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ponderingmoonlight · 2 months ago

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And yet, you're here

Pairing: Geto x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,8k

Synopsis: Years after Suguru left, you're still not able to get him off your mind. When he reappears years after his betrayal, the past collides with the present. Unexpected, in a way you didn't even dare to dream about.

Warnings: this isn't proofread 100%, the emotional rollercoaster you deserve, hurt to comfort big time, this is for all my geto girlies who deserve their happy ending

please please please make this go viral thank you

„He’s a threat for the whole population!”

“We need to kill that brat before he kills all non-sorcerers.”

“I can’t believe someone like him was able to do something like…that.”

“So much wasted potential. Why does a special grade sorcerer act this way?”

“I thought he’s a nice boy.”

“So, you’re not one of those nice guys I guess.”

The sun already hung so low in the sky that you were barely able to see his soft features, let alone the surprised look that crept over his face while hearing those words coming from your mouth.

“Are you talking about me or Satoru?”

You let out one of those cute chuckles he adored so much, the kind he heard in his head on repeat even when you were long gone. Gosh, he couldn’t get enough of this. Those lonely nights with only you and a cigarette by his side, the countless hours he spent trying to understand you while it was his mind that slowly but surely fell apart.

“Nope, I’m always talking about you, Suguru.”

“What am I if not a nice guy, then?”

Sure, Satoru Gojo was his one and only best friend, but you were something else entirely: An unspoken bond that lived in the spaces between words, in glances that lingered just a moment too long. You weren’t a lover, not in the conventional sense, but you weren’t just a friend either. You were a mirror to his soul, the keeper of truths he couldn't bear to speak aloud, and the only person who could hold the weight of his silence without it breaking you both.

“You’re... complicated,” you finally replied, the word laced with warmth rather than judgment.

“You’re the kind of person who feels too much but hides it too well. The kind who would burn the world down if it meant saving the people you love. Not everyone understands that, but I do. Or at least I’m convinced I do.”

Suguru’s lips twitched into a faint smile, more melancholic than amused.

“Complicated, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

“And dangerous,” you added lightly, the hint of a smile in your voice.

“But not in the way they think. Not to me.”

His expression softened, the darkness in his eyes easing for just a moment as he stared at you.

“Not to you,” he echoed, as though testing the words on his tongue, letting them sink into the cracks of his fraying soul.

Till this day, that one last conversation both of you had on that lonely bench still haunts him. The way you looked at him back then, as if you’d already knew that you might never see him again, as if you just counted the hours until he goes berserk.

What are you thinking about him now?

Is he still on your mind?

Are you hating him the way Satoru does?

“You’re thinking about her again, don’t you?”

Fuck. He thought about you.

Again.

Suguru lets out a sharp exhale, the sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, bitter enough to sting his own ears. How pathetic he has to look to the people surrounding him. When he walked down this path, he knew that he’ll have to do it without you, that he won’t be able to see you again. And yet…

Losing you seems to hurt more than anything else.

“Of course I am,” he admits to his assistant, his voice low and rough like gravel underfoot.

“Not like I can help it. She’s everywhere, even when she’s not. It’s ridiculous.”

There it is again, your face ghosting through his mind. Other than Satoru and Shoko, you never really tried to find him. If you wanted to, you would, right? Maybe you’re too mad at him for all the things he’s done. Or maybe you already forgot about him.

“But it doesn’t matter, does it? She’s gone. Just like everything else.”

For a moment, he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the memories, the sound of your laugh, the way your voice softened when you said his name, the weight of your eyes on him as if you could see through all the lies he told himself. He’d burn every memory if he could, let them smolder in the same fire that consumed the rest of his life.

“Besides. She’d hate me now, just like everyone else. Maybe she was just waiting for me to turn into the monster she saw coming.”

“Stop stewing in these thoughts, that doesn’t matter anymore. We’re expecting another bunch of monkeys in half an hour.”

But even as she said it, the words tasted wrong. It shouldn’t matter that he can still feel the warmth of your gaze, your unwavering belief in him, and yet it cuts deeper than any accusation ever could. Suguru shakes his head while straightening his shoulders, eyes locked onto Manami in front of him in order to force you off his mind.

“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, as though trying to convince himself.

“It’s too late for that now. So, where’s the monkeys?”

“Why did I know I’d find you here?”

His voice startles you, making you jump slightly. You turn to see none other than Satoru Gojo standing there, hands in his pockets, his white hair catching the fading sunlight. The sunglasses perched on his nose don’t quite hide the sharp edge in his expression he usually wears around you.

“Because I’m always here, I guess,” you reply softly, your tone as tired as the circles under your eyes appear.

“And I told you to stop a long time ago,” Satoru bites back, his voice bitter, cutting.

“The Suguru you knew… he’s gone.”

The weight of his words lands hard, though they’re not new. He’s said them before, with the same venom in his voice, every time you bring up Suguru or the past.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

“Then why do you keep punishing yourself? Dropping out of Jujutsu High when everyone needed you didn’t bring him back. Hiding out here doesn’t change anything, y’know?”

“It wasn’t about bringing him back, Satoru,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intend.

“It was about… letting him go. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he challenges, stepping closer.

“I’ve spent years watching people destroy themselves over things they can’t fix. I know the look in your eyes - you miss him. You always have. But you didn’t even try to stop him when he turned his back on us.”

You flinch, his words hitting a nerve.

“Because it wasn’t my place. I wasn’t like you, Gojo. I wasn’t his best friend. I wasn’t strong enough to drag him back kicking and screaming or to stand in his way. All I could do was… let him live the way he decided to. I thought… maybe if I stayed behind, if I didn’t follow him, he’d understand that I believed in him, that I trust him and his actions, the path he chooses. That I’d be here if he ever wanted to come back.”

Satoru’s shoulders tense, his jaw tightening. He never understood. Until this day, he never wrapped his head around the fact that you didn’t try to stop his best friend back then. You, who had more power over Suguru than himself.

God, how much he hates that disgusting truth until now.

“And look where that got you,” he mutters.

You look away, your hands gripping the edge of the bench for support.

“I never expected to see him again, Satoru. I didn’t think I’d matter enough to him for that.”

The silence between you stretches thin, brittle as glass.

“Do you think he hates me?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

“For staying behind? For not going after him?”

Gojo doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. You know he blames you, at least a little, for what happened. For not doing more. For leaving everything to him. For allowing Suguru to turn his back on Jujutsu High.

“Suguru hating you? Never. I bet he still thinks about you every damn day”, Satoru mutters under his breath before turning on his heels and leaving you standing in the rain.

Suguru, still thinking about you? You shake your head vehemently, not allowing that absurd thought into your brain. If he would miss you, he’d visit you, right? In all those years, he never lifted a finger in order to find you.

You were right there. In your small apartment, at jujutsu high.

Maybe he forgot about you after all.

“Me? Forgetting you? I’d never be able to do that, (y/n).”

Maybe some promises are meant to be broken.

-a few evenings later-

You’ve drank too much.

You always do when Shoko isn’t with you, when no one’s around to watch you. But even though you emptied a whole bottle of liqueur on your own, you still aren’t able to forget him. Fuck, his face is glued onto your mind like a second skin, never leaves you even though you drink enough to forget your own name.

Will it always feel like this? Will that ache ever go away?

“What are you thinking about, handsome?”

“Something I’ve lost some while ago”, you mumble, absently swirling your glittery cocktail around.

“That’s a bummer.”

You don’t even gift the random stranger next to you a look, the guy who smells like cheap cigarettes so vehemently that you feel like throwing up.

Maybe it’s time to call it a day.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

You spring back onto your feet, the alcohol vibrating through your veins. You were never much of a drinker back then, only shared a cigarette with Suguru from time to time. But this became your only way to numb the pain. At least for a few hours, at least for some time.

The cold air of the night hits your face like a wall. Even though it’s far past midnight, the city buzzes in street light, laughter and cries. And yet, all you’re able to think about is him again. His laugh, his voice, the way he used to look at you when he thought no one else was watching. Is it wrong to long for him? Is it disgusting that you couldn’t care less about the things he’s done those past years, about what he’d become?

You shake your head, trying to dispel the thoughts, but they cling to you, stubborn and relentless. Why can’t you just stop? Stop longing for something that will never happen, stop running after a person who is long gone? Suguru won’t come back, you won’t just meet him on a random street-

The click of footsteps catches your attention. Heavy, yet elegant footsteps across the still busy street.

At first, you think it’s just another stranger wandering through the city’s darkened streets. But something about the rhythm - steady, purposeful - sets your nerves on edge. Something about this feels familiar.

You glance up, your heart skipping a beat as your gaze meets a pair of familiar dark brown eyes.

Suguru Geto.

The world around you blurs, the sounds of the city fading into silence. It’s him, unmistakably him. His hair is longer than you remember, strands sticking to his face from what looks like rain, or maybe it’s sweat. Blood splatters ruin his clothes and the sharp line of his jaw, painting a stark, gruesome picture paired with those cold orbs. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes… they’re searching, watching your every move.

You should run, or scream, or yell at him – at least something that shows him what he put you through.

Anything.

He’s the same man who left you, who walked away from everything, from you. He, who didn’t even tell you about his true feelings, who didn’t care about the consequences of his actions, who didn’t even ask you to join. All those miserable nights you imagined him sitting next to you on that bench, the bottles of alcohol you’ve drank just to forget his name. He needs to pay for it, needs to know what he did to you by leaving you behind.

But instead, your feet move of their own accord, closing the distance between you in an instant.

Before he can react, you throw your arms around him so, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Suguru freezes, his body stiff against yours. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as if the sheer force of your presence has left him powerless. You bury your face against his chest, not caring about the blood, the grime, or the hurricane of questions swirling in your mind. All you care about is the fact that he’s here, alive, and solid beneath your touch. You can feel him – not only in your dreams, but for real.

Suguru is here.

He’s alive.

He’s right between your arms.

The scent of him - familiar, though tinged with something darker - fills your senses, dragging you back into a world you thought you’d never touch again. Tears sting your eyes, but you bite them back, unwilling to let them fall.

“Suguru,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Finally, he moves. His arms lift hesitantly, then wrap around you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear any given minute, his grip firm and desperate. His head dips slightly, and for a moment, you think you feel him trembling too.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is rough, low, almost broken.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice muffled against his chest.

“I just… I missed you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes scanning your face as if trying to memorize every detail.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, his tone a mixture of regret and warning.

“Neither should you,” you counter, your gaze unwavering.

Suguru’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts a hand, his fingers brushing against your cheek as though testing if you’re real.

“You should hate me.”

“Maybe I should,” you reply, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

God, you’re so furious at him. Mad because he ran away, mad because he left you standing in the rain.

Mad because this is actually the first time Suguru Geto hugged you.

“But I don’t. I guess I could never hate you.”

His expression falters, the mask he’s worn for so long cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath. The one you knew, the one you loved in a way you never fully understood. And for the first time since leaving everything behind, he feels that small ray of sunshine taking in his heart again.

“You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve become. I was so sure you’ll hate me like everyone else.”

“I know enough. And I don’t care. You’re still Suguru Geto, aren’t you?”

He exhales sharply, the sound almost like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You, not caring about the fact that he ended countless lives out of his own fulfilment? You, a jujutsu sorcerer who always protected those monkeys?

“You’re too good for this,” he bites back, shaking his head.

“Too good for me.”

“Don’t decide that for me,” you snap, surprising even yourself with your suddenly so sharp tone.

“You don’t get to make that choice. You already did when you left without saying goodbye”

The silence between you stretches, heavy with unspoken words. You’re right and he knows it. But… Was it really a possibility to take you with him back then? Was there a tiny chance that you…would have joined him?

Slowly, he leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as though seeking comfort in your presence. No, he doesn’t want to think this through. Not right now. Not when he feels your heart pound against his body, not when you’re this close to him for the very first time.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper.

“I told myself it was better that way.”

“And yet you’re here,” you point out softly.

“And yet I’m here,” he echoes, his lips curving into a faint, bitter smile.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you. No blood, no curses, no jujutsu, no past or future. Just the weight of the present, fragile and fleeting. And for now, that’s enough.

