#you are the only one who can tell your story ^^

[rebelfell]

for your viewing pleasure┃vol. 1

pornstar!eddie x director!reader

all my pornstar!eddie blurbs together at last b/c I hated how I published them originally. the og posts are still here, but they have been edited/expanded somewhat, and I’ve included a “finale” of sorts that is new! index for this story is here.

cw: pornstar!au, so…porn. but it’s also a kind of fantasy porn company/industry, so not really at all based in reality or fact. sex work, oral sex (f & m rec), public-ish sex, piv sex.

18+, MDNI┃8.7k

special thanks to @urhoneycombwitch for helping come up with like 90% of this via mutual flailing in my inbox 🥰 ilyaaf

After dark thoughts about pornstar!eddie…who gets fired from his first job.

Because he’s great at sex, but bad at porn.

So, so, so bad. Like, he’s incredible at eating pussy, but incredible because he does it with his whole face completely buried in his co-star. We’re talking fully and wholly submerged in her folds, as though she’s his breathing apparatus.

And that’s great for her, but terrible for camera.

They keep stopping him, telling him he has to pull it back, that they have to see her pussy and they can’t with his big head and bigger hair blocking their view. But much like a dog that’s been told to leave a treat where it is, he keeps edging closer and moving back in little by little until he’s right back where he wants to be—and they’re yelling “CUT” and scolding him all over again.

And the girl is getting frustrated because, like, she’s about to actually come and she looks at the director with this look of pure desperation and ‘just do me this solid—please?’ in her eyes.

So he finally lets Eddie get her off and just films super tight on her face and her trembling legs so it’s really obvious how real it really is.

And so they can move the fuck on already.

Then they’re filming the fucking, and once again Eddie is fucking like he would fuck in real life and the way he fucks in real life is Not. Good. Porn.

He’s not just slamming into her without any care; he’s not using her to get off; he’s trying to make it good for her. And it is very, very good for her.

Like so good, she’s this close to giving him her number once they wrap for the day.

Her boyfriend of six years be damned.

And once they wrap, Eddie’s not exactly “fired” but he’s pretty sure he’s not getting called back.

Except then the movie comes out and BLOWS UP. People are obsessed. Women are buying it in droves (who knew women even watched porn??) and the VHS is back-ordered to shit.

So the production company is like, “We gotta lock this kid into a contract. Now.”

And just so we’re clear, he gets that contract. 

But he (rightfully) feels like he has a bit of juice behind him and refuses to work with that director ever again. And they agree to his terms, but that first guy is hardly an anomaly and Eddie is still butting heads with these other ass hats who keep trying to force him to do it their way.

“My buddy, my guy, my man, you’re fucking her like she’s a person and that’s not gonna sell. It may have worked for you before, but no way does lightning strike the same dick twice.”

So Eddie walks. And he’s ready to call it quits entirely…until you approach him.

Because you are former talent, trying to branch out and direct, but no one will take you seriously. So you went to the heads of production and told them even if all they gave you was a shoestring budget and one Eddie Munson, you can spin some gold. Spoiler alert—you do.

You come to Eddie with your vision of porn for women: story-based, more realistic dialogue, and real orgasms. Some of the same tropes, but done in a way that doesn’t feel so tired and gross and vapid and soulless. Something new.

Something different. Something special.

And, oh. He is so on board with that.

Meanwhile, back in Hawkins, the rumor mill is milling. Because how in the hell did Eddie “The Freak” Munson become a sex symbol overnight? It has to be a deal with the devil—that’s the only possible explanation, right? He clearly sold his soul for a magic cock and a porn career.

And Steve Harrington is LIVID.

He would have bet his entire college tuition Eddie was a virgin, but now every babe who comes into Family Video is renting that damn tape.

They’re literally pouring in looking for it, marching straight to the back, going behind that red curtain where normally only the creepers go. And they don’t so much as blush when Steve scans it.

Robin teases him about it mercilessly. Tells him maybe if he watches it, he’ll pick up some new moves. And, like, Steve has watched plenty of porn. He can’t imagine Eddie is doing anything that earth-shattering. There’s only so much to it, you know? People must just be caught up in the novelty of it being someone that they kind-of sort-of know. It will wear off, it has to.

Then he watches it.

And, oh…Steve has been doing sex all wrong.

For one, he wasn’t going down on girls. He just wasn’t. He’s not like…against it, or anything. But he sort of didn’t realize that was a thing? He lost his virginity in high-school for fuck’s sake—what did he know besides porn and magazines? And that was all the same, so wasn’t that what girls wanted? (Oh, you sweet summer dingus, Robin would shake her head and lament later.)

Secondly…the girls he was with never sounded like that. And he never realized just how fake all those other “orgasms” in porn sounded until he heard the real deal. Now he can’t un-hear it.

From that day forward, for almost two months, they are short one copy of Eddie’s tape because Steve snuck it home in his bag one night after closing. For research purposes only.

No, seriously.

Eddie is a fucking star. Literally.

The second you and he get together, (in a, ahem, professional sense) something shifts. It feels like a long-laid plan plotted from a distant corner of the vast universe has finally come to fruition.

Your first tape is a smash. The camera you get is barely a step up from a hand-held camcorder, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest. Even with a bare bones crew (you wind up doing a lot of the sound, the lighting, the editing yourself) and everyone doubting you from the jump, it’s a hit.

The concept isn’t anything crazy—Eddie shows up to deliver a pizza, and instead the girl accepts his delivery. But you add a twist: the pizza is for a poker game her boyfriend is hosting. He canceled date night for it and she’s been sitting out here all alone while they play in the other room.

Not on Eddie’s watch.

He goes to town on her, bringing her to the brink three or four times while her boyfriend’s pizzas go cold on the countertop. You push the camera in close on both of them, really trying to give the sense of Eddie as a person. So he’s not just another disembodied guy with a nice dick.

Although his is very, very nice.

His personality shines through when he does things like hike her leg up to fuck into her pussy deeper, chasing her pleasure like her high is his own; and when he grins down at her all devilishly as she tries to stifle her sounds so her “boyfriend” won’t hear; or when Eddie mocks her, making her own little whines and huffs and squeals right back at her in a way that is so infuriatingly hot.

He talks her through it, locking those big brown eyes of his on her, clutching the back of her neck while she tries to block her moans, until at last she can’t hold it back any longer and explodes.

And you have the sound guy stand off to the side and call out, “Everything okay in there, babe?” after she’s done. Nothing but a shuddering, trembling mess on a black leather sofa.

Cut. Print. That’s a wrap, folks.

Eddie is a dream to work with. He’s collaborative and creative; he communicates effectively and often. You guys are like two halves of the same brain, often anticipating what the other wants before they even know it themselves.

It’s alarming, almost. To be seen so clearly.

Even short on crew, equipment, time, money—you can’t seem to fail when you’re together.

The one thing you’re never short on is actresses. Ever since Eddie’s first tape came out, word of mouth (pun intended) has spread. Rapidly. And since you know most of them, you know who to hire. You know which ones are the flakes, which ones are divas, which ones will vibe best with the kind of set experience you’re trying to create. So Eddie trusts your judgment, completely.

He just waits for you to tell him who he’s fucking and then he does it. And he does it so well.

The fucker has chemistry with everyone—down to the guy who brings the sandwiches when you break for lunch. He’s so charming and funny and considerate practically to a fault. He’s fully dialed in from the moment he steps on set to when you wrap for the day. And afterwards, he’s checking in with you, making sure you got exactly what you wanted, asking if you want anything else, if you need him to stay because he’ll be happy to.

It’s…completely and utterly disarming.

He has every right to be a full blown asshole. This entire venture hinges on him and his magic dick, so his head should be as big as a hot air balloon. But he doesn’t ever stray from that unflagging decency that’s so rare in this industry. 

And you pray he never will.

It’s Eddie who pitches your next film.

He’s got this notion of a good girl—a cheerleader—who’s having a hard time and goes looking for weed from the mean and scary tattooed dealer.

(One guess who’s playing him.)

Except he’s not so mean and scary. He’s actually kind of a goof, mock-stabbing himself in the heart and flailing around like a clown, throwing himself off the picnic bench you and he dragged out to this clearing at the ass crack of dawn.

All part of the vision, he assured you.

They look great on camera. His dark, wild hair and clothes and everything in direct contrast to her sweet, round face and bright pastel hues and soft waves. Chemistry’s off the charts, as usual. She starts out really nervous and fidgety, but he makes her comfortable and flirts, offers the bud at a discount. And then her brow cocks daringly and she asks if he has anything…stronger.

Cut to her being eaten out like a banquet spread out on this table in the middle of the forest.

It’s oddly lush and romantic with the rich color of the leaves and the dappled sunlight that filters in through the branches—a foil to the lewdness of their acts and their wanton sounds. 

And when they’re dressed down to nothing, bare skin on bare skin on gray weathered wood, they look almost like forest nymphs or elves caught up in the throes of passion, secluded in the trees.

Especially with the leaves still clinging to Eddie’s hair from when he fell off the table.

Not for the first time, you feel a certain twinge of something that squirms low in the pit of your stomach while you watch them.

Except you’re not watching them…because you can’t take your eyes off of him.

After you wrap, he hangs back. Asks what you thought of the shoot while he helps break down the equipment. Blushes when you tell him you loved it and how good he looked. Explains how it was inspired by these daydreams he used to have about this one girl he knew in high-school.

And you almost, almost, ask him about her—but you’re cut off by a PA who runs up in a panic.

The studio is calling, and they’re pissed.

They’ve just gotten a look at the contract you had drawn up. Rights to a boutique company under their banner, unlimited use of their distribution channels. Full creative control and intellectual property rights to anything and everything.

Plus exclusive use of Eddie.

(Effectively nullifying that horseshit deal they originally gave him for a much, much better one.)

You know they’re gonna fight you on a lot of it—you swung big so you’d have plenty of room to negotiate—but it will all be worth it when they fold. Because you and Eddie have big plans.

You both know you’re onto something special and you’re in it together, to the end of the line.

Apparently, Eddie is also interested in editing.

He shows up to the production offices on a day he’s supposed to be off, but knows you have the editing bay reserved. Brings you coffee and an egg sandwich like a literal angel on earth.

An angel dressed like the devil, maybe. Because he’s got on this tank top with arm holes that’ve been stretched way, way beyond their natural elasticity, drooping down around his ribs and flashing glimpses of his tattoos and the tops of his obliques. And you aren’t entirely sure why you’re getting all hot and bothered over a tank top when there’s not a single intimate inch of his        body you haven’t already seen up close and personal through your viewfinder.

In fact, it’s the same body you’re watching fuck the shit out of that girl on the picnic table from a few days ago. And he’s wearing a whole lot less than a tank top.

You share a brief chuckle over it—the fact that his bare ass is flickering on three screens while you scroll through footage. And it’s not so much that it’s awkward, more like you’re mutually tickled by the fact that it’s not? There’s not an ounce of self-consciousness left between you two.

In a way, it’s like there never was.

He asks if you want any help, or if you mind him sitting in. He’s interested in the process, thinks it might help him on set too. There’s such a rich vein of enthusiasm and curiosity in him, a real thirst to be better and to learn. It’s ridiculous it took him three tries to graduate.

You think it’s a great idea…at first.

But then you’re watching him on the screen with him sitting right next to you. His earthy, woodsy scent layered with the smell of his soap in your nose; his recorded grunts and groans of pleasure in your ears coming through your headphones that are starting to slicken with the sweat.

It’s all wildly distracting. And you must be some kind of masochist, because (not for the first time) you can’t help but wonder how he makes all these women come the way they do.

“So, uh, what…what exactly are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, trying to cover the tremor in your voice as you ask. Eddie scoots in closer, his eyes darting between yours and the screen as he describes the way he’s using his tongue, swirling it around the edges of her entrance, plunging it deep inside her while his nose pushes firmly on her clit. Pretending not to notice your chest heaving with his every word.

“How do you even breathe?” you chuckle.

“I find my moments,” he says.

Smirks back. Winks.

And uh-oh. When did his hand touch your knee? When did he start to rub his thumb over your bare skin through the hole in your jeans? When did his long, ringed fingers start to curl under your thigh to squeeze it? When did he start to lean further into your space? When did you get so wet?

He’s close now. It wouldn’t take anything for you to bridge the gap and let your lips meet his. You can’t, though. You don’t. Because it would be so…stupid. It would be wrong and bad, and it could jeopardize both of your careers. Everything you’re working towards, totally gone.

You’re starting the porn for women movement, here. You can’t fuck your first star!

And you don’t. You keep it professional. You tell him you’re going to call it a day and head home so he’ll do the same. But later that night, when he calls with some new ideas for a script, asking if he can run a few lines by you (just to know how it sounds out loud, you know?), and you wind up having the most insane, mind-blowing phone sex of your entire life…Well, that’s different.

That’s totally and completely different.

The next time you see him, it’s business as usual.

You knew it would be. You two are nothing if not consummate professionals, fully committed to this endeavor. Neither of you would dare let your goals be derailed by a silly little crush.

And it is just a crush. It has to be.

Just the natural result of working so closely with him; of seeing him so completely in his element; appreciating his work ethic and his creativity.

Not to mention the fact that you are consistently watching him have the hottest sex you’ve ever seen in your life. But that’s unrelated.

The next shoot is your biggest yet. It’s at this massive mansion that you’re dressing to look like a spa with two massage tables set up by the pool that looks like something straight out of a resort.  Eddie is playing a masseur who offers a lonely, neglected housewife consolation in the form of his cock after her husband chooses work over their couples massage.

After the success of the pizza delivery tape, you think it’s best you lean hard into the “Eddie fucks it better” sort of storylines.

Because why not play to your strengths?

Except that the call time of your female lead has come and gone and she’s nowhere to be found. You know Trina, this isn’t like her, she’s never late. But you called and got no answer. Twice.

The light is perfect, everyone’s in place…but there’s no one for Eddie to fuck.

Even if you could get a replacement, it would take at least an hour for anyone to get out here and that was being generous. By then, the shoot would be way behind and you’ve literally only got today in this stupid model home before some fucking billionaire moves in tomorrow.

It’s gonna be a massive loss of time and money if you don’t think of something. Like, right now.

Eddie can see you’re stressed. He comes over and you huddle by your storyboards. And neither of you has to say it, but you both are thinking the exact same thing. As per usual.

You could do it.

You’re here, for one. And you’ve done this plenty of times. It just makes good business sense.

