words.

Gentle and caring, yet strict at the same time. Namjoon always cared about studies, and you doing well in your lessons was very important to him. He knew a bit about art, but even if he didn't, he was more than willing to study anything to be able to help you if you had any troubles.

Gently patting the back of your head for a few rhythms, he hummed in approval when you nodded. Rubbing his cheek on your hair, he let his scent cover you fully. You gripped his fingers tightly before you let him pull away again.

„Aigoo, princess, make sure you have lots of fun with your classmates today, hm? We already added you to our group chat, so make sure you message us throughout the day, sweet baby. Alphas will get worried otherwise!”

Whining through his chuckles, Jimin shook you softly, making you also erupt in soft giggles. Pleased with the sound, he also carefully pulled you close to his body, snuggling up against your warm neck and cheeks.

With you well scented, he felt satisfied with his work, allowing the other alphas to also say their goodbyes.

„Babycheeks, be careful alright? If anyone picks on you, you tell us immediately. Do you understand? ...good girl. Take photos of what you made; you can show me later today. I would love to see.”

Nodding into his neck, you breathed in the musky scent he carried. He felt worried about leaving you out of his sight after having you drop twice already these past two days. It was just worrying for him.

With his fingers combing through your hair, Taehyung squeezed your cheeks a little, pinching them and laughing widely at your face. You were just adorable, weren't you?

With his small wrist scent glands doing a good job of scenting you well, he felt satisfied with his work, letting the youngest do his own thing.

„Babybun, I will get lonely without you like this! You have to text me, okay, so I don't cry! I will, I really will—no, baby, don't laugh! Nooo, yah! Stop! Aish..” His fake sobs were just ridiculous; his face looked too funny for you to handle.

Hugging him instead, you could hear the loud coos of the other men around you, making you hide your face in the alpha's chest better. Giggling himself, he rubbed his palms over your sides himself, his knuckles caressing your cheeks gently.

Stepping away after a few more moments, you adjusted the card around your neck and shyly looked down. The men didn't leave yet, watching over you with soft eyes. Sighing out, you knew you had to go now.

„I'll go now...” You softly whispered, about to turn on your heel, when Namjoon answered.

„Be a good girl for alphas today.” The packalpha said, and with your shy nod, you made your way to the entrance of your college.

The pack watched over you fondly, making sure you left inside safely. And so, after you turned a corner, they all eventually piled back in the van, the time showing 7:54. They didn't have any strict schedules they always had to comply with, but they had scheduled meetings for the day.

They didn't mind, though; even if they were a little late, saying proper goodbyes to you was much more important to them.

Rounding the corner, you walked through the busy corridors, many scents erupting from all around you. It wasn't too loud; most of the people who studied at art schools were more introverted and quiet. Still, with the many people you didn't know well and the scents they carried, the noise was a bit overwhelming.

Shrugging off your coat and placing it in your locker, you locked it, taking just your backpack. Continuing on your way to the studios, yours was at the bottom level of the school, right next to all the printing techniques.

It was just more convenient for all the students since a lot of the time fine arts included sculptures and other various materials, and you were also used to going to the printing techniques quite frequently. The giant machines were placed downstairs for obvious reasons.

Walking through the open space where a lot of the figurative drawing classes were held, you made your way to the room you shared with the few classmates you had. Opening the doors, you bent your head so you wouldn't accidentally meet anyone's eyes.

There weren't many people in your class anyway, and sharing it with only six others was a pretty private experience if you were being honest. Fine arts weren't just that popular for a major, very understandably so.

Taking a seat at the corner of the big table, you all piled together, waiting for the teacher to arrive.

❄️

„And the curating? How is it going?” The man asked, watching over his class. The exhibitions would take place in just about a week or so, and so it was important to get the finishing touches down.

After splitting up the class into two equal groups, it was assigned for them to help curate two exhibitions, one for each. The works of the other students would be shown too, with the show held in the school building a few days before Christmas.

They had to do everything basically by themselves, and that was a lot of work, having to label everything, prepare all the work on time, and get it together with no issues.

You shared the project with two betas, a boy named Chin-Hae and another girl named Sun-Hi. They didn't let you do much stuff completely by yourself, so you more or less helped them around. Most of the talking with other students was done by them, with you being close by.

Neither of them talked too much with you, but with a few of the other classmates, they were a lot more outgoing. You didn't mind, though, feeling a little too shy to try and approach them with anything else but the project you were required to work on together.

„We are working on the posters for it right now; we still have to finalise all the names. Not much left to do.” Sun-Hi spoke, her voice sounding velvety and calm.

Even if the group seemed mostly well collected, they were more than worried. The preparations have been taking over two months now, and it's been complicated getting the work ready.

„Alright. Do you have some sketches or anything? I can look over it with you.” Nodding at that, the beta pulled out her laptop, unlocking it, and after a minute, she turned the screen to the teacher.

There wasn't much yet done for the poster; together they only decided on the colour scheme and font but didn't go too deep into how it would actually look. You had some ideas on your mind, but you didn't expect the group to actually use them.

Looking at the screen for a second, you nervously sat next to the teacher and the two other classmates opposite you. Hiding your palms under the sleeves of the jumper you wore, you huddled closer to yourself.

Nodding at your work, the teacher mentioned finishing it within two or so days at the maximum because they had to present the whole preparation process by Friday. He would be able to help them at least a little until then, but when Friday hits, he won't be able to do much.

Thanking him quietly, the teacher then went over the other students work for the assignments given for the month. Checking over how they were progressing, he was quick to give any needed help.

With every assignment, you were given a written note going over what techniques you had to use, the theme, colours, and any other notes that had to be made. Everything else was fully up to you.

With the sketches already done, you were moving quickly with the work you still had to do since it had to be done before the Christmas holidays. The critiques would be held the day after New Year's celebrations, and you had to have everything done by then.

You weren't too wowed by the theme. „What is your problem?” just sounded a bit lame to your ears, but you did get a few nice ideas you continued to work on further.

You liked that the sentence could be interpreted and said in so many different ways, from a caring and worried question all the way to a rude and sarcastic remark.

You wanted to hold on to that thought for a little longer, wanting to maybe even collaborate with someone you thought would never understand your perspective and view. And so, after telling your kind teacher about your idea, he was quick to help.

Providing you with a contact for a senior alpha man you had never met in your life before, he helped you arrange a short meeting, held on the school grounds, where the man arrived.

It was an experience you never really thought about going through before, but you decided to trust it, and you believed you would be able to make an artwork after the appointment.

And so the day you met up with the elder, you were led to the cafeteria with your teacher with you, helping you get settled down for a second or two before he also left. It was a little bit awkward at first; the alpha's face was obviously more than tired.

You still remember the bright white coat he wore and the thick knitted scarf he tightly wrapped around his neck. With a walking stick held by him, the man took a seat by the small table in the cantine, his wire-rimmed glasses perched up on his big nose.

Even when it intimidated you at first greatly, soon you went on talking with the alpha, and shockingly, he felt very sweet towards you. A bit confused with the new technologies, he was actually very nice to talk to.

When you told him about the assignment, he laughed loudly and was quick to answer the question. „I got old, and so will you.”

With the main idea of your work already so easily said by him, you now had a few nice ideas you wanted to carry out further. Wanting to phase the whole project around age and mostly time, you weren't too sure what to exactly present, but choosing to do multimedia just felt right for this.

You knew making a video could be risky, especially with the music that would have to play in the background, the animation, and everything else that was just time-consuming, but you had already prepared well for it by creating a plan and taking a few photos you wanted to include.

And so, going over all the stuff you had prepared earlier last week, your teacher also helped you around, making sure you understood well what was wanted.

It didn't feel like a long time passed before it was lunch break. You were actually quite excited for it, going from being huddled up before the notebook the school would provide you with to finally stretching out again.

Unzipping your backpack, you pulled out the steel dosirak case. It was cold by now, but you hoped that the alpha would have only packed food that was usually eaten cold. You hated when your meals, which were usually served warm, would go icy. It just tasted different.

There was rice in one of the side compartments, four kimbap neatly placed in a line, cut-up lotus roots in one of the smaller placements, sesame seeds sprinkled on top, and a bit of bulgogi was also in the lunch box.

It looked like a meal you would buy at a restaurant, not a lunch you would take from home. Feeling excited, you went on to take a bite with the wooden chopsticks Jin gave you, the case safely tucked in the box with a few napkins placed around it.

It tasted good, and so you kept coming back for seconds, having, for once in your life, truly finished the whole box without having to force yourself even a little. Your tastebuds were dancing in delight, and you had your stomach filled up once again.

With only a bit of the beef, lotus, and rice left for your afternoon snack, you were more than satisfied.

Taking your phone out, you reminded yourself to thank the pack's oldest for the nice meal he must have whipped up for you the last evening and morning. Opening WhatsApp, you were already added to a group with a few text notifications.

⋆·˚ ༘ *ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ✩‧₊˚⋆·˚ ༘ *

Next:

[estellan0vella]

Love In Print│Bang Chan

Chapter Seventeen: I'm A Feminist SS: 6 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 1.9K Content Warnings: Talks of past hookup with an older man, Haechul being a gross dick

Previous Next Masterlist

Ayame steps into the office, her black stilettos striking sharp, purposeful notes against the polished floor like a war drum announcing her arrival. Her oversized sunglasses shield her eyes from the fluorescent lights that feel like tiny daggers stabbing into her still-hungover brain. The clip holding her messy updo is barely holding on, and she tugs at her green and black tartan mini skirt, more out of habit than necessity, as she makes her way to her desk.

Chan's gaze flickers up from his laptop the moment he hears her enter. His eyebrows lift slightly as he takes in her sunglasses, her slumped posture, and the clear "do not fuck with me" aura radiating from her.

"You alright?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral. "You look kinda hungover."

Ayame drops into her chair with a dramatic sigh, flipping her laptop open with more force than necessary. "Oh, I'm just peachy, Chan. Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic." The sarcasm in her voice is sharp enough to cut glass.

Chan smirks faintly but doesn't push. Before he can respond, Haechul's booming voice fills the office as he strides in, a tall, sharply dressed man trailing behind him like a shadow. The man exudes money and connections, his watch gleaming under the harsh lights.

"Chan," Haechul calls out, his tone insufferably upbeat, "Meet my good friend Yeonjun. He's got a direct line to half the hiring panel for the board. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to help a man like you."

Chan rises smoothly from his chair, extending a hand to Yeonjun, who takes it with a practised, professional smile. "I'd appreciate any advice you can give," Chan says, his voice calm but firm.

Yeonjun returns the handshake, his grin widening. "We'll discuss it over lunch. I'm looking forward to it."

"And this," Haechul says, turning toward Ayame with an overly familiar tone, "is Lim Ayame. Our little firecracker."

Ayame barely looks up, her sunglasses still firmly in place. "Charmed," she mutters dryly, typing aimlessly on her laptop to avoid the interaction.

But Yeonjun's grin turns wolfish as his eyes land on her. "Oh, Ayame and I already know each other," he says smoothly. "I spoke at one of her master's lectures last year. We got to know each other... intimately."

Ayame's fingers pause mid-typing as her stomach churns, but she keeps her head down.

Haechul throws his head back and laughs, clapping Yeonjun on the back. "See? Our Lim here is irresistible. Most of the office has been tempted by her at some point."

Ayame's hands clench into fists under the desk, but she forces herself to stay still. The conversation fades as Haechul and Yeonjun leave the office, their laughter echoing in the hallway. The moment they're out of earshot, Ayame groans quietly and drops her forehead onto her desk with a dull thud.

"Fuck me sideways," she mutters.

A water bottle slides into view, and she glances up to see Chan standing by her desk, his expression unreadable.

"Hydrate," he says simply.

Ayame takes the bottle, unscrewing the cap and downing a long gulp. "Thanks," she mutters, her voice still scratchy from dehydration and lingering irritation.

Chan leans against the edge of her desk, crossing his arms. "Didn't peg you for the type to go for guys like Yeonjun."

Ayame snorts, setting the bottle down with a bit more force than necessary. "What I do is none of your fucking business, remember? We established that last night. But hey, congrats—your new bestie is going to write you a glowing recommendation. The job's as good as yours."

"You still have a chance," Chan says, his voice softer but insistent.

Ayame lets out a bitter laugh, pulling off her sunglasses to glare at him. "Oh, sure. Because the slutty master's student has a snowball's chance in hell against Mr. MBA with connections up the ass."

Chan's jaw tightens as he exhales sharply. "Look, I'm sorry about last night."

"Don't," Ayame snaps, holding up a hand to cut him off. "Just don't. I don't need your fucking apologies."

"I didn't mean to embarrass or upset you," Chan presses, his voice quieter but unwavering.

"Well, you did both," Ayame bites back. "Mission accomplished. Congrats."

Chan's gaze darkens, his voice steady but heavy with tension. "What I want and what you want are two different things, Ayame. But at least I know what I want."

"Oh, enlighten me," Ayame snaps, leaning forward, her eyes blazing with frustration.

Chan shakes his head, his smirk replaced by something harder, more serious. "Figure it out yourself. I'm not hiding anything."

He straightens, pushing off the desk, and strides toward the door without another word. Ayame watches him go, her chest heaving with anger and something else she refuses to name.

She grabs her desk phone, pressing the familiar extension for Minho's office. Her nails tap against the desk with a staccato rhythm as the line rings, matching the frantic pace of her thoughts.

"HR Department, Minho speaking,"

"It's me," Ayame says, her voice quieter than usual.

"Oh, thank god," Minho groans dramatically. "I thought I actually had to do work for a second. What's up? You've not even been in the building an hour, and you already sound like you're spiralling."