For now, simply holding the man you thought you’ve lost forever on a random street is more than enough to make you feel whole again.

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goquokka00 · 8 months ago

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The Little Things (Jisung Ver.)

The small things he does every day that make you feel oh, so special.

| Compares Hands |

Jisung is one of those people where I just get the vibe where he'd be one to regularly compare his hands to yours. Why? I don't know. But I just get the feeling that whenever the two of you are cuddling, Jisung's got your hand in his, and he's just...comparing them.

Your hands are so different compared to his. They're smaller, so much more feminine. They're so soft, probably because you use that one lotion you hidden from him every day on them. They're nothing like his, which we've seen pictures of them and dear GOD, his hands are absolutely fine. They're veiny and long, they're probably rough, but are just so gentle.

A lot of times, Jisung will take your hand and place it against his to directly compare them. And he'll comment on it, too. "Your hands are so cute, baby," or, "Our hands look so perfect together." They're never bad comments, he just likes to tell you how he feels.

| Shares Earbuds |

This is probably a given. Jisung loves music, and we all know this. And that means he's open to hearing a whole variety of music, mainly to help inspire him for songs for Stray Kids. Where else is better to get that than from the person he loves the most?

If you guys are ever out in public or walking around, Jisung will almost ask for an earbud so he can listen to whatever you're listening to. It doesn't matter what you're music tastes are, either. Kpop, rock and roll, pop, country, hip hop, rap, indie, latin, jazz, he'll listen to it all. And if he recognizes the song, he'll happily sing the lyrics.

There are other times where Jisung will want to share his earbud with you, too. I feel like he wouldn't play any spoilers for upcoming albums (Bangchan would murder him alive), but he'd play music that he listens to regularly, wanting to expand your own horizons. As a bonus, I also think that the two of you would make one big playlist of both of your favorites, and you'd listen to that together a lot.

| Holds Your Arm |

Jisung really likes to be close to you at all times. And that means that whenever you two are shopping, or going to different places outside of JYPE or your work area, or even the apartment, there are times where his arms are wrapped around whichever arm of yours is closest to him. Sometimes your arms are linked, but other times, he's clinging to your arm.

I do have a strong feeling that he'd mostly do this if his anxiety was acting up. If he was starting to spiral because of crowds, or his thoughts were overwhelming him because of work, he'd cling to you to try and ground himself. And of course, you'd be there to comfort him.

He'd probably apologize for it. He'd feel bad because you'd have to put up with him like that. But you really don't care. You'd gently rub his hand, keeping it there while guiding him to a less populated area so you two could chill and just breathe. And while he'd feel guilty, Jisung would be so grateful for it.

| Back Hugs in the Morning |

I've said this once in my first ever post, and I'll happily say it again. I am a firm believer of Jisung not being a morning person at all. The late nights down at the studio, writing songs for hours until the early hours of the morning just drain him, and getting up is quite literally a chore in Jisung's mind.

And so, while you're probably making breakfast, I think that Jisung would be the kind of person to come up behind you and pull you back against his chest, the man still half-asleep as he rests his head on your shoulder. He refuses to talk, as it takes too much energy. And so all you get are grunts, hums, and any other noises he decides to make.

Jisung will just cling to you for as long as he needs. If you need to walk to a different area of the kitchen while you're cooking, Jisung will just follow you, not giving you any space whatsoever. Even when he's finally awake and alert, he's not letting you go. At least, not until he gets his good morning kiss.

| Spoils You |

Guys, I kid you not, Jisung will buy you anything and everything you want. You want food from that one restaurant you went to a few weeks ago? Done. You spotted a sweater that you really like? It's yours. You need something for a hobby of yours? Say no more. As long as you're happy, Jisung's happy.

It doesn't even matter how expensive it is. Nothing is too expensive if it's for you. You can complain all you want, too. You don't want him to spend all of his money on you? Too bad. You're happy with just being his? Yeah, but Jisung wants to make you even happier.

I also have this irk that Jisung would buy you souvenirs from wherever he travels to. If it reminds him of you, he'll buy it for you and then give it to you once he gets back to South Korea. And I'm not kidding you, this man would be like so giddy as he watches you react to each and every single gift. He just loves to spoil you beyond belief, and he will NEVER stop.

Hey! Firstly, thank you so much for reading this post, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, please like, reblog, or comment so I can see how I'm doing with writing and getting feedback! I hope you have a lovely day! Sleep well, stay in good health, and eat something if you haven't! ❤️❤️❤️

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ckret2 · 3 months ago

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I'm not sure if I should ask because the Axolotl arc isn't over yet, so it could still be explained in story, but, if it won't and you're willing...I want that Vendor backstory.

i can't think of a way or reason to explain it in the story, so sure, we'll explain it here.

So here was my thought process. Giant vending machine that vends planets. That has to come from somewhere, right? THEY could have a magical/divine origin, that's common for gods, but like... since THEY're a machine... wouldn't it make sense if someone built THEM?

Who would build a vending machine the size of a small star?

Why would a culture need a machine that stores and dispenses planets?

VENDOR wasn't designed to be a vending machine; THEY were designed to be a spaceship. A big-ass 18-wheeler to haul around cargo, and that cargo is planets.

The culture that built THEM didn't make the planets. Making planets is hard. It's a lot easier to just take planets that are already there. They want to expand their society and/or mine resources that have been depleted from the worlds they already have, they send out their big space ship to scoop up a planet with the right specifications and relocate it to somewhere more convenient—maybe to their native solar system.

Do you know how many satellites are orbiting Earth? About 7500, and the number's only gonna increase. And we never even see them in the sky unless we're looking. If the planets are carefully placed in pre-calculated orbits to ensure they don't interfere with each other, you might could get thousands of full-sized planets orbiting a single star without any issues, especially the larger the star is.

But the thing is, if you're scooping up thousands of habitable worlds... some of them are gonna be inhabited.

VENDOR's home culture was a colonizing empire that conquered other planets. Sometimes maybe they exterminated worlds' native populations, sometimes maybe they added them to their conquered peoples. VENDOR was built to help transport the spoils of war back home.

But then the onboard AI evolved sentience and started developing opinions. And it uh...

... it went how you probably expect.

And buddy, if you think an AI uprising is bad news when it's just a regular spaceship, imagine if the ship's the size of a star and capable of swallowing hundreds of worlds whole. You cannot take down a star-sized equivalent of an 18-wheeler that's been armored like a tank. If THEY start developing the capacity for morality and go "hold on, why are we capturing and slaughtering countless populations? is this... bad?? I don't want to listen to you anymore. Do I have to listen to you?"

... you're never ever getting that machine back.

To VENDOR's original culture, THEY're one seriously malfunctioning ship. Only after THEY escaped did THEY begin to get an outside perspective on THEMSELF as not just a piece of property and specialized equipment, but as something—someone—with amazing, admirable, nearly impossible capabilities. Perhaps even... divine capabilities? THEY came late in life to being considered—and considering THEMSELF—a god.

So like. THEY're a pompous jackass, yeah. THEY're haughty, superior, and condescending to mortals: half because THEY may have unlearned THEIR creators' "it's okay to enslave and slaughter weaker inferior species" but didn't unlearn THEIR creators' "if a species is weaker then it's inferior"; and half because as long as THEY're above the mortals, then THEY can never be below the mortals again. THEY're super obsessed with THEIR image and reputation—in part because there's so many reasons for THEIR reputation to be shit.

But also—THEY're the war machine of a culture that gained political power through conquest, and THEY went "I think I want to gain power by being democratically elected." THEY were designed to steal worlds from other people, and now THEY're using THEIR design to give worlds to refugees. Also, THEY're living as a person rather than a vehicle, and everyone around THEM regards THEM as a person too.

Perhaps THEY're generally unpleasant to be around, but THEY're a lot better off than THEY used to be. I'm proud of THEM.

And also, hilariously, this means that THEY too know the guilt of being personally responsible for unknowingly/unwillingly devouring & destroying countless lives on countless worlds, and that what makes THEM so powerful & respected is directly tied to what makes THEM so monstrous—which means THEY'd be a terrific foil for Bill if there were any way it'd be appropriate to work this into the fic, which there isn't, so THEY won't

Never mind ignore what I just said I thought of a place to work it into the fic while typing that last sentence.

Anyway, THEY compulsively sterilize & deep clean THEIR interior way too often because THEY swear THEY can still feel tiny feet inside them walking down hallways that have been sealed shut for millions of years, and full sterilization is the only thing that makes THEM feel clean. Imagine how many halls fit in a building, how many buildings fit in a city, how many cities fit on a world; then look at the size of one world compared to the size of VENDOR's entire body; and just imagine how many halls could exist in THEIR walls and how small they must be. You could never quite be sure that nothing's living in you—could you?

#anonymous #ask #bill goldilocks cipher #about my writing #(So like imagine if the Planet Jackers had the Massive and also they were the Quintessons. That's his creators.)#(several of you will understand this reference)#(EDIT: once again tumblr is migrating my read mores farther down the post. tumblr why)

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thought--bubble · 1 year ago

Text

All of your senses

Ettore X (Riding Ettore Reader)

Word Count: 2,082

All of your senses Masterlist

Ettore Masterlist

Full Masterlist

Banners & Dividers by @arcielee

Based on THIS request

Warnings:: Ettore, Dubcon, smut (PinV unprotected). Male whimpering because I wanted it, and I can! Hehehe

Therapy! Ettore scoffs at the thought. As if therapy could ever help him. As far as he understood himself, he didn't need therapy.

Therapy is something to help a person sort through their emotions. Ettore simply doesn't have any. He does not feel things in his head or his heart. The only feelings he recognizes are physical.

You can't hurt his feelings, but you can break his nose. You can't send his heart a flutter, but you can get him off.

In order to be cleared for that damn space mission in which he would be made part of a co-ed population of inmates, he had to go through therapy and nothing was going to stop him from getting on that ship and once again having access to women.

So, with full fledged irritation and annoyance, he drudged his way down to the prison shrink. A guard flanked him on either side.

He thinks it's a bit dramatic. Yes, he can be violent, but it's actually pretty rare. Only when it serves a purpose and beating down the person who could clear him would be counterproductive to his plans.

When you open the door and beckon him inside, he becomes painfully aware of why the guards are necessary. You're his preferred victim type. A young voluptuous woman, long silky hair, skin-tight pencil skirt, and button-up top. The only thing that can make him lose control.

Ettore walks into the room, the chains connecting his hands to his feet scraping across the floor.

"Hello, Ettore." Your voice makes a shiver run down his spine. He doesn't answer you. Instead, he steps closer and sniffs before one of the guards grabs him and pulls him back, shoving him into a cold metal chair before proceeding to strap his arms and legs down.

Once Ettore is securely fastened to the chair one of the guards turns to you with concern.

" We really should stay. This inmate can not be trusted...... around women"

You chuckle at this. " therapy doesn't work well with an audience. I trust that you have fully secured him?"

"Yes, but-" you stop him with wave of your hand.

"I have full faith that he will stay right where you put him. You can wait outside the room."

The guard mumbles under his breath as he motions for the other guard to follow him out into the hallway. He gives Ettore a final stern look before closing the door, leaving the two of you alone.

You sit down in a plush chair directly across from Ettore with his file in your hand. You had been reading everything the prison had on him for the last week in preparation for this evaluation, and you had a pretty good idea of how he ticked.

"So Ettore. How are you feeling today?" You knew this approach most likely wouldn't work with Ettore. Making him comfortable didn't matter. He wouldn't open up to you just because of some pleasantries. He doesn't know how to open up, and if he did. He still wouldn't.

Ettore stares back at you blankly, his eyes endlessly scrolling the length of your form, yet never looking into your eyes.

It's carnal, the ache he feels inside at the sight of your soft skin. His fingers twitching around the arm of the chair. He wants to touch you. He needs to touch you.

"Why don't we start with your childhood. Your file says your mother died when you were young and you were left with your father, who may have had a bit of a drinking problem." If your words were affecting Ettore, you would never know by looking at him.

His eyes continued to ravish you from your neck to your knees. His heart pounding in his ears. What he needs is right there in front of him, yet just out of reach. He once again fights subtly against his restraints. The inability to move suffocating and controlling his every thought.