It’s been a while, and you’re not quite “camera-ready” after not having to be for the past couple of months, but you and Eddie have been talking about using more normal-looking bodies; bodies that jiggled and had hair where it grew naturally and are authentically real, regular bodies.

The camera guys know what sort of shots you want and you’ve got a bigger crew now—people who know your vision and can help bring it forth.

Plus, you’ll be with Eddie. You know he’ll take care of you. He’ll be sure that you get exactly what you need, no matter what. You’d bet your life on it.And, well…you and he did just rehearse your lines the other night.

The shoot is…interesting.

From the outside, it goes great. Perfect, even. Eddie looks all kinds of cute in his white polo and white pants. He’s got his long hair twisted up off his neck, a few loose tendrils framing his face. 

And you somehow forgot until he puts his hands on you the first time that the whole concept for this shoot was born out of the fact that he actually went to massage school for real.

Before you even get to the sex stuff, you’re putty in his hands. He moves them up and down your calves, slides his thumbs over your muscles in a dizzying pattern en route to your thighs. 

You’re not even faking the deep moans of relief you let out as he moves up higher and higher… arousal promptly pooling between your legs.

He starts going through his lines, striking that perfect balance between his casual, trying-to-be professional voice, while slowly getting more and more desperate and possessive. 

As if he’s constantly fighting the urge to take you right then. Right now.

Telling you how awful it is your husband chose work over you like this; how you should always be his number one priority; how Eddie would never let you out of his sight if you were his…

His hands reach your ass and he grips one round globe in each, spreading you apart so he (and the camera) can see how you glisten, the sunlight reflecting like it does off the water in the pool.

You wait for his next line—when he offers you a very ‘special’ massage with a ‘special’ technique he ‘doesn’t use on just anyone.’ 

But Eddie goes off script.

He licks a fat, wide stripe directly through your folds and your head pops out of the little headrest at the end of the table, the pure shock and delight on your face captured instantly by the camera.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleads, his tongue still swirling in between the words muffled by your ass cheeks, like he can’t stand to take it away, even to speak. “I had to taste you…”

“It’s okay,” you moan, voice nearly cracking in a dry sob, “It’s okay, just please don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t. He keeps going until you come, until you’re reaching back behind you to grip his hair as you push your hips back to meet every thrust of his perfect tongue. From there, it’s back to regularly scheduled fucking. He stays on script, peppering in the sort of ad-libs he knows from experience get a good reaction every time—

That’s it sweetheart, you’re doing so well for me.

Your husband doesn’t know what he’s missing.

This pussy is all mine now, you understand?

And, yeah, that stuff gets you off, no problem. But it’s the other stuff he does—the quieter, subtle things you aren’t expecting—that really push you over the edge again and again. And again.

It’s the things he whispers (actually whispers, not stage whispers) low in your ear so you’re the only one who can hear. You feel way too good/I gotta slow down or I’m gonna come/I know you faked that last one, gimme a real one now—

It’s…it’s almost too much. You knew he’d be good, you just didn’t expect how good. 

And you definitely didn’t expect to feel the way you do when he checks in between takes: asking if you want more or less of anything, making sure he’s not being too rough, telling you how great you’re doing, apologizing again for that initial snafu. It makes you all…fluttery.

But it’s not until after you wrap for the day, after you’ve gotten in the shower at home and start to wash off the massage oil spread all over your skin, that you realize Eddie never kissed you.

Not once.

When Eddie calls later that week, it’s to ask you out. Not on a date, though. 

Which is good. Really, it is. A relief, even. Because contrary to the way your heart leapt into your throat when he asked if you were busy this weekend, you absolutely cannot date him.

It doesn’t matter that you’re attracted to him. Or that you came out of your eyeballs multiple times with him the other day. Or that you haven’t been able to think about anything besides him since.

You. Can’t. Date.

You’re pretty much his boss, don’t forget. Maybe not technically, maybe not on paper—but if you start something up with him, it will be messy and complicated and it could put everything you and he have worked for in jeopardy. More than that, you don’t want anyone thinking he got where he is by any other means besides his hard work (pun intended). He’s earned everything he’s gotten.

And now that includes an award.

That’s what he’s calling about. He’s been nominated for what is essentially the porn equivalent of an Oscar for that first tape he made. And now he has to go to this ceremony, except he’s sort of freaking out because he’s never done anything like this before and he’s really nervous and he kind of needs you there because ‘you’re the only one I’m always comfortable with.’

So he asks if you’ll go with him. As friends.

And you say you will. And it’s fine. You can do this, you can do this, you can do this—FUCK. 

Why does he have to be so hot? Showing up in a black Prada suit with a sheer shirt underneath? Almost as bad as wearing nothing under it at all. Worse, maybe.

It’s unbuttoned nearly to the middle of his torso, layered chains dangling low, hanging around that tree trunk of a neck you can’t stop wishing you could sink your teeth into, wrap a hand around—

Nope. Nope. You’re not going there. The only place you’re going tonight is these awards.

Except when you get there, the organizers don’t want you photographed with Eddie. At least not arriving together. People still aren’t familiar with you as a director, and you haven’t starred in a project in months. That’s practically a century in porn time.

Plus, the tape Eddie is nominated for you didn’t even work on. It wouldn’t make any sense.

Eddie is immediately poised to protest, but neither of you is given much of an opportunity. While you’re shuffled into the long line of people already being photographed in front of the venue, he’s being whisked away so he can walk with the girl he starred in that very first film with.

You know her, sort of. You did a group scene once upon a time. She’s a biter.

They even sneak him into her limo so it looks like they came together. He gets out first and then holds out a hand to help her, a storm of flash bulbs going off, making her jumpsuit sparkle.

And you tell yourself not to watch. You try to smile pretty for your own pictures and look like you are having a good time. Or at least not look like you’re chewing on glass. But it’s…difficult.

Especially when you look up at the worst possible time—the exact moment she places a dainty hand on his chest and he turns his face toward hers, their lips meeting for a long kiss. 

Long enough for every camera there to capture it.And the very last shot they get of you that night is one of your back as you head inside to get a drink. Or ten. Trying not to think about this sour, putrid, inconvenient feeling in your chest.

Eddie should have walked with you. 

He should have done a lot of things, actually.

He should have told those uppity event coordinators to fuck off. He should have ignored that girl from his first film when she whispered under her breath for him to look at her. He should have dodged that sticky, tacky kiss she planted on his lips without any kind of warning.

He should have asked you out for real instead of hiding behind this ‘as friends’ bullshit.

Maybe if he had, he’d be tasting your lipgloss instead of the glittery mess he was wiping off his chin. Maybe it would be your hand in his as you walked the carpet. And maybe it would be him getting you a drink and clinking his glass with yours instead of the guy you’re with right now.

Eddie knows him. Well, he doesn’t know him, he recognizes him from a tape with some absurd name like Sex Kittens 4 that featured a surprising amount of doggy style, considering the title.

Plus you in a never-ending stream of animal-print bikinis.

(He definitely did NOT go looking for every movie you’d ever made. No, that would be ridiculous. He just sort of…happened across one. Or five.)

And it’s not that he’s jealous—because there’s nothing to be jealous of. You met him doing a job. A job very much like the one you did with Eddie. You’re just catching up with an old coworker.

It’s fine. Totally fine. Did he mention it’s fine?

But then Tom Wanks put his hand on your hip, and before Eddie can take even a second to think, or to rationalize his actions, he’s striding up to you and taking your hand to drag you away.

The beaded fringe on your dress swishes noisily as he brings you with him behind a curtain that was set up as a backdrop for more photos. In the shadows behind it, your eyes glint a little meanly and your voice is barbed when you ask what the hell is the matter with him.

And he’s really not sure.

Because much like you, he’s not used to this; he’s not used to not saying exactly what is on his mind at any given time; he’s not used to holding anything back—not when it comes to you.

“I should have stayed with you,” he blurted out at last. “That was messed up, I—”

Your face falls and you dodge his gaze. “It’s fine, Eddie. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I am worried about it,” he shot back. “I could have said something, I could have told them—”

“What for?” you mutter, arms crossing in front of your chest. You look at the floor, hurt. Not just hurt, disappointed. “I mean, what…what would be the point? It’s not like we’re…or that you’re…”

He watches the words stall behind your lips, all of them trying to fight their way out like people on a crowded bus. But in their efforts, they only wind up clogging the exit so nothing gets through.

“God, listen to me!” you laugh bitterly. “I sound like some crazy, jealous…something, and I don’t know why I’m getting this upset when you don’t even like me—”

“Wait, what? Who the fuck said that?”

He can tell you’re shocked by the panic that rises in his voice, staring back at him wide-eyed.

“Wh-when we were filming, you never kissed me. So I thought…”

You fell silent as Eddie’s hands covered the sides of your face. Softly cradling your jaw, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, he stares straight into your eyes and determinedly holds your gaze. 

Your breath stuttered, so lost in those deep brown pools you could hardly recall your own name. And even if you could speak, you weren’t entirely sure what you wanted to say.

Luckily, Eddie gave you something better to do with your mouth.

His lips meet yours in a gentle brush. His hold on your face never tightens, but you can feel the way his fingers flex like he’s resisting the urge to grip you harder. There’s a tenacity in his kiss, as if he’s trying to savor the taste of you, but struggling not to devour you whole.

You break apart too soon for his liking. He easily would have stayed there forever. And he braces himself for whatever might be coming—a slap across his face, a knee straight to his balls.

He might deserve both, but receives neither.

You don’t pull back so much as an inch, happy to let him keep your face close to his. He inhales shakily, still breathing you in, “I didn’t want the first time I did that to be on camera.”

You chuckle at him, dazed and grinning, trying to decide if this is a dream or not. If it is, you don’t ever want to wake up. You want to live in it. Your own hands creep up his stomach, tugging on his silky shirt, feeling the way he shivers in it when he feels the caress of your fingertips.

“What about the second?” you whisper.

And then he’s kissing you again.

Deeper. Hungrier. Messier.

He’s not kissing you like it’s his job; like he’s just doing what was written for him in a script—he’s doing it like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, desired, chosen to do. Like it’s all he needs.

Your bare back meets the cool wall as he pushes you up against it, sliding his hand inside the slit of your dress, hooking it under your knee to hitch your leg over his hip. He presses every single inch of himself against your seam, harder than he’s ever been in his whole fucking life.

The closest second being when you and he filmed just a few days ago.

You claw at him, pushing his suit jacket off his shoulders, pulling open more buttons on his shirt until the gossamer fabric tears and unravels.

“More,” he begs, kisses trailing down your neck. “Fucking please, sweetheart, I need more—”

Your hand takes on a life of its own, sliding down to cup his length through the luxurious suiting. It causes him to release a deep, desperate moan you can feel his lips spreading apart to let out. The sound of it ripples through your body like an electric shock in every extremity.

The dull roar of the crowd right on the other side of that curtain is only barely enough to cover the sound of you and Eddie’s passions. His touch is so enthralling, so engrossing, you are this close to letting him fuck you right there.

Room full of people be damned.

Eddie seems to have the same idea, his mouth blazing a trail down the middle of your chest and stomach as he drops to one knee, his other foot planted to support himself as he drapes your leg over his shoulder. A rush of excitement floods your body as you realize his intentions, fingers sliding into his unruly curls to grip them at the crown of his head.

But the very second his fingers pull your panties to the side and his tongue finds its home in your folds, a commotion breaks through your bliss.

There’s a loud crash as a cater waiter stumbles into the curtain obscuring your entangled bodies and drags it down with them as they fall.

Light floods the darkened space and a sound of collective amusement ripples through the crowd. No one is exactly surprised to see people hooking up—but it’s usually not until the afterparty.

Cocktail hour isn’t even over, for crying out loud.

Then they realize who it is.

The shutters of opportunistic photographers snap as you give Eddie’s hair a sharp tug. But he just moans loudly—too absorbed in what he’s doing to even realize what’s happened.

Finally, you pull him off your clit and he looks over his shoulder at the rest of the room.

Another round of snaps and flashes go off and his eyes return to yours, brightening when he sees the way you’re covering your mouth, fighting back laughter. His own lips, still shiny with your arousal, spread into a wide grin. His gaze lands on an emergency exit and he jumps to his feet, taking your hand in his and pulling you towards it tucked securely under his arm.

Flipping off the room behind him as you leave.

Together.

The trip back to your apartment is the longest cab ride of your life.

Whereas on the way to the convention center, you’d ridden mashed against your door trying to leave a respectable distance across the middle seat, Eddie practically has you in his lap on the way back. It’s like he thinks he’ll die if he stops touching you for even a second—lips on your neck, his hands roaming hungrily, whispering filth in your ear under the cover of the radio.

You do your best to catch the driver’s eye in the rearview, trying to shoot him an apologetic look or at least mouth a wholly insincere ‘sorry’ for the display. But he seems unphased.

Still, you stuff a wad of extra bills in his hand as you scramble out of his car. Unceremoniously crashing through the front door, you’re lucky not to break it down in your haste to get Eddie inside.

Of your apartment, that is.

Lips locked for every step across your cramped studio, you tumble to the bed and let out a soft grunt when a plastic hanger digs into your back. Hearing you yelp, Eddie pulls back and can see you’re lying on top of the ten or so discarded outfits you went through trying to decide on what to wear tonight. Sequins rustle under your bodies as the bed shakes with your gentle laughter, and Eddie drops a kiss to the tip of your nose before he climbs off you. Reluctantly.

He watches while you gather the dresses strewn across the bed, smiling when you try and stuff them back in your closet, fumbling with only the amber street light filtering through your blinds to see by. When you finally turn back to face him, he’s still smiling. Head tilted at you, eyes slowly raking over your form, heart rate picking up in his chest when yours do the same to him.

The pause is nice. It gives you both a minute to catch your breaths, for your brains to catch up with your bodies. Your steps turn careful and slow as you move towards him. With trembling fingers, he pulls open the last remaining buttons of his sheer shirt and lets it fall to his feet.

Remembering only just now that his jacket is still on the floor of that hotel ballroom.

You come to a stop in front of him and he closes the distance left. He reaches around you and pulls down the zipper of your dress, fingertips dragging lightly along your spine as he reveals it.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come to feeling like a gift someone is unwrapping.

With your dress pooled around your ankles, Eddie’s hands are free to wander. He runs them up and down your arms, sweeping them along the inside of your wrists to twine your fingers with his. He brings them to his lips to kiss and the sight of plush pink brushing your knuckles is bordering on being too much to handle—more erotic than anything you’ve ever filmed.

He’s going slow because it’s slowly dawning on him what you’re about to do. 