Ayame takes a shaky breath. "Can you help me look for editing executive assistant positions?"

The line goes silent for a beat before Minho's tone shifts, sharpening like a blade. "What happened?"

Ayame leans her head back against the chair, closing her eyes. "Haechul just brought in a guy who knows half the hiring panel to write a recommendation for Chan. Then he made some fucking gross comment about me 'tempting the whole office.' Like I'm some kind of walking HR violation."

Minho hisses through his teeth. "That bastard. I knew he was a cockroach, but damn, he's levelling up."

"It gets worse," Ayame mutters, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "The guy writing the recommendation? Yeonjun. You remember him? The guest lecturer I slept with last year? Yeah. That guy."

Minho doesn't respond for a moment, and Ayame can practically feel the judgment radiating through the phone.

"Say something, oppa," Ayame snaps, her voice breaking slightly.

Minho finally speaks, his tone flat. "Oof."

"That's it? That's all you've got for me?!" 

"Ayame," Minho says patiently, "you've just handed me a four-course feast of workplace drama. I'm chewing on it, okay?"

Ayame groans, rubbing her temples. "I'm not going to get this job. Not with this shitstorm. And I made that stupid deal with Chan, and-"

"Whoa, whoa," Minho interrupts, his voice softer now. "First of all, take a breath before you hyperventilate in that glass box you call an office."

She exhales shakily, her eyes darting around to ensure no one is paying attention. "Okay. Breathing."

"Good. Now listen to me," Minho continues, his tone firm but kind. "Chan's not gonna hold you to that deal, alright? He's an infuriating asshole, but he's not a total sadist. And even if he does somehow pull a power play, you've got me. HR is my domain, baby Maknae. Nobody fucks with you unless they want to go through me."

Ayame snorts softly despite herself. "Thanks, oppa."

"Second," Minho says, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "you're not quitting just because Haechul is a douche canoe. We'll start looking, yeah, but only as a backup plan. You're too damn good at what you do to give up."

"Actually," Ayame hesitates, her voice faltering. "Can I come to your office? Mine's all glass, and I might cry, and I don't want anyone to see that."

"Duh," Minho replies immediately. "I'm your favourite chocolate. Also, I'll grab the nice tissues. None of that scratchy-ass bullshit I save for the crybabies who whine about dress code violations."

Ayame lets out a weak laugh, her chest easing slightly. "You're the best."

"Don't you forget it," Minho says smugly. "Now get your ass down here. And don't bring your coffee mug from your desk; I'll make you a fresh one. I'm not letting you wallow in stale caffeine."

Ayame hangs up with a faint smile, grabbing her coat and heading toward the elevator. As the doors close, she lets out a long breath, steeling herself for the storm that awaits. At least she has Minho, with his sharp tongue and softer heart, to help weather it.

When Ayame walks into Minho's office, he's already standing in the middle of the room with his arms spread wide, a dramatic, over-the-top expression on his face. "Ah, my prodigal Maknae returns! Come here, you hungover disaster."

Without hesitation, Ayame steps into his embrace, letting out a sigh as his arms wrap around her shoulders. He hugs her tightly, one hand stroking her hair like she's a distressed cat.

"I've got you," Minho murmurs, his voice mock-soothing. "It's okay. Your best oppa has you. And your favorite oppa. I am your favourite, right?"

Ayame lets out a muffled snort against his shoulder. "You are. Just don't tell Hyunjin. He's convinced it's him."

Minho grins, swaying them gently, his tone laced with mischief. "Let him dream. Poor thing's already got a fragile ego."

"Ugh," Ayame groans, pulling back slightly and placing a hand on her temple. "Stop rocking me. I'm hungover."

"Ah, yes, the eternal cycle of Ayame drinking her weight in whiskey, finding Discount Chan, and dragging him back to her apartment," Minho says, stepping back but keeping his hands on her shoulders. "And then I have to kick him out in the morning. Rinse, repeat."

Ayame gives him a pointed look, her arms crossed. "Excuse me, didn't you admit to doing the same thing with off-brand Jisungs before you actually hooked up with the real one?"

Minho smirks, leaning casually against his desk. "True. But the difference is, I succeeded. I went for the real thing. You, on the other hand, keep reaching for the store-brand version."

"Oppa," Ayame says, her tone half-whining, half-murderous. "I will stab you."

Minho gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. "My precious Maknae threatens violence! And after all I've done for you? Unbelievable."

"You're an asshole," Ayame mutters, dropping into the chair across from his desk.

"And you're my favourite hot mess," Minho fires back, his grin unrelenting. "Now, sit your hungover ass down, eat your chocolate, and let me save your life. Again."

Ayame looks down at the desk, noticing the bar of imported dark chocolate and a box of her favourite soft tissues waiting for her. She can't help but smile faintly as she picks up the chocolate, unwrapping it with slow, deliberate care. "I swear you're the only thing keeping me from setting this entire office on fire."

"Noted," Minho says, settling behind his laptop. "Now, let me search for some editing executive assistant jobs for you while you revive yourself with overpriced cocoa and self-pity."

Ayame bites into the chocolate, leaning her head back against the chair. "I don't even know why I came in today. I should've stayed home."

"Because you have the self-preservation instincts of a squirrel running across a highway," Minho quips, typing furiously on his laptop. "Also, you can't leave me alone in this hellhole. Someone has to suffer with me."

"You're suffering?" Ayame retorts, arching an eyebrow. "I'm the one dealing with Haechul's blatant favouritism, Chan's mysterious moral compass, and my own questionable life choices."

Minho glances up, deadpan. "You brought this on yourself, Ayame. Just fuck Chan already. Rip the bandaid off."

Ayame groans, covering her face with both hands. "Can you not?"

Minho grins, leaning across the desk. "Nope. Not until you fix this mess. But hey, at least I'll find you a backup job for when this place implodes."

"You're the worst," Ayame mutters, her voice muffled behind her hands.

"And yet, you're here," Minho says smugly, spinning his laptop to show her a list of job postings. "Now, let's start with this one. It's for an editorial assistant at that boutique publishing house. Big on poetry. You'll fit right in with the other emotionally unstable word nerds."

Ayame lets out a weak laugh, picking up the tissues and throwing one at him. "Thanks, oppa."

Minho catches it mid-air, grinning. "You're welcome, pabo. Now focus. You might still need to flee this dumpster fire before it burns us all alive."

Taglist: @fackeraccount @ot8girlfie @nightmarenyxx @reimaybeidk

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@skzleeknowcore

[moonlightjam]

haikyu boys when you overwork yourself

volleyball player!reader

characters included: kageyama, oikawa, suna

kageyama tobio:

i feel like as someone who works super hard at his sport he’d totally get it

but he’d still be concerned

like if you were working yourself to the point where you’re exhausted to death after training and can barely keep a convo from tiredness

so you’d be waking up at the crack of dawn before the nationals season

then you’d barely have energy to talk to him cause you’re so tired

and he notices this continues for a while

one day he walks in to your school gymnasium looking for you and sees you practicing jump serves

and there are like hundreds of balls on the other side of the court indicating how much you’ve practised

and he sees you sweaty as shit, shorts riding up, thighs literally shaking from the amount of jumping you’ve done

he finds it kinda hot though

he’s still worried about you because you actually look EXHAUSTED beyond reasonable

so he’s had enough of his gf being stressed over nationals and low on energy and with sore muscles all over but still training hardcore

as i said he’d totally get it bc he does that too but seeing it on his precious volleyball playing girl just hits different

so while you’re on your tenth serve (since he got there), he strolls over to you and calls out

“oi, stop overexerting yourself. your body’s not gonna make it to nationals if you keep pushing it too much. and i don’t like seeing you so stressed and low on energy.”

but then without waiting for you to respond, he grabs your wrist and drags you to your gym bag

helps you pack up and carries the bag for you

then holds your hand and pulls you out of the gym amidst your protests

“you’re not training anymore today. relax. have a good dinner. you haven’t done that in a while.”

then he brings you to your fav yakitori place

when you’re there, you order your favourite rice or noodle dish, and you both share a shit ton of meat

tobio lectures you over dinner over how you’re overworking yourself

but he also shows he cares a lot he’s so cute

“hey. you’re an amazing player. don’t stress and overwork yourself unnecessarily. i love you so take care of yourself.”

then he insists on paying for both of you

THEN he brings you for some absolutely banger dessert

you go home and he runs a hot bath for you, then massages your aching muscles

i feel like his skilled setter hands give good massages for some reason

anyway he literally releases all the tension in your muscles

and then cuddles you to sleep and makes sure you don’t get up at an ungodly hour to train again the next morning

overall super caring and concerned for you

oikawa tooru:

remember how i said kageyama completely empathises with you overworking yourself

yeah well oikawa gets it even more

but he definitely sees that you’re overworked and he gets concerned

i think he’d actually help you in training though

so for the fifth evening that week (it’s friday), you’re staying back till what must be eleven practicing with your teammate

said teammate is just tossing the ball for you to practise setting

oikawa gets upset when his precious sugar angel honey pie (sorry but that’s such an oikawa way of thinking) isn’t home in his arms to sleep

so he gets up and goes to your school gym to look for you

you’ve been there every day that week, he’s just had enough now that you didn’t even come home at his sleeping time

so there you are on your god knows how many-eth set and he bursts through the door

when he sees you doing some setting, he feels his setter passion and also his “she’s my gf i love her” passion and goes to help you

he corrects your form and all that

oh and he dismissed your said teammate the moment he got there lol

but after 5 minutes of helping you out he brings out the lecture

“babe, you’re working too hard. i know you’re worried for nationals but rest is necessary. you haven’t had a proper dinner at all this week, think i didn’t know?”

you respond to him, “but i have a proper lunch before training! and—“

“and nothing. you’re overworked. you’re not sleeping enough either, but you’re still training this much. 5 more minutes and we’re going home.”

when you get home he’s literally pampering you

ran you a bath and had food delivered while you were soaking in there

fed you in bed, then cuddled you

trains with you the next day (saturday) so he can regulate how much strain you put on your body and make sure you stop before it gets too intense

also because he loves you and wants so spend time with you lol

brings you for a lunch date and makes you have an afternoon nap with him

suna rintaro:

you’ve been working super hard for the tournament

there’s like a month till the season starts

your team has been having endless friendly games where you’d play like ten sets

but your team mates would actually ask for bench time when their muscles ache and throat tightens because they don’t want to over exhaust themselves

but you and your passion makes you stubbornly stay on for all ten sets

and your coach advises you against it but no way you’re gonna listen

and you’ve been overworking yourself since long before that days match btw

suna’s been missing having you as his dinner date but you’ve been insisting on staying late for practice

he keeps telling you not to overwork yourself but you keep telling him you aren’t

on a sunday, he asks you out for a cafe date, but you decline because you’ve got a practice match scheduled

despite thinking you’re wayyy too exhausted, he knows how much practice matches mean to you for your experience, so he lets you go without any protests

but halfway through the fifth set, as you’re trying to save a ball, you have an off landing

and you hear a nasty ass crack in your ankle

you convince yourself it’s just a small twist and it’ll wear off once you stand up and get moving, but you find yourself unable to get off the floor due to the pain

against all your protests, the coach orders you off the court and gets your teammate to help ice and elevate your ankle

after some examining, it’s determined that it’s a minor sprain, nothing too serious that’ll keep you from playing at the tournament

but coach still tells you to stay away from training or any exercise requiring you on your feet for the next week or so

and you’re sososososo pissed about that because what passionate girlie is okay with missing training??

so you’re sobbing angry tears as you watch your team from the sidelines

because you’re frustrated with yourself

“like, just stick the landing and don’t be on the bench right now, it’s not that hard??”

doesn’t help that you’re an ace player and not used to the bench feeling

after training, your team mates offer to walk you home to support you and your sprained and aching ankle, but you decline

cause you know who the one person who can make you feel better is

so you sit on the gym floor, dialling your fav number to dial

“rintaro?”

“sup, babe? your practice over?”

“yeah, about that…”

suna picks up on the disappointment in your tone and knows smt didn’t go right

you tell him how you sprained your ankle and can’t exactly walk properly and how you declined your team mates offers to walk you home cause you know he’s the one whose presence would make you feel better

so he’s up and going (to your gymnasium)

when he gets there, he sees you on the floor with your foot propped up

you look downcast, so he calls out to you as he walks in and squats next to you

“told ya you’re overworking yourself. ankle sprains are a stress injury, you know.”

you grunt as he goes to pick up your duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder

then, he holds his hand out to you, and you pull yourself up, standing on your good foot

he sees your struggle to stand, and sighs

then, without warning, he just picks you up so that you’re hanging over his shoulder, just like your duffel bag

“what the hell, rin.”

“you can barely walk. and we’re going to the cafe i was going to bring you to. take it as some relaxation. and a make up date for all the time you’ve been away from me. also, you better not overwork yourself and try to train through your injury.”

it kinda takes away from the loving moment since you’re hanging over his shoulder like a dead fish, but you can tell he cares

and it’s sweet, though you know he’s gonna have some kinda told you so recording soon

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 4K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: Reader is hit by a truck which is *university*. So, a lot of studying and a lot of frustrations. And the TA is being a pain in the ass, you know how it is. Some science talk, based on the remnants of my knowledge from uni.

author’s note: Guys, you have showered me with love, so I'm showering you with writing.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

Sue was so fucking right. It had only been one week of freedom, and then the workload came crashing down on you. Suddenly, every class had a welcome test attached to it, and you found yourself buried under a mountain of homework—chemical equations to solve and analyse, essays, books to read, lab practice, and lectures to attend. There wasn’t any snowball effect; it all hit at once, and by the time you and Sue returned on the first Monday of the second week, you were carrying enough work to fill two mules, and it would still have been too heavy even for them.