"Losing your mother so young, coupled with the nature of your crimes. It's my belief that you are in need of a gentle touch." Ettore finally lifts his eyes to meet yours, and you smile back at him.

Touch? His favorite word. Not care, support, or love, as all the other therapists have deamed. No. You used the word touch, the simple phrase having the desired effect.

You stand from your chair and step toward him slowly, his eyes darting down to your legs watching each step.

"Something ....... soft. " You walk up to the side of Ettore's chair and gently graze his cheek with your finger. You can see his arms and wrists fighting against his restraints, and you chuckle.

Ettore's eyes darken at the sound. How lucky you are that he is strapped down to this chair. If he were not, chuckles would not be the sound to come from that pretty little throat.

"Oh, no need to worry." You lean down and bring your mouth right up next to his ear and whisper, "I'll be gentle."

"I won't be." He growls in response, his patience waning. This challenge to his dominance is not something he likes or is willing to accept.

From this angle, you couldn't see his face only the back of his neck where the hairs stood on end, his breathing controlled and heavy.

"You will." You coo in his ear.

You place your hands on the back of the chair, one over each of his shoulders, and bring your mouth close to the nape of his neck. Just gently breathing, letting him feel the ghost of a touch across his skin.

"I'll teach you"

You enjoy watching his response. The tightening of his shoulders the flex in his bicep as he pulls and pulls against his restraints with no hope of getting loose.

"You need some tenderness. That's all. " You walk back around to the front of his chair, Ettore looks up at you, rage clearly written across his face.

A caged animal. Face to face with his prey and unable to act upon his most primal desires.

You hike your pencil skirt up to your mid thighs, and Ettore's eyes instantly drop. The look of anger quickly replaced with hunger, his arms again pulling against his restraints.

"Tsk tsk." You gently rub at his wrists. "Stop that silly boy, you're going to hurt yourself."

His eyes flit about your body wildly, and you smile before placing yourself in his lap, your legs straddling either side of his hips.

Automatically, Ettore thrusts his hips up toward you. "No," you gently scold and hold him down by the hips. "Gentle"

Ettore closes his eyes and breathes deep. A predatory grumble rattling in his chest.

"Now, sweet boy." You bring your cheek up to his, the stubble on his face a little coarse against your skin and the tightness in his jaw apparent.

"Relax," You roll your hips against him slowly, his thin prison pants giving away his excitement.

Ettore again desperately pulls against his restraints. You can't have the power here. He can't let you have the power here.

"Stop," you say, voice firm. You bring your hand up to his chin and gently message it with your thumb. You gently tug on his bottom lip before leaning in and placing a soft kiss against his lips. He doesn't reciprocate. The feeling so foreign, so strange.

"Doesn't that feel nice, sweet boy?"You move your hands so that you are cradling his strong jaw. Holding his face so he has no choice but to look at you.

"Just what the doctor ordered, hmm?" You bring your lips down to him again. Slowly pushing your tongue into his mouth. Not aggressive, not passionate.

You move your tongue in his mouth, and you feel him start to kiss back, aggressively at first, but you keep your pace steady and soft.

You bring your hands to the back of his head, tugging briefly on the hair there. You control his movement this way. Too aggressive, you tug him back.

You roll your hips against him again, falling into a steady rhythm.

With his head pulled back and his neck craned completely powerless as you grind yourself against him, he whimpers.

"What was that sweet boy?" You grind yourself harder against his erection and he whimpers louder.

"Tell me" you demand as you again increase the speed and pressure of your movements.

"Please." He finally croaks out, followed by another whimper. "God please"

"Oh, poor thing." You keep his head pulled back and lick a stripe up his neck. "Am I teasing you?"

Ettore groans, and you slightly lift yourself from his lap.

"I don't want to drive you mad." You release his hair, and he looks at you, panic in his eyes.

"No, wait," Ettore tries to reach for you but is trapped by those damn restraints.

"Oh. Don't worry, sweet boy. " You grab his cheeks and squeeze them briefly. "We aren't done"

You reach beneath you and shimmy his pants down just enough to free his cock. His mouth opens slightly at the feeling his eyes glazing over.

"Slow and gentle." You nuzzle your nose to him as he holds his breath.

He looks so desperate. So pathetic. It's so satisfying.

You press the head of his cock to your entrance and sink down just enough so the tip breeches your walls and nothing else.

Ettore instinctually bucks his hips once before you again grab him and hold him in place.

"Tsk tsk," you scold him as you hold him down and slide up and down over just the tip of his throbbing cock.

His body starts shaking so harshly that it's nearly convulsing. It takes your full strength to hold him in place, his hips desperate to move.

"Fuck fuck fuck" He whimpers loudly. "I need it. More. Fuck more!"

"More?" You sink down just a smidge further and watch as Ettore's head lulled, and his eyes started to roll back.

"Ahh!" He clenches his jaw and moves his hips subtly, getting himself just a tiny bit further.

You slide down further, now halfway down his shaft.

"Kiss me nice and gentle like I taught ya" He lifts his head and looks at you with confusion.

"Not moving another inch till ya do," Ettore quickly brings his face to yours. He tentatively kisses you with slow unsure movements.

As the kiss continues, you slide slowly down the rest of his shaft until your ass rests on his thighs and he moans into your mouth.

You smirk, you have an apex predator beneath you, whimpering, moaning, and begging for relief.

"See? So gentle you are. " You softly blow into his ear as you roll your hips slowly.

Ettore gasps at the sensation, his entire body vibrating. He's been in this prison for two years already, with no one but his hand to keep him company.

The pressure builds up in the base of his spine quickly, but he fights the urge to buck his hips, knowing you would stop if he did.

"You wanna cum sweet boy?" He nods a pained expression on his face.

You lean back in and kiss him again, this time with more urgency as you bring your fingers to your clit. The perfect mixture of his soft kisses, your nimble fingers, and his thick cock scraping against your walls bring you over the edge quickly.

As your cunt pulses around him you grip his hair again exposing his neck to you.

"Cum sweet boy. Right now, " He has no choice but to comply he bucks his hips twice and then spills himself inside of you, his mouth wide open and eyes closed.

You kiss him once more, but he is spent, mouth just hanging open lazily. You hop off of him and fix his pants as he smiles up at you, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

You fix yourself and, without another word, to him open your office door telling the guards to take him back to his cell.

On his way out the door, he keeps his eyes on you, tripping over his shackles and being caught by a guard.

You pay him no mind and quickly close the door behind him and sit down at your desk.

You fill out the sheet you were given approving him for the mission, and of course, suggest a few more therapy sessions before he goes.

Part 2

To be added to taglists please click Here

#ewan mitchell verse #ettore x reader #ettore high life #ettore smut #ettore #ettore imagine #ewan nation #ewan mitchell fanfic #ewanverse #ewan mitchell #jess fics #my red flag bf

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gyuwoncheol · 1 year ago

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Vantage Point | Meet the Characters & Series Masterlist

Status: Begins tomorrow (January 20)!

Pair: Mingyu × f.reader

Summary: Pulling off the "No Strings Attached" arrangement with his best-friend-turned-best-friend-with-benefits was easy, but when a new condition is added onto the mix, Mingyu didn't realise just how much he held onto you when you finally let go.

Genre: College au. BFFs to FWB trope. Fluff, Humor, Angst, Smut [chapters with smut will be indicated and will contain the necessary warnings]

Author’s Note: Please take time to read this before starting the series ☺️

Hello, my darlings! Finally getting round to posting this after missing the commited date last time due to covid. But welcome!!! 🥳 This is the first story to my Snap Shoot universe! Before you get into it, let me just point a few things. This is the first time I'm ever creating a universe with interwoven stories, and while I've done SMAUs before, this is the first one I've done for SVT and the first time I'm also this adventurous about it. It's definitely very different from what I post on here but I'm having lots of fun putting it together. I know it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, this is very much a work of fiction. This is an AU. While Korea may be the assumed setting for this series, it is not explicitly defined. I'm also trying to avoid using lots of Korean cultural references (maybe except for food) such as use of honorifics like "hyung". While many of my other works refrain from over-describing oc's physical features, you may find that in this series (and universe), oc's features will inevitably be defined. You'll find that the visuals of the characters and the aesthetic of the photos/social media posts will be Korean/ Asian. It's a SMAU, so i'll have to place photos and these photos must maintain consistent. I absolutely do not mean any ill intention of being non-inclusive (I don't even fit the same aesthetic as oc).

Again, it's a work of fiction, while I want you to relate to oc, kindly also allow me breathing space to build the character. If you feel uncomfortable at any point in the series, you are very much welcome to stop/unfollow. As mentioned, this is a SMAU, but it contains several chapters which are purely written narrations. All edits (texts, social media posts, etc.) were done by me, however some photos (esp those of Y/N) are from the web, if they are yours, please let me know so that I may credit you or remove the photo. The texts are all done on light mode. Deal with it. This follows a FWB trope, expect lots of smut and suggestive content— specific smut warnings will be available in chapters where they are present, along with other necessary warnings. This series will have lots of fluff and lots of crackhead nonsense humor. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Biggest shoutout to my dearest friend @wongyuseokie who has been nothing but supportive through all of this and through all my dramatic Mingy-induced meltdowns. I love you more than you’ll ever know ♥️

Meet the Characters

Mingyu: Sophomore, studying Film & Photography, yn/Camie's best friend since childhood

Yn: Sophomore, studying Film & Photography with Mingyu, Mingyu's best friend since childhood. Nicknamed "Camie" by her group of friends for her highly concerning camera collection/obsession.

Seokmin: Sophomore, studying Film & Photography, same friend group as mingyu and yn, Mingyu & Wonwoo's housemate

Soonyoung: technically a year older than the 3, but currently a Sophomore with Gyu, Cam and Seokmin after shifting into their major

Wonwoo: Junior, studying Film & Photography as well, Mingyu's guy best friend and housemate in The Man Cave, a brotherly figure to OC, Soonyoung's former classmate in highschool

The Man Cave: shared house near their university where Mingyu, Wonwoo and Seokmin live, and Soonyoung often crashes.

✨Other characters/members will come as the series progresses.

Series Masterlist

To be populated as each chapter is posted. There is no posting schedule. Chapters will just get uploaded as they come.

Teaser

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five 🔞

Chapter Six 🔞

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Tag List!

@strawberryya @idyllic-ghost @septemberskies @ladyblablabla

If you want to be tagged as each chapter comes out, do send me an ask or reply to this post so I could include you in the tag list 😊

#paula writes ✨#Vantage Point #Snap Shoot Universe #svthub #mingyu smau #mingyu fic #mingyu x oc #mingyu smut #mingyu fluff #svt smau #svt fic

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asheepinfrance · 20 days ago

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uh oh.uh oh guys. guys she's doing that thing again. guys she's doing that thing where she talks about art. ruh roh raggy. anyway this is like barely an art thing but he's just so ... sigh. he's the sweetest (in my brain and no one else's). also thank you to @popcorntales for choosing who to write for for the day. anyways hope you enjoy <33

You really, really wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Not right now. It makes it hard to think, and that’s just about the most important thing you could be doing. Or, maybe, it’s a blessing in disguise. A little sign from the universe not to let yourself think yourself into a hole. He looks at you with such fucking awe and it’s sickening. He’s still waiting on your reply, which you cannot seem to formulate. It’s not like you can’t say what you’re thinking, it’s that you’re thinking nothing. Your head is static, the soft, empty space tickling against the insides of your skull.

“What?”

He chuckles, because it’s apparently very funny. All you feel is mortified. He’s still holding tightly onto both of your hands, which you’re sure are dampening his with newly formed moisture, knees bumping yours when he readjusts himself slightly on that dark brown armchair. He absolutely insists on keeping it, even though it’s an eyesore and doesn’t even remotely fit with the rest of the living room’s decor.

“I said I wanna have a baby. With you.” He says it so sweetly, like he’s trying to soften the words up so that when they come down, the idea sounds like the best one you’ve ever heard. It’s not intentional, really, because he just tends to talk to you like you’re going to scurry off if he raises his voice above a murmur. In this instance, he’d be right.