And how this time it’s not going to be for work or for a camera. It’s going to be real. 

Except…is it going to be real?

Should he do something different than what he did when you filmed? How can he, when he used all his best moves during the shoot? Shit…

He doesn’t want you thinking he’s just doing with you the same thing he does with everyone else; that this—that you—aren’t special to him.

Then suddenly, he’s not going slow anymore.

He’s stopped completely.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Y-yeah,” he chokes out, like the word is made of sawdust. “I just, ahhh…I don’t know, I think I’m psyching myself out? Thinking too hard.”

“Thinking about what?” you whisper, your teeth tugging back your bottom lip.

His head just shakes, eyes still scanning your face while his thumb lightly strokes your jaw, until he lets out a sigh that’s heavy with fondness and whispers, “How I don’t want to mess this up.”

He takes another deep breath, letting his forehead rest against your own as his chest shudders. Confounded as to how something he’s done in front of a whole-ass camera crew could make him feel so self-conscious when it’s just you here with him. A few seconds of silence pass until his lips part in a smirk and his gaze cuts to the side, right to where a camera would be.

“Is it just me…or does it feel like something is missing?”

It takes a few minutes of digging to find your old camcorder buried in the depths of your closet. 

Eddie chuckles when you emerge, brandishing it with a flourish and a little ta-da! before you set it on top of your dresser pointed at the bed, angling it slightly to properly frame the shot.

The red light blinks as you hit ‘record,’ barely taking a second to check if there’s a tape inside. You let it run, capturing your figures half in shadows as he sits on the bed and pulls you into his lap. He helps you settle on his thighs, runs his hands up the backs of yours, slips his long fingers under the elastic band of your panties to rest on your hip. He pulls them back and snaps them softly on your skin, earning a hum of approval from behind your pressed lips.

You wriggle on top of him and delight in how it makes his chest reverberate with a low groan.

“That better?” you whisper, the answer to your question immediately stiffening underneath you. He nods fervently, his voice tight and strained as he struggles to keep his cool.

“Wanna taste you,” he grunts out roughly.

He moves his hands to grip your waist so he can flip you underneath him, but your hands find his shoulders and stop him before he can.

Big, doleful eyes look up at yours, his face etched with concern as you shake your head. His bottom lip wobbles as he searches your face for why.

In a reassuring press, you mash your lips to his and lace your fingers behind his neck. You kiss all the air out of his lungs, until his fingertips are digging into your flesh hard enough to leave ten tiny bruises. You kiss him like you’re trying to take the weight of the world off his shoulders, like you’re going to accept his every burden as your own so he doesn’t have to carry them alone.

There’s a quiet pop as your mouths separate and you press your chest flush with his, wrapping your arms around his neck so your lips find his ear as your nose nudges through his curls.

“Tell me you want me,” you whisper. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“I don’t want it,” he groans back, “I need it. I’ve needed it since I fucking met you.”

The heat in his voice, the rumble of it in your ear, causes a wave of arousal to rush through your body. You unwind your arms from around his neck and slip slowly, painfully slowly, from his lap to stand between his legs. You place a finger under his chin and tip his face up for him to look at you, your thumb settling in the tiny dip at its center. Too small to see, it could only be felt.

“Everyone always uses you,” you tell him softly, almost mournfully.

His eyes stay wide and hopeful, never leaving yours as you sink down to your knees. His long, dark lashes flutter as your hands run up his muscled thighs, the edges of your thumbs grazing the outline of his cock. He hisses through his teeth and you grin devilishly at the sound.

“I want you to use me,” you instruct him. “Take whatever you need, as much as you want.”

And you can literally see how your words affect him, his eyes bugging wide as the wheels in his head are turning behind them. He reaches out to touch your face and you turn it to kiss his palm.

“Sweetheart, I—oh, fuck,” he gasps, cut off with your sudden squeeze of his clothed cock.

“I’ll stop you if I need a break,” you reply firmly.

The muscles in his neck pull taught as he nods. He leans back on one elbow, reluctant to let his other hand leave your face. You kiss his bare stomach along the top of his waistband and he curls his hand around the back of your head, gripping it tighter when you tug down his fly.

And you knew Eddie’s dick well by now. You knew it inside of you as well as out. But there was nothing that could have prepared you for the sight of it tonight. Thick, and veiny, and weeping with pre that dribbles down its sides. He’s almost ashamed of it, almost embarrassed by how hard he is for you; by how close he is to blowing his load when you’ve not even gotten started.

It was practically a miracle he didn’t soil the inside of his suit when you pulled his hair earlier.

His pupils are blown out when your eyes meet his, your lips hovering so close to his cock he can feel your breath on it. Saliva pools under your tongue so rapidly, you almost feel like you’re at risk of it spilling out of your mouth and running down your chin when you speak.

“Fuck my throat, Eddie. Please.”

And he does. He lets you set the pace at first, still holding fast on the back of your head he watches your lips surround his tip. His chest heaves with deep, gasping breaths as you take him fully into your mouth and start to bob on his perfect cock. It’s almost too much, too perfect, the feeling of your warm, wet mouth and your soft tongue and, fuck, your hand—

He pants wildly as you cradle his sack, your fingertips stroking them and spreading the spit from your mouth that’s dribbling down his shaft to his balls. They tense in your palm and his stomach tightens the faster your mouth moves, the more your throat relaxes to take him in deep.

The man who gives the best head imaginable finally having the favor returned.

“Jesus Christ…”

Eddie's words are whispered like a prayer and you look up to take in the sight of him.

Eyes pinched shut, his brows drawn like he’s in pain even though the sounds he’s releasing are nothing short of euphoric. You tease all the most sensitive nooks and crannies of his cock, all the places that make his eyes roll back and his head loll on his shoulders and his chest heave. Every ridge, every vein, every muscle that twitches under the attention of your tongue.

“Oh, pl…p-please,” he gasps, tightening his hold on your hair to still your movements as his hips start to move in an instinctive and primal thrust.

He hits the back of your throat and you swallow more of him down, taking him deeper, deeper until your nose brushes the wiry hair at his base.

You groan around his length, enthralled by the exquisite ache of him hitting your soft palate, and the sound is Eddie’s undoing. He lets out a long, low moan and spills hot and thick down your throat. His arm trembles as he fights his own iron grip on the back of your head, forbidding himself from pulling your hair. You can feel the tremors of his fingers against your scalp.

His abdomen spasms as you stroke him through the aftershocks, flirting with overstimulation. Fucked-out eyes, heavy-lidded and sleepy, but nothing short of reverent, find yours and they’re wet—shiny, shimmering with tears that crowd their rims and threaten to spill down his cheeks.

Quick as you can, you’re on your feet cradling his jaw to ask if he’s okay. And Eddie can’t answer, can only nod as he kisses, kisses, kisses your palm, the heel of your hand, your wrist, down the inside of your arm all the way to your elbow.

He can’t kiss you enough, it seems. 

You giggle softly as you sit beside him and reach out to ruffle his bangs, tucking some of his hair behind his ear and letting your touch linger on his neck. With the pad of your thumb, you brush a tear that has leaked out of the corner of his eye. He looks back at you with a smile and swipes the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth to wipe away a drop of his spend.

And you know there’s still a lot left to figure out—damage control that will have to be done, difficult conversations that will have to be had. There will be whispers and rumors and sidelong glances.

Not to mention the firestorm those pictures of you two at the ceremony will undoubtedly stir up.

But none of that matters right now. Nothing does, beyond this bed and this night. Nothing else even exists outside the confines of this room.

All that matters is you and him.

You lay there for a while, just…being. Your fingers tracing his tattoos and the soft planes of his chest and stomach; his, the slope of your shoulders and the lines of your body he’s always wanted to know better. Quiet words pass back and forth, teasing jokes and soft confessions. Admissions of fears that held you both back and don’t seem so daunting anymore. Don’t seem so scary.

When he’s hard again, you pick up the camera and point it at him as you guide him to lay on his back. You push in close on his face when you sink down fully onto his length and start to ride him at an egregiously slow pace just so your shot holds steady. And because he looks so pretty taking it.

“Something wrong, Ed?” you goad him a smidge, toying with him in more ways than one when your pussy squeezes so tight around his cock it makes him lose his breath and pant out of control.

“F-fu…fuuuuuck meeee…” he whines and writhes, throwing his head back into the mattress.

“Oh,” you chuckle at him, speeding up just a hair, “I’m sorry, is that not what I was doing?”

His head jerks up, eyes ablaze as he stares you down through the camera lens. You peer at him over the top of the viewfinder and shiver despite the thin layer of sweat building on your skin.

Okay, yeah, that might have been a little too far. Or just far enough, you think, almost giddy.

“Nah,” he growls, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smirk. “Sorry is what you’re gonna be.”

A loud squeal bursts out of you as he rolls your bodies to the side and pins you underneath him, somehow managing to keep himself seated inside you the whole time. Breathless, you watch as he takes the camera from you and practically tosses it away so he can hold your arms over your head. For a while, all it captures is a blurry close-up of your duvet cover, the frame shaking in time with every deep, solid thrust of Eddie’s hips that rattles the entire bed and you in it when he gets going.

Your moans and his grunts mix in a symphony that will surely earn you some side-eyeing from your neighbors tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to give a single ounce of a shit.

The song that you make together swells to a crescendo as you topple over the precipice you’ve been dangling off the edge of practically from the moment you met him. Eddie fumbles like mad for the camera and picks it up, recording your blissful expression before he swoops in to press his lips back to yours. Kissing you like he’s trying to eat you, like he’s trying to fuse your faces.

You’re certainly not complaining.

And now that he’s the one with the camera, he’s eager to keep going. He pans it up and down your whole body, guiding you into every filthy position he’s been imagining all those long nights alone in his bed. Through his eyes behind the lens, there’s not a single angle on you that isn’t pristine. 

He gets you up on all fours, films tight on your ass as he squeezes it and cracks his palm down on it when he lets go. The sting makes you keen, your back arching as your hips thrust back—seeking more, more. His hand then smooths over your buzzing flesh, soothes the ache he’s made.

And even as you’re making it, you can tell this is not just another sex tape.

It’s a love tape.

thank you for reading — love you, mean it! 🏝️

[phoenixrisingastro]

Astro Observations IV: Forbidden Truths & Sinful Secrets

1. Mars in Scorpio people don’t fck, they possess. They don’t chase, they lurk. You won’t even know they want you until they’re inches away from your soul, whispering your own secrets back to you.*

2. Venus in Capricorn doesn’t fall in love; they build empires of desire. If they choose you, it’s because you fit into their long-term vision—your love is a contract, and breaking it means war.

3. Moon square Pluto people don’t cry in front of you. They suffer in silence, alone, in the dark, and when they come back? They make sure you never see the body they had to bury to survive.

4. Neptune in the 1st house people don’t walk—they float. They’re untouchable, ethereal, but also impossible to fully know. You’ll fall in love with them and never realize it was just a mirage.

5. Mercury in Aries people will start a fight just to see you react. If your words don’t have a pulse, they get bored. If your mind isn’t sharp, they move on. They want lovers who can keep up, or they’ll leave you in the dust.

6. The 8th house stellium gaze? It’s hypnotic, seductive, and unreadable. They could be planning your demise or memorizing every detail of your soul. Either way, they’ll make sure you never forget them.

7. Jupiter in the 8th house people don’t just attract money—they manifest wealth through the power of the unseen. When they align with their shadow, they unlock a financial glow-up no one saw coming.

8. People with Pluto in the 7th house don’t fall in love—they get entangled. Their lovers either break them or make them invincible. There’s no in-between.

9. Sun square Moon people feel like they were born into a life that doesn’t fit them. Their head and heart are constantly at war, and relationships feel like learning how to love through conflict.

10. Lilith in the 10th house women are sex symbols even if they don’t try to be. They can be wearing sweatpants, no makeup, and people still assume they’re dangerous. And they are.

11. If you’ve ever been with someone whose Mars squares your Venus, you know the feeling of wanting someone so bad it physically hurts. The attraction is undeniable, but so is the destruction.

12. The 12th house Moon is haunted. They carry emotions that don’t belong to them—ancestral grief, past-life wounds, the collective’s sadness. They feel everything, and yet, they always seem just out of reach.

13. A North Node-South Node synastry connection? It feels like coming home and being exiled at the same time. You recognize them, but you also know you can’t stay.

14. Saturn in the 5th house people don’t get to experience carefree love. Their heart has been weighed down by karma, responsibility, and self-doubt. They don’t trust joy—but when they finally do, it’s unshakable.

15. Venus-Pluto aspects in synastry are karmic handcuffs. You’re drawn in, trapped in the intensity, and even when you walk away, you can still feel their fingerprints on your soul.

16. Mercury in Scorpio people don’t just speak—they infiltrate your mind. You could tell them a lie, and they’ll just stare at you, waiting for you to crumble under their silence.

17. People with their Sun in the 8th house don’t age—they evolve. Every few years, they shed their skin and become unrecognizable, leaving behind a version of themselves that no longer exists.

18. *Uranus in the 7th house? Relationships never go as planned. They fall in love with people they never expected, experience breakups that come out of nowhere, and learn that love is only real when it’s free. *

19. Mars in Leo lovers don’t beg for attention—they demand it. And if you don’t give them the passion they crave, they’ll find someone else who will.

20. Neptune square Venus people always see lovers for who they could be, rather than who they are. They ignore the red flags, rewrite the truth, and wonder why their love stories always end in disillusionment.

21. Moon in Aquarius people love like a midnight breeze—detached, refreshing, but always just out of reach. You can hold them, but you can’t own them.

22. If you have your Midheaven in Scorpio, your rise to success is slow, secretive, and unstoppable. You transform your image like a phoenix, and by the time people notice, it’s too late—you’ve already won.

23. Chiron in the 1st house people were born with wounds that aren’t theirs. They grow up feeling like they have to prove their worth, and only after years of struggle do they realize they were whole all along.

24. People with Mars in the 4th house either had to fight for their safety as children or learned how to build emotional walls so high that no one could ever hurt them again.

25. Sun conjunct Pluto people can’t be ignored. You either love them, fear them, or want to be them. There’s no middle ground.

26. Jupiter in Aries people make their own luck. They don’t wait for doors to open—they kick them down and walk through like they own the place.

27. The 6th house ruler in the 8th house? Work and death are somehow intertwined. Maybe they work in psychology, healing, or dealing with taboo topics. Maybe they’re just always on the edge of transformation.