“Your mum is calling,” Sue’s voice pulled you out of a particularly boring passage about physical chemistry in one of your shared workbooks. You would usually put your phones on the cabinet for study time, but the vibration had startled Sue for the third time in ten minutes, so she decided to address it.

“Ugh, can you put her on speaker? I’ll deal with this quickly, and I don’t want to move,” you rolled your eyes, catching Sue’s judgmental glare. She’s your mum!

“Kochanie, finally! I’ve been trying and trying, how are you doing?” Your mum’s voice filled the room with her familiar heavy accent, though she insisted it was improving. Your dad didn’t speak a word of Polish, so Joanna had to switch to English entirely after you left.

“All good, Mum. Lots and lots and lots of studying,” you said, your voice so unamused you barely lifted your eyes from the book, though your gaze was unseeing. You had been staring at the same equation for about half an hour now.

“Have you been practising your affirmations?” Of course, you hadn’t. Silly idea.

“Yes, every day and every time someone pisses me off. How’s Dad?” You decided to deflect as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

“Dad went to Calais for a retreat, and I’m left alone for the entire week. He’s not allowed a mobile, you see,” Your mum rambled on a little longer, and you let her. You were happy to hear your parents were moving on after losing their only daughter. Even though Joanna insisted she could feel your presence in the house, in the clothes and trinkets you’d left behind, and could sense your moods through an invisible mother-daughter bond you shared. What a load of nonsense.

“Mamusia, I love you, but I have to go. I’m studying with Sue, and we’ve got a test in thirty minutes,” you added a round of loud pecks so she could hear the kisses through the phone speaker. She told you to wear red underwear and get Sue to kick you for good luck.

“Your mum sounds awesome,” Sue laughed under her breath. She tried to study but ended up listening to the entire conversation.

“Eh, she’s something. She’s pretty cool when she’s not suffocating you with love, you know?” You gave Sue a knowing smile, and she understood immediately. “Have you managed to learn anything? My brain is literally fuming.”

Sue groaned as she started packing up her notebooks to head toward the lab class. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think I’ll use my last resort—can I borrow some red knickers?” You snickered as Sue shot you a huge mocking grin.

“No, but I can kick you alright, sweet Sue,” you couldn’t help but laugh. You gathered all the papers scattered around you with both hands and shoved them into your bag. You glanced at yourself in the mirror before leaving your dorm room, and Jesus Christ, your youth had already fled. Dark circles under your eyes, a gaunt face, lips chapped—all of it painfully underlined by an ink stain on your t-shirt. Whatever, there was no time to do anything about it.

It was Viktor’s class again. You had slowly grown to dislike them, ever since he and Jayce began to switch every second day, after Jayce got a new girlfriend—beautiful Mel Medarda, a third-year theatre student whom Hale once called a close second contender to rule the planet one day. Second after you, of course.

All of Viktor’s initial friendly sass had dissolved into the mean kind, which he executed each time Heimerdinger’s students were supposed to already know something they didn’t—including you. Thankfully, most of the time, you knew. The times you didn’t, he relished it and squeezed the situation to the maximum, like a sad lemon.

“Alright, take a test from the tray on the teacher’s desk and take your usual seat. And as usual, you can have a calculator and periodic table on your workbench,” Viktor’s instructions boomed through the lab classroom as one by one, students dragged themselves through the door, each one looking more exhausted than the other. “Looking ravishing today, Y/N,” he sent a smirk your way as you passed by him without sparing him so much as a glance and a quiet ‘hi.’

“Bite me, Viktor,” you barked back at him. What the hell was he thinking?

“Gladly, but maybe after class.” Usually, the smug look on his face would get you to scoff; this time, you granted him a faint eye roll as you dragged your feet toward the workbench you shared with Sue. As Viktor strolled through the room, making sure no one had anything illegal on their tables, he snatched your phone from your desk just as you were putting it into your bag.

“No phones,” he slid it into his lab coat pocket with a wink. You whined, about to say something you’d regret, but were immediately cut off by “I said, after class,” coming from behind you as you watched his back, your eyes burning a hole in it.

You solved the test first; you were so angry. As soon as you put it back in the tray, a realisation washed over you, and what you realised was the mistake you’d made in one of the exercises. You wanted to retrieve it and fix it, but Viktor’s hand shooshed you away.

“Come on, Viktor, it was there for less than a second!”

“You put it away, it’s gone for grading. That’s the rule. Also—it’s a learning curve,” he smiled at you sweetly, and you wanted to choke him out.

“Learning curve of what? That you are being a dick?” The last part was barely a whisper, nevertheless, a whisper that was fuming with rage and could cut through steel.

“Patience. And decision-making, which is a process that you clearly haven’t mastered yet,” he said coldly, not even looking you in the eye. This time, you did scoff, and angry steps carried you back to your seat.

The class settled into a more familiar rhythm after the test, the shuffle of papers and the steady hum of Bunsen burners filling the air. Viktor moved around the room, overseeing his students’ chemistry lab exercises with the same detached air he always wore. You tried to focus, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the test—and Viktor's smug little smile as he watched your frustration unfold.

The task at hand was simple enough: a titration experiment to determine the concentration of an unknown solution. Viktor had given you all the instructions, but as you watched the beaker of sodium hydroxide mix with the diluted acid, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. Something about the instructions didn’t sit right with you.

You glanced over at Sue, who was carefully measuring out the chemicals. You leaned in, whispering so Viktor wouldn’t overhear.

“Sue, I think he messed up the ratios in the instructions. If we follow this, it’s gonna screw everything up. We’ll end up with a totally different result.”

Sue frowned, taking a closer look at the setup. “You sure?”

“I’m certain. The way he wrote it—if we add that much of the sodium hydroxide, the pH is going to overshoot too quickly. It'll neutralise the acid too fast, and we won’t get an accurate reading. If we’re supposed to get a neutralisation point, that change will mess with the whole titration curve.”

Sue was sceptical, but you were adamant. You felt it in your gut. "It’ll be off. Trust me."

Sue nodded reluctantly. "So, what do we do?"

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tapping the edge of the desk as you thought. You pulled up a few formulas on Sue’s phone, glancing back at Viktor to make sure he wasn’t looking in your direction.

“If we use less sodium hydroxide, the neutralisation will occur more slowly, and we’ll get a more accurate pH reading. We’re supposed to use a much more diluted solution.”

Sue nodded, though she looked uneasy. “What the hell, let’s try it.”

You adjusted the solution as you suggested, making the necessary changes to the procedure. You proceeded with the experiment, and despite her hesitation, Sue followed your lead. The two of you worked in tandem, the smooth, natural chemistry of your lab partnership taking over. As you neared the end of the titration, it was clear you had achieved the neutralisation point correctly—without overshooting or leaving any room for error.

Meanwhile, the rest of the class was still fumbling through their measurements, the air thick with the sounds of Viktor’s quiet reprimands. You couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then, noting the small, almost imperceptible frown on his face as he inspected his students’ work.

When the clock pointed to fifteen minutes away from the class ending, Heimerdinger stepped into the lab, his eyes scanning the results with interest. He walked toward your workbench, eyes lighting up as he reviewed your calculations.

“Well, it seems we have at least one pair who didn’t follow the instructions blindly,” Heimerdinger said, his voice rich with approval. “Good work, you two. You’ve done the experiment correctly. Trusting your instincts—making adjustments based on the data rather than simply following authority—is key in science. After all, we’re here to discover, not just to repeat what’s been done.”

You allowed yourself a smile of satisfaction, while Sue breathed a little easier, glancing at you in admiration.

Viktor’s face, however, was unreadable. He stood at the back of the room, arms folded tightly across his chest, watching the interaction with narrowed eyes.

Heimerdinger didn’t seem to mind. “It’s a learning curve for all of us, even your teacher. Mistakes are inevitable. But sometimes when we challenge authority—question the procedures—that’s when we learn and grow. Science is born from curiosity and defiance. Respect is important, of course, but don’t be afraid to challenge when you feel something isn’t right.”

You raised an eyebrow at Viktor, who hadn’t said a word. His lips were pressed into a thin line, but his eyes were hard as steel. He wasn’t pleased by Heimerdinger’s praise of your independent thinking.

“That’s how science is made,” Heimerdinger continued, completely oblivious to the tension between his students and the teacher. “By asking ‘what if?’ and exploring the unknown.”

Viktor finally spoke, his voice cool and controlled. “That’s true,” he said, glancing at you. “But there's a fine line between innovation and recklessness. Don’t mistake one for the other.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tight. “I don’t think we did.”

Viktor’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t respond, turning on his heel and walking toward the front of the room. Sue nudged you gently, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, at least we didn’t screw up,” she whispered.

You smiled back, but your mind was still racing. You had challenged Viktor’s authority—hadn’t followed his instructions—and it had got you praise from the professor. This couldn’t be good. “Sue, I don’t think I’m getting my phone back,” you whined into your friend's shoulder, who giggled uncontrollably.

You waited for your group to disperse into the library or the cantina before the start of the next lecture, making sure Viktor wouldn’t be able to humiliate you in front of anyone. You took a deep breath and knocked weakly on the door of the assistant’s back office.

“Come in,” Viktor’s voice was as flat and unwelcoming as ever. You braced yourself as you turned the doorknob and stepped inside quietly. Viktor was sitting at one of the tiny desks you were cramped at with Jayce and didn’t even look up. You cleared your throat.

“Yes?” This time, he looked up. God, he looked angry. When he finally raised his eyes to meet yours, he only sighed. “I doubt I can do much for you, Y/N. Given that you know everything already.”

“That’s rich coming from a guy who broke into the lab to prove his point once. Yes, Jayce told me,” you smiled at him sweetly, referring to his second-year incident when he and Jayce breached the lab security at night and conducted an experiment they were forbidden to do by Heimerdinger himself. This got them secure spots for PhD and TA positions.

Seeing that there was absolutely nothing coming from his direction but a blank stare, you asked carefully, “Well… why did you fuck up?”

Viktor sighed again, stood up slowly, and walked toward you. “Some theatre girls got us drunk last night—Mel’s friends. And I messed up the notes. Chemistry is not my major, as you know.” A smirk started to paint his face as he observed your reaction to the mention of drinking with some girls.

Viktor decided to push you further, his smirk widening as he leaned against the desk. “It’s hard to focus when you’re surrounded by Mel’s friends, you know. A lot of distractions. I haven't quite shaken last night off me yet,” he teased, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Your heart dropped at his words. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but something inside you shifted—you didn’t want to admit it, but it hurt. Viktor was deliberately drawing attention to some girls, and it stung more than you cared to acknowledge.

You scolded yourself internally. Stop it. Don’t let him get to you. But it was already too late. You could feel a pang of something—jealousy, maybe, or insecurity—but you refused to let it show.

Viktor, sensing your discomfort, didn’t let up. “By the way,” he said, his tone casual, “I took a closer look at your test. You know, given your answers, I understand how you worked out the correct proportions for the exercise. Same mistake you made on the test itself, right?”

Your stomach twisted, and your chest tightened. “So now you’re just going to relish in my defeat, aren’t you?” you shot back, your voice strained.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got far better things to relish in. Just making observations.”

You exhaled sharply, your anger bubbling over. “You know, because you were being such a dick, the thing I actually knew will probably lower my final grade now. Congratulations.”

Viktor’s smirk never faltered. “I wasn’t being a dick,” he said, voice smooth. “I was merely being a meticulous stiff bastard.” He leaned back, his tone laced with sarcasm. “You were quite vocal about that, if I recall. Something about me being a ‘pedantic pain in the ass’ when you were drunk.”

Your face flushed, your hand tightening into a fist at your side. That comment struck a nerve you hadn’t even realised was there. Your heart pounded. “Are you seriously so petty, Viktor, that you’re going to take revenge for some drunken slur by messing with my grade?” you snapped, your voice rising. You turned to leave, the weight of your frustration heavy on your chest.

But Viktor’s voice stopped you cold. “Wait,” he said, and for a moment, you thought he was going to apologise. Maybe even admit he’d gone too far.

You glanced over your shoulder, ready to hear some kind of redemption. But then Viktor’s tone shifted again. “You didn’t forget something, did you?”

You froze as he pulled your phone from his pocket and held it out to you, a mischievous gleam in his eye. The sight of your phone in his hand made your heart sink. You really are a bastard, you thought.

With strained composure, you took the phone from him. Your fingers brushed his, sending an unexpected jolt through you. Viktor’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, and for the briefest second, you saw something flicker behind his usual cool façade. Something almost… uncertain.

Your stomach fluttered—No. Not now. Don’t let him do this to you.

You forced a tight smile, returning his gaze. “I can play this game too, Viktor,” you said, your voice low and controlled.

Viktor’s smirk faltered for a brief moment, and he leaned back against the desk, watching you with a hint of something deeper in his expression. His eyes softened, but he quickly masked it with another calculated look.

You turned to leave, your mind racing with frustration and another weird emotion you didn’t have the name for. Just before you reached the door, you felt a shift in the air. Viktor’s teasing had crossed a line, and somehow, the distance between you felt less like a joke and more like something real. Why does this matter so much to me?

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. Viktor hadn’t just teased you. He’d affected you, and you hated that. As you stepped out of the office, you could feel his gaze on your back, following you, studying your body. You scolded yourself internally for looking like a wreck and made your way to join Sue in the library.

Your friend regarded you with concern as you slid into the chair at the table, books already splayed out in front of her. “Did you get your phone back?”