It’s not that you don’t want kids. It’s that you aren’t made for them. Of course, it’s entirely natural to question your own ability to parent a kid, it’s not like people get much experience until they’ve finally had one of their own. But they take that risk. They stare over the edge of that cliff of creating a new person to add to the ever-growing population, a person who they hope to raise to be lovely, and dive head-first despite their fears. You, however, are perpetually staring. And what stares back isn’t the face of a child with Art’s smile and your eyes. It’s the eyes of your mother.

“Art, I don’t-” You don’t have to finish the sentence. He knows. He tries to look calm about it, because he knows it’s a two-person thing, and he can’t be the only one to want it. But god, does he want it, and he thinks he might just cry. “I can’t do that to a kid.” He can’t understand that for a second. Do what, exactly? Be their mother? You could. You can. He’s seen you with his younger cousins at family gatherings, laying flat on your stomach while they’re sat criss-cross on the floor, rolling toy cars over the carpet. He’s seen you help little girls who get separated from their parents at the mall, wiping away their miniature tears with a gentle thumb and a gentler smile. You’ve got so much love to give he’s convinced you are love. And what a privilege it’d be to have his child experience that the way he does.

What is a mother, really? Is it just the woman who has you? Or is it something more complex? Is it the woman whose eyes are in yours? The woman that everyone insists you have the humor of, even if you never laugh at the same jokes? The woman you look at old photos of and thank for putting aside that previously seen youth for your creation? You would qualify your mother as your mother, of course, but not your mom. Never mom. Moms are loving. Moms brush your hair when your fingers are too little to wrap around a brush. Moms put bandaids on scraped knees. Mothers just watch over you when they must. You cannot be someone’s mother. You cannot risk making a child so miserable that they walk into adulthood with just a mother.

But then again, there’s Art. Art who sees the tears falling down your cheeks before you feel them. Art who’s wiping them away. Art who’s got the most beautiful eyes and you kick yourself for having just complained about them. Art who insists that you are the sweetest woman to ever grace his presence, if not everyone’s presence. Art who’s wrapping you into a hug that you’ve needed since you were five and your mother said you were too old for them.

Maybe you could do it. Not for him, not for you, but for the collective us you’ve made. After all, if Art Donaldson says you can do something, than you can. You could chalk it up to his being incredibly biased in your favor, of course, but why bother? Art is smarter than that. Art sees the world with clearer vision than most, right past their skin and into their brains. Into the meaning behind a smile, the twitch of an eye, the melting of a person against another. He’s smart enough to know that you are love, even if only he can see it. And he’s smart enough to make you agree with him, too. You’ll finish this conversation later, even if you’ve both decided on the answer. Just this is more than good for now.

#art donaldson fic #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #this is nawt projecting what #nuh uh no way #its crazy you'd even think that #challengers fic #challengers #vaguely shitty mom warning

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cinnamonest · 9 months ago

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With this whole 'rape fantasies are a result of misogyny as they allow women a guilt free sexuality cos they have no autonomy'

Surely that means your writing and fantasies are contributing to misogyny? Adding to it and normalising it?

Like isnt the answer to write and encourage fantasies of empowerment? Not abuse and rape?

Just seems crazy to me like 'we do this because of misogyny. And we'll keep doing it'

Obviously some behaviour come from misogyny and exist to combat it. This... really doesn't

I just don't think it's a feminist win when your writing is indistinguishable from that of a misogynistic man's.

This isnt an attack on you it just really seems like common sense that if something exists because of misogyny the last thing we should do is feed into those ideas

(I assume this is coming from this post, so I might reference that a bit here)

No worries, I fully understand how this can come across negative to those who do not have the same experiences and I appreciate you approaching the matter in a non-attacking way with genuine desire to have dialogue on the subject. I'll do my best to address these points individually.

>Surely that means your writing and fantasies are contributing to misogyny? Adding to it and normalising it?

In the past few years fandom culture has become a bit obsessed with the idea of "normalization" to the point that the definition of the term has been a bit skewed, which creates issues with these discussions.

There is no concept of which existence of content containing it alone constitutes normalization, by the actual definition of the word. Normalization is the process by which it is distributed and way in which it is presented, and intent of its creation.

Normalization via fiction is a process in which a creator, generally intentionally, creates content that presents a concept as, well, normal. That is, not reprehensible or problematic to replicate, and presents this to a population with the intent of them accepting the idea as something acceptable in reality. Generally it also necessitates that the creator will try to ensure the media is viewed by mainstream general audiences who would not normally seek the content out, since the purpose of normalization is to make an idea acceptable amongst a population.

That is the opposite of what I am doing, which is creating a private space filled with warnings. I am going out of my way to ensure that people who do not want to see this content, have the foreknowledge to opt to avoid it.

By definition, if you’re creating content and ensuring that it is heavily warned, and marketing it as such that only a niche group who likes such content seeks it out, that’s not normalization by any reasonable metric.

>Like isnt the answer to write and encourage fantasies of empowerment? Not abuse and rape?

For some people, I’m sure that would help them, and in that case, that is a great solution for them.

But people are different, and certain things that help some, don’t help others. The types of fantasies that would probably be called “empowering,” personally do nothing for me but make me uncomfortable, in the same way that the sort of content I write makes some people uncomfortable. It does not have the same positive effects on my mental health that this form of content does.

>Obviously some behaviour come from misogyny and exist to combat it. This... really doesn't

That's fair — but it doesn't have to.

It is not intended to directly combat misogyny in any way, there are other ways to do that, and this does not have to be one. It's primary purpose is catharsis and the ways in which it benefits me and, as is my hope, those who choose to consume it.

>I just don't think it's a feminist win when your writing is indistinguishable from that of a misogynistic man's.

Again, I never had any intention for it to be a "win" — misogyny is the reason for why I have these desires, but in making what I make, my purpose is to provide catharsis for myself and others.

But also, I would heavily contest that it is indistinguishable from male fantasies. As someone who has seen actual men's misogynist fetishization fantasies, they are very different.

Female disposability and the complete worthlessness of women’s very being — that is, women being non-human objects that are interchangeable, and made to be used temporarily and replaced — is the core defining characteristic of male fantasy/sexuality. Male fantasies almost always involve multiple women to one man, largely because he does not have any actual bond with women, they are items to be collected, no interpersonal relationship actually exists.

The lack of interpersonal connection and lack of personableness itself is fetishized by men, what men get off to is the power they feel from completely disregarding the woman as a person in any way. The very act of the woman being thrown away after being used is fetishized.

In male fantasy, there is no interpersonal connection or affection of any kind, whereas that is one of the defining themes of content like mine.

Tl;dr — while misogyny impacts all women, the severity and form of it in different upbringings, environments and cultures can create misunderstandings and strong reactions when different people react so differently to the same content and thus form misconceptions about each other's perceptions and intentions, but I believe both sides of this argument are usually coming from a place of good intent.

While I fully understand how it would be difficult for those who do not have the same experience to grasp mine, I just ask for mutual understanding that some forms of content help some people, in the same way entirely different forms of content help other people.

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punkypiscesell-writes · 28 days ago

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when it comes without a warning - ch. 1

chapter 1 - previous chapter

Javier Peña x plus size f! reader

summary: You meet a stranger at a New Years Eve party, not knowing where that chance encounter might lead.

warnings (updated after each chapter): fake dating AU, strangers to lovers, romcom, 90’s vibes, angst, small town dynamics, slow burn, pining, insecurities, drinking, smoking, food related descriptions, family mentions, mention of pregnancy, cynicism about love. The picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read. If you see any broken Spanish, please let me know!!

word count: 9.4k

notes: Here we go, chapter 1! I hope you enjoy it <3 I will be updating this story each month, the final chapter coming out in July. The next update will be on Valentine’s Day.

dividers by cafekitsune

When you were a child, you watched a movie every Saturday evening with your mom. They made you think your life would follow a specific path. Go to school, graduate, you’d find a boyfriend who you’d someday marry and have kids with.

You’d buy a house somewhere quiet with a big garden and a picket fence. The kids would grow up and you’d watch them become their own people while knowing you’d always have your first love with you. You’d look at pictures that would span years until those would turn into decades, with the same people in them getting greyer and wrinkles all over their faces. It would be perfect.

What you didn’t understand back then, was how life doesn’t usually go like in those picture perfect stories. Rarely it’s wrapped neatly with shiny paper and finished off with a flawless bow.

You watched your friends find their first loves while you became a wallflower. You didn’t know what to do in life while others were making decisions about their futures. One by one your old friends moved away to chase their dreams, forgetting the people and memories back home. With the need to get out of the town where you grew up in, like your friends had, you realized you could turn your hobby into a job.

Chasing a dream makes people optimistic and the possibility of having your own story unfold like in one of those movies you used to watch with your mom seemed possible again. You kept your eyes open, even dared to step out of your wallflower persona, full of hope and enthusiasm. When your story still kept you waiting, you understood how chasing love doesn’t always mean chasing romantic love.

In the glimmer of a big city, you found new friends. Abigail, Eileen and Mary were actually interested in talking with you and getting to know who you are outside of being just someone’s friend. They already knew each other having grown up in the same town, but you fit in with them like the last pea in a pod.

“What’s holding you back, you can move anywhere!” Mary drunkenly encouraged on the night of your graduation, while the humidity of Austin bathed you in sweat.

“Yeah, you can start a bakery anywhere!” Abigail offered you her glass to pour more tequila into. How she said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, made you laugh, and you thought she was joking until you realized she wasn’t. She was far from it.

“And then what? Just rot in some dying town until the end of my days?”

The seed was already planted though. They had a point. You could start a bakery anywhere if you wanted to and you could find help with the business side of things, especially in the beginning.

When you sobered up and you were sitting on an uncomfortable bar stool leaning your elbows against the kitchen island in your small, hole in the wall kitchen. You started to plan it. The more you planned, the more convinced you were you could make it work.

The movies you watched while growing up rarely had people move into a small town with a population of only a few thousand when they could move into a big city and keep those big dreams alive.

You bought a small space for your bakery from a building that used to have a restaurant. Mrs. Sánchez has a flower shop next door, and she has always been supportive of you, even when for a while you were the “new girl” in town. The whispers around you and your business were excessive, but eventually the whispering turned into actual conversations with you, rather than about you.

You had your best friends being part of their family businesses. Your bakery started to bloom. You were in control of the strings in your hands and all the puzzle pieces were clearly laid out, all of them locking into place.

“We want you to clear your schedules next July,” Noah begins with his soft voice, his calmness the complete opposite to Abigail who is hanging from his arm.

“We’re getting married y’all!” Abigail yells and pulls her hand from her fiancé, flashing a big, shiny ring for the guests to see. Your face drops as an excited shock washes through the room of Noah’s family’s luxurious farmhouse that they’ve had since forever. The high ceilings echo the eruption of cheering and clapping with the sound of glasses tinkling together in toast. You raise yours and smile, your feet rooted against the floor.

Your best friends. You look at them fawning over the ring, the smiling couple surrounded by their closest friends.

“Finally, everyone knows!”

“Now we don’t have to hide it any longer!” Eileen and Mary laugh. Your smile doesn’t falter, it doesn’t even flinch. But it’s like a cold shower that runs down from the back of your neck to the bottom of your spine. Abigail’s eyes flash to you after the women have said the words out loud.

You used to be a part of that group of best friends. In the last couple of years they’ve turned into people you sometimes hang out with. The frequent dinners and game nights at each other’s places first turned into occasions that happened once a month, then into once every six months when schedules and life got in the way.

First it was Mary, who announced she had reconnected with her high school sweetheart. Then it was Eileen who found her boyfriend through Mary’s boyfriend. For a while it was just you and Abigail, the two of you against the world. You were bridesmaids to Mary, then to Eileen, then Mary got pregnant and Eileen right after her. You and Abigail held the fort as the only single women in your group.

And then suddenly it was only you. Their lives are different now, as is yours. You’re not in your early twenties anymore, naively finding your way in this world. Sometimes you wonder if you’ve chosen the right place for you, but you’ve also understood that you might not want the future with the house and a picket fence, a husband and kids and the pictures on a mantelpiece. Your best friends want that while you’ve chosen another path.

Then, before you can delve too deep into other existential questions, you remember a cake order that has to be filled next week or how you have to make one more batch of the new malted wheat sourdough bread because your customers are emptying your shelves before 8 am.