28. People with Mars in the 12th house are warriors in the shadows. They don’t fight in the open—they strategize, plot, and strike when you least expect it.

29. A Venus square Saturn woman has a heart made of glass covered in barbed wire. She loves deeply, but only lets a select few inside. If you break her trust, you’re dead to her forever.

30. If you’ve ever been obsessed with someone and couldn’t explain why, check your Pluto synastry. The planet of control and destruction doesn’t just connect people—it binds them.

**Thanks for all the love on my posts! Will keep them coming everyday.

[svetamillss]

omg I love your writing, can you do one with squid game characters seeing the several bruises on your body that you have been trying to hide pls?

Headcanons: their reaction to your bruises🩵

Featuring: Cho Hyun Ju x Reader(f), Thanos (Su Bong) x Reader(f), Se Mi x Reader(f)

Summary: you studied at the university. And often faced bullying. Many guys humiliated and beat you, which caused you to have bruises that you tried to hide.

A/N: Thank you very much for such a charming order! I hope you liked what I wrote!

🩵🩵🩵

Cho Hyun Ju

You didn't want to tell your girlfriend anything about it, because she had her own problems because of the transition to a girl. That's why you tried to hide all your bruises.

But you couldn't do it forever. After all, you sleep in ordinary pajamas, which opens your skin of your feet and hands well.

And because of this, the following situation occurred.

Ju was already lying in bed when you quickly came running and covered almost with a blanket, it worried her.

- Did something happen, baby? Why did you hide from me? - she asked, looking only at your head, which was looking out of the blanket.

- I'm just cold, don't worry.

- Hmm..but now the weather is hot..and you often started wearing warm clothes. Maybe you're sick??? Then don't cover yourself up so much!! - the girl said excitedly, removing the blanket from you, you tried to stop her, but nothing came out, she defeated you.

Pulling off the blanket, Hyun Ju noticed a lot of bruises on her arms and legs, her face turned pale sharply.

- Baby... Why do you have so many bruises??? - you had no choice but to confess everything.

After your story about being beaten at the university, Hyun Ju got very angry, preparing to deal with your abusers at such a late time, but you barely stopped her.

- No one will dare to touch my baby with a finger. Tomorrow I will go to your university and deal with everything. And I don't care if they look at me askause, I won't let them touch you.

Your favorite girl will definitely deal with your abusers, that there will be no wet place left from them.

Thanos (Su Bong)

In your opinion, the guy was not the one who would worry about the problems of others, even if something happened to loved ones.

That's why you decided not to tell him anything, but just put on clothes with long sleeves so that nothing could be seen.

But you didn't take into account the fact that Su Bong is quite observant and quickly notices changes, especially if they concern you.

You were going to go to the movies. You put on a long-sleeved sweater again, not paying attention to the fact that it was quite hot outside.

- Are you a fool? - he asked rudely, entering the room, seeing how you were dressed.

- What are you talking about?

- Have you seen the weather outside? Why the fuck are you dressed like in winter? Go change your clothes! - he was worried about you, although he showed it in a different way, you decided to take a chance and admit what was going on.

- I can't dress openly yet.

- Why else is that?

And you told him everything, from the beginning to the very end. His face changed with each new word, from neutral to more evil.

- WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU SILENT?! - he shouted, but you understood that he was not shouting at you, but because of the whole situation.

- I thought you wouldn't be interested..

- Fuck! You're completely crazy! How could you think that?! It makes me very angry! That's it! Tomorrow I will go and kill everyone who touched you. I'll do everything so well that they won't suit you anymore. If, of course, they stay alive.

You couldn't refuse him. Although, even if you refused, he would still do his own thing. After all, he loves you very much.

Se Mi

The girl worked very hard, so you didn't want to burden her with your problems.

But Se Mi was very attentive and therefore immediately noticed that you began to wear baggy clothes, although you usually wore more open clothes.

- Honey, have you decided to change your image? - she asked, laughing a little, when she saw you in a huge sweater.

- I just decided to experiment.

- When you lie, your ears turn red. - she said, after which you immediately covered your ears with your hands, realizing that she caught you.

The girl came close to you and said in a stern tone:

- Undress. I have to see what you're hiding from me. - you blushed from her words,but obeyed and showed all your bruises.

The girl gently stroked the places of your bruises, silent for a long time.

- Se Mi?

- Who did it? - you explained everything to her, she was angry, but tried not to show it to you.

- Don't hide it from me anymore. Tomorrow I'll deal with everything and everything will be fine.

Se Mi never throws words to the wind, she will help you cope with everything. She won't care that she's a girl and go deal with the guys, your safety is the main thing for her.

🩵🩵🩵

[oneofreid]

a maternal wish (18+)

summary: in which she wants to be a mother and spencer reid is willing to make that wish come true.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: (NSFW) slow burn smut i promise it’s worth it, talks about pregnancy and possible infertility, slight spanking, explicit language, unprotected (p in v) sex, oral sex (m!receiving AND f!receiving), hints of breeding kink if you squint

a/n: i didn’t realize how long i made this. atp i just let my mind do the work while i type. is this cannon? no. will i still post it? yea. masterlist

When you were younger, you always knew you wanted to be a mother. The idea of bringing another life into this world and being able to call them ‘yours’ creating a warm and familiar feeling. One that set off your own maternal instinct. Yearning to love and protect a child of your own as you watched them grow into their own individual person. Teaching them everything that you know, telling them stories of your own childhood, creating countless memories that you can look back on, celebrating their highs and comforting them during their lows. But most of all, the one you craved the most, the bond you would have with your own mini me as you saw the love and magic through their eyes.

Not to mention the many compliments you have received whenever you babysat your nieces and nephews, their mothers telling you how much of an amazing mother you would make someday.

Someday.

That word echoed in your mind as you walked past the countless of mothers in New York. A pang of sadness and jealousy always striking you as you envied them. The happiness in their faces while they walked with their child whether it was one or two maybe even three or four. An ache in your chest grew as you wondered what it would be like to nurture a child. One that you could give the life that you never got to learn.

Everybody knew how badly you wanted to be a mother. Spending countless hours beaming about babies and all things surrounding pregnancy, your teammates — and best friends, JJ, Emily, and Penelope always being the ones first hand to experience this side of you.

Constantly having to drag you away from the baby sections in stores, or listen to you gush about how cute a baby was that you passed.

‘Look how cute and chubby their tiny hands are! I would give anything to squeeze them.’

They could never get enough of your constant daydreams as you talked about motherhood. Envisioning what your life would look like taking care of a mini you. Only praying that one day that dream of yours would come true.

It was a slow day at the BAU, all of you doing your own thing as you sprawled out on the couch. Your feet laying on JJ’s lap while Penelope was on the opposite end, dully scrolling through the channels on the TV in your breakroom. All of you sat in silence until a photo of your cousin with her newborn baby girl popped up on your phone. The familiar ache in your chest appeared as you showed all three of the girls.

“Look how tiny she is,” you exclaimed. Adoring how precious the bundle of joy looked in her tiny hat and little fists balled up. All of them joining you in gushing about how adorable the petite newborn was.

“I just want one so bad,” you sighed. Shutting off your phone as you pressed your eyes shut. The weight of your longing to have a child of your own was heavy on your mind.

“You could always get a sperm donor, you know? I know you said you hated the idea and wanted the baby to grow up with both parental figures. But maybe look more into it, your baby would have an amazing group of uncles and aunts to love and protect them,” JJ assured you, giving you a knowing smile that even if you did decide to raise a baby alone. You and the baby would have plenty of support from the BAU, and the few family members who stuck around once you left your hometown & past life behind.

“Not to mention, you would make the best mommy ever to her! Or him…they would have the best mommy ever. And oh my gosh, how could I forget, pregnancy would look absolutely stunning on you. Kissed by the pregnancy Gods with that glow,” Penelope gushed. JJ and Emily agreeing with her on the fact that a growing baby bump would suit you well.

“I don’t know guys…I’m about to turn 36 years old. My time to have a baby of my own is practically gone. I should just forget it and stay being the cool, rich, secret spy aunt.” You sighed, sitting up from your position on the couch to run a stressed hand through your hair.

“That’s not actually true,” all of you turned your attention towards the tall figure who stood in the doorway, “I mean yes, the number of eggs a woman has in her ovaries does decline as she ages. However, it’s not totally impossible to have a child at your age. 20% of woman usually end up having kids after the after of 35. Erramatti Mangayamma, a woman living in India, was 73 when she gave birth to her child through IVF.”

The four of you stared at Spencer Reid, for what felt like longer than a minute before you spoke up, “I’m just tired of waiting for the right person to have a kid with. That’s what’s holding me back,” you blinked away a few tears that threatened to spill out, “I want the perfect family. Two loving parents. One solid household. Something I never got myself,” you continued.

The room grew quiet again. Nobody knowing what exactly to say as everyone gave you a sympathetic look, JJ offering you gentle squeeze on your shoulder. Spencer awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another as he began to ponder in his mind.

He wanted a baby too. He just wasn’t sure if he was the perfect fit, your ideal father figure for yours.

Emily jumped up. Her phone going off, “Sorry to interrupt guys but we’ve got a case. Hotch wants us in the briefing room now.”

Everyone standing up to leave. Just before you could follow the others, Spencer lightly grabbed your arm. Stopping you completely in your tracks. His warm eyes already filled with some form of hesitation.

“Hey, after we’re done. Let’s meet at my apartment, our usual time. Okay?,” he whispered. Making sure no one else around you could hear. His tone slightly different and his demeanor more on edge, nervous, than before.

“Of course, is everything alright?,” you questioned.

Spencer gulped, offering you a small smile. “Yea, yea everything is perfect. I just…I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Spence,” you smiled. Leaning forward to place a quick kiss on his temple before heading towards the briefing room. Leaving him alone with his thoughts as he followed slowly behind you.

His stomach suddenly tying itself together in knots as the idea of having a kid together, with you ran through his mind.

Spencer always wanted to have a child of his own. Although life had a different plan for him, he was always still open to the idea of one day settling down and starting a family with someone. As time passed by and he got older, just like you, the dream that he once had seemed to be fading away.

That was until he began exploring his relationship. Although you two kept it strictly sexual, friends with benefits at most, the idea of you two getting married and becoming something more always lingered in the back of his mind.

Yet, for some odd reason, neither of you ever had the courage to finally make that move. Afraid that you’d ruin what you already have seeing as you two both had complicated love life’s. So you just stuck to being co-workers that happened friends who liked to fuck sometimes. Okay, more like any chance you got.

Or as it was actually called, friends with benefits.

Fumbling with the material of your shirt, you found yourself at the foot of Spencer’s door later that night. The place you always found yourself at where you indulged in cheesy rom-coms, read your weekly novels together, learned a new recipe, or talked about different wide world phenomenons and conspiracy theories. A space where you were welcomed to let your wildest sexual fantasies come true as Spencer made love to you in endless ways.

Your heart began to race as you contemplated actually knocking or turning around to leave. A feeling in the pit of your stomach telling you that tonight would be different.

Not having any time to second guess and change your mind, Spencer’s door flew open. His brown eyes staring right at you, your body already growing hot and bothered at the thoughts of the countless positions he will put you in.

“Hey,” Spencer spoke, a grin already making its way onto his face.

Your heart fluttered even though you had just seen him a few hours prior when you had landed back from yesterday’s case, “Hey.”

“Uhm. Hey, Come on in,” he moved out of the way. Leaning against his door, extending an arm out in a gesture that said ‘this way please.’

You offered him a small smile as you walked past him, admiring his apartment. Still in the same condition it was when you had left it a couple days prior. Hearing the click of the door closing itself shut when a pair of strong arms wrapped their way around your waist, turning you around.

Spencer looked down at you, the same look he had given you earlier being written all over his face again.

“What’s wrong?,” you asked. Genuinely concerned that Spencer was having second thoughts about to tonight.

“Can we sit down? Talk for a second?”

Fuck. He doesn’t want to have sex with me anymore.

Did I say something that offended him?

Is he going to tell me that he just wants to be strictly friends now?

A lump grew in your throat as your mind began to race, the many questions and doubts that flooded your mind about what possibly Spencer needed to sit down to tell you. Allowing him to guide you to the brown leather sofa that sat in his living room. Sitting down beside him as you looked everywhere besides at him.

You took a deep breathe, picking at the skin of your nails before finding the courage to speak, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Uhm. Everything is already. I just…what I would really like is,” Spencer paused for a moment before blurting it out, “I want to have a baby with you.”

Your eyes widened. Your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest. The air suddenly being knocked from your lungs while your mouth got super dry.

“Spencer…,” you began.

“I’m serious. I want a baby with you. And I know, this is out of the blue. Our situation is nowhere ideal for the typical upbringing of a children. Hell, we’re not even in an official relationship yet,” Spencer rambled.

“Where is this even coming from, Spence?,” you asked. Unsure of what prompted him to even think of having a baby with you, you, of all people.

He sighed, “Back in the breakroom before we left for the case, I heard you talking to Garcia, JJ, and Emily about how badly you wanted kids. How you wanted your own to raise and love. Anytime that a baby is around you, you are always eager to hold them and your eyes light up.”

You nodded, listening intently to what he had to say as you followed along, “It got me thinking. We’re both in our late 30s. Our relationship is progressing and heading in the right direction. We both want the same thing. To have our own kid, raise them in a stable home with two loving parents. Something we both never had.”

“But what if this, I mean us, doesn’t work. Having and raising a kid isn’t something to take lightly, Spencer.” You pointed out, not knowing if he was actually serious about having a child with you. Or if he was just jumping at the opportunity.

“It’s not something to take lightly. However, I want this and more importantly, I want you. All of it. All of you. Our future. Raising our child or if willing, children, together and growing old. Drinking our coffee, reading our books, watching those horrible reality tv shows that you weirdly seem to love. I never thought I would see myself like that with anyone…,” he grabbed your hand, his warm eyes still completely locked and focused on you, “but I want this life with you.”

Before he could get in another word in, you pulled him up from the sofa. Closing the gap between you two, you crashed your lips onto his. The kiss so rushed yet passionate on both of your ends. You began to moan, melting into him as his large hands roamed your body.

Your own hands finding their way to tug at his hair, pulling him even close to you until there was no room for air. Tugging and gripping at his brown locks while moans left his lips, still hungrily kissing yours. Guiding you towards his bed as the back of your legs hit the soft mattress, sending you both on top.