“Yeah, it was a fight to the death,” you mumbled, sighing heavily as you opened a massive tome of genetics for the next lecture.

“And who died?” Sue asked, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Oh, definitely me this time.” You whined and dropped your head face-flat onto the table. “I don’t understand when this happened. Can you direct me to a point in time when Viktor woke up and chose violence?” you chuckled despite yourself.

“Um… I think it was some time after the party where that cute curly-haired guy with a poetic name clung to you the entire evening. Or—” she smirked—“you calling Viktor a meticulous stiff bastard.”

“Ambrose? I completely forgot about him,” you mused for a second. There had been an Ambrose sometime during your first weeks. He was from the theatre department too, full of big words, slightly obsessive, but overall nice. You never gave him your number, though, deciding it wasn’t meant to be.

“So you think Viktor loves me so much, jealousy rotted his guts?” you laughed a little too loudly, drawing a few irritated ‘shh!’ sounds from nearby students.

“Let’s say it’s my instinct,” Sue replied with a mischievous smile. “And remember, Y/N—trusting your instincts is key in science,” she added in a hushed, exaggerated Heimerdinger impression, causing you to suppress your laugh even further.

***

Viktor stretched in his chair. The last paper to check stared him in the eye, glaring at him almost as intensely as you had that morning. He groaned slightly at the pain in his leg as the door creaked open.

“Hi, partner,” Jayce greeted, shooting him a smile that was a mix of guilt and a plea for forgiveness. He’d left Viktor for an entire day to gallivant around campus with Mel. She had apparently needed strong arms to carry boxes of flyers advertising their winter show.

“Don’t ‘hi, partner’ me, Jayce,” Viktor huffed but smiled faintly under his nose. “How was it?”

“She’s really something, Vik. I can tell you over a beer?” Jayce offered, clearly still buzzing from his all-day hangout with his beautiful, smart, interesting, unique, elegant, new girlfriend.

“I think I’m going to call it a night. One last paper to check.” Viktor groaned slightly as he flipped your paper in front of his friend’s face. Jayce snatched it mid-air and studied it carefully for a minute.

“How come? I thought she was the only one to work around your… notes mishap?” Jayce tread carefully, noticing the frown forming on Viktor’s forehead. He knew exactly how Viktor had messed up the notes—sadly, it was partially his fault as well.

Viktor leaned back in his chair, still staring at the paper. “Yes, indeed, she was. She even tried to fix her answer when she put the test into the box,” he muttered quietly under his breath.

Jayce raised an eyebrow. “So why didn’t she?”

Viktor rolled his eyes, the motion quick and dismissive. “Because, Jayce, I don’t make exceptions for students who can't follow the rules.”

“Oh, Viktor,” Jayce sighed, shaking his head. “What did she do to get so deeply under your skin? Seriously, you're not usually like this.” Viktor was only mean and vigilant when he cared—or when he was hurt. That, Jayce knew. He just didn’t know which one it was.

Viktor shrugged nonchalantly, but there was an edge to his voice. “She’s just full of herself. Thinks she can do whatever she wants because she’s got it all figured out.”

Jayce’s lips twitched into a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. Well, if someone’s getting on your nerves that much, it usually means they’re reflecting something about you that you don’t want to see.”

Viktor stared at him blankly, the words almost not registering. Then, he let out a short, mocking laugh. “When did you start spreading the wisdom of your people around the world, Jayce?”

Jayce leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms casually. “Mel teaches me how to talk to difficult people now. You know, learning to understand them and not just shut them down immediately.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, his tone sceptical. “Am I the difficult one here?”

Jayce’s grin widened. “Clearly. I mean, you’re willing to fuck up Y/N’s final grade over a sentiment. That’s not exactly… rational behaviour, is it?” He leaned into the desk, hoping for a moment of self-reflection from his friend.

Viktor was silent for a moment, then scoffed, trying to brush off the conversation. “It’s not like that. I’m not just doing it to be petty.”

Jayce leaned in slightly. “So, what did you tell Heimerdinger about the mishap?”

Viktor leaned forward as well, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. “I told him the truth—both of us fell asleep in the lab, working on our side project. I had to rush to class that morning. No big deal.”

Jayce nodded, processing this. “I’m sure Heimerdinger won’t bat an eyelid if you step up for Y/N, especially since she did well in class. If anything, she deserves some leniency.”

Viktor paused, looking at his friend thoughtfully. “I guess I could do that. Just… don’t think this is something I do for everyone,” he exhaled, rubbing his temple. “But I’ll talk to Heimerdinger.”

Jayce smirked, leaning back in his chair again. “There you go. Maybe Mel’s influence is working on you after all.”

Viktor shot him a look, clearly not amused. But deep down, he couldn't deny there was something about you that unsettled him—and, for some reason, it had started to bother him more than he cared to admit.

“Just keep your wisdom to yourself,” Viktor muttered. “And get out of my office. I still have work to do.”

Jayce chuckled but stood up, winking. “Hey, it’s my office as well! But yeah, I get the point.” As Jayce exited, Viktor stared at the paper before him, his mind occupied by frustration. A meticulous stiff bastard he was indeed.

[senualothbrok]

Progress

Gif by @dolceaspidenera

Summary: When you start your studies at Blackstaff Academy, you expect a battle with your demons. But the last thing you expect is to fall in love.

A slow burn, Professor Dekarios x OC journey through mental illness and recovery.

Word count: 10.6k

Trigger warnings: Mental illness, eating disorder, childhood trauma. Please practise self-care.

Disclaimers: Non-18+, angst (with a happy ending), slow burn, hurt/comfort, mental illness and recovery.

AO3 link

The sequel to this fic is Promise

This is progress, you think.

It is your first day at Blackstaff Academy, and you are standing in the entrance hall. Your body rattles with each shallow breath. Your robe hangs off you, limp and heavy. But you have made it. You are here.

You step into the bustling corridor. You can tell immediately that you are older than most of the other apprentices. Many of them look like fresh faced teenagers, giggling and buoyant. Despite the gruelling nights of failed spells and tear-stained scrolls, you cannot make up for all the time you have lost. Your mother never fails to remind you of this, and you will never forget it. It will be at Blackstaff as it has always been. You will remain apart, a stranger. Alone.

Yet, something inside you flickers. And as you step inside the lecture hall, you know: this is progress.

No one seems to notice as you find a seat at the back of the room. You are well-practised, flitting through overlooked corners. It is second nature, to loiter in the shadows while others claim the light. It brings you comfort to remain hidden.

It is the first time you lay eyes on him. Gale Dekarios, Professor of Illusory Magic. The pride of Blackstaff. Once Chosen of Mystra, who defied her order for sacrifice. Former archwizard, who fought alongside the hero of Baldur’s Gate. The stories of him reached even you in your confinement. From the legends, you expect a giant, towering with glory, bubbling with power and mastery. And though he is undeniably handsome, you are surprised at how otherwise unremarkable he seems.

He is robed in a muted violet, his arms clasped behind his back. He stoops ever so slightly, making him look shorter than his average height. Grey threads through his dark and tousled hair. Faint wrinkles frame his brown eyes. And when he speaks, he does not narrow spiteful eyes which demand obedience. He does not dole out proverbs that drip in arrogance. Instead, his words are the passionate dance of an artist in love with his creation. His gestures are lithe and tender, his smiles warm and earnest. Poetry peppers his wit.

He is not like any of the wizards your mother has brought home. He is not what you thought he would be.

Two flaxen-haired girls near you whisper and blush. You see the effect that he has on your peers, and part of you longs to feel something so light, so trivial. You cannot remember the last time you felt such a stirring. And later that day, you notice their envious glares when you are told that Professor Dekarios will also be your personal tutor. You learn that he will be responsible for your well-being during your time at Blackstaff.

You instantly feel a pang of pity for him.

But you brush it away. After all, you are making progress.

-----

It is bitterly cold on the day of your first meeting. He invites you into his office, which envelopes you in its warmth. You are backfooted by the way he beams as you take the seat he offers you, by how enthusiastically he passes you a tray of homemade cookies. You politely decline as always, despite  your anxiety that it will offend him. You mother’s warnings and curses still ring in your head every time you choose not to eat or drink as others do. So you are grateful when he shows no hint of annoyance or judgment.

But why would he? He does not know you. To him, you are a normal, healthy apprentice, full of hope and promise. He has no reason to suspect otherwise.

He falls into his chair with a sigh. You look at him across his cluttered desk. It takes a moment to remember that this man is the renowned Gale of Waterdeep. Seeing him up close, you are surprised by his age. It is not that you were expecting an ancient like Elminster of Shadowdale. But you had thought a man of his accomplishments would be much older than you. Instead, there could scarcely be a decade between you.

Then again, the years have not been kind to you. Without your glamour, you could probably be mistaken for his peer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Away from the crowd and the lecture hall, his voice is softer, his tone lower. You do not think you have ever seen such a genuine smile from a wizard. It is not difficult for you to return it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Professor. I’m honoured.”

He waves his hand – whether from irritation or awkwardness, you cannot tell.

“There’s no need for all that. The honour is in fact mine.” His gaze is wide and bright. “I fought to have you on my personal tutor list. I was blown away by your application. It’s not every day that an applicant can coherently and wittily refer to Halaster, Elminster, and Calliope in one breath. Nor was I expecting such an eloquent treatise on the beauty of the Weave and the primacy of creativity and imagination in illusory magic.”

You feel unmoored. Your application had been a risk. In a fit of desperate rebellion, you had done away with everything that your mother had insisted on including. All those puffed up platitudes about power, potential, pride – none of that had been yours. In a mad bid for freedom, you had felt a frenzy to show Blackstaff who you truly were, for better or worse.  

Your mother was, predictably, furious when she found out. You could not avoid her ire, even when you shut yourself up in your room. You had almost wished you were back at the House of Healing, where she could not burst into you whenever she wanted, for whatever she wanted.

When you were accepted into Blackstaff, your mother spared no time in impressing on you that it was the strings she pulled that had granted you entrance. Your application was paltry, and it was only by her efforts that you had succeeded. You did wonder at this, given her tenuous connections as a distinctly mediocre wizard, her brittle and fading charms. But she persisted, as always, in taking credit for the things that you toiled for. It wore you down, after all these years.

Now, you turn his words over, searching for the hidden blade in them. You wait for the pulling of the rug, the customary insult. But they do not come.

“Your demonstration, too. Truly remarkable.”

You had not realised that he was there, when you conjured a canopy of stars above the examiners. The illusion had collapsed moments too soon. It was a failure. You seethed and ripped at yourself for weeks. You were expecting rejection, and then the tide of punishment that inevitably followed. But instead, you are here, powerless in the face of his praise.

He sees your confusion as you struggle for a response. But he misunderstands its nature.

“I was hiding at the back of the room,” he explains. “It isn’t generally conducive to applicants’ nerves, to have me there with the other examiners.”

He grimaces, as if his fame and reputation pain him.

“I digress. My point is, I think you have an artist’s hand and a poet’s mind, fundamentals in excelling at illusion. And I, for one, am extremely excited to see you progress.”

Sincerity is not unfamiliar to you. Brutally honest lashings about your deficiencies are the backbone of your existence. But the kindness and sincerity in his eyes are so alien that you must battle to regain your centre. He does not move his eyes from you.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Truly, Professor. I’ll do everything I can to make sure I’m worthy of your high regard.”

He tilts his head. He pauses, as if weighing his words carefully.

“Your mother has sent word to me,” he begins. “She’s been at pains to assure me that your time out of education doesn’t in any way detract from your aptitude. That you’re deeply penitent about your failures.”

You almost flinch. You did not realise your mother had spoken to him. You are suddenly seized by panic. What has she told him? What does he know about your past? Does he know about the Darkness?

“She says you’re eager to rid yourself of all shortcomings, and will do anything to fulfil your as yet wasted potential. She says that’s why you’re at Blackstaff.”

A frown creases his brow. His voice hardens.

“In return, I’ve been at pains to assure her that your aptitude is not in question. Your continued resilience in the face of considerable adversity only adds to your exceptional nature.”

He holds your gaze with a candour that suspends your breaths. For an instant, you feel seen, and it terrifies you.

“I’ve been extremely forthright with her. Any more references to penitence and past failures will be promptly rebuffed.”

His brown eyes are firm and gentle at the same time. You have no words, no actions that can capture the singularity of what he has done. You wonder how many times he has accomplished something that no one else has, then spoken of it as though it were nothing. How many times he has extended himself to help a stranger for whom no one else would have cared.

You want to thank him, but you do not know how.

“I’m sure my mother didn’t like that,” you say instead.

He chuckles. “I think the esteemed Professor Dekarios has gone down a notch or two in her estimations. But alas, I’ll survive.”

You share a moment of laughter. It lights a candle deep inside you.

“If I can do it, you definitely can.”

-----

You are accustomed to casting a glamour over yourself when you are in public places. You had started doing it at your mother’s insistence, and continued as you could not bear her shame. Eventually, the tentacles of that shame closed so completely over your heart that you could scarcely look in the mirror without it. It felt impossible to see yourself and keep breathing.

But at Blackstaff, you are surrounded by adept wizards, the cream of the crop. They will be instantly attuned to your glamour. They will see through to your core. It seems a futile waste of energies you could be better applying to your studies, which are your only focus now. And your mother is not around to berate you for failing to maintain the illusion. So you drop the disguise.

It is so hard, but then so easy. You let your dishevelled waves fall freely over your unpainted face. You rub at your kohl-free eyes with reckless abandon. You pick at your chapped, bare lips. You try not to poke and prod at the flesh hidden under your loose robes.