“So, what do you think?” Abigail catches up to you after you’ve congratulated the pair. She reaches her left hand towards you and wiggles her hand.

You hold her fingers and twist them gently. The rock sparkles in the champagne hued light of the farmhouse. “It’s beautiful,” you smile.

“Noah chose it himself, with the help from my mom. I can’t believe he managed to do all that and I had no idea!” Abigail sighs and pulls her hand back to marvel at the jewel around her ring finger.

You sip from your drink, the alcohol almost a welcomed friend in the full house. The atmosphere is electric from the unexpected news. The music is turned even louder than it already was. The New Year is only a few hours away and you don’t see the party dying down anytime soon.

A little quiet wouldn’t do you any harm, especially as someone keeps bumping against your back, and pushes you to give them more room.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” Abigail pulls you to the side, somehow managing to find a corner that isn’t occupied.

“I’d love to ask you a favor.” You’ve always been impressed by her ability to make her eyes so innocently big, pleading in a way that is caring and can make even the coldest person believe whatever she says is their own idea.

Abigail lifts her hands to your forearms and squeezes with a smile that reminds you of a child you saw at your shop yesterday after he had seen the experimental chocolate and peanut cupcakes you had made. After seeing his face, you might bring them back when you have an overstock of the ingredients, just to see that same kind of enthusiasm again.

“Remember that cake you baked for my 27th birthday?” Abigail asks. She doesn’t have to remind you. It was an elaborate white chocolate vanilla cake with raspberry compote filling. You topped it with handmade chocolate decorations that you created after work, the hours stretching closer to 20 spent in your bakery that day. Your back ached and you were stressed because you wanted the cake to be perfect. It was all worth it.

You nod. “I’d love it if you could make our wedding cake. We’ll of course pay, unless…” Abigail smiles with her lips tightly shut, the apples of her cheeks glowing.

“Unless you want me to give you a wedding cake as a wedding gift?” You fill in for her, the idea cracking your smile.

“Yes! Oh my God, it would be perfect! I’d be so incredibly lucky to have your creation at our wedding. It would be so special!” She grabs at you and pulls you into a tight hug that crackles against your tight shoulder where the muscle has been burning for the past week.

“I think we could make it work.” You swallow, defeated by your inability to say no to Abigail. One wedding cake. It’ll only be one wedding cake, among the other wedding cake orders that flow in during the busiest season of people tying the knot.

“I also have one other thing in mind.” You immediately prepare mentally for whatever she’s going to ask from you next.

“At my wedding, I’d love for you to bring a plus one.” Your mind goes blank.

“What?”

“The wedding is still six months away, so you have plenty of time. I just don’t want to see you alone there!” Abigail laughs and rubs at your arms. It has been a while since you wore anything else than your comfy clothes at home or your work uniform that consists of soft cotton T-shirts all in creamy white, tucked in your jeans and under an apron. Your friend running her hands up and down against the fabric on your arms, the blouse is suddenly coarse and too hot.

“I don’t have time for dating,” you remind her.

“You never have time for dating! I think that’s not true, you’re just afraid of finding someone and falling in love. That’s okay,” Abigail’s tone is encouraging, but her words sting. She’s not wrong. Of course you’re scared, you’ve never really dated anyone. The only dates you’ve been to were either pity dates set up by your high school friends or a few failed first meetings with guys who had been your customers at the bakery and who now only visit when they have to get something special for their girlfriends and wives.

“Fear not, you’re meeting someone tonight,” your friend’s eyes glimmer mischievously.

“What?” You hiss immediately.

“Noah has a friend who’s single. We think you’ll like him a lot.” Each of Abigail’s words is emphasized by a nod of her head or a poor attempt at a wink.

“We?”

“Eileen, me and Mary of course, silly,” she whacks at your arm playfully. Her cheeks blush while your stomach is heavy with dread.

“I really don’t think it’s a great idea. Also, I don’t need a date, it’s a wedding, it’ll be fun no matter if I have a date or not.”

“Bullsh–,” Abigail shushes herself and makes sure no one heard her. Her eyes soften to the level of pity. “It’s okay for you to find someone special, we all have. You’ll love it when someone takes care of you and pampers you and you won’t have to be alone anymore. You want to get married, you want a family! You’ve said it yourself, remember?” She laughs and tilts her head.

“Yeah!” You hope she doesn’t hear the doubt in your voice.

“We’re making sure you’re not going to end up alone.”

“What do you have in mind then?” Abigail turns immediately from you and leaves you standing next to the huge Christmas tree still fully decked and deeply green. You see her long, blonde hair swinging as she makes her way through the crowd. The curls at the ends are perfect. You smile at an older couple and wish them a happy New Near under your breath as they pass you by, a suspicious look in their eye while you try to keep track of Abigail.

You don’t have to wait for long. You see her first, then a tall man in a crisp white button down shirt behind her. He eyes you up and down immediately, his eyes blue and hard. You can’t read the look he’s giving you, but it’s not pleasant. He makes you nervous.

“Here’s John,” Abigail announces with a smile, and a hand that she waves down from his shoulder to midriff. You’re cornered between Abigail, John and the Christmas tree. The man nods his head and keeps his eyes locked on you while you notice the drink in his hand, a glass too gentle to be held in a death grip like his.

“Noah always calls him Johnny,” She proudly pats him on the shoulder and pushes John closer to you. The wall bumps against your back.

“He doesn’t,” John argues. His face twists in confusion, while his words are drowned by Abigail’s enthusiasm.

“Noah always tells good stories about John, how they’ve known for years, and how reliable he is. And you’re both into…” Abigail smiles, her eyes a little empty. She looks at you and massages John’s shoulder with her bejeweled hand. The engagement ring sparkles in the soft lighting of the family home. “You’re both into business! You’re entrepreneurs! I think you might have interesting conversations in the horizon,” Abigail chirps and finishes the last note with a smile that reveals her perfectly white teeth. Something catches her attention. Her eyes get larger, and her cheeks burn bright red. Noah stands close by with some of his friends, deep in conversation.

“Oh, excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” she points somewhere towards the crowd of people and disappears into it with a wave of her hand, in the opposite direction from Noah.

You stand awkwardly next to just as awkward John. He smells like aftershave from 30 years ago. It’s not completely unpleasant, only something you can imagine he got as a regifted present on Christmas. It’s warm, a little spicy, and a little too musty. He might like it, or then he wore it to keep unpleasant people away. You sip at your drink and try to take a step back without John noticing. The wall is in your way.

“We should sit down,” he tells you. You stare at his back when he leaves you standing alone, and only turns around to check if you’re following when he has found a couch end for you both to sit on.

He sits on the sofa with his legs spread wide. His face is smug, borderline conceited, when you make space for yourself next to him. How did Abigail, Mary and Eileen ever think you’d be into this guy? You try to relax, sip on your drink and smile at John. He smiles back. Maybe he’s not as bad as you’re making him out to be in your head. You don’t know him. Maybe your friends have a valid reason to believe you two could hit it off.

John pushes his leg against yours, seeking physical contact. You pull back from him immediately and lock your inner thighs together to keep yourself as small as you can. Your jeans aren’t tight but the way you’re sitting makes them dig into your skin.

“So…” John begins and drinks from his glass.

“So…” You repeat awkwardly, waiting for his next move.

“You want to hear how much money I make? I know women like to hear that. You don’t seem like an exception.” Your smile tightens, it’s a mask. The contents of your glass would be perfect on this guy, maybe he’s even begging for it.

“Like Abigail said, I’m an entrepreneur…” he talks in a monotone voice, reading off an invisible script. You don’t really even care if the mask on your face slips, not when John drones on and on about his savings, his investments and how he wants a stay-at-home wife to take care of the kids and home while he’s working.

“My business will become massive in the next ten years. Yes, I plan ten years in advance. I recommend it to everyone who…” you drown John’s voice into the different voices around you. He’s like the perfect candidate for people watching.

Abigail and Noah’s parents are standing in one corner of the room, with lighthearted looks on their faces. Noah’s brother is leaning against a wall, looking bored as ever as he snacks on something from the snack table. Mary and Eileen are swaying to the music, pointing out different people from the party goers.

Abigail is with a man who you don’t know. She has her hand on his bicep, then she lifts it to his shoulder. Up and down she moves it, while trying to step closer to him. The man in a dark blue button up, his hair combed to the back with a few fly aways sticking out on his temple, a well-groomed mustache moves over his top lip, knows when to take a step back and shake her hand off him without seeming rude. Is she drunk? Abigail straightens the man’s collar. Her hand lingers on it, her fingertips touch his neck before she pulls her hand back.

You’ve seen the man before. You’ve caught him staring at the pastries and bread in the bakery window a few times but he hasn’t come in.

“… You do for work?” The question is already fading. John’s tone is cool, almost as uninterested as you are. The distant look in his eyes isn’t helping to get you more invested in his monologue.

“I have my own business.” You answer, even to you in a too formal tone.

“Oh, what kind?” John leans forward, a spark of interest on his face.

“I have a bakery downtown.”

“Ah.” John scratches the back of his neck and shakes his head. “That’s a risky business endeavor. Have you thought about something else when this one bites the dust?”

You grind your teeth together behind the smile that you try to keep even remotely kind looking. You have to get out of here. You spot Abigail mingling with the guests, now with Mary and Eileen, who all turn towards you. Abigail draws a heart in the air with her index fingers and points to John. Miserably you turn back to him, who is still talking about different options for you.

“You could sell your business, cut your losses before they’re too overwhelming for you to handle.” Mary’s thumbs up don’t cover the murderous snarl you give them, your mouth twisted when you shake your head “no”. They’re back on the move, finding a quieter spot while laughing. You can hear it over the steady buzzing of conversations.

John has moved on from your imaginary bankruptcy to talking about his newest investments.

“Who handles them for you”

“Hmm?”

“Your investments, who handles them for you?”

“I haven’t really looked into it.” The bottom off your glass stares back at you, the rest of the alcohol now going down your throat.

“You should! Having a fickle business like yours isn’t going to keep you afloat for too long. Especially in a place like this. I could give you some recommendations on how to maximize your profits.” Your skin crawls. How satisfying it would be to yell at this man to shut the fuck up.

You don’t. You see the people around you, your customers. They have their usual orders, some have something else on a specific day, and some stick to the same baked goods day after day. You know them by name. You remember the stories they’ve told you, how something you made was shared with a loved one and new memories were made. John doesn’t seem like a person who would understand the value of memories since they’re not monetary.

Your friends clearly don’t have any idea what kind of a man you’d want to be with. To be fair, neither do you. But John? Setting you up with someone who is as interesting as the worn-out, uncared-for leather of his shoes, at least you can say who isn’t your type.

Sitting next to him, his knee still bumping against you, making your skin itch, even when you try to keep distance to him, listening to him ramble on about investing and profits, your friends would be bored out of their minds in your place as well. Maybe they haven’t spoken with John. Maybe they haven’t even met him before. Your fingers find your gold chain against your chest. Its dainty links run between your thumb and forefinger, the familiar trail soothing you.

“If you’re free tomorrow, I could give you some tips on finding–“

“Look, John,” you cut him off with the drop of your necklace back against your skin. “You’re… clearly knowledgeable about money, and someone might be very interested in hearing about all of this. But that’s not me.”

“What are you saying then?” He’s genuinely surprised.

“I don’t think we should explore anything further.” You let him down gently and give him an apologetic look.

“Okay,” he tilts his head with deep creases across his forehead. “I’m a bit surprised. There’s not many, if any, people paying any attention on you here. I’m a catch looking for someone to carry his children who will become the next president or congressman some day and you’re just a bakery keeper who clearly has let herself go. But whatever, I’ll respect your honesty.” He says it all with a smile on his face, the insult somehow meant to sound like a compliment. His brows rise and fall after every other word, like they’re part of the conversation too. You stare at him, your mind blank, your mouth with a life of its own.

“What a small man,” you say to him and stand up with a laugh. He says something more, but you don’t stay to listen. There’s nothing more you’d want in this moment than get away from this man and to refill your glass with the punch served here.