The kiss you exchanged completely heated, both of you desperate to touch each other properly. Breaking apart from the kiss, Spencer looked down at you with lust-filled eyes. A softness clouding over them as his fingers grazed the collar of your shirt. His shirt. The metallica one that he had let you borrow the one morning you left his apartment after one of your ‘sleepovers.’

“Can I?” Spencer asked, delicately tugging at the loose fabric that covered you, his eyes searched yours for any uncertainty.

Grabbing his wrist delicately, you reassured him. “Spencer, I trust you.” Putting his mind at ease. Allowing him to pull your clothes off of you before he did the same. Pealing his clothing off until the two of you were completely bare. His eyes only growing more infatuated at the sight of you naked and ready for him on the layout of his bed.

Knowing this time would be different than the others you two have had sex.

Spencer slowly took his time to kiss every inch of your body. His lips making their way from your collar bone to the inside of your thigh, sucking on the skin to leave bruises. Marking you officially as his.

“About to make you feel so good, baby,” he mumbled.

“Spencer…I-Ohhh” you moaned, his fingers dipping slightly to graze you only to attach his lips to your folds. Head nuzzled between your soft thighs as he kneeled in front of you, your core pulsing at the sight of him devouring you like you were his last meal.

Watching him suck the bundle of nerves, the arousal in your heat pooling. The sight of him flicking his tongue while he swirled that silver tongue of his on your area driving you feral. Your hands gripping his hair while you pushed his head further, feeling your stomach tighten.

His moans vibrating against your cunt, sending you even further into your climax. Still violently flicking and licking your fingers with every swish of his delicious tongue. You panted heavily, the pace of his swirling and sucking quickly increasing until you came hard.

Humming in approval, Spencer looked up at you. His eyes clouded with hunger and lust while he licked his lips. Collecting the remnants of your cum before swiping his tongue on the inside of your thighs.

“Sweet, you taste like heaven, my love,” he praised. A smirk being sent your way while you eyed him, the bulge more than evident as his cock restrained against his boxers.

“Do you trust me?” You asked, eyes looking up at his brown ones. Still needing the reassurance that he was comfortable with you pleasing him. A boundary you two have respected since the day you first hooked up with each other.

Reid’s eyes softened again, still not used to someone caring for him that much during their most intimate times. A small smile on his face, he grabbed your hand before giving it a squeeze.

“I trust you.”

His eyes softening again, still not used to someone asking for his consent. A small smile on his face, he grabbed your hand before giving it a squeeze.

Giving him a quick kiss, you tugged his boxers down. Your eyes now leveled with his hardened length as his tip glared at you red and angry. Slowly pumping his cock, you ran your hands up and down his shaft. Feeling him tense under your touch, you began to work your mouth on his tip.

Swirling your tongue around his tip, collecting a few drops of pre-cum. Loving the taste of him on your tongue. Arousal soaking your folds again while you thought about him filling you, putting a baby, his baby inside of you.

“You’re so beautiful, Spence,” you cooed. Stroking his cock in your hand, slowly rubbing your hand up and down it. His tip red and aching due to how hard he was for you.

A blush crept on his cheeks at your compliment, muttering a small ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re so pretty’ before peppering kisses down to your collar bone.

Catching Spencer completely by surprise. You grabbed his length by the shaft, forcing it down your throat. Till his tip hit the back causing you to hold back a gag as you choked due to his size. Your saliva coating his cock as you began to hollow your cheeks in and out. Creating a sucking motion as you slid his cock up and down, Reid’s moans filling your ears sending you in a spiral. His fingers knotting through your hair to shove your head further down his cock.

“J-Just like that, honey,” he moaned. The pet name he has only ever used for you falling from his swollen lips.

His moans filled the silent room, continuing to fist your hair while he face fucked you. Tears running down your cheeks with every thrust of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Grabbing the back of his muscled thighs to get a better grip for stability.

“Fuck, you feel-“

In a swift motion, Spencer flipped you on your stomach with your ass on full display for him. Hearing the rustling of his sheets behind you, he climbed on the mattress. Grabbing his still achingly hard dick before running the tip teasingly up and down your wet folds.

A moan leaving your lips while you withered beneath his touch, growing desperate to feel him inside of you again.

“Use your words, baby. What do you want me to do you?” He nipped at the skin of your ears, sucking lightly.

“I….want you,” your breathe hitched as the tip of his cock filled your entrance, shutting your eyes tightly.

“What was that, sweetheart? I need your words. Where’s my please?” He halted, stilling his movements. Your core ached, begging for more of his cock to fill its velvet walls.

Little shit. You rolled your eyes, growing impatient by the second. Debating on just taking his dick into your own hands so that he would finally fuck you. His hands grasping your arse before smacking one cheek. Hard.

“Ohh. Fuck. Spencer, I want….I need you to fuck me. Please, pretty please baby. Fill me with all of your cum until it’s dripping out of me. Till I’m pregnant with your baby. Want to make you a daddy so bad-“

A strangled moan left your lips as Spencer finally thrusted into you, hard and fast. Leaving you no room to breathe while you struggled to catch your breathe. The wind knocked out of you as he continued to thrust into you from behind.

“Yes. Spence, baby, harder. I know you can fuck me harder,” you panted. Ready for him to completely stretch you to your limit.

Feeling completely feral as the bed rocked beneath you. Spencer’s movements harsh and rough, gaining more momentum with every thrust, railing into you from behind. His hand gently wrapped around your throat while he pounded into you underneath. The tip of his cock hitting your g-spot sending moan after moan to leave your body.

His grunts and lewd moans in your ear while he held you flushed against his chest, leaning your head to fall back onto his shoulder. Sweat dripping down both of your bodies as the room grew thick with heat and arousal.

“I can’t wait to fill you with my cum….Watch it drip outside of you. Having you wish that I could fuck you this good every single night while your pregnant with our child, right baby? Isn’t that what you want,” Spencer breathed, his own pants in your ear, moaning louder than you have ever done before.

Roughly pulling out his cock before flipping you over. Your back hitting the mattress while you lifted your legs up, wrapping them around his waist. His hand grabbing to support you up. Spencer thrusting back into you like he never pulled out, both of you keeping eye contact while tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Need to see you…you’re so beautiful, my love. Just look at you. Might have to put a ring on your finger too,” Spencer whispered in your ear. Moaning in your ear as your pussy clenched at his promising words.

The coil growing in your stomach as you peaked in your high. Thrust after thrust, Spencer added more momentum, quickening before finding another steady rhythm. An ache growing between your legs, a definite sign that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Your nails dragging along his back only to pull him in for another kiss. Not having enough to taste of him, you moaned into his mouth. His thrusts never faltering as his cock twitched inside of you. Clenching your walls around his thick shaft, pushing him to release as hot spurts of his come filled you. Your own release mixing with his while he slowly thrusted inside of you. His lips still entangled with yours, nipping at your bottom lip while your tongues swirled. Tasting every bit of each other.

Breaking away from the kiss, Spencer brushed his thumb under your eye. A few tears had fallen from the intensity and roughness of his handling. Both of you silently knowing that you could handle it and that you trusted each other.

He slowly pulled out of you, massaging the inside of your thighs before placing a delicate kiss on them. Leaving to get a wet towel as he gently cleaned your folds. A hiss leaving at your soreness and the harsh sensitivity of your nerves.

“Sorry, angel, I know you hate this part,” Spencer apologized.

You always loved how attentive and loving he was after sex. He always took care of you even if you wanted to rush out, he still made sure that you were okay after being so vulnerable.

“You don’t have to apologize, Spence, I appreciate you taking care of me after this” You smiled, still feeling on cloud nine from the work of his cock and tongue on you.

“I’ll be taking care of you nonstop for nine months then a little mini version of us for a lifetime,” he joked.

Your heart fluttered, still in awe of the fact that someone would want to have a child with you. Let alone someone like Spencer Reid.

“Do you think I’ll make a great…dad?” Spencer stammered. The word, and his soon-to-be new name, still so foreign to him.

His hand nervously playing with yours while he let it silently dawn upon him that he was actually to be one.

“The best. Spence….you are not like your father, you will never be like him. You will make an amazing dad, a caring one who will give his child the best upbringing and life possible that is full of nothing but love.”

Spencers eyes welled up with tears. getting choked up by your words. Knowing that you truly mean them. Already picturing your bump, all the milestones you’d celebrate together, and the life you would soon bring into this world.

He always dreamt of being a father. And now, that dream was become true all because of you.

[edisacornball]

When I was in middle school, I went to the book fair with just a dollar because I was poor, hoping I could find something there for a dollar. And to my great delight, I actually found a book for 99 cents! It was Once Upon a Marigold. A small, unassuming paperback I didn't expect much from, but it promised fairytale vibes, which was all I needed.

I devoured that book in one sitting. I didn't usually reread many books because the way I saw it, I was already fighting a losing battle with how many books in the world I wanted to read and how many new ones got published every single day. But I ended up rereading Once Upon a Marigold. And I reread it again. And again. I felt guilty, like I had an obligation of some sort to try new things, but that didn't change how much I loved rereading this one particular book. I reread that paperback so many times that the pages eventually fanned and fluffed out. The spine wasn't broken, I took very good care of my beloved book. It had just been read so many times that it was like the pages got stuck in an eternal state of being read, the book looking three times as thick. Like how cream becomes whipped cream.

My mom noticed this book laying out one day and sat down and read it for herself, because she could tell I loved the book just by looking at it. She wasn't angry about the book, but she wasn't in love with it like I was. And something about that combined with her pointing out that she could tell I loved it by the state of the book... it made me even more self conscious about rereading it. So I tried to shock it away and not reread it again. I cracked and reread it a few times anyway, on dark nights when I needed an old friend, but I mostly tried to put it behind me. Focus on the books that everyone else was obsess with, that they understood being obsessed over (like a certain transphobic millennial phenomenon).

As an adult, I brought Once Upon a Marigold up again at one point with my husband, laughing about how kids just get randomly attached to the weirdest things, huh? And he very seriously said that if it had been that important to me, then he wanted to read it too. So, since I'd long ago lost all my belongings when I fled my childhood hone, we went to the library and checked it out. A new, hardcover copy with a different cover than the 99 cent scholastic cover I'd gotten used to. But even so, just having it around made me want to reread it again and see what my preteen self had been on about.

I bawled rereading that book with adult hindsight. It suddenly made complete sense why I loved the story about the lonely princess who no one would touch. The story that shows that when you find your best friend, your bulwark, there's nothing that can keep them away, nothing that can scare them off loving you, that they'll not only understand but love and relate to all your strange little quirks. The story that says you can go make your own happy ending for yourself if the one being pushed on you doesn't actually feel like a happy ending.

Or you are a little kid and there is some kind of vital nutrient absorption going on. I've never heard a better way of describing it. Sometimes, you just need a book to teach you a lesson that you're just not naturally getting from your environment. You might not know what it is from that book that you need so badly right now, but at least part of you knows enough. It's okay. It's okay even if that's the only book you ever read again. That's what books are there for, for us to reach out through time and space to one another, hold each other's hand and whisper,

You're not alone.

People who don't re-read books are so funny to me. "I know what happens"..?? Gurl I know what pizza tastes like, still gonna eat another one. I know what a rainbow looks like, you think that'll stop me running outside, camera in hand, to see the next one?

[melanated-writersblock]

Friends to lovers because THE STREETS NEED DAT!!!!😫 (me. I need dat. Expeditiously.) All Fluff! Blk Fem!Reader🫶🏾

Neighbor!Mingi who moved in next door to you over a year ago, and your first impression of him being him knocking on your door to introduce himself, SURE, but also to shazam the song you had playing on your TV.

Neighbor!Mingi who you got close to quick cause he’s just a cool guy. Weird? sure. A loser? Oh, absolutely. And you know what? Hell yeah.

Neighbor!Mingi who will enter your apartment through your fire escape window because “It makes life more exciting.” So whenever you host movie night you keep the window cracked so he doesn’t have to knock.

Neighbor!Mingi who will probably sleep through his alarms, so you wake him up so he’s not late for the subway to work (he misses it, you gotta drive him🥴).

Neighbor!Mingi who goes grocery shopping for HIS apartment but likes to cook in YOUR kitchen???? Then take the cooked food back to his apartment????? He shares and does the dishes, but damn?!?!??

Neighbor!Mingi who you force to watch all seasons of “Girlfriends”, “Living Single”, & “A Different World” with you, which wasn’t really forced cause he locks in on the drama quick. “The pizza guy is he-” “Wait! Wait! Dwayne is gonna crash Whitley’s wedding!”

Neighbor!Mingi who’ll rush over to kill a bug for you in an instant, BUT! He won’t leave unless you pay him in food or snacks. Every fucking time.

Neighbor!Mingi who keeps your company on wash day and will purposely take all day doing an intricate skincare routine out of solidarity.

Neighbor!Mingi who will hang out on your shared fire escape with burgers on Valentine’s Day because you both went on dates and they were terrible so now you have to debrief each other on your respective horror stories.

Neighbor!Mingi who buys two of everything so you can have one for your place as well.

Neighbor!Mingi who you invite to run errands with you because it got to a point where him just showing up at your window every now and again wasn’t enough.

Neighbor!Mingi who got drunk with you one night and got teary eyed hearing you sing your heart out to “Love and War” by Tamar Braxton.

Neighbor!Mingi who saw movers at your apartment and got sad that you were moving, so he wrote you a letter and left it on your fire escape window sill….

on a windy night….so it blew away…...🤦🏾‍♀️

Neighbor!Mingi who you actively watched attempt to pull off the sneaky letter delivery, and fail miserably in real time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him that night so you just wait until you see him again.

Neighbor!Mingi who is relieved once you explain that the movers were at your place because you’re getting in a whole new living room set and needed to remove your old one…but embarrassed after you admit seeing the whole mail thing go down.

Neighbor!Mingi who thinks “Fuck it, if not now then when?” and confesses to you. And you smile and laugh because FINALLY. You thought YOU were gonna have to do a cryptic confession and that probably would’ve been worse or 3x more embarrassing.😭

Neighbor!Mingi who, now, doesn’t need a valid reason to just show up at your apartment. And neither do you!

Neighbor!Mingi who rubbed off on you BAD so now you enter his place through the fire escape window at 6am on Saturday mornings to finish sleeping in while hogging 75% of the blankets, and there’s nothing he can do about it💁🏾‍♀️.

Neighbor!Mingi who’ll try to repair or diy things around your place so you don’t have to pay to have it fixed (but he lowkey sucks so you end up having to get it fixed regardless, BUT he pays for it because girlfriend privileges🫶🏾✨)

Neighbor!Mingi that invites his and your friends over for game nights only to jokingly send them home when you’re both getting collectively smoked. Yes, he still preps food and snacks in your kitchen just to bring it next door.