Freedom flutters in your heart, and you cherish it, though you know it is fleeting.

You finish your breakfasts, most of your lunches. You do not skip your dinners. You keep your mirrors uncovered. You only glance, never look. You try and keep your mind occupied when you are not in classes or studying. You promise yourself that one day, if it is in your power, you will pay back the debt that your mother lords over you. She has paid for your studies at Blackstaff, but you are determined to repay her with interest.

So you take a job at as assistant at Serpentil Books and Folios. Despite the jaw-dropping price of the treasures within, your income is meagre. The owner, Mr Serpentil, is gruff and cantankerous. It takes some convincing for him to take you on, but he seems reassured by your credentials as an apprentice at Blackstaff. The shop is dusty and dim, and you must squeeze through overflowing shelves and tight corners to sort through the books, scrolls, maps and other curios that you have never seen before. You can bury yourself in them when there are no customers. Amidst the centuries of knowledge, you are so hidden as to be nothing. It is perfect.

One rainy weekend, you are sorting through tomes at the back of the shop when you hear a voice you recognise. You peek out around the corner of the bookshelf. Your eyes meet a green feline gaze and a shudder of grey wings flecked with gold. A windswept and familiar face follows, eyebrows raised.

You realise that this is the first time he has seen you unglamoured. You wait for confusion, discomfort, displeasure. But there is only joy.

“Aurora,” he exclaims. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Professor.” You step out, patting the dust off your robe. The thick swirls assault your nose and you sneeze.

“Bless you,” comes a matronly drawl.

You struggle to hide your excitement. This must be Tara the tressym, Professor Dekarios’ companion. Just the other day, you had overheard the second-year apprentices gossiping about her in the corridor. She had been summoned by the Professor when he was but a child. Once, she swiped a snoozing student so hard that she had a scar on her chin for weeks.

He follows your gaze, smiling softly.

“Aurora, may I introduce you to the inimitable, the one and only, Tara. My oldest friend and most faithful companion. I’m sure you’ll have heard some rumours about her. Rest assured that not all of them are true.”

Tara smirks.

Since you were a child, you have dreamed of meeting a tressym. You have never dared, nor had the requisite skill, to summon one on your own. But you are so overjoyed to meet one today that you worry whether your enthusiasm is maybe a little disturbing. You temper yourself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tara.”

“And Tara, this is Aurora. As her name suggests, she’s a shining light amongst my current cohort of apprentices.”

Praise, so casually given. Devoid of malice, free of conditions. You shift awkwardly.  Tara looks you up and down with large, appraising eyes. They are not without warmth.

“It’s lovely to meet you, dear. Do you work in this fine establishment?”

You nod. “I do, when I’m not studying.”

“That’s quite the commitment,” he remarks. “Quite the schedule you’ve set for yourself.”

You detect a hint of concern in his voice. You deflect.

“I just love knowledge so much, I can’t get enough of it.”

He clasps his hands together. “A woman after my own heart.”

As you speak, Tara’s gaze flickers back and forth. You can almost hear the wheels of her mind turning. If it were not an unforgivable intrusion to read her thoughts, you would do so.

“But can I help you with something?” you ask. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Ah, yes!”

Tara sighs, long and loud, as he retrieves a leaf of parchment from the folds of his robe. He holds it out to you. You squint at a list of twelve, maybe fifteen, esoteric book titles. You marvel silently at the range of his interests – from first edition magical tomes and philosophical treatises to ancient recipe books. Your heart stirs to see a number of sonnet anthologies that you recognise.

“This is quite the list, Professor. Your collection must be a sight to behold.”

He seems to glow with your admiration. “I appreciate that you may not have all of these, but whatever you can find, I’ll take.”

“And any discount you could offer would also be appreciated,” Tara adds.

“Tara!” He spins towards her.

Tara twitches. “Mr Dekarios, man cannot live on books alone. Some of these works are ridiculously overpriced, and this establishment is not known for being kind to one’s purse. I will not allow you to go without bread for a book again, despite your nattering.”

He huffs, embarrassment flushing on his face. He flashes you an apologetic smile. Laughter ripples through you. It comes so naturally. You wonder why that is.

“I’ll do the best I can, Tara. I think there are a few buttons I can press with Mr Serpentil.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Tara chirps.

You turn and make your way to the poetry section. Behind you, you can hear them bickering in hushed tones.

“I have a good feeling about that one,” Tara declares.

You busy yourself with the list, but the flame within you burns a little brighter than before.

-----

You rarely spend your meetings with him discussing your studies. With the exception of the initial divination classes, you have no issues. And between lectures, assignments, demonstrations and your work at the bookshop, you barely have time for the Darkness to take hold. For the first time in years, you sleep deeply and without interruptions.

You have never had a friend. There was never a time or a place. Rarely was there anyone around you who was not a doctor or a nurse, hired help or your mother. Occasionally, there might be a suitor of hers, an ex-husband, a victim. And even at the odd times that you found yourself among peers, you could never let your guard down. You could never show anyone who you were underneath the glamour, the silent shroud. The threat was always too great.

So you do not know how friendship feels, but you wonder whether it feels something like this.

You speak to him without fear. He does not mock or dismiss you. Each time you speak, he is not simply waiting for you to finish. He does not store your words up like arrows to throw back at you later. He listens, and he remembers what you say, even when you forget. You laugh, sometimes with him, other times at him. You do not need to force the smiles which bloom on your face when he is near.

It does not hurt when he gives you guidance and instruction, even when it is firm and comprehensive. There is no punishment shackled to it. The gifts of his wisdom and knowledge come lightly, without the burden of conditions and demands. There is no disgust in his eyes when you tell him where you fall short and what you lack. When he speaks of his passions and you speak of yours, there is a river that flows between you. You can float in it, and you do not drown.

But he is your teacher, not your friend. It is his job to speak to you, to feign patience with your mediocre company. He is paid to take an interest in your pitiful life, so he can mould it into something worthy. You remind yourself of this each time your meetings go on longer than your allotted hour. When you start to share books and discuss them over unscheduled chats in his office. When he appears at the shop increasingly often without a list, browsing the shelves with recommendations and tenuously related anecdotes. When he stays until closing time, and walks back to Blackstaff with you, always matching his pace to yours. You remind yourself again and again.

He Is your professor, and you are his student. He does not know you, not truly. And he is a mystery to you. You are not equals, and never will be. And perhaps it is better this way. No one who saw the full measure of you would have the stomach to remain. Your life is a testament to this fact.

Yet there are times when you wonder. You had been certain that what you had with him was not exceptional. That it must be the same for the other apprentices.

“What’s he like as a personal tutor?”

Sitting in the lecture hall, an auburn-haired apprentice is gossiping with a freckled boy in the row in front of you.

“Professor Dekarios?” The boy wrinkles his nose. “He’s a bore. All he wants to do is talk at length about the syllabus, and all the amazing things I can learn if I focus on the ample opportunities at this illustrious institution. Snore.”

The girl snickers. “Not half as interesting and smooth as he looks, then.” She tuts. “I was expecting some spice and drama. The man lay with a goddess and bested a Netherbrain, and all that he wants to talk about is the curriculum? Disappointing.”

There is a gulf that soon forms between the man you see and the man the other apprentices talk about. And you cannot help but notice how his gaze darts towards yours across the lecture hall with a shared, secret knowledge. Each time a student shows up late, and he thanks them profusely for taking precious time out of their schedule to join him. Each time he begs a pupil to share the pearls of wisdom they are chattering about to their neighbour instead of following the thread of his lecture. You have to stifle a snort each time he delivers his most severe warning of all.

“The orb within me could level this entire city if it detonates. If I hear another one of you say they ‘just haven’t had time’ to practice this week’s spells, I have a very real concern about Waterdeep’s safety.”

Professor Dekarios would no more put an innocent in danger than your mother would embrace you in a genuine outpouring of affection. It is absurd, but the other apprentices fall silent each time he makes this threat. It is a source of endless amusement for you, and you can tell from the glint in his eye that it is for him too.

-----

You are sitting cross-legged, taking stock of all the tomes on the lower bookshelves. Tara is licking at her paw languidly beside you. Behind you, he is surveying the section on histories, making the occasional remark to himself. Mr Serpentil has gone for a meeting, so you can chat freely without repercussions.

“What did you think of Felaar Tanil?” he asks abruptly.

His invitation is a welcome interruption. You have been scribbling long and arduous author names in the half-darkness for hours. You turn to face him.

“I liked his work. Very heroic, very rousing. I think I prefer love poetry, though.”

“You’re a romantic.” He titters.

“I suppose.” You consider a moment, twirling your quill. “It’s hard for me to imagine something that I’ve never experienced. So it fascinates me. Without poetry, love would be a complete and utter mystery to me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You’ve never been in love?”

A few months ago, you would have been unnerved by such a question. The intimacy of it. The directness. But with him, it does not feel like an intrusion, only a natural topic of conversation. You shake your head.

“Well, certainly not the kind of love that the poets speak of.”

What you know of love is confined to a boy who had insisted you take on the likeness of a different girl every time you touched, and a man who had baulked in the morning when your glamour slipped. A pointless and painful endeavour. Poetry is more than sufficient.

“I have no frame of reference…” You run the feathers of the quill over your cheek. “But I always imagined true love to be something like channelling the Weave. That sense of being fully seen, completely known, held in your lover’s embrace. Souls touching, flowing into each other as one.”

He is staring at you with an intensity that gives you pause.

“What? Have I said something foolish?”

To your relief, he laughs. His soft gaze drifts over your face.

“No, Aurora. I just never thought I would hear that sentiment from the lips of another.” He scratches at his chin. “That, too, is what I once thought love was.”

Tara hums. She has been so quiet you thought she had fallen asleep.

“Mr Dekarios knows full well that there’s a difference between the love of a mortal and the love of a goddess, Weave or no.” Her face is stern, but her voice is tender. “To be loved for who you are and not the magic you command becomes a tad more complicated when the Weave is involved.”

He is frowning now, lost in thought. You are not sure you understand what has passed between them, but it is not your place to ask. You turn back to the parchment and tomes.

“Aurora,” Tara asks after a while. “When do you finish at Blackstaff?”

A strange change of subject, but you answer nonetheless.

“In a year and a half. Assuming I pass my exams.”

Tara grizzles.

“Is there any chance you could complete your studies sooner?”

“Tara!” His voice is sharp, flustered.

Tara ignores him.

“Only that Mr Dekarios is quite-”

He is a flurry at the corner of your vision.  His hand darts out to drag Tara away into a corner. There is a clamber of claws and wings, a cacophony of meows and muffled hissing. When they return, he is pink-cheeked, Tara smug but silent. You want to know what she would have said, but it is as though the conversation never happened.

You do not see Tara at the bookshop again.

-----

One afternoon, you stop by his office to return a book on Githyanki psionics. The door is ajar, and you nudge it open. He is sitting at his desk with his face buried in his hands, breathing heavily.

“Professor? Are you well?”

He looks up, and you are struck by the exhaustion in his sunken features. When his eyes meet yours, his face lifts and brightens. You tell yourself it is a trick of the light.

“All the better for your visit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Come in, please. Close the door behind you, if you would.”

You enter with uncertain steps. You place the book on his desk. He nods in acknowledgment.

“Have a seat, Aurora.”

You lower yourself into your usual seat opposite him. You are troubled by the shadows on his brow. For the first time, you have a desire to be closer.

“Is something the matter, Professor?”

His smile is so weary. “Nothing new. Which makes it all the more taxing.”

You know that truth better than most. And perhaps you are not quite friends, but you reach out to him anyway. You feel a cord tethering you to him that you find hard to break.

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” you offer.

His eyes glisten like the earth after rain as he regards you.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my troubles with anyone but Tara.” 

His words are heavy with longing and loss. You realise, all of a sudden, that he is lonely. You recognise the devastating weight of that emptiness. It is the air you breathe.

You do not need to tell him. You do not know how, but you can tell he senses it.

“It wears you down,” he starts. “In the morning, the pupils demand to know how you could have betrayed Mystra. Not once, but twice. Mad for power, they say, fanatical with ambition. Then in the afternoon, they question your weakness. You could have seized the power and become a god. You gave all of that up for this? What a waste. What a disappointment.”

He has never told you directly about his dealings with Mystra or the defeat of the Absolute. But you know enough from the legends, the rumours, Volo’s second-rate autobiography. You have heard enough to imagine the burden of being Mystra’s Chosen, the trappings of a compulsion to seek ever greater heights. You know the anguish of being discarded like a used lover, and being mocked for giving up an ambition that would destroy you.

“It’s never enough.”

Those three broken words. Your anthem.

You do not stop to think about whether it is improper. All you can think of is the quivering of his voice as he bares his soul to you. It is a mirror from which you do not look away. You can endure your own suffering. But for someone like him to carry the same load – you cannot bear it.

In your confinement, what you had most wanted was a hand to hold. That is the yearning you remember now, as you take hold of his hand across the desk.

“You aren’t like them.”

His fingers tremble under yours. You cannot read the expression on his face.

“They’ll never understand. They’ll never understand what was done to you, what you lost. Your goodness. Your kindness. The depth of your sacrifice. They’re not capable of it.”

Your words are as jumbled as your thoughts, but they flow out of you like the tide breaking against the shore.

“You’re not like the other wizards. You’re…singular. There’s no one like you. There never will be.”

His gaze is a whirlpool. You are aware of his slender fingers interlacing with yours. You do not know what to do with the burning in your chest, the heat that travels up your neck. You jerk your hand back, your breath catching. Your legs straighten of their own accord. They carry you to the door without warning.

“Aurora…”

He is standing. There is panic in his voice, frozen in his face.