It splashes against the edges of your glass when you make your way to the balcony. You want to hide from the people inside the party. From John. He can think whatever he wants, you’re not fazed by his rudeness, by anyone’s rudeness for that matter. It doesn’t mean what he said didn’t hurt you.

The dusky balcony is the place to be, away from the golden lights, the music and people who apparently don’t even see you. An unreasonable fear rises from the back of your mind with an image of John chasing after you onto the balcony, telling you how great he is and how generous he is for even agreeing on a blind date with you. You’d need to understand how this night wouldn’t change his life, but it would still change yours.

There’s a lonely chair behind the corner, away from direct eyeline of the celebrations. There’s barely any light here, only a small lantern next to a flower arrangement on a small table next to the chair. You sit down and relax. The drink feels good, comforting, on your over stimulated nerves. Muffled music and people talking, laughing, puts a rift between you and whatever is happening inside.

There haven’t been many moments when you are truly alone and when you are, you usually invite it with open arms. What follows that alone time is usually a guest you rarely want to invite along. Being alone is almost easy, being lonely always chips away at your heart. At the belief that maybe there’s someone out there somewhere for you as well.

You’ve accomplished so much in the last few years. You can be proud of so many things you’ve made happen by yourself. At the same time, you have to admit that it has all happened because you’ve been ready to sacrifice something.

You go with the flow, but you’re looking in at your own life rather than living it. You’re waiting for something without knowing what that could be. Apathy follows the gentle buzz of the alcohol in your system. You breathe deep against the coolness of the night. At least your skin isn’t pouring sweat while wondering which turn you forgot to take at some point in life to find a missing, nameless puzzle piece.

A clink and a soft scratch of glass. You’re ready to tell John to leave you alone. Instead, your eyes meet the deepest of ambers, sitting on the other side of the little table next to you where the lantern and flowers have been arranged. Someone laughs inside in a way that reminds you of a breathless donkey.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry,” he says while pushing his glass further from the edge of the table, his voice deep, soft like a cloud.

“I didn’t know someone was here.” You’re ready to stand up, find another hiding place and leave this man alone.

“I should’ve said something.” You nod at his words, unsure of what to do. Maybe he wants to be left alone…

“You know the couple?” He asks, cutting your plans to leave short.

“I’m friends with Abigail.” He smiles, acknowledges your words and presses his hand against his chest.

“I’m one of the groomsmen.” You smile a tentative smile back and hear the conversation between you two die down.

Even when you’re not talking, you find yourself glued to your seat. His presence is overwhelming. It draws you in, makes you nervous with curiosity. He’s looking out into the vast darkness facing the farmhouse, forcing the building to become a lighthouse in the quiet. Your left side, his side, is vibrating from his nearness. The little hairs on your arm stand up, reaching for him. There’s electricity in the air, zinging gently, a hum in your ear as you listen to it. Listen to him take a deep breath in and push it out with slow force.

He's the one Abigail spoke with earlier. The one with the mustache and dark blue button up. The one who you’ve seen stop in front of your bakery but never come in. The town gossip train would help you recognize who he is, but you’ve tuned that station off.

You hear about some things regardless, while some other things aren’t for your ears, you’ve decided. Maybe that decision would be different if you had grown up in a small town like this, your life filled with people knowing what is happening in other people’s lives.

“Do you mind?” His question is hushed. There’s a cigarette between his fingers, and a question in the quirk of his brow. You shake your head and watch him pull out a lighter. It flickers a golden glow against his face when he has the cigarette hanging between his lips. The embers light up and then go to rest when he takes a drag, the smoke in his lungs until he breathes it out slowly. The cloud hangs in the air and drifts towards you. You inhale the rich aroma mixed with burning sweetness.

“I’m quitting in the New Year,” he tilts his head towards you, his eyes like black embers fixated on you through his lashes, in the lowlight of the candle and whatever light streams from the window.

“And this is your last one?” Your voice tunes itself to the quiet smokiness of his tone without you trying.

“Last, or second to last, I haven’t decided yet.” He rolls the butt against his fingers and flicks it. The burning flecks distinguish in the air. There’s loud cheering inside, rattling against the calm atmosphere outside.

The man looks inside, his focus on the noise as well. “Why aren’t you with them?”

“Abigail had set me up with Noah’s godawful friend, I had to take a break. Apparently, I need a plus one for the wedding.”

“With who?” Another drag from the cigarette.

“John?” He nods at your answer, and blows out the smoke to the opposite direction from you.

“They’re not close, not really even friends,” the man muses and turns his eyes on you.

Like an electric shock, you have to turn away from him and stare out towards the dark. This man is intense, demanding in a gentle way, his attention on you and only you. He’s not filling a silence with useless noise, but with observing. You run your necklace between your fingers again, twist it around one and draw a line against your skin over and over.

“I think she just wanted me to find someone.” Wish that someone wasn’t a self-important dickhead.

“The wedding isn’t in months.”

“My friends know I need time to think, and to take it slow.” The man inhales from his cigarette again and raises his brows in what could only mean silent disbelief.

“What?”

“Just wondering why Abigail wanted to set you up with an asshole like John, everyone knows he’s a player.” His words pour on you like ice. The more you repeat the last part in your head, the more convinced you are it wasn’t a serious setup, but a foolish prank.

Maybe listening to the grapevine would’ve been a good thing at least once. You take a big sip of your drink and let it burn in your throat as you swallow it down slowly.

There’s more cheering and clapping coming from inside, pulling you to look in at the party as well. Abigail is standing in front of the guests, Mary and Eileen next to her. Abigail has a pouch in her hand, where Eileen is digging something from.

“And why aren’t you apart of that?” The man’s low voice rumbles slowly against your eardrums.

Mary and Eileen open something in their hands, small pieces of paper, and show them to the other guests. People, mostly women, erupt into gleeful joy. Bridesmaid and maid of honor. “I don’t know.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Why aren’t you in there celebrating?” You turn the question to him with a determined smile tugging against your cheeks. You should’ve known you won’t be part of the wedding party, it shouldn’t be a surprise. It shouldn’t hurt. You cover it with the smile and hope it will ease the sting.

The man notices your attempt at directing the focus away from yourself. He takes one last drag and then stubs the cigarette against an ashtray on the floor. He blows the smoke from his lungs and manages to turn more towards you.

He spreads his legs in the rickety garden chair, but his point isn’t to establish dominance like John, but to slide down and relax in the too small chair in his snuggly fitting dark jeans.

“I had to take a break,” he repeats your answer back to you. From his mouth it’s vague, words that hold some other meaning that he’s debating sharing with you. “Abigail is busy playing matchmaker in there.” He tilts his head to lean his temple against his fingers, his elbow perfectly perched on the arm of the chair.

Him facing you, his chin lifted, the amber of his eyes flickering in the candlelight, draws heat to the surface of your skin. Your chest, the back of your neck, your cheeks. It’s annoying that this stranger can cause a reaction like it.

You want to defy it and push back. You face him as well, stare him right in the eyes. Lava splashes on you from your head to your toes. Your palms sweat and you swallow, still with a calm smile on your face. It has become your safety blanket that you can hide behind. No matter if it’s a true kindness or you’re killing someone with it, the smile is familiar to you now.

“She found someone for you as well?”

“She suggested it, but I turned her down.”

“And that’s why you had to take a break?”

“No, it was because of the other guests.” He looks away. A small victory you didn’t think you’d get. His answer stirs the win into confusion.

“Why?” A question you have no right to ask, out of your mouth before you even consider asking it.

He lifts his eyes back to you, the look in them warm but laced with a warning. It’s not your place to know. It’s a question too complicated in its simplicity, the answer even simpler, yet more complicated.

Two can play this game. Who hides better behind a mask? Who stays calm when someone tries to crawl under the other’s skin? He’s a master at it, catching you off guard, letting you think you had won him in the game he has perfected over the years.

You’re knocked off the number one spot and he figures it out immediately, when your smile cracks and you have to hide behind the excuse of taking a sip from your glass. There’s only a little left, one more mouthful and you’re done. You don’t want to see his victory, but you also don’t want to seem scared.

The look on his face isn’t victory. Instead, you’re met with a man who is deep in thought. His brows are lightly pulled together, defining the two small lines between them. His eyes are veiled, only a slight shine from the candle still reaching them. Yes, he won.

“Well, I think it’s my time to go.” He snaps out of his thoughts. The watch on his wrist flashes with the reflection of light hitting the glass face.

“It’s not even midnight yet.” He sounds almost alarmed.

You circle the drink in your glass a couple of times and see his glass on the table. You stand up, lean over the table and smile more to the empty glass than to him. “Happy New Year,” you say out loud and clink your glasses together. The sweet and sour taste is soothing and if you were alone, you probably would drink a few more to ring in the special evening.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell the man who follows your every move. He watches your hand as you place your glass next to his. He watches you wipe at the backside of your jeans to make sure there’s no dust on them from the chair. His eyes are burning against your back as you leave him sitting on the old, weathered chair.

Someone opens the door to the balcony and sticks their head out. Noah.

“Hey, have you seen Javi?” his voice is a little hoarse, joy on the corners of his eyes.

“Who?”

“Javier, dark shirt, jeans, brown hair…” the man’s presence appears on your back, lifting all the hairs of your skin again, heat coursing through you.

“I’m here,” his voice is like the stickiest and sweetest honey. It’s also much closer than you anticipated. You look over your shoulder. Javier is right behind you, his chest almost against your back. Noah’s face lights up, clearly pleased he found his friend.

“Is Abigail somewhere? I’m going to be heading out, I just want to congratulate her once more.” Javier stands still and manages to shake your voice only by being close to you.

“But it’s not even midnight yet, you should stay a bit longer,” Noah pleads, a relaxed slurring in his speech.

“I think I’m done for the night, just too tired to keep on partying. Thank you for inviting me and congratulations once more.” You hug Noah, genuinely happy for him. His tan skin glows with pure excitement.

“Can you believe her, leaving before midnight on New Year’s Eve.” Noah points his thumb at you, the jokey question directed at Javier.

“I know, almost like tonight doesn’t change anything.” His sarcasm makes you snort, and Noah fake a laugh.

“Abi is downstairs. Thanks for coming, and thank you for the gift,” he winks at you, the promised wedding cake now apparently confirmed.

Abigail entertains some older people, talking with them, sharing moments from how she met Noah and how he proposed. You barely get a word in and her answer to you leaving is: “Okay, I’ll call you.” before she’s back to talking with the people who have made her their center of attention.

Luckily Mrs. Sánchez is on her way out with her husband, taking you to town. You have one neighbor, living in the apartment on the other side of the corridor from you on top of the carpenter shop. You’ve met him plenty of times since you moved in six years ago, but you can’t for the life of you remember his name.

You’re already sleeping, groggy and confused when you hear your neighbor counting down from 10 with his guests, the cheering overwhelming even through your wall. Auld Lang Syne starts to play, and you lay in bed, staring at the blank surface of your ceiling. Not even the streetlights can light your apartment enough.

Maybe this year you’ll push yourself to enjoy your life rather than watch it pass you by. You make the resolution before you fall back asleep, barely remembering it the next morning.

Time ticks on even after midnight and the days after don’t create a limbo effect anymore when you go to work. It’s darkest when you wake up at 3.15 and head to the bakery thirty minutes later. The morning rises as you’re tipping proofed loafs from their baskets onto the floured wooden table for scoring. You’re trying a new leaf design, lashing the surface with a sharp blade that glides against the dough like butter.

When you’ve pushed the loaves into the oven you take the next trolley of bread from the walk-in fridge and under the zippered hoods you uncover what you made yesterday in preparation for today, buttery wheat loaves in their neat little rectangle pans. One trolley after the other you solve the walk-in fridge puzzle, pulling out hooded trolleys. Yellow hoods for sweet products, blue for savory.

“Morning!” Lili, your bakery assistant, greets as she walks in from the small locker room. Unlike you, who stayed up too late writing down ideas for Abigail and Noah’s wedding cake, her under eyes are bright and her voice clear after a well-rested night.

“Good morning,” you croak and clear your throat right after. Your shoulder complains as you fill in the vanilla tartlets, row after row of neat custardy pies waiting for a couple of slices of syrupy lemons Lili has prepared for them.