Neighbor!Mingi who leaves little remnants of his at your place. An extra toothbrush here, a sweater and a pair of shoes there. Also has a silk pillowcase on the bed for you at his place.

Neighbor!Mingi who you kinda don’t want to be your neighbor anymore.

Neighbor!Mingi that you propose should become Roommate!Mingi once his lease is up at the end of the year, and he kisses you before you can even finish the suggestion.

Neighbor!Mingi that just so happens to be an amazing boyfriend and will be one hell of a roomie!❣️

⊹ ₊ ❤︎₊ ⊹ Hope you liked it! Lemme know your thoughts🫶🏾 ⊹ ₊ ❤︎₊ ⊹

⊹ ₊ ❤︎₊ ⊹.Masterlist.⊹ ₊ ❤︎₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡♡₊˚⊹.Blacktiny Writers Hub.⊹˚₊♡⟡˙⋆

[lovewithmary]

loving hearts (and growing homes), max verstappen & charles leclerc — one

an f1 x mcu crossover

★ fc: madison beer ☆ pairing: stark!oc x max verstappen (current), poly!max verstappen x stark!oc x charles leclerc (future) ★ summary: evangeline "evie" stark has been the subject of headlines even before she was born, subjecting her to much scrutiny over the years. ever since she became a teenager, the media has always speculated on who she was dating, whether it be her long-time best friend/colleague peter parker, or fellow billionaire's child, harry osborn, or whoever they can connect evie with. frankly, it was a little disparaging considering that she's been in a relationship with one max verstappen since they were 15. however, once their relationship has been revealed, will their relationship stay the same, or does a certain monegasque ferrari driver have something to say about it? (spoiler alert: charles wants both of them, not just one) ☆ notes: to those of you who are familiar with my work, this is a reboot of one of my old series, (not) moving on. however, this series is not going to be like (not) moving on, as i've changed a lot of things about the series and what's coming up. so i hope you guys enjoy it!

( 1997, 2004, 2009 ) ( pictures are in chronological order )

( 2012 )

Evie's phone buzzed, removing her attention from what she was working on to grab her phone quickly. She smiled at the sight of Max's text and texted back.

"Is that lover boy texting you? Do I have to revoke your phone privileges or can you refrain from making puppy dog eyes at it?" Tony teased his daughter, fully knowing what was taking her attention.

Evie looked up to see that both her dad and Peter were looking at her. Her dad with the smug look he always made when he had caught her doing something, and Peter with a clueless expression, looking like he didn't have any idea what the conversation was.

She rolled her eyes, sending a response to Max's text before putting her phone down. "I was not making puppy dog eyes. And for your information, it was Max," she said, going back to her laptop.

"Lover boy, Max, same person," Tony remarked.

"Who's Max?" Peter asked.

"Max is..." Evie trailed off, not knowing if Peter was even allowed to know.

Despite her and Max getting together only recently, they had readily agreed to keep their relationship a secret. Not because they were ashamed of it, never because of that (if it had been Max's choice, he would've told everyone he knew he was dating the Evie Stark, future CEO of Stark Industries) (and Evie would've been telling everyone she was dating the Max Verstappen, future F1 WDC).

It was because of the media, for the most part. They both knew how vicious news outlets and gossip columns were, considering they had a few stories come out about them and they didn't even do anything. Evie was familiar with being rumored to be in a relationship with every billionaire son who was in a close age range with her, so she had her fair share of rumors.

"Just tell the kid, he might be here for long enough to meet Max anyways," Tony shrugged.

Evie turned to Peter and said, "Whatever I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room,"

Peter quickly nodded and said, "I won't tell anyone,"

"I have a boyfriend," Evie said.

Peter blinked. "That's it?"

"Okay, I am so not loving the enthusiasm right now," she said.

"I mean, everyone gets boyfriends," Peter shrugged.

"I missed it when you were scared of me and thought I was going to terrorize you," Evie sighed.

"The rumors called you scary! I thought if I looked at you wrong, you were gonna yell at me!" Peter defended.

Evie rolled her eyes and said, "The only reason why I don't want a lot of people knowing is because he's a driver,"

"So what, he drives? I don't have my license yet but that's only 'cause we're in New York and who drives in New York besides Taxi Drivers and Business Men?"

Evie already felt a headache forming. "Not just a driver, a race car driver,"

"Like Dom Toretto? Is that why you're hiding your relationship, because he's older and illegally drives cars? Is he bald too?"

"What—no, Peter, I am dating someone that's our age and drives cars professionally and in no way illegal. And not bald!"

"Oh, who is he? Maybe I know him,"

"His name is Max Verstappen and I highly doubt you know him,"

"Verstappen? Isn't he that driver guy that drove for F1 and Mr Stark talked to him once?"

"Ha, I want you to refer to Jos as 'that driver guy' and see how he reacts," Tony cackled.

"It's not Jos, it's his son. And don't say that ever again, I do not want that insinuation in my mind," Evie gagged.

"Did you guys meet when Mr Stark's nearly died in Monaco?" Peter questioned, the relationship piquing his interest.

It wasn't every day you'd be able to hear the relationship details from someone as well-known as Evie Stark, especially since she had made him swear he wouldn't say anything. Also since a driver wasn't someone he expected Evie to be interested in. Peter thought that she would be dating a billionaire's son or the son of a superhero.

"We met when we were kids, actually. His dad knew mine, and I'm pretty sure Jos was trying to get on Dad's good side using me. But now I'm dating his son and he can't get rid of me so that backfired on him since he and Dad just bicker all the time whenever they see each other," she told him.

"You don't like him, Mr Stark?"

"More like I don't like how he treats his son sometimes, but that's neither here nor there. I just try to make sure the kid gets to be a kid with Evie sometimes," Tony said.

Peter was about to ask one more question, but Evie's phone started to buzz incessantly, indicating someone was calling her.

And based on how Evie's eyes lit up and how she smiled, Peter could only guess that it was Max. "Can I..." Evie trailed off, looking at her dad.

Tony rolled his eyes and said, "Go,"

Evie stood up from her chair and gave a brief hug to Tony and a wave to Peter then said, "Talk to you guys later!"

( 2016 )

"You don't have to watch every race. The time difference is too much, especially here in Spain and you're in New York," Max spoke into the phone.

"Nonsense, if I don't watch every race, then I can't say that I'm the biggest Max Verstappen fan since day one, can I?" Evie replied.

Max smiled at that. Despite Evie regularly insisting she was the original Max Verstappen fan, he still couldn't get used to how much faith she had in him. At this point, it had been 4 to 5 years since he had asked her to be his girlfriend, and she still was so confident in his abilities to reach F1 that he had actually managed to achieve it.

Being together this long was impressive, especially since they were still young and long distance for the most part due to Max's career. But both of them were willing to make it work and put in the effort that was needed to keep the relationship strong. Like daily phone calls and text messages throughout the day helped them.

"Besides, I was already awake so I might as well stay up for a little longer to watch your race," Evie casually said, but Max knew better.

"Did you stay up late again? You know how messed up your sleep schedule is," he lightly scolded her.

Evie had a habit of staying up to work on projects, which she got from Tony. From what he knew, she mainly worked on her dad's Iron Man suits and Peter's Spider-Man suit. There were many sleepless nights Max had spent with Evie when he was over in New York, trying to convince Evie to go to sleep. Most of the time it worked, but other times, he resigned himself to staying up with Evie so she had someone to be with, even if she was focused on her project and wasn't very talkative.

"I'll go to sleep right after your race, promise," she said to appease him, which it kind of did (he would've preferred she sleeps now but he'll take what he can get).

"You wouldn't even miss anything, I probably won't even finish the race again with my luck," Max sighed.

He heard rustling from the other side and Max could just tell that Evie had sat up indignantly, ready to scold him. "Max, you can't say that!" she said, sounding angry at him on his behalf.

"Look, Schat, I'm just being realistic. It's a miracle if I even finish a race," he told her.

"That's not very future World Champion of you,"

"World Champions would finish races," he countered.

"Maxie, you're not gonna win anything—"

"Well, thanks for the words of encouragement,"

"If you let me finish, smartass, you'll hear me say you aren't gonna win anything with that mindset. And do you think that every World Champion is going to win automatically? It's a process, and you'll get better with time,"

"And how do you know?"

"Because you're Max Verstappen, and when you have your first WDC, I'll be the one beside you to tell you I told you so, and this time I'll be the Trophy Girlfriend," Evie teased.

( 2021 )

sinews has tweeted!

───

f1 has tweeted!

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f1gossip has posted on instagram!

29402 likes

f1gossip: Max Verstappen seen with mystery woman 👀👀

view the comments

user1: all these angles and you guys couldn’t even get her face??

user2: even dispatch could’ve gotten her face come on guys

user3: HE GETS BITCHES???

user4: all these years we thought he was bitchless, he just knew how to hide it from us

view all comments

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eviestark has posted on instagram!

liked by tonystark, peterparker, pepperpotts, and 9914509 others

eviestark: my world champion <3

i don't want to say i told you so but... i told you so

ive been in love with you ever since we were 15 and knew you'd become an f1 wdc for even longer than that.

happy 9-year anniversary and congrats to your first wdc (and many more to come)!

tagged: maxverstappen

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maxverstappen: I love you schatje ❤︎ by eviestark and 56733 others

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[itsnesss]

hello! could you write a junho x reader where he gets jealous??? and some fluff where he tries to act like hes not jealous but he totally is 😭

𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 | hwang jun-ho × fem!reader

summary | after a work event, jun-ho struggles to hide his jealousy when he sees you talking to a charming coworker. though he denies it, his actions give him away. with playful teasing and heartfelt reassurances, you remind him that he’s the only one who matters to you

warnings | fluff, romance, mild jealous

word count | 1.6 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The night was cool, and the air in Seoul carried a faint aroma of street food. You had just spent the last few hours at a social event for your office—a dinner that brought together every department at an upscale restaurant. It wasn’t exactly your idea of fun, but the company had been pleasant, especially one of your coworkers, Lee Min-kyu.

Min-kyu was known for being outgoing and friendly, always ready to help and with a charisma that drew everyone’s attention. You’d spent much of the night chatting with him, laughing at his jokes, and swapping work stories. It was so entertaining that you didn’t notice the message from Jun-ho, who had been waiting outside the restaurant.

When you finally stepped out, he was leaning against a wall in his black jacket, his expression as serious as ever. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed on the ground, but he straightened as soon as he saw you.

“How long have you been here?” you asked, surprised to see him.

“A while,” he replied, his tone casual.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

He shrugged.

“I didn’t want to interrupt. You seemed pretty entertained in there.”

You frowned, catching the faint sarcasm in his voice.

“Interrupt? Jun-ho, you can always talk to me.”

“Sure. But it looked like you had plenty of company,” he said, glancing toward the restaurant.

You turned, following his gaze, and noticed Min-kyu saying goodbye to the rest of the team, still smiling as always. Then you looked back at Jun-ho, who was now avoiding your gaze.

“Is this about Min-kyu?”

“What does he have to do with anything?” Jun-ho asked, feigning indifference.

“Come on, Jun-ho. I know you well enough to tell when something’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me. I’m just saying it must be nice to work with someone so... outgoing.”

His tone was neutral, but there was a slight tension in his words that made you smile to yourself.

“Yeah, it is nice. He’s funny, smart, and always knows what to say to lighten the mood.”

Jun-ho’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment before he replied.

“That sounds great.”

You decided to push him a little further, unable to resist.

“Actually, he said we should go out for coffee sometime.”

Now, you saw his eyes narrow slightly, though his posture remained relaxed.

“And what did you say?”

“I said it might be fun.”

Jun-ho went quiet, staring at the street as if weighing his options. Finally, he let out a slow exhale and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Well, I hope you two have a good time.”

You stopped walking, staring at him in disbelief.

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What else do you want me to say?” he asked, finally looking at you.

“I don’t know… maybe that you don’t like the idea.”

Jun-ho studied you, his intense gaze locking with yours, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Why would it bother me? I’m not that kind of person.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re clearly jealous, but you won’t admit it.”

Jun-ho raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

“Jealous? I don’t get jealous.”

“Yes, you do,” you said, smiling smugly.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why are you so serious?”

“I’m always serious. It’s my personality.”

“And why does it seem like you want to punch Min-kyu every time I mention him?”

Jun-ho let out a short, dry laugh, as if the idea were absurd.

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t have a problem with him.”

You stepped closer, standing right in front of him and forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Jun-ho, you don’t have to act like you don’t care.”

“I’m not acting.”

“Really,” you whispered, taking one of his hands in yours. “No one else interests me. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

For a moment, Jun-ho was silent, his gaze softening as he processed your words. Finally, he let out a sigh, narrowing his eyes slightly as if struggling with an internal battle.

“I wasn’t jealous,” he muttered, but his fingers gently squeezed yours, and his voice was softer.

“Of course not,” you replied, teasing lightly.

“I wasn’t.”

“Whatever you say.”

Jun-ho let out a barely audible laugh before pulling you gently into his arms, wrapping you in a warm embrace.

“Just don’t make me wait so long next time, okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You smiled, resting your head on his chest.

“Okay.”

Even if he’d never admit it, you knew you’d won this round. Because at the end of the day, his embrace said more than his words ever could.

[bedlam-barbie]

Crawling back to you

Or Attention part 2

Part 1

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader ; slight salesman x recruiter!reader for the plot

Warnings: hurt no comfort,some suggestive language, reader has BPD, mentions of mental illness

Summary: 3 months after that faithful night in the club, they meet again, only this time, the Frontman was not going to let her go so easily. 

Word count: 4.2k

Author’s note: I am so beyond grateful for all your comments and likes! I was truly not expecting for you to like my work. I was half expecting it to flop lol. Anyway, I am unsure where to go with this story if I should leave it as a two part or write more. So please tell me if you have any ideas or suggestions regarding the direction it should go in. In other news, it kind of got me excited to write for the Salesman as well. So please let me know if you are interested in a Salesman centric one shot. The Salesman’s name will be Gong Yoo as I am not creative enough.

The room was immaculate, every detail meticulously curated, as though plucked straight from the pages of an opulent design catalogue. Rich, dark drapes cascaded elegantly over the towering windows, leaving just enough of an opening to let the faint shimmer of stars peek through, casting a delicate glow into the space. Furniture in nude fainted colors. The air carried a quiet sophistication, but it felt almost surreal. If she didn’t know any better, she might have believed she’d just had sex in a high-end furniture showroom.