You look away. You cannot process what has just happened. You have no frame of reference for it.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” you murmur as you leave.

-----

“Have you never felt the lure of power?” he asks.

You are reflecting together on Elminster’s musings about Karsus’ folly. He is in a sombre mood today, plagued by something that you cannot see. Over steepled fingers, he stares into a mass of scrolls on his desk.

Since your last encounter, he has avoided looking you in the eye. There is a strain between you now, like a coiled band tightening. You cannot understand what has happened. You cannot lose what you have. So you force yourself not to think of it. You pretend it never was.

“Not truly,” you admit.

He seems disappointed by your answer. You do not wish to mislead him. It is not quite the whole truth. You decide you can show him this part of yourself now. After what he has told you, it is safe.

“My father left us when I was a child. He took my brother with him. They were necromancers. I think my father dabbled in divination too. My mother was furious when they left. Not because she loved them, or cared about our family, but because she missed out. All of that power at their fingertips. All the things they could do. Instead she was left with me, an ugly duckling stuck in her own dreams, with no assets except a penchant for illusion. Imagine her disappointment. What a burden to bear.”

A burst of laughter overtakes you. It is perversely funny, to think about your life this way.

“Still, I wouldn’t change it. I’ve had enough power-obsessed tyrants for a lifetime. The story’s always the same. People never change. Wizards certainly don’t. I never wanted to be like them, and I never will. Even if I spend the rest of my life conjuring fickle, beautiful illusions that no one sees. Even if I’m a failure, a husk of wasted potential. Even if I’m never enough.”

You do not tell him about the one thing you would change. You would be rid of the Darkness and its clutches. You would be free. A vain hope.

“Aurora.”

He is watching you now. There is no more fear and tautness. He does not turn away when you return his gaze. It holds you, deep and full. There is a heat in it which stokes the flame inside you. You cannot ignore it. You do not know how you will ever ignore it again.

“Would you believe me if I told you you’re extraordinary, just the way you are?”

You would not. But a fire is blazing through you. It aches to say yes to him. For him.

You smile. “I can try, Professor.”

“Please.” He takes a shaky breath. “Call me Gale.”

-----

It begins as it always does. Missed breakfasts. Half-eaten dinners. Coverings on mirrors, and sleepless nights. You fight the shadows as they come. You resist the urge to restore your glamour. You take your meals in the dining hall. And for a while, you think you are making progress.

There are times now when you sit with him in silence. You look at each other across his desk, or between dusty bookshelves, and the feeling that swells inside you has no equal. It is sharp and wet and red, and when you look away, it is like a rending. An absence.

But you are terrified. You are distressed by the thoughts that take you unawares. The bristles on his jawline. The dark dip of his cupid’s bow. The stray strands of brown hair that fall over his eyes as they float over your mouth. The tingling of his fingers intertwined with yours. You flee, but the thoughts haunt you, bringing others in their trail.

When you were with him before, you did not dwell on the hoarse timbre of your voice. You did not worry over the wrongness that permeates every part of your body. You were not paralysed by the things you could not prove to him. You did not stand before him cowed by the ways in which you fall short.

It had been different with him. But now, everything has changed.

The shadows loom over you, and you struggle to outpace them. You arrive late to his class for the second time. You try to be discreet, lurking at the back of the lecture hall, but he catches your eye regardless. He does not make his usual terse announcement disguised as a jest, and you do not know why you warrant special treatment.

When the class is over, she approaches him with a question. You recognise her from your divination class. She is immaculate, outspoken, often called on for demonstrations. A natural talent. Her golden hair is set in elaborate braids which accentuate her high cheekbones. She bites her lip, widening her sapphire eyes as she listens to him. He is grinning, laughing, and you watch her throw back her shoulders in a confident display of the masterpiece that is her supple form.

You leave the lecture hall.

You cannot rise from bed on the morning of your next meeting. It is the first day at Blackstaff that you take no meals. You stare and stare into the mirror, pressing your fingernails into your soft cheeks, the bulge of your arms, your misshapen thighs. You lie on the floor, seeking out the points of your bones through your rubbery skin, crying when you cannot feel them.

But you persist. You must. You rise the next day. You go through the motions of your routine. You cannot miss another class or another meeting with him. But you miss breakfast. You are trapped between the mirror and the door, harrowed by your own reflection. You are desperate, tormented. You must leave the room. But you cannot as you are. You are a travesty.

So you do what needs to be done. You cast your glamour.

------

“Aurora?”

You stare at him.

“Are you alright?”

You are walking back to Blackstaff from the bookshop. He is holding the crook of your arm. As you come to yourself, you feel the firm grasp of his fingers. You register concern in his eyes.

“Do you need to sit down?”

You are not sure. There is a throb in your head as the spots in your vision recede. You struggle to hold onto the images before you.

“What happened?”

He frowns. “We were walking along and you stumbled.”

It has begun, you think.

“Did I faint?”

“You looked like you were about to.”

You nod. You move your arm away from his touch. He steps back reluctantly.

“I’m alright, Professor.”

You cannot bring yourself to call him Gale. It would be an admission. A miscalculation. Something lurches in his gaze. You cannot identify it.

“You don’t look well. And recently, you haven’t been yourself.”

You shake your head. You muster your most reassuring tone.

“I’m just tired. There’s no need to worry.”

“Aurora.”

There is earnestness in his every look, kindness in his every word. It hurts you. You look down at your feet.

“Over the past weeks, I’ve noticed something wrong. I’ve not wanted to raise it-”

The walls of dread spring up within you. Your reply is well-practised.

“I apologise for the slippage in my attendance, but I assure you-”

“I’m not talking about that.”

There is an urgency in his voice. Something in the twist of his features tells you that he knows. You must end this conversation now, before it is too late. But his next question winds you.

“Why have you recast your glamour?”

You cannot speak. You knew he would have noticed, but you had not expected him to mention it. Shame and terror chokes you.

He has drawn closer. He searches your face.

“Did you think you needed to? Do you believe you need to hide yourself?”

You turn away. “Please, Professor-”  

“You don’t need it.”

You need him to stop.

“Please-”

“You’re beautiful, just the way you are.”

Something wrenches inside you. You cannot bear the tenderness in his gaze, the hidden things which he cannot see. You cannot manage a polite goodbye. You retreat.

-----

You cannot face him after this. You struggle to face anyone. It is a small mercy that the semester draws to a close.

You can feel the Darkness in your pores now. The shadows wrap around you like a cloak. It is only a matter of time before you are no more.

You have been at Blackstaff for a year. A year of progress. A year without a word from your mother. A year of not-quite-friendship with a man who has no equal. Soon, she will descend on you with her lashes of scorn and I-told-you-so’s. Soon, you will be back where you started, and it will be like none of this ever happened. Like his footsteps never graced the ruins of your life. You are mourning already.

When the end of year ball comes, your confinement has all but begun. You leave your room only for your shifts at the bookshop. It takes almost all of your energy to maintain your glamour and a semblance of composure. You yearn for more than mouthfuls of fruit and water, more than disturbed fits of sleep. But that yearning is fading as the Darkness sinks its tendrils into you.

You wind through the thrumming crowds celebrating in the courtyard. The apprentices are draped in their finery, with drinks in hand and delirious grins. It is early evening and the ball will soon be underway. You see the girl from your divination class, blonde curls bouncing, arrayed in a form-fitting gown of emerald splendour. You are a stooped scarecrow amidst a rainbow of frills, lace, velvet, and silk. You hide your face as you pick up the pace, already breathless.

Mr Serpentil had frowned when you offered to work on the night of the legendary Blackstaff ball. But when you assured him there would be no tomfoolery, he did not push further. Annual inventory and stock take is not a task for the light hearted, and he would rather be at the Yawning Portal than coated in dust and cobwebs.

It is a struggle to climb ladders and catalogue tomes, scrolls and maps, with only a sputtering candle to light your way. A few times, you almost fall, or you must wait, doubled over, for a dizzy spell to pass. But you cannot bear the sights and sounds of frolicking apprentices basking in their beauty, enjoying a freedom that you would be deluded to dream of. So you flee from Blackstaff to the darkness of the bookshop, where all that surrounds you is the scent of book dust and a solitude that has no significance.

You are alone, and soon, you will be no more.

You are vaguely aware of the passing of time; two hours, and then three. You ward off the false promise of sleep. Then there is a tapping. You ignore it at first. It is a figment of your longing, a mirage formed by your hope. But it becomes a rattling, then a knocking. You step out from behind the bookshelves. Your breath hitches when you open the door.

He stands before you. His earth-brown eyes burn with a warmth that spreads from your core to the tips of your fingers. In the dimness, he glows in purple velvet, his hair falling around his face like vines. His chest heaves, his lips part. His fingers ripple like waves.

“Professor,” you say. It is almost a whisper.

For a while, you simply stare at each other. You let yourself linger on every line, every dip and curve. You breathe in the scent of sandalwood and scrolls that swirls around him whenever he is near. You must learn it all now, before you lose it all later.

“Why…” You struggle for words. “The ball…”

He is shaking ever so slightly.

“I needed to see you.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. His hands flutter. He looks away and back at you. He starts and stops. You have never seen him in such a state. There is pain, desperation. Need. You are afraid.

He sees it immediately.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, backing away. “This was… foolish. Inappropriate. I should never have…” He grimaces. “This was a mistake, Aurora. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.”

He turns. His gait is jolting, laboured. He is receding from you into the night.

Maybe it is because you want to feel something that is not hunger and fear. Or maybe there is still an ember inside you that will not be snuffed out. A flame that he ignited, that you do not wish to die.

“Gale,” you call out.

His name rolls off your tongue like it is a secret part of yourself. Your hand reaches for his.

“Don’t go.”

When he turns back to face you, the cloud has lifted from his features. A smile has broken on his lips. You have never seen anything so beautiful before.

-----

“It’s very dark in here.”

With a flick of his wrist, he conjures four floating orbs that hover around you. You are embarrassed that you have not done this, but it would be beyond your limited energies. You do not want to admit this to him.

You gesture towards a small nook you have carved out amongst a clutter of books and scrolls.

“This is a very poor alternative to the Blackstaff ball.”

He chuckles. “Not to me. I’d rather be sandwiched between these bookshelves than between drunk apprentices bragging about cantrips you can use in the bedroom.”

You raise your eyebrows. “The conversation I have to offer is much less scintillating, I’m afraid.”

Your fingers are still prickling where the two of you have touched. An ache grows within you is from the closeness of him. You struggle to break his gaze when his eyes meet yours.

“I beg to differ,” he rasps.

You clear a space on the floor for him. He lowers himself beside you with a groan, rubbing at his knees and his back. It is so strange to see the famed Professor Dekarios in a dust-streaked doublet, cramped and cross legged on a bookshop floor. Yet to have him here beside you tonight feels as familiar as a memory.

“I think I might need to do more stretches if we’re to keep meeting like this.”

You laugh. It radiates in his eyes.

There are many things that lie unspoken between you. But tonight, they are like a canopy of stars. They are there, and you need not cling to them, nor hide from their reach. You lean your head back against a bookshelf. You want to remember this moment, when you have nothing left.

“I haven’t been very good company lately.”

You are not sure if it is an apology or a confession. He tilts his head.  

“Not so. I would take your company over any other. Every day. Any time.”

The back of his hand flickers against yours from where they rest, side by side. He clears his throat.

“Sometimes, I forget that you’re…”

He trails off. You recognise the look in his eyes as something like hunger, but not the type that defines the order of your days. It is a starvation of sorts, searching for release as his gaze flits across your burning cheeks, the quivering of your lips. You can hear the drum of your heart beat, chasing his laboured breaths.

Your eyelids flutter. You feel faint, but it is not what you are used to. It is like you are drunk, drifting towards each other in a stupor. You feel the caress of his nose against yours, the ghost of his breath on your mouth. His forehead presses against yours, his hair tingles on your skin. You draw together and apart, struggling against the tide.

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You wrench away. You are panting, lost. You are not sure if your glamour is still in place. You press your hand to your mouth, your stomach lurching as you stand.

He stands with you, bereft, frenzied. And as you stare at him in silence, you wonder how you will survive the Darkness when you have bathed in his light.

-----

You refuse to see him at first. The nurse tells you each time he visits. He comes the day after your admission, then twice a week, at the times of your allotted meetings. He leaves books and letters. He passes messages via your doctor. But you cannot bring yourself to face him. Not after everything that has passed.

You cannot understand why he persists. ‘Because it is his job,’ the Darkness replies. ‘Because if you fail, it reflects badly on him.’ So, in a lucid moment, you ask the nurse to send a message back to Blackstaff. They can send you the materials. You will study. You will not fall behind.

It is futile, and you know it. The Darkness consumes you whole. Nothing but bones remains.

“You should see him,” the nurse says after three weeks.

You know Nurse Mona well. She has been at the House of Healing since you were a teenager. You have seen more of her than your father and brother combined. Life is a series of facts for her, with no room for ambiguity.

“It’s clear he cares deeply about you.”

You bury your face into your pillow. “That’s the problem.”

She takes you by the shoulders. She can be gruff, and you flinch as she turns you to face her. Tears are gathering in your eyes.

“I don’t want him to see me like this.”

She shakes her head, sighing.

“He already knows you’re here, and he keeps coming back. Why don’t you give him a chance?” 

-----

You sit in the visiting room. It is cold and colourless, but it cannot temper the warmth of his bronzed skin and searching eyes. Across the table, he looks out of place. You feel ashamed to have brought him to such a void.