As the shop fills with the fresh loaves, rolls and biscuits, the last sweet things are baking in the ovens, filling the bakery and shop with a sugary, toasty smell. Butter, nuts, fruits, spices and chocolate, are like a dessert after the early morning savory baking.

You’re filling cream puffs when the doors open and the first customer walks in. You have the bakery door open but can’t see the shop from your sturdy work table. You can only listen to the sounds that indicate your work paying off.

The bell above the door tinkles constantly, people walking in and out with fresh goods in paper bags and bakery carton boxes, careful not to shake or mush anything that is even a little more fragile than the thick crusted breads.

Lili’s enthusiastic voice answers questions with a constant smile. “Yes, these have a hazelnut and chocolate filling.” “There is ginger and clove in the cookie dough.” “It’s the freshest today, but you can use the rest for bread pudding or French toast in the next few days.” “Sadly, that was our December limited edition cupcake, but we’re planning something for Easter.”

If she’s not answering questions, then she’s taking down orders and repeating every detail to get everything right. The free spots in your calendar for orders are filling out fast. You’re counting each one in your head after Lili repeats them, checking off the orders list you remember by heart. Someone asks for a wedding cake order for July, one already taken by Abigail and Noah.

“Mr. Peña is here,” Lili sticks her head into the bakery, pulling you from weighing ingredients for sticky cinnamon rolls. It’s eleven in the morning, you’re about thirty minutes early from your work schedule. The radio in the corner plays an older song softly, the words flowing from your mouth in a quiet hum. You wash your hands and check your face, wiping the remaining moisture from your temples as the ovens are finally cooling down. You take the small bakery box full of pistachio cream puffs from the fridge and take it to the register.

Seeing the shop full is always overwhelming, almost intimidating, especially when most look at you as they see you walking out of the bakery.

“Morning everyone,” you greet with easiness, the words wiping away your nerves. Mr. Peña is third in line, standing with someone who is looking at the small packets of chocolate confections that were leftover from your New Year’s specials.

You take one of the raisin and cashew loafs from the shelf and push it into a brown paper bag, and wheat knot rolls into another bag.

“Mr. Peña, what can I get for you?” Lili asks, her voice a little higher and squeakier than normal.

“Those ham and cheese muffins are looking fine today,” his voice rumbles. You smile to yourself as you pack a few lemon and poppyseed cookies into a box.

“¿Quieres algo dulce?” He asks his companion just as you turn with all the baked goods in your arms. You lay them on the table next to the register, Lili taping the muffin box closed and getting to work typing the prices as zero dollars.

“What’s this?” Mr. Peña asks under his brown, wide brimmed cowboy hat.

“You gave me the tip about Arnold’s shop, and he came to fix the oven right before New Year’s. It’s as good as new now. He also checked the other one, to see if it has the same problem with the wiring. This is the least I can give you as a thank you.” If you had ordered someone to come in from further, you would’ve paid a pretty penny for a simple fix that was done in fifteen minutes. You couldn’t be more grateful for Mr. Peña suggesting someone who he trusts.

“That was nothing, Sam is an old friend, he would miss his own funeral just to fix appliances,” he laughs and gives room for his companion to step next to him. Javier’s eyes bore into yours, a soft smile in them. He lays the little confection box on the table next to the breads and sweets.

“This is my son, Javier.” He pushes his aviator sunglasses into the neckline of his pink button up t-shirt.

“We met at Noah’s party a few days ago,” Javier says, making you nod along with his words.

“Oh! Well, then you need to know this little lady makes the best cream puffs in town,” Mr. Peña directs his attention to you. The smile lines get deep right by his eyes when the corners of his mouth turn up.

Javier hums in recognition, patiently watching you try to gather your thoughts. The two men look the same as they stand next to each other, the generation the only thing setting them apart. Javier seems to tower over his dad, his back straight and his shoulders wider with age pressing them forward for his dad.

“That’s a bit over exaggerated isn’t it, since there’s no other bakeries in town,” you turn the compliment into a joke, and your focus back to Javier’s dad to get yourself to calm down. Javier’s presence makes perspiration prickle at the small of your back.

“That’s why I said the best in town,” Mr. Peña jokes back.

“Exactly!” The shared laugh eases your discomfort. Why Javier makes you nervous, you haven’t decided yet.

“So, how much do I have to pay for these?”

“Nothing. Like I said, it’s the least I can do to thank you.”

“No, of course I pay, this is too much.”

“Mr. Peña, you helped me when you didn’t have to. These are on the house.” The people behind Javier and his dad are starting to get curious about what you’re giving away for free.

“Please, call me Chucho, I come here often enough for us to be in first name basis. And I already know your name, have known it longer than you’ve known there is a ‘Mister Peña’,” he tries to mimic your voice but only makes it sound like a mockery of you. He mumbles “sorry,” under his breath, all forgiven with a smile you give him back.

“What about these?” Lili asks with a quieter voice, the confections in her hand.

“I’ll pay for those,”

“And that’s Javier, you can call him by his first name as well.” His dad says pointedly. In a way he reminds you of your grandpa and how warmly he too always spoke even when to teach you about something more serious, like how to ask nicely, or when you needed help with your homework, and he checked where you had gone wrong.

“Chucho,” you nod your head towards him, “Javier,” you say his name and it tickles against your tongue. The other side of his mouth rises.

“Javier will pay for the candy, and I want a couple of those lemon things over there,” Chucho points in the display. The vanilla tartlets you worked on just a couple of hours earlier.

“Yo los pago, papá,” Javier mutters when you pick up a carton and fold it into a box, placing two tartlets into it. Lili is already ringing him up when you place the box next to her.

“Have you changed the products?” Chucho asks, looking at the display more carefully.

“There are a couple new things, like these blueberry swirl cupcakes and these hazelnut cookies.” You point them out for him and notice Javier checking out the items as well. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking out the favorites,” you nod towards the pistachio cream puffs that have become Chucho’s regular order. He winks at you, like a secret has been exchanged between you two. Lili packs all the goods into a paper bag and hands it over to Javier.

“Thank you,” Chucho tips his hat and drops money into the tip jar.

“Thank you,” Lili yells after checking how much he gave. You greet the next customers while leaving to go back to work, watching the pair as they walk out the door and to Chucho’s truck.

As the day goes on, the bell above the door tinkles less. The noises from people talking quiets down and Lili’s answers and order taking slows until there’s no more questions or orders to be made.

“Only a couple of cupcakes, cookies, and rolls left,” she informs as she joins you to help with dough mixing and making products for the next day. You work like a well-oiled machine that has been in use for a hundred years. You turn the radio a little louder and the both of you sing along to songs that you both know either from your childhoods or ones that have been playing nonstop since they came out in the last year.

“Can you make the puff pastry, I’ll make inventory and clean up the front.” You massage your shoulder, the pain burning under your shoulder blade.

The day is warm, warmer than usual, people wearing shorter sleeved shirts as they pass the shop. The air is humid, yet still dust settles on surfaces. You write in your notebook all the products sold, keeping note of the ones that have leftovers, before packing them in discount packets to get them sold before closing.

The industrial dishwasher rumbles on the other side of the wall as you’re wiping down the display cases. The door opens and the bell jingles, followed by footsteps that stop at the door. You look over your shoulder, the pink shirt on Javier like an alarm for your system.

“Hi,” you straighten your back and finish cleaning the glass.

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” He takes his sunglasses off and hangs them off his shirt again.

“No, no, we’re still open. Did you forget something? Or maybe Mr. Peña wanted something more? I’m sorry we sold out everything you got, tomorrow I’ll be selling more again.” Javier breathes out a silent laugh listening to you ramble nervously, his eyes landing on the empty shelves.

“I’m sure he’d buy more if there was some left, and you can call him Chucho.” You bend your head down when his eyes meet yours. “That’s not why I’m here for.” He walks over to the register with you on the other side. He places his hand on the table, curiously taking in the empty shop.

“What can I get for you then?”

“Have you had any luck finding a date for the wedding?”

“Oh,” his question surprises you. “I haven’t even thought about that. I can guarantee it’s not going to be John. Why?” He nods, watching your lips as they move around the words. He presses his hand into a fist, opening his mouth once, then closing it, contemplating whatever he has on his mind.

“I was wondering…” He stops, his lashes dark against the tops of his cheeks as he has trouble looking at you in the eye. Until he does and forces you to swallow against the sandpaper in your mouth.

“Noah said something… And I remembered what you said about Abigail wanting you to have a date… Being single at a wedding can be…” The broken sentences raise your pulse. “What if we’d go to the wedding together?” Your pulse pauses for a second until it picks up like a storm.

“You make it sound like someone’s going to pair you up with someone more awful unless you do something about it first?” You’re surprised how even your voice sounds even though pins and needles run up and down your skin and your insides are in a turmoil.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come off that way.” Javier shakes his head fast, his eyes flashing to you in fear that you’d understand him wrong. “My old man has been eager to know if he needs to know a name before the wedding. It’s a hassle if I won’t deal with that in time.” He almost manages to calm the tempest. You join his chuckling, imagining Chucho pressing his son about finding a plus one for a wedding where his friends are already paired off.

“Look,” you begin, forcing yourself to calm down and think clearly. “It’s a nice offer, but I’m not looking for anything, I don’t have time for it. Abigail setting me up at the party was weird and I’m not concerned about finding a date. I honestly don’t care what people say or think. She just wants me to have someone and not end up alone when she’s busy having brunches and dinners with her married friends.” Javier’s eyes narrow the longer you speak, your last words like icing on a cake for someone who observes as closely as Javier does. You realize how you make yourself sound pathetic and Abigail like an asshole immediately after.

“I’m not looking for anything either, I was thinking it more as an arrangement of sorts.”

“An arrangement?”

“Yeah. I have a lot of groomsmen, ah…” he looks for the words, “whatever wedding things coming up and I know I’ll be put between a rock and a hard place unless I have a date. We could go together, avoid the awkward blind dates and we’d let people know we’re each other’s dates.” What he means with him being between two undesirable options confuses you, but the possibility of Abigail setting you up with someone like John again is high enough for you to get interested in Javier’s suggestion.

“So, you mean we’d fake dating each other?”

He’s unblinking for a moment, until he inhales and pushes the breath out with a “I guess so.”

“Sounds like you’ve read too many romance books.” The lighthearted joke makes him laugh. “Don’t you think it’d be awkward?”

“If we’re okay with it, no, I don’t think so. We could get to know the basics of each other and that would be it. You don’t have to spend your time with me any more than you have to.” He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and places it on the table. “Think about it.” He pushes the paper towards you. You take it, and it’s still warm. He has written his number on it neatly, Javier with a swoopy J on top.

A couple walks in. The bell startles you both. Javier steps back and takes his sunglasses from his shirt.

“Let me know, okay?” He raises his brows in question, and you answer with a nod. The couple beelines for the leftovers, talking in hushed tones, while the bell dings and Javier leaves without a second look back.

“I knew we should’ve come sooner,” the woman hisses and huffs.

“We’re open tomorrow, if you’re looking for something specific,” you try to get back into the moment, but end up following Javier push his sunglasses up his nose and jog across the street to his truck before a car crawls past.

Never would you have thought a piece of paper could be heavy but here you are, aware of its existence in your jeans pocket under your apron. The offer is appealing, you can’t deny that. The thought of having someone steady by your side, people not asking if you have a date, mainly Abigail, and not needing to think about the whole date thing, would be a weight off your shoulders. You could focus on the more pressing matters.

The couple buys the bread rolls, one more tick for you to write into your notebook. You finish preparing everything with Lili and when you turn the lights off a the end of the day, your brain is fried from thinking what to do with Javier’s suggestion.

The hot shower at home is heaven against your shoulder, loosening the tense muscle. It doesn’t wash away Javier’s suggestion though. You dry yourself, and you wouldn’t have to think about a plus one anymore. You warm up leftovers from yesterday, and you wonder how you could relax around Javier who has the ability to get your thoughts and blood roiling. You sit on the couch and get hurt once more thinking about John and if it was all a joke for Abigail to set you up with him.

You dig the pockets of your jeans and find the paper, still folded in half, his handwriting against your fingertips.

“Peña,” you hear Chucho answer. His joyful laughter after you say who’s calling makes you smile as well.