She quietly put her bra and underwear on, starting her search for the rest of the clothes throughout the apartment. The man she had just slept with was watching her every move from the top of the king size bed, an amused smirk on his lips.

“You know most women would jump at the opportunity to spend the night with me”

“Please, you already know I am not most women” she replied rolling her eyes. “Have you seen my shirt?”

“And what do I get if I help you?” he asked coily, slowly moving towards the woman like a predator watching its prey.

Her face turned to meet his, his eyes taunting her looking for a reaction. She tilted her head and gave him an innocent look. One of her hands sneaked around his neck, her fingers playing with his dark locks.

“Nothing” she said simply and then yanked him by his hair downwards. “We have an agreement, Gong Yoo, and I don’t very much enjoy when my toys overstay their welcome.”

“Tsk, and here I thought we were friends” the man replied amused, a sharp knife appearing suddenly, its blade now resting just under the woman’s chin.

Her soft giggle filled the room at the sight of the blade. This was exactly why he was her perfect match in her nocturnal activities. She did consider the Salesman, a friend of sorts. Well, as good of a friend a psychopath can be. Her head moved slightly, enough for the knife to press between her lips. Her tongue danced around the silver metal.

“And I thought you knew who you were sleeping with” she said casually. “Now, I do need to leave, we have an early flight tomorrow morning.”

She let go of his hair and took the sharp object out of her mouth. His body was still pressed to hers, wearing nothing and God he did look good. But somewhere in the back of her mind, was a familiar older face, chiseled to perfection, dark orbs full of secrets that could stare into her soul who knew her inside and out. She quickly dismissed the thought, focusing on the scene in front of her instead.

“How could I forget? It’s not everyday that the games celebrate 30 years. How would you like to be my date?”

She was not easily surprised by the man. She had come to know him almost better than herself in the last 3 years. And much more in the last three months. It all started once the games of 2020 ended and they went out for their yearly blackjack event. The night began as a way to hurt their boss, but the more days had passed she realized she liked the Salesman’s company. Not in a romantic sense, but definitely sexually. It was a welcome distraction from work stress and more importantly. From him.

It was almost unbelievable how she let a man toy with her emotions again. A part of her wanted to yell that she was over the man behind the black mask, that his rejection did not sting at all, that she simply went home with the Salesman that night because she wanted to. Not out of vengeance. Gong Yoo had become in a weird way her safe space. While the man was deeply disturbed, she saw him as predictable. When the words regarding the gala left his mouth, she was speechless. He could read the confusion of her face and smirked.

“Well, darling, we both know why we started our little randez-vous. The Frontman will be there, no doubt with a date, so I believe it would be in our best interest to show up together.”

“Interesting, and what is in it for you?”

“Oh, I am sure you can find a way to thank me that night” his eyes were dark and intense, watching her every move.

“God you truly are a narcissistic psychopath, huh?” she asked giggling like a schoolgirl.

“And you are such a borderline cliché, my dear” his smirked grew. “Do we have a deal?”

“Absolutely.”

There was an undeniable comfort in the rhythm they had fallen into. Their days followed a familiar pattern: each would go about their routine, which, now that the games were over, mostly revolved around endless paperwork and researching potential recruits for the next year. The office was stark and quiet, tucked away in the bustling heart of Seoul. Some days, the real fun began after hours. They’d invent new ways to compete, often over the most ridiculous games, challenges that almost always escalated until one—or both—ended up naked in her apartment or his. The routine was theirs, equal parts playful and intimate, a strange solace in a world that had once been chaos.

The woman couldn’t lie, not even to herself—she wasn’t over the Frontman. In fact, she hated how deeply he still had a hold on her, so much so that even hearing his name felt like a fresh wound being reopened. Every thought of him sent a volatile mix of emotions crashing through her—jealousy, pain, anger. She presumed it was all of them but mostly she felt worthless, abandoned. The demons in her mind weren’t new; they had taken root long ago, feeding on every rejection, every unanswered plea. And every time she recalled that morning, it brought her back to feeling like a forgotten child, desperate for even the faintest trace of love. But she wasn’t that child anymore. She had stopped begging a long time ago.

So his invitation, although unexpected, felt like the right call. Although not wanting to admit it even to herself, it gave a strange sense of comfort that Gong Yoo would be there by her side and she did not have to face their boss alone.

As they stepped into the dimly lit ballroom, her eyes instinctively scanned the space, searching for the black mask—and, more importantly, the man behind it. It was clear he played a significant role in the event’s orchestration. The room demanded respect. Every detail, from the grand chandeliers casting a warm, subdued glow to the meticulously placed furnishings, exuded deliberate perfection. The air was crisp, almost unwelcoming, with stone statues lining the room, their lifeless eyes seeming to watch her every move with an air of expectation.

A symphony of classical music filled the space, the notes rising delicately from a live band tucked into a corner near the expansive dance floor. The atmosphere reeked of opulence and elegance, yet an undeniable chill lingered, making the grandeur feel eerily detached. Conversations hummed softly, muffled by the anonymity of the masks each attendee wore. The VIPs, ever distinct, were adorned in elaborate gold masks, while the guards stood out with their pink ones. Management’s masks, jet black and severe, carried an air of authority, while hers—and those of the other recruiters—were a deep burgundy, striking but unmistakably subordinate.

She opted for a long gold dress. Her gown was a statement in itself, perfectly at home in the opulence of the ballroom. The fabric shimmered like molten gold under the dim light, every movement catching the soft glow of the chandeliers above. The structured corset-like bodice hugged her figure, cinching her waist and giving her the regal posture of someone who belonged in a room like this. The neckline swept off her shoulders, its draped detailing softening the otherwise commanding presence of the gown, leaving her collarbones and shoulders beautifully exposed.

The skirt flowed effortlessly to the floor, its subtle draping at the hip enhancing her curves and giving her an almost statuesque elegance. It was the kind of dress that didn’t just demand attention—it commanded it. Her strappy gold metallic sandals clicked against the marbled floor. Gong Yoo wore a burgundy suit perfectly tailored to his measurements, looking almost like her perfect accessory. They walked arm in arm to the bar.

“You clean up nicely, darling” his voice purred in her ear. “All of this for little old me?” he added mockingly.

“You know it, baby,” she whispered playfully. From the outside, they looked like the perfect couple. Too bad her eyes were looking for a particular figure in the sea of bodies.

And then she saw him, At the grand balcony overlooking the masses. The Frontman was a picture of restrained elegance, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit that exuded authority and quiet sophistication. The fabric was rich and matte, absorbing the dim light that filtered through the grand balcony. Beneath the perfectly cut blazer, a matching black vest hugged his frame, its buttons glinting subtly, accentuated by a delicate chain that trailed from one pocket—a subtle yet striking detail that added a vintage edge to the modern ensemble. His tie, jet black like the rest of his attire, was perfectly knotted, a seamless continuation of his sleek, monochrome look.

Seated on the grand balcony, the ballroom’s muted hum stretched out before him, but his focus remained inward. A glass of deep amber liquor rested casually in his hand, the light from the room catching the liquid’s warmth. His  posture relaxed but deliberate, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling on his sharp features. The boutonniere pinned to his lapel—a delicate arrangement of soft blooms—offered the only contrast, a fleeting touch of life against the otherwise dark, striking uniform. His familiar mask perfectly put onto his face. For just a moment, she forgot how to breathe. It was as if he felt her eyes lingering on him and instinctively went to her.

He raised his glass in her direction and tilted his head slightly before resuming his chat with presumably Il-Nam. The minor interaction made her pulse raise, blood rushing to her ears. God, why was she acting like a stupid little girl with a crush? Was he right that morning? Was she that pathetic? She quickly downed a glass of champagne.

“Atta, girl” Gong Yoo said amused. “ Just remember this is not the place for table dancing”

“Hilarious, does the humor come with the personality disorder or did you pay extra for that?”  she asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Who said I am wearing any?” she replied, smirking slightly.

“There she is.” He laughed, a sparkle playing behind those eyes. “Maybe you should stop speaking like that or I might come to collect that favor you owe me.”

“That’s if you can catch me before I turn into a pumpkin, Mr. Salesman. Now come on, I would like a dance” she replied innocently.

“Your wish is my command, darling”

As they weaved their way through the sea of elegantly masked couples toward the center of the dance floor, her gaze instinctively flicked to where she had last seen In Ho. But he was gone. Still, she could feel him—his presence lingering like a shadow, his eyes tracking her every move from some unseen vantage point. It sent a chill down her spine, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Not tonight.

The quartet began a new melody, its hauntingly beautiful notes echoing through the grand ballroom. Taking their positions, she and the Salesman fell seamlessly into the rhythm, their movements effortlessly synchronized. His precision was remarkable, each turn, step, and sway executed with an almost mechanical flawlessness that both impressed and unsettled her. He led with quiet confidence, his hand firm yet gentle on her waist, guiding her through the intricate dance as though they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

Her gown shimmered with every twist and spin, catching the light as their bodies moved in perfect harmony. For a moment, the rest of the room seemed to melt away, the opulent surroundings fading into the background. Yet, even as she danced, the weight of unseen eyes bore down on her, a reminder that the game they were all playing was far from over.

As Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons no 8 : Winter began to play, a chill swept through her, and with a sudden turn, she felt a cold hand grip her arm, pulling her toward him. Her breath caught in her throat. No—it wasn’t just any man. It was In-Ho. Her In-Ho. God, how she wanted to slap herself for thinking of him like that. With flawless precision, he guided her every step away from the eyes of Gong Yoo.

“In-Ho,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Hello, little dove,” he replied, his tone heavy with menace. “Did you enjoy playing house with Gong Yoo?” His words dripped with sarcasm.

She could feel herself getting angry again. How dare he speak to her this way after he was the one who pushed him towards the other man, himself?

“Funny. Almost as funny as your face that night in the club.” She replied coolly, maintaining his gaze. Although she could not see his face, she felt his body tense up , his grip on her waist hardening as well.

“Are you in love with him?” he asked directly.

“What is between me and Gong Yoo is none of your goddamn business. You are the one who threw me out like a rag doll you were done playing, or don’t you remember that? And now you are doing what? Ambushing me?”

Her words cut through the air like a knife, a sarcastic smile plastered on her face trying not to raise her voice. Although she did love indulging in creating chaos, she believed there was a time and a place. Surrounded by her colleagues and all the potential donors for the games? Not a bright idea. There was a certain way she enjoyed chaos, calculated, ruthless, like a contained flame. Moreover, the woman was very much aware that tonight In Ho was to be selected as the new Host by Il-Nam. As much as she hated his guts, she would put on a show, a pleasant smile and clap for the man. That being said, it was taking everything in her power not to yell and hit him.

“I knew you were not going to pick up my calls so instead I opted for a more discreet way. I wanted to talk to you about what happened.”

“What is there to talk about? We fucked, I thought you loved me since that’s what you claimed and then you threw me out. I was being a stupid pathetic girl. There is no big mystery to elucidate.”

Even speaking of what had happened, made her feel mortified. How mortifying it all sounded on her lips. Her eyes were searching the crowd for her date, hoping he would swoop in and save her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Serves her right for believing that he was actually a friend.

“If you are looking for Gong Yoo, Il-Nam wanted to speak to him.” The Frontman spoke as if reading her mind. “Your sociopath in shining armor has more important matters to attend to” he added.

Although she could not see her face, she felt a flicker of jealousy in his words. The mask he wore was impenetrable, but something in his voice betrayed him. A part of her wanted to kiss his worries away to tell him how everything between her and the Salesman was nothing but a physical affair. She would have taken him into her arms, taken his mask off and caressed his handsome face. Snap out of it, you are truly pathetic.

“As much as I loved this dance of ours, Sir, I fear, I need to go and powder my nose, otherwise I might have to shoot my brains out” she said, a fake smile playing on her perfect lips.

In-Ho sighed, but he released her as the final notes of the song drifted into silence. She bowed respectfully, her movements precise, and he tilted his head slightly in her direction—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. For a moment, she stood still, her gaze lingering on him. But then, with a practiced smile, she turned and made her way toward the restrooms, weaving through the crowd.

Her body shook involuntarily, the emotions bubbling up inside her like a storm. A rush of anger, bitter and raw, mixed with an ache deep in her chest. It felt like her heartstrings were being pulled and twisted, as if every step forward was one taken away from the person she used to be. She clenched her fists, her perfectly manicured blood red nails digging into her skin, the sharp pressure enough to draw blood from the palms. The sting spread through her hands, but she didn’t flinch. She couldn’t afford to. It was the only way she knew how to keep the chaos at bay—how to stop herself from spiraling into a panic attack, or worse, breaking down in front of everyone.

Her method wasn’t graceful, but it was hers. Unrefined, perhaps, but effective. It anchored her, forcing her to stay in the moment, to keep the lid on the storm inside.

Once inside the restroom, she leaned against the sink, her fingers trembling as she fumbled for the powder in her clutch. The mirror in front of her reflected a woman she barely recognized: the smile from moments ago still lingering in her eyes, but beneath it, there was something fractured. Something torn. She closed her eyes for a brief second, taking in a steadying breath, and then began to pat her face gently, as if each motion could somehow smooth out the tension knotting inside her.

Her hands moved automatically, as they always did when she needed to hide what was truly going on. She applied the powder with care, trying to ignore the way her heart was racing, the way her mind threatened to break free from its restraints. Each tap of the puff against her skin was a moment of false peace—a temporary illusion of control. She hated it, but at least it worked.

With one final sweep of her hand, she put the powder away and adjusted her hair in the mirror. She could hear the music still playing softly in the background, but all she could focus on now was the quiet rage that swirled within her. She wasn’t ready to face him again, not yet, but she would. She always did.

Taking one last breath, she straightened herself up and walked back into the crowd. No one would see the cracks. She made her way outside in the gardens. A beautiful labyrinth laid before her eyes, flower bushes in her sight. Her hands opened her clutch again and pulled out her case of cigarettes, carefully taking one out and lighting it. As she took the first drag, she felt her heartbeat slowing down, closing her eyes. His scent lingered in her nostrils. Musky and seductive mixed with his body odor. The same scent she spent hours scrubbing off her skin in the hot shower after the night they spent together.

“Can I have one of those?” his voice rang behind her.

“What? Are you stalking me now?” she asked harshly without moving an inch.