Gone is your glamour and your billowing robe, the walls behind which you have hidden. You battle against the feeling of your tunic and skirt laying snug against your skin. It is necessary, they say, to accept your form. You struggle to meet his eyes, not to cover your unglamoured face. You know its every bloated blemish, and the knowledge is an agony. You stand before the mirror with Nurse Mona every morning, sobbing at what stares back at you. You sit with her at every meal, tearing yourself apart.

They tell you this is progress. But you do not believe them.

“You don’t need to come here, Professor,” you begin. “You have better things to do.”

You do not know why your voice comes out strained and harsh. You do not wish to sound ungrateful.

“I’m sorry.” You look down at your hands. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

He makes a strangled sound. There is anguish in his eyes when he looks at you. You cannot bear it. Not the pity. Not the burden of your suffering. You cannot inflict this on a man you hold so dear.

“Please.” You stand. “You don’t need to visit.”

His eyes widen. You had missed them so desperately – their brightness, their gentleness. You look away.

“Aurora-”

The promises spill out of you instinctively. Anything to get him away from this place, away from you.

“I’ll get back to my assignments as quickly as I can, and I’ll come back as soon as-”

“Listen to me-”

“-I can get cleared by the doctors-”

“Aurora-”

“-and I should be back in time for exams-”

“I don’t care about all that!”

You flinch. You have never heard him raise his voice. He stands unsteadily and crosses over to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is a broken plea. Part of you yearns to reach out to him, to give him the shattered pieces of your heart. But that part of you is smothered in the Darkness. You do not know whether it will survive.

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know.”

He lays a hand on your arm. “I know you well enough to-”

You pull away. “You don’t.”

You gesture around you, to your face, your belly.

“This is me. Damaged beyond repair. Worthless. Wasted potential.”

He is shaking his head furiously. You scoff.

“You’ve known me for scarcely a year in my three decades of sorry existence. Years upon years of this and much worse than this. And you think just because we shared of a moment of…” You grimace. “You think that because of that moment, you know me?”

You turn away from him.

“This is all I am. It’s all I’ve ever been.”

You expect him to remain silent, leave the room and never return. That is what you had hoped for. It is what you know. No one has ever seen you as you are and chosen to remain.

But he does not.

“This isn’t who you are.”

His certainty stirs an ember within you. You stare at him.

“At times when you can’t see it, I’ll be there to remind you.”

Your chest heaves. You cannot understand the miracle of this man and why he is here with you in the Darkness. All at once, you remember how it felt to be warmed by his flame.

He looks down, then back up.

“What’s between us…”

He inhales sharply.

“The…affection… that lies between us. Is it genuine? Have I misunderstood…”

Doubt quivers in his voice. You had thought it was clear, that you had failed to hide it. Suddenly, you realise that he, too, has been afraid. You cannot allow it.

“Gale,” you breathe. “You are singular. To me, you’re…”

You cannot find the words. But you do not need to. His eyes glimmer. He takes your hand. Slowly, gently, he presses it to his heart.

“Then do your worst. You can hurl insults at me. You can shout and scream curses to drive me away. You can refuse to see me when I visit, ignore my letters and messages. Do what you will. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Hot tears cloud your vision. When he takes you in his arms, you do not fight it. You do not worry over whether your frame is too soft or too hard under his touch. You do not think of your messy waves as he nestles his nose into your hair. You lean into his chest and weep.

-----

When she comes, he and Tara are already with you. As usual, she appears in your room without warning. All the better to backfoot and humiliate you.

Her hair is more red than auburn this time, her lips plumper, her cheekbones more jagged. You had forgotten how obscene her cleavage was, set against her petite frame. She leans over to plant air kisses around your ears, shrinking from touch, as though it still disgusts her.

You brace yourself. It is not difficult to maintain your composure with her, even when she twists the knife. Decades of practice and conditioning have prepared you for little more than this.

When you glance at him and Tara, though, you can see that they are not so inclined.

“Professor Dekarios.” She holds her hand out to him. “It’s lovely to meet you in person at last, after our lengthy and… lively… correspondence.”

His handshake is brisk, his jaw clenched.

“I must say, I’m very surprised to see you here. I’d heard rumours about your devotion to your studies and teaching, but this goes well beyond the demands of the job, surely.”

She arches an eyebrow, scanning the room.

“The nurses tell me that you often keep my daughter company as she…convalesces.” She narrows her eyes. “My daughter isn’t a rare talent who needs a special kind of nurturing. Neither are her…charms… so remarkable as to warrant special attention. Unless…”

She purses her mauve lips as she examines him from head to toe.

“I suppose when you’re accustomed to five course banquets, you might sometimes enjoy a nibble from a market stall.”

He bristles.

“Don’t worry, Professor.” Her teeth flash. “I can be very discreet.”

She lays a red-nailed hand on his arm. He jerks away.

“Madam.” His voice is so low it is almost a growl. “If you’re insinuating that there’s anything improper going on between me and your daughter-”

Her laughter is like nails on a chalk board.

“Oh? Am I to believe that you’re here with my errant daughter for her fine company alone?”

“Mother.” You stare at her. “Please give it a rest. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She smirks. “Darling, to say the pot is calling the kettle black doesn’t even come close. Just look at yourself.” Her powdered face twists. “I should have known you’d disgrace yourself again. I don’t know why I bother.”

His brow darkens. Tara’s wings twitch.

“Your daughter is kind, wise, and intelligent.” His fingertips spark. “She’s exceptional in her resilience, magical aptitude, and good character. If she hadn’t been systematically poisoned by the rhetoric of those far inferior to her, she wouldn’t be facing these obstacles.”

It takes a moment for your mother to register what has been said. She is visibly shaken. She is not used to being challenged, much less on the subject of your welfare. No one has ever cared enough. A vein pulses on her temple.

“Are you suggesting that I-”

He keeps his voice level. “I’m not suggesting, Madam. I’m observing.”

Her alabaster cheeks turn crimson. A part of you is terrified at the onslaught that is coming. You fight the instinct to hide from her rage.

“How dare you-”

Tara’s wings dart out like shields as she hisses. Your mother gasps.

“Gods! You vile creature. I’ll file a complaint. I’ll destroy you, you cast off-”

His eyes glint with a sideways smile.

“Feel free to do your worst, Madam. I’ve faced down much more formidable foes than your good self and lived to tell the tale.”

She seethes. “I’m taking Aurora out of Blackstaff immediately.”

“Aurora is an adult, who can choose whether or not she wants to continue at Blackstaff. And I believe she has no intention of dropping out.”

He glances at you.

You shake your head. “I do not.”

“Then I’ll stop paying –“

“Her fees are already paid up, I’m afraid.” He shrugs.

She is shouting now. “You ungrateful-“

“That’s quite enough, Madam,” Tara drawls. “There’s no need to disgrace yourself any more than you already have. You can either leave quietly with your dignity intact, or I’ll summon a nurse to escort you off these delightful premises. Failing that, I could summon a portal to drop you in the middle of nowhere. Which would you prefer?”

After your mother has left, you gaze at him across the room. You are not entirely sure what he is bickering with Tara about. His face is flushed as he laughs at her. When he meets your eyes, a burst of lightning blazes through you. It takes all your strength not to bound over, take his face in your hands and kiss him.

-----

You had always fought the Darkness alone. You never wondered how it would be to do so with someone at your side. Not an observer, pointing out your failures at every turn, but a friend. A companion.

It is not easier, but it is different. When the Darkness comes, you have a hand to hold, and someone to hold out a flame. Someone who sees who you are and does not look away.

You miss months of classes, but he brings you notes and study plans. When you are able, he gives you lessons and demonstrations. It is impossible at first. So much of your mind has been consumed, so much of your energy lost. But together you wait until you are ready. When your feet are back on solid ground, and you can roam beyond the reflection that you see in the mirror. And when you can channel the Weave again, it is like recovering a lost part of your soul.

You are too far behind to reach the goals that you set for yourself when you first started at Blackstaff. It would be folly to expect top marks in your exams. It will be a challenge enough to pass them. He tells you this, again and again. It is still a battle to accept that this is enough, but it is a fight that you feel you may win. You are beginning to think those goals were never yours, anyway.

When you withdraw from him, or push him away, he waits. You are baffled by how he waits, even when your fear subsumes your hope. You learn from Tara that he has amassed a collection of books about the Darkness which he has digested from cover to cover. He has sought out the leading healers and medics to discuss how to overcome it. Sometimes, when you think of all this, you cry.

There are limits to his understanding.  He is an avid cook, a passionate gourmand. He aches to share this with you. That he cannot causes him unspoken sorrow. In the later stages, when meals become easier, he brings you homemade treats. He has good intentions, but they lead to disastrous results. You promise him that you will try, and you will keep trying. That is more than enough for him.

You often sit in silence, looking at each other. A bond like yours does not need words to express it. You have a frame of reference to understand that now.

-----

“Oh.”

Your blurred vision is clearing. You lift your head.

“Did I fall asleep?”

You are curled up in an armchair. He sits facing you, smiling as you wake.

“Gods, I’m so sorry,” you yawn.

He chuckles. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m well aware of the effect my ramblings have on people.” 

“No.” You straighten. “I’m so sorry, Gale. My sleep at the moment, it’s-”

“There’s no need.” He watches as you rub the mist from your eyes. “Besides, it’s quite marvellous, watching you sleep.”

“Gods.” You cover your face with your hands. “What did I do? Did I say something?”

He titters. “You did no such thing.”

You groan.

“You truly didn’t. You just slept peacefully. A wonderful, beautiful sight.”

You shift, fussing at the creases on your skirt.

“You see beauty in strange places.”

He tilts his head. “I see beauty where it’s brightest.”

It is not an easy subject for you. You know he senses it. Perhaps he feels that you are ready. You are not sure if you are.

“I think you believe that beauty is an alignment of facial features and limbs. A collection of aesthetically pleasing curves and angles. That’s what most people mistake beauty to be.”

You frown. “What is it, if not that?”

He leans forward. Passion surges in his every word.

“An alignment of the soul,” he breathes. “A fullness of character. Virtue. Goodness. Heart. No one who witnesses true beauty can live on unchanged.”

You sit quietly for a long while. He holds you with his gaze, gentle, boundless.

“I think I’ve seen it,” you say at last.

He brushes away the tear that slides down your cheek. “As have I.”

----

It is your last day at Blackstaff.

You are sitting in the courtyard, watching the wind whistling through the trees. You have just received your results. Never before have you received such a scattering of marks, some almost acceptable, others dangerously low. But you have done it. You have passed all of your exams.  

Your highest mark is in Illusion. Perhaps that is predictable, given your interest and his assistance. Yet it still gives you joy, pure and true. It is a labour of love, with its own reward. But that is not the only reason why you feel so proud.

You close your eyes and listen to the fragile rhythm of your heart. You have made it. You are still here.

“I wondered where you were.”

You open your eyes. You had not heard or sensed his approach. He is a vision in deep blue, glowing in the sun. His robe swirls around him as he sits beside you on the bench.

“Canapes and cloying wizards aren’t really my cup of tea.”

He hums. “I don’t blame you. I did my rounds and made my escape as soon as I had the chance. I only hope no one comes searching for me. I’ve given a speech or two already.”

You chuckle. Birdsong caresses your ears. The smell of freshly cut grass and sandalwood fills your lungs. Your soul is full of light. In this moment, you are at peace.

He laces his finger through yours.

“I don’t think I need to say it, but I’m so very proud of you.”

You are smiling as you gaze at him. This man who has seen you as you are and does not find you wanting. This man who does not need magic to read your thoughts or feel your yearning. Your truest friend. The other part of your soul. The meaning of love.

“So what’s next for you? You’re free as a bird, the world’s your oyster, so on and so forth.”

His eyes dance, his hands are a flurry.

“Infinite possibilities,” you sigh. “The sky’s the limit.”

“Etcetera etcetera.”

“Well.” You pause. “I think…”

A stray leaf flies into his hair. You untangle it with your fingers and blow it back into the wind. He watches you, rapt, like you have made a miracle.

“I think I’d like to try one of your cookies.”

His laugh is a caress. “That can be arranged.”

You turn his hand over, tracing your thumb over the lines of his palm. His breathing stills for a while.

“Is there anything more you’d like to do with your newfound freedom?”

You bite your lip. You press his hand against your cheek, savouring its warmth.  

You do not need to tell him. He already knows. It blooms on his features, smouldering in his eyes. You have never felt more certain about anything. You are no longer afraid.

You do not care if anyone can see. You fall into him as he draws your face to his. When your lips meet, it is as though they have touched before. Your tongues find each other’s in a dizzying flurry of wet heat. You are lost in his sweetness and musk, the softness of his hands, the roughness of his beard. You melt into each other in a stupor of halting breaths.

“Move in with me,” he whispers.

You do not need to answer.

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

Read the sequel: Promise

Author's note: If you've made it to the end of this fic, thank you so much for reading. I am so grateful, and I hope you enjoyed it and got something out of it. This is the first time I've felt so vulnerable posting a fic - I'm not sure if this story will mean anything to anyone out there, and I know it's a hard read. But I had to get it out, and I hope it gives you something. Please, if you can, leave me a comment, it would be so special to hear from you.

If you liked this fic, you can check out my other work here.

[djarins-cyare]

✨Questions Tag Game✨

Thanks for tagging me @burntheedges 🩵

Of course I’m going to add GIFs and images. Did anyone really expect me to post something without visual aids??

[photos are my own (apart from the one immediately below, which is from here), and unless otherwise credited, GIFs were made by me during office hours when I was supposed to be working… 🤫]

Do you make your own bed?