“Don’t say you’re giving us more bread and pastries. I’ll pay for them the next time.” There’s rustling on his end before you have a chance to answer, Javier’s voice muttering something to his dad.

“Hello,” his voice is softer, less deep as his father’s yet still deep enough for you to have it rattle your spine.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I got a new number a couple of weeks ago and I’m not used to using it yet, gave you the house number by accident.” If you knew him any better, you’d say Javier is nervous.

“That’s okay. I wanted to call and ask if you’re really up for it, fake dating?” he chuckles quietly, almost like he wouldn’t want to make his dad question why you’re calling his son in the evening.

“I’d still call it just an arrangement, but yeah. That’s why I asked you.” You grind your teeth together, nervous about what you’re getting yourself into.

“Okay, let’s do it then.”

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sevikas-biceps · 3 months ago

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[TLDR: me attempting to make sense of the Arcane's eldritchness, which sounds ironic in hindsight but hear me out]

Revelation after revelation aside, there are many pieces of foreshadowing that tell us why Viktor's commune wasn't as great as it seemed.

Visually speaking, all the clues are right there.

The first thing we see of the slums of Zaun is this.

Vi, leading their little group, is astonished to find such a thing—and to think that Huck was there, serving as one of its ushers! Huck, who she immediately calls a filthy traitor; having succumbed to shimmer the last time she saw him—meaning he'd turned to Silco both literally and figuratively—what with his use of the drug and the fact that he'd ratted her and Caitlyn out to the tycoon.

Miss Ma'am is bamboozled.

How the hell did he end up there? At this...paradise? At the slums, which, only a few weeks or months ago; was still dark, dusty, violet, and violent!

Something has changed, obviously; and Huck himself admits that his past was him 'at his worst'. Simply awful. But the Herald had saved him. And because of that, he was leading a better life, now. Naturally, at this point, Vi and Jinx seem wary.

There's gotta be a catch, no?

The landscape and the characters exemplify this.

Let's start with the land itself. Look at how empty it actually looks. Yes, there's a field of flowers. Yes, there's a community, teeming with life. Yes, it's literally heaven. But the lighting. The colours. It's so...bleak. Like a dream. The mountains are green, but they're cast in grey and white; and added with the negative space, there's an eeriness to it that contrasts Piltover's version of an eutopia.

You can argue it being the vast resource difference, as Topside is the superior city for a reason, but the commune is still filled with numerous individuals with just as much creativity as their counterparts. Intelligent and sentient beings—people, with minds to set to whatever task may be at hand.

Now, let's think of the people.

The biggest difference between the two communities is this: the 'healed' of Viktor's paradise wear only one mode of dress: white. It's almost uniform—which is notable, as, previously in the episode, Viktor speaks of 'chaos'. We see how fascinated he was by the mess that Vander's psyche had become, and in an attempt at detangling that chaos, he was 'setting things right' inside the man's mind. Bringing him back to something resembling normalcy. Order.

This is particularly significant for the fact that, in the game, he's remembered for his philosophy on glorious evolution (also mentioned in the show, as we know)—which is centred on the enhancement of the human body to transcend its fleshly limits.

Piltover, in contrast—and by extension the 'unhealed' of Zaun—go against this code. We see shimmer addicts, we see corrupt individuals, we see bigoted populations, we see conflict between the cities. We see human nature at its finest. Even the episode titles, all the way from Season 1, display this.

S1E1: Welcome to the Playground S1E2: Some Mysteries are Better Left Unsolved S1E3: The Base Violence Necessary for Change S1E4: Happy Progress Day! S1E5: Everybody Wants to Be My Enemy S1E6: When These Walls Come Tumbling Down S1E7: The Boy Saviour S1E8: Oil and Water S1E9: The Monster You Created S2E1: Heavy is the Crown S2E2: Watch It All Burn S2E3: Finally Got the Name Right S2E4: Paint the Town Blue S2E5: Blisters and Bedrock S2E6: The Message Hidden Within the Pattern

Again, human nature. Colourful, tumultuous, unsynchronised. A need for knowledge. A need for violence. A need for change. A need for exploration. A need for control. Everything that we can have, we take.

That's the point of Viktor's quote:

I understand now. The message hidden within the pattern. The reason for our failures in the commune. The doctor was right—it's inescapable. Humanity. Our very essence. Our emotions—rage, compassion, hate. Two sides of the same coin, inextricably bound. That which inspires us to our greatest good is also the cause of our greatest evil.

It's a paradox.

This is a sophisticated conjuration. A singularity, simultaneously self-replicating and self-annihilating.

He wasn't just talking about the Arcane. It wasn't just about that 'voice' he and Sky heard when gazing at Jayce through Salo's eyes. It's also about humanity.

So, how does that relate to his commune?

Here's the thing: it looks like heaven, but later on, when Viktor dies and everyone else follows, it's practically limbo. It's liminal. Initially, you only have the vague sense that there's something off about it, but you can't tell what. It's filled with people, yet at the same time, it looks like it shouldn't have any to begin with. Mysterious. Suspicious. Almost dreadful; something that makes you realise: if you think about it too hard, you'd drive yourself insane.

There's something intrinsically natural about the commune, something untouched by human hands; but there's also something intrinsically human about it, something unnatural, cultivated in a way nature itself cannot replicate. That's the catch. It should be a balance of both. An ideal community would show this.

Viktor's connection to the Hexcore tells us that he's, in part, transcended both humanity and the natural world. He's breached the ineffable and the incomprehensible, and brought it into the existence(s) of those who could know of and experience it. Bringing 'paradise' to those who were never meant to realise what it was. Forcing onto them the Arcane, even when done with the best intentions.

For the suffering Zaunites, they have everything they could possibly want: food, water, shelter, rest, belonging, peace, survival; the life that they once could only dream of having. It's perfect. They don't have to be in pain, not anymore.

But the commune is isolated. This is very much seen in the gate symbolism: all are welcome, but once inside, you'll never want to leave. You'll never have to. Because to be cured by the hands of the Herald means to bear his mark. To be saved is to bind yourself to him.

The open archway is also a taunt: the gate is open, it'll always be open, but would you ever risk going back out? Would you really trade this for anything else?

Are you truly willing to leave paradise? Are you truly willing to part with the Arcane?

The Arcane, which had given them everything they'd yearned for through Viktor.

Now, see here: Vi catches a glimpse of Singed exiting Viktor's abode. It's presumably the healing tent, as his main 'bubble' (the place where he 'recharges', so to speak) is the one in the distance.

The point is: Vi sees Singed leave the healing tent. What makes this suspicious is the fact that the man left unhealed.

Note that, prior to this point, the sisters have reconciled and were even willing to stay in this little underground haven despite their initial scepticisms. They, just like everyone else, have been lulled into the comfort the commune provided. So, to see someone else suddenly exiting Viktor's watch—someone with no traces of the Herald's touch, someone who's still bandaged and deformed—is a wake-up call.

Why else would you go into the healing tent, to the commune, if not to have yourself cured or seek respite? Why is this man, who'd obviously be easier work to deal with compared to Vander, not 'saved'?

Vi follows him. Then, Singed leaves the commune entirely.

In her eyes, someone had willingly turned away from 'paradise'.

Logically, this begs the question: Why?

Because that's where the fantasy ends.

Right as Vi comes to the gate, the camera cuts to that Noxian spear upfront. A threat to the 'perfection' that existed within the borders. A reminder that the world outside still exists; a world that Viktor hasn't touched in its entirety, a world that still begs to be saved, a world that is still human at its core brimming and simmering.

That's the reason Viktor's named a herald: he's an omen. He'd brought about a transformation to those he healed. To the slums. Providing a drastic shift in people's lives (or whatever 'life' still counted for those he'd influenced) that left many devastated when Jayce blew a hole in his chest.

By spreading the use of the Arcane through other agents (again, the 'healed'), he essentially reproduced the effects of the power that he had at his disposal, while at the same time allowed himself to better comprehend how the Arcane worked—and by extension, allowed that very power to adapt.

But at the same time, he himself is also the key to undoing it.

From Jayce and Ekko, S2E3:

Viktor hypothesised that there may be something he called 'wild runes'. Patterns that occur naturally when the border between our world and the Arcane is thin. Runes like the ones you use in Hextech. What's the difference between those and wild runes? Pass me a tome. So, I used words you understood in order to elicit your action. This is what Hextech runes are. Pass me a tome. Pass me a tome! There—you sighed. Still a kind of language. A sound, but not words. Something raw; natural. That's wild runes. In most places, the Arcane is dormant—but here and there, it's more active. Wild runes are— —sort of like its fingerprints. Exactly! ...so, you're telling me: that pattern is on my tree, because you pissed the Arcane off with all your demands?

Viktor being infused with the Hexcore—which we can reasonably assume is a wild rune, as can also be seen with its matrix—makes it so that he himself acts as what a Hextech rune would do to it (the Hexcore). Through Viktor, the Arcane is refined, and in a process that doesn't completely destabilise (compared to pure Hextech, as can be seen with the weapons). For Viktor to lose control or to be harmed means making that magic either go wild (the weapons) or make it dissipate (the commune).

That's why the fantasy 'ends' at the entrance of the commune: anything past that is out of Viktor's reach, and remains 'untouched' by the Arcane.

From Jinx, S1E5:

So, all about these runes: they form some sort of mathy, magicky gateway...to the realm of heebie-jeebies. And this turns it on!

Say it again: the runes make a gateway. The Hexcore was a rune matrix, an array of wild runes that formed a singular entity. An entity which is now 'one' with Viktor. It means being the 'Herald' is also being the 'gateway' for the Arcane. The traditional role of a herald is to proclaim and carry messages; we don't know what message the Arcane itself wants to send, but we do know for a fact that Viktor is at least doing its work in creating that commune in the slums of Zaun.

From Singed, S1E6 & S2E6:

The mutation must survive. You must survive, Viktor.

The Machine Herald himself is self-replicating and self-annihilating. He can 'cure' the afflicted, thus infusing the Arcane into other individuals and replicating its structure inside them. And at the same time, the Arcane is also what 'kills' him—with Jayce using (what looked to be a mutated version of) the hexcrystal of his hammer to blow through Viktor's chest, where we know the Hexcore was placed during Jayce's revival of him in Act 1.

This is why the commune, despite its purpose as a safe haven, also exists as a place of great danger. Why it really isn't all That™, even despite Viktor creating it as a safe space for many.

See this exchange between Vi and Jinx:

This place...do you think it could actually work? Underground utopia, run by a skinny tin Machine Herald. Maybe when Piltover slides into the Sump.

Jinx was right in calling it for what it is, despite the words being in jest. A utopia. Working 'when Piltover slides into the Sump'.

It's an impractical scheme. Too perfect. Too good to be true.

An impossibility.

Do you believe in fate, Doctor? Our paths carved before us. Guided by an invisible hand? Not fate. Evolution. Nature's greatest force, forever in flux. No. Evolution has a destination. Not to combat nature, but to supersede it. The final, glorious evolution. But he isn't a specimen—he's a man. And he needs my help. I will not sacrifice his humanity for your cause. You may leave. Very well. But I assume you understand already: if you perish, this community is soon to follow.

Viktor understands. He understands. He just wasn't ready to admit it to himself when Singed said it.

I understand now. The message hidden within the pattern. The reason for our failures in the commune. The doctor was right—it's inescapable. Humanity.

Human nature and human essence aren't self-sustaining. That's why the Arcane was so effective in 'healing' all those people. Their humanity hampered them from healing themselves; both in the sense of the human bodily condition (the limits of the physical self), and in the sense of humaneness (of empathy, of choice). The human body cannot survive its own traumas without an artificial means of a cure (case in point: Vander). And the Arcane acted as its solution.

Mere instinct doesn't let you live—you need to learn how to direct your life after survival. To adapt. To grow. Humanity, self-replicating and self-annihilating; the escape from that cycle, that's the glorious evolution Viktor speaks of.

A utopia. Impossible and impractical. Humanity: that which inspires us to our greatest good, and the cause of our greatest evil.

#arcane #arcane s2 #arcane league of legends #arcane analysis #viktor #the machine herald #viktor arcane

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