Not in terms of making it look all neat and tucked in, no. But that’s because I’m a teensy bit of a germaphobe, and humans naturally sweat at night, which means you must leave your mattress uncovered for a while after you get up to ensure it airs. So, for most of the day (because I forget to straighten it up), my bed just looks like this:

(Just for fun, how many Mandalorians can you spot in the pic?)

Favourite number?

It’s always been 2, and my reasoning used to be that all good things come in pairs. But having discovered my autism in recent years, I’ve come to realise it probably more likely represents the maximum number of people I’m most comfortable interacting with at any one time. So it’s a manageable number. It’s also an even number. And it’s a prime number (in fact it's the only even prime number). It’s a pretty number – it has a nice curved top and a solid, sturdy base. It stops 1 from being lonely, so it’s a kind number.

Is this a weird answer? All of these are really logical reasons to me!

[GIF found here]

What’s your job?

It’s become so specialised that I no longer have a job title, but I started as a legal PA for one of the senior partners at a Legal 500 law firm in London. I flirted with the idea of qualifying as a solicitor but realised there was no way in hell I’d be comfortable standing up in court and speaking in front of lots of people (and I work in the criminal law department so not keen on casually chatting to criminals either). Instead, I decided to become The Person Who Knows Everything.

So now I write briefs to Counsel, proofs of evidence, funding applications; I analyse evidence, conduct legal research, advise the solicitors on their cases; I train paralegals and admin staff; I do a load of data analysis and make pretty spreadsheets for the bosses; and I manage the firm’s IT needs because I can do computer stuff too. I’m basically their go-to girl for anything that seems complicated or time-consuming… and I don’t have to wear a stupid wig in court.

And the best part is, during Covid lockdown, I demonstrated I can do 100% of my job from home, so I was allowed to move 150 miles away, and I now only have to visit my office two days a month! 🙌🏻

Downside: the arduous and random nature of the job means I’m never up to date and always very tired.

If you could go back to school, would you?

My original plan after getting my undergrad degree was to do a Masters and PhD and become an academic, but I put all that on hold for my (now ex) husband so he could finish his PhD and first postdoc. I’m very glad I never went back, though, because I realise that academia is not the place for me… see above comment about not being able to stand up and talk in court to understand why standing up and talking in a lecture hall would be equally nerve-wracking for me. So, no, I’m content with my current level of schooling.

Honestly, university was more about learning how to ‘adult’ properly than obtaining any useful knowledge on the course anyway (she says, routinely using concepts learnt on her fiction writing modules when crafting Mando fics).

Can you parallel park?

Yup. Narrow roads and a lack of parking spaces in the UK kind of make it a non-optional skill here.

That said, I do sometimes see people desperately trying to line themselves up to get into a space and making an absolute farce out of it, so I guess maybe some people here think it’s optional, but I’d rather not have that kind of stress, so I practised until I could do it easily.

[original GIF found here and then cropped]

Do you think aliens are real?

The way this is phrased… do I think they’re real? Like, do I think the grey ones with big black eyes are anally probing residents in certain sections of North America on a regular basis? Hmm, no. Too many episodes of The X-Files. I mean, Fox Mulder: yum, but I really Don’t Want To Believe, thanks.

But, I remain open to the idea that alien life has evolved elsewhere in the known universe. It’s inconceivably huge, after all. There’s nowhere near enough data to prove (or even speculate) either way – just look at the Drake equation, which has been used to both ‘prove’ and ‘disprove’ the possibility – so I’ll reserve any kind of judgment until some real evidence appears.

Can you drive a manual car?

Yeah, of course. It’s the standard driving test in the UK and allows you to drive both automatic and manual – you actually have to specifically ask to learn only automatic if you decide you can’t handle gears. And, like, it’s all muscle memory, so it’s really not as hard as people think once you’re used to it. I tried to drive an automatic a few years back and found myself involuntarily shadow-shifting the gears!

[original GIF found here and then trimmed for length]

What’s your guilty pleasure?

Mostly, I don’t feel guilty about indulging in pleasures these days. I used to be really affected by social pressures (back before I discovered my autism and still felt like I had to ‘mask’ and fit in), so I used to feel guilty talking about my hyperfixations, but now I couldn’t care less. I shall consume them endlessly and unselfconsciously. It’s very liberating.

Any phobias?

I suppose the answer is sharks, which has no sensible basis for being a phobia because I’ve never had any real encounters to make me fearful (thank fuck!). In fact, I walked through the shark tunnel at SeaWorld just fine as a 7-year-old. Unless that planted some kind of seed of terror, I don’t know. Not sure when it really took hold, but I can’t even look at photos these days. It’s their damn teeth. Someone’s going to have to give me a tooth report on Gladiator II before I can go see it.

The hell if I’m gonna put a photo (or God forbid a GIF) of a shark here, so, umm…

Favourite childhood sport?

Two answers: (1) Football (AKA soccer). I played for a girl’s team when I was about 11, but it was only because the boy I liked was into football. I couldn’t give a shit about it these days, and I don’t think I ever really liked it – I was just ‘masking’, as I did for most of my childhood, but I convinced myself I loved it.

(2) Karate, which I decided all by myself that I fancied doing, then found I was actually quite good at it and excelled at it for a while. But I was 9, and they decided I was so good that I should go and join the adult class (age 14 and up), which I hated, so I quit.

[GIF is one I already had saved from Reddit a while ago, but I can't find the source anymore, so sorry for not crediting the maker]

Do you talk to yourself?

Sometimes, but not often. I live alone, so I occasionally just need to exercise my vocal cords lol. It also depends on what mood I’m in. On an average day, no, I don’t really feel the need to fill the silence, but if I’m excited/animated/annoyed in some way, I might say stuff aloud. Basically, if I’m inclined to utter curse words for any reason, I’ll probably use other words aloud too.

[GIF found here]

Tattoos?

I only have one right now, but I plan to increase that number someday. See photo below; I used to have chameleons as pets and got this tattooed near my right hip when I turned thirty to commemorate them. It’s really small.

I would like to get a phrase in Mando’a inked on me somewhere, probably “Kaysh meg miit’gaana, oyacyi”, which means “she* who writes, remains” [*substitute chosen pronoun – Mando’a doesn’t distinguish genders], and is a Mandalorian proverb teaching that you can live forever if you leave behind written words. I have it engraved on my iPad.

Favourite colour?

Very much the blue (with a hint of green) end of the colour spectrum. For something soft, duck egg blue, or for something bold, teal. See the colour of the titles in this post.

I also like the colours of hyperspace and would happily snuggle up with Din in the cockpit.

Do you like puzzles?

Yeah, I guess. I don’t dislike them. But I don’t really do them much. In terms of the crossword/sodoku/brain teaser sort, I might choose to do them in specific settings, like on vacation when I inevitably need to offer my brain something different than whatever book I’m binge-reading.

In terms of the jigsaw type, I have short phases of thinking, “Ooh, that’ll be fun!”, trying to do one, getting bored, and then forcing myself to finish. Last time that happened was Covid lockdown. Took me a year! Though, to be fair, it was one of these bastards…

Okay, I’m done. I realise I’m very late to the party, and a lot of people have already done this one, so sorry if you’ve already participated. No pressure (and no need to illustrate with gifs and images, I just can’t help myself)… 🩵

@604to647 @beefrobeefcal @d4rm4nd4 @feral-ferrule @gracieheartspedro

@joelslegalwhre @littlemisspascal @magpiepills @penvisions @quicksilvermad

@secretelephanttattoo @studioghibelli @syd-djarin @the-mandawhor1an @zaddymandalorian

[jarenka]

Lately I've been practising watercolors and watching a lot of youtube videos about it. And there was a four hour long master-class for beginners from a well-known watercolor painter. In the beginning he was telling what it means to him to be a watercolor artist and about unique features of watercolor paining. He said that you need a bit of Buddhist mindset for making art with watercolor. You need to accept that you can't fully control everything you create. You need to accept that you won't be able to fix majority of mistakes you've made during the process and they will stay on your paining. Watercolor isn't a best medium for people who want to have everything under their control and want their painting be as precise as possible. 

(sorry to that guy in advance for butchering his lecture with my poor english)

So, being a SW fan, I of course immediately thought: Oh, this can be a perfect exercise for younglings/padawans! We saw them dancing in canon, I a think they can have some drawing lessons with GFFA analog of watercolor. Imagine little Jedi sitting in the Room of Thousand Fountains painting greenery and water. They need to patiently wait while layer of watercolor is drying. Maybe older Jedi encourage them to paint landscapes of their native planets and they are joking about some planets being much easier to draw. 

[jellyfishsthings]

My lips. Your lips. Apocalypse.

Warnings: my shit writing, violence (kinda?)

part 2

I will be the first person to say it. School is boring. And that is a lot since Nevermore is no ordinary school. The only class that is interesting, yet exhausting, is this one. Mrs Smith is sitting across from me. Staring intensely in my eyes, trying to find the weak spot in my mental shield. We have been at it for hours and I have managed to preserve my resolve. Until now. She finally breaks in.

"So what is it about you? You seem quite ordinary to be going to that school." The cute Barnstaple across from me asks. He has nice brown hair that curls at his ears. Deep thoughtful eyes. He is mundane or better yet, ordinary, as he called me. He is perfect. But something about him screams certain danger. Tyler, Tyler Galpin, whom I have come to know as my best friend. My dreamy best friend, who I moon over day and night and constantly plagues my thoughts.

"That is top secret agent type of shit, you can not know" I answered him with a chuckle.

The memory soon fades, as fast as it appeared. I feel my shoulders sag from exhaustion and I try to find sense in the safety of my magical pendant. The one that keeps others at bay while also containing my powers. The one that keeps me safe not only from others but also from myself. Mind control is not easy stuff, you have to be hyperfocus. Do you want to control something or someone? You have to draw all your willpower and pour it into that task. Which is tough shit. Making someone forget or simply reading their thoughts or memories, even manipulating them is now as natural as breathing. Shielding yourself from others with the same powers is the hardest. There aren't many of us but we are more powerful than anyone else. So if you slip up, you are vulnerable to the world.

You know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.

My ears are ringing. My mind is reeling. Each breath I take feels like hell. They are uneven, torturous and slow

"Drink this" I feel a cold water bottle touch my bottom lip. I drink the offered water greedily. My vision from hazy slowly starts turning itself clear and I can make out my surroundings again. "Better?" I nod and wait for the lecture to start. "So your shield lasted over two hours. You are strong, you know that, but you can not let yourself get lost in your daydreams. Especially when we are practising ".

"Yeah I know, I know" I heave, still trying to stabilize my breathing.

"Go rest"

I get up slowly. Unsteady on my feet and wandering through the halls while feeling my way in the walls, trailing my fingertips in the cold stoned wall. I enter my dorm and change out of my uniform. Putting on a white oversized shirt, half buttoned and collapsing in my bed.

The hours pass as I am in a half-awake state. Being aware of the room around me, but my organism turns to its usual state. And so I dream. I dream of him. What it would be like to kiss. What it would be like to date.

I am startled awake as my roommate slams the door behind her wake. Wednesday in her usual lack of colour stops in the middle of the room and sharply looks at me. "Good, you are awake".

I sigh rolling my eyes "What do you want?"

"I am going to the house I was telling you about. I might need your help."

"Why?"

"Because you are useful."

"Jee thanks. It feels good to be appreciated. "

The sun has finally set and we walk towards the school's entrance door, where a familiar Jeep awaits. Tyler, he is here. Enid and Wednesday are wearing their matching hoodie scarf things, as usual, I am left out. As usual, Wednesday climbs in the passenger seat, my seat, and Tyler doesn't say a word about that, instead, he flirts with her. He doesn't even greet me or ask about my day, as he used to.

I silently seeth as we arrive at what looks like a haunted manor. We break in and we start wandering through the house trying to find evidence. At some point, we are separated. As I walk into what looks like an old girl's bedroom, I feel a presence behind me, the hair on my neck standing as I grab the nearest object ready to attack.

Yet a strong hand shoots out and stops my blow easily. "Hey there. Be careful, Rockey, you wouldn't want to hit me, now would you?" The breath is knocked out of me. The moonlight hits him just right, highlighting his features, the soft smile, the high cheekbones and sharp jawline. His laughing face turns into one of confusion. He opens his mouth ready to ask me something, when a strange sound echoes through the room.

He grabs me and flushes me to his chest. He places his hand to my mouth and I feel my heart race. I can feel every plain of his body against mine. His defined chest rises and falls in a crazy rhythm, and his hands hold me in place with urgency. We must stay like this for a few seconds or mere minutes but it feels like hours as I try to catalog his characteristics.

"I will go check, it must have been the girls, please stay here."

"What? No, I am coming with you."

"Please." He uses that voice. The one he knows that can convince me to do anything.

So I stay put. Until I see a light shining into the forest. I find myself following it. Threading through the trees and the fallen leaves. Someone moves just out of sight. A knife is thrown my way and I drop to the ground. The figure stalks towards me and as I think that I am doomed. The Hyde makes its appearance, attacking what I assumed to be a man, tiring him to shreds. After it's done it turns my way, snuffing the air as I am frozen in place, terrified to the bone.

The sound of bones breaking fills the air as the monster in front of me turns into a … boy? A familiar one. He is covered in blood and unconscious. I make a quick decision and drag him towards his house, cleaning him up in his bathtub and stitching up the scratch wound on his pecs. Tyler is the Hyde. The Hyde is Tyler. They are one and the same.

I am watching him, studying him while he sleeps. He looks so peaceful yet troubled. I creep towards his father's room and find some handcuffs, thank you Sheriff Galpin, and tie him up in his headboard, waiting till he awakes.

words: 1.154 (there will be a pt.2.... propably?)