“No, the atmosphere was stuffy and my social battery in speaking to the VIPs was slowly drained”

He sounded sincere, she thought, though she didn’t give him the satisfaction of another glance. Without a word, she reached into her bag and handed him one of her Marlboros. In-Ho removed his mask, setting it down gently on the marble fence. The action was deliberate, almost ceremonial, as if the mask itself deserved reverence.

They stood there in an uneasy silence, the kind that hung thick in the air, neither of them willing to break it. The Frontman searched for her eyes, but she refused to meet his gaze, doing everything in her power to avoid it. Instead, she focused on the cigarette between her fingers, drawing in a steady breath of smoke, feeling the burn in her lungs.

She took a sip from the glass of champagne she had grabbed on her way outside, its coldness a fleeting distraction from the heat building inside her. Above them, the stars twinkled, casting a soft glow across the garden, and the faint hum of music drifted from inside the building. If it weren’t for the tension hanging between them, the scene would have almost been romantic. The flicker of stars in the sky, the music, the champagne—everything about the moment was meant for ease, for connection. But there was no peace here, not with him, not with the weight of the situation pressing down on her.

She clenched her jaw and took another drag from her cigarette, determined not to let her mind wander too far.

“You look breath-taking,” he admitted, breaking the silence.

“Thank you” she replied coldly, but his compliment awakened something inside her. Warmth pulled through her body.

“You know, gold was my ex wife’s favourite colour” In Ho spoke, his eyes trailing in the distance.

The woman looked up to him and for the first time he saw how handsome his face was looking under the stars. Although a part of her wanted to quiet him, she decided against it, instead opting to understand where this little confession was going.

“She loved gold and white roses and those American pancakes that I know you also enjoy so much” he continued. Her eyes looked at him with caution, almost testing to see where the conversation was headed.

“What happened to her?” she asked softly.

“She died.” He admitted while taking another drag from the cigarette, looking down. “You know she loved Vivaldi’s seasons, particularly winter number 8. She always said it reminded her of me”

“Cold, sharp, determined. I can see that.” The woman replied quietly. “But also oh so captivating and tragically beautiful” she added, her words more of a whisper to herself.

His eyes lifted to meet hers, and for a fleeting moment, the tension dissolved, leaving only a fragile, unspoken intimacy between them. In-Ho hadn’t expected it, the sudden wave of tenderness that swept through him, but it was undeniable—and strangely welcome. Something ached deep within his chest, raw and unresolved. Perhaps it was the pain of speaking about his late wife after so many years, or maybe it was the way the moonlight kissed her skin, making her seem almost otherworldly, like she didn’t belong to this grim reality they both inhabited.

He wanted to pull her into his arms, to bury his face in the warmth of her shoulder and murmur apologies that had long been buried beneath layers of regret and silence. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was—for everything. But words stuck in his throat, too heavy to form.

Instead, he flicked his cigarette against the marble, extinguishing it with a sharp twist of his fingers. The ember died quickly, leaving only a faint wisp of smoke curling into the night air. His hands drifted back toward the cold, familiar weight of the mask. It was easier that way—to retreat behind the impassive facade, where vulnerability couldn’t touch him.

But for a single beat, he lingered—just long enough for the ache inside him to remind him of what could never be.

“Are you and him a couple?” In-Ho asked suddenly, his eyes going back to her, studying her face.

“No,” she laughed dryly. “I am not that stupid, I am very much aware of the kind of person Gong Yoo is. He is great in bed, but I am not naive enough to think I can save a psychopath”

“Then why are you here, with him?” Curiosity took the better of him before he could stop himself.

The woman hesitated, wondering if there was any point in answering. Silence might have been safer, but perhaps it was the champagne loosening her resolve—or the charged atmosphere pressing in around them. Something inside her shifted, compelling her to seek his gaze, searching for answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

Was that jealousy lacing his voice? Pain? Or just cold, detached curiosity? After all, the Salesman had taken away his favorite toy. But was that all she had ever been to him—a possession, something to flaunt and control? The thought twisted uncomfortably in her chest.

She clenched her jaw, torn between bitterness and intrigue, unsure whether she wanted to push him for the truth or leave it buried where it belonged.

“It sounds insane, but I know what I get when I am with him. The lines are clear, I can see his intentions behind every gesture. I don’t have to worry myself to death about what he wants, I already know it. Sex, an accessory on his arm, a thrill. Someone that challenges him. He is easy”

“Unlike me”

“Unlike you” she confirmed while finishing her own cigarette.

[viagracex]

could you do one where the reader and george have an argument and she goes non verbal bcs of past trauma?

Bruises, Silence, and Bandages

george clarke x fem!reader

summary: a tense argument with george pulls you into the shadows of your past, but his patience and love remind you that healing doesn’t have to be done alone

warnings: Domestic Abuse, PTSD, Verbal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Self-Worth Issues 

note: Hey everyone, I just want to say that I truly apologize if this chapter made anyone uncomfortable. I wrote this with the knowlegde of an outsider, someone who has seen the effects of abusive relationships and the struggles of healing after them. I’ve done my best to approach these themes with sensitivity and respect, but I understand that everyone’s experiences are different. If anything in this story resonates with you, please know that you are not alone, and I hope you have the support and love you deserve. Thank you for reading, and please take care of yourselves. My mesages are always open 🤍

6.8k words

Masterlist

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The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across your shared apartment. You stood in the kitchen, hands trembling as you gripped the edge of the countertop. George paced back and forth in the living room, his usually cheerful face contorted with frustration.

"I just don't understand why you won't talk to me about this!" he exclaimed, running a hand through his tousled hair. "We're supposed to be partners. How can we fix things if you won't even tell me what's wrong?"

You wanted to respond, to explain the tangled knot of emotions constricting your chest, but the words wouldn't come. It was as if an invisible hand had reached down your throat and stolen your voice. Your heart raced, and you felt the familiar panic rising.

George's voice grew louder, his accent thickening with emotion. "Is it something I did? Something I said in a video? For God's sake, just say something!"

The room began to spin, memories of past arguments crashing over you like waves. Your chest tightened as George's voice echoed through the apartment, his words blurring into distorted sounds. The room tilted, and you gripped the counter harder, your knuckles turning white. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm you.

Suddenly, you were back in that cramped, dimly lit apartment from years ago. The air was thick with the acrid smell of stale cigarettes and cheap beer. His voice—not George's, but his—rang in your ears, each word laced with venom. "You stupid bitch! Answer me when I'm talking to you!"

The sting of his palm against your cheek, the crash of a bottle shattering against the wall—it all felt so real, so present. You could almost feel the phantom ache of bruises long faded. You could feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller until you were nothing but a speck of dust, desperate to be overlooked.

Back in the present, George's frustrated sighs pierced through the fog of your memories. "I don't understand," he muttered, his accent thicker than ever. "We were fine yesterday. What changed?"

You wanted to tell him, to explain that it wasn't his fault, that the raised voices and tense atmosphere had triggered something deep within you. But your throat constricted, and your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. The words were there, trapped behind a wall of fear and shame.

George's frustrated voice faded into the background as you sank deeper into the flashback. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps. The kitchen tiles beneath your feet seemed to tilt and sway.

"Are you even listening to me?" George demanded, his voice closer now. You flinched instinctively as he entered the kitchen, your body tensing for a blow that wouldn't come.

George's footsteps halted abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing. Slowly, you opened your eyes, blinking away the haze of memory. George stood frozen, his expression shifting from anger to concern as he took in your hunched posture and pale face.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice gentler now. "What's happening? Are you alright?"

You tried to nod, to reassure him, but your body wouldn't cooperate. Instead, you slid down to the floor, your back pressed against the cool cabinet doors. George hesitated for a moment before carefully lowering himself to sit beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you.

The familiar scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and citrus—helped ground you in the present. You focused on it, using it as an anchor to pull yourself away from the memories threatening to drag you under.

"I'm sorry," George whispered, his accent softening the words. "I didn't mean to shout. I just... I worry about you, you know? When you go quiet like this, I feel so helpless."

You wanted to reach out, to squeeze his hand and tell him it wasn't his fault. But your body remained frozen, trapped between past and present. In your mind, you could still hear the other voice—his voice—berating you, mocking your silence, twisting it into another reason to lash out.

"You're pathetic," the voice in your head sneered, an echo of your ex-boyfriend's cruel words. "Can't even speak up for yourself. No wonder he hates you."

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts. But they persisted, a poisonous whisper in the back of your mind.

George shifted beside you, the fabric of his hoodie rustling softly. "I'm here," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever's going on, whatever you're feeling, I'm here."

His words, so gentle and understanding, were a stark contrast to the memories swirling in your mind. You remembered the constant walking on eggshells, the way your ex would fly into a rage at the slightest provocation. The way he'd grab your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, whenever you tried to leave during an argument.

You could almost feel the pain of those bruises now, your skin prickling with the memory of his touch. Your breath hitched, and you curled in on yourself, making your body as small as possible.

In your mind's eye, you saw yourself cowering in the corner of that dingy apartment, arms raised to protect your face from the blows you knew were coming. The smell of cheap vodka and sweat filled your nostrils, making your stomach churn. You could almost feel the cold, hard floor beneath you as you curled into yourself, trying to become as small as possible.

The memories shifted, and suddenly you were reliving the night you finally escaped. The adrenaline coursing through your veins as you hastily shoved clothes into a bag, the heart-stopping fear when you heard his key in the lock, the burning in your lungs as you ran down the street, not daring to look back.

In the present, George's warm hand gently touched your shoulder, causing you to flinch violently. "Love, you're scaring me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

You couldn't respond. Your mind was trapped in a loop of painful memories, each one more vivid than the last. The sound of shattering glass echoed in your ears, mingling with the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. You remembered the feeling of rough hands gripping your arms, shaking you violently as angry words were spat in your face.

George noticed your constant flinching every time he he spoke. His brow furrowing with concern. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket. "I would never hurt you. You're safe here, I promise."

A part of you wanted to believe him, to trust in the sincerity of his words. But another part, the part still trapped in the past doubted every word.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's okay. You're safe here."

His words, so gentle and reassuring, stood in stark contrast to the memories swirling in your mind. You remembered the constant walking on eggshells, the way your stomach would churn with anxiety every time you heard keys in the lock. The other man—your ex—had been unpredictable, his moods shifting like quicksand beneath your feet.

There were good days, of course. Days when his smile was genuine, his touch tender. But those moments were fleeting, always overshadowed by the looming threat of his temper. You recalled the first time he'd struck you—a slap that left your ears ringing and your cheek stinging. He'd apologized profusely, showering you with gifts and promises to never do it again. You'd believed him, desperate to cling to the man you thought you loved.

But the violence escalated. Slaps turned to punches, shoves became throws. Your body became a canvas of bruises and cuts, each one carefully hidden beneath long sleeves and thick makeup. The physical pain was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to the emotional torment. His words cut deeper than any blow, chipping away at your self-worth until you felt hollow inside.

The night it all came to a head. He caught you in the middle of packing your bags. He had obviously been drinking heavily, his words slurring as he hurled insults at you. The bottle of whiskey in his hand glinted menacingly in the dim light of the apartment. You'd tried to leave, to escape the suffocating atmosphere, but he blocked your path.

"Where do you think you're going?" he'd snarled, his breath hot on your face. "You're nothing without me. No one else would ever want you."

The memory of his fingers digging into your arms made your skin crawl. You could almost feel the sting of glass shards as the whiskey bottle shattered against the wall, inches from your head. The fear had been paralyzing, rooting you to the spot as he towered over you, fist raised.

In that moment, something inside you had snapped. With strength born of desperation, you'd shoved him aside as hard as you physically could and ran. You remembered the burn in your lungs as you sprinted down the street, the icy rain soaking through your thin t-shirt. You'd left most of you things behind—clothes, possessions, your entire life—but you were finally free.

The months that followed were a blur of cheap motels and sleepless nights. Every shadow made you flinch, every loud noise sent your heart racing. You'd changed your number, your email, even your appearance, desperate to erase every trace of your past life.

Slowly, painfully, you'd begun to rebuild. A new job, a tiny studio apartment, a handful of cautious friendships. But the scars remained, both physical and emotional. You jumped at sudden noises, flinched away from physical contact, and struggled to trust anyone who showed interest in you.

Then George had entered your life like a whirlwind of laughter and warmth. His YouTube videos had been a source of comfort during your darkest days, his goofy smile and infectious laugh a balm for your wounded soul. Meeting him in person had been surreal, like a dream come to life.

At first, you'd been guarded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But George had been patient, his kindness unwavering. He never pushed, never demanded more than you were ready to give. Slowly, you'd let your walls down, allowing yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved happiness.

Now, sitting on the cold kitchen floor with George beside you, you felt those walls threatening to rebuild themselves. The argument had triggered something deep within you, unleashing a flood of memories you'd tried so hard to suppress.

"Love," George's voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, soft and hesitant. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Can you look at me?"

You wanted to, to reassure him that this wasn't his fault. But your eyes remained trapped, held hostage by the ghosts of your past.

"Love," George's voice broke through the fog of your thoughts. "I can see you're struggling. Can I hold your hand?"

You wanted to say yes, to reach out and anchor yourself in his warmth, but your body remained frozen. Instead, you managed a small nod, the movement barely perceptible.

George slowly extended his hand, palm up, leaving it within your reach but not touching you. "Whenever you're ready," he murmured. "No rush."

His patience was a stark contrast to your ex's demanding nature. You remembered how he would grab you, forcing physical contact even when you shrank away. George's respect for your boundaries was both comforting and overwhelming.

You stared at George's outstretched hand, your vision blurring with unshed tears. The gentle invitation in his gesture was almost too much to bear. You wanted desperately to reach out, to feel the warmth of his skin against yours, but fear held you back.

Slowly, trembling, you extended your own hand. Your fingers hovered just above his palm, not quite touching. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in your bones.

George remained perfectly still, his breathing slow and measured. "Take your time," he whispered, his accent wrapping around the words like a soft blanket. "I'm not going anywhere."

The kindness in his voice made your chest ache. You remembered a time when gentle words were rare, when every interaction was laced with tension and fear. Your ex had wielded words like weapons, each syllable designed to cut and wound.

You recalled the way he would twist your silence against you, using it as justification for his anger. "Why won't you answer me?" he would snarl, his face contorted with rage. "Are you stupid? Can't you even speak?"

The memory made your throat constrict, choking off any words that might have formed. You curled your fingers into a fist, pulling your hand back towards your chest.

George's expression softened with understanding. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to if you're not ready."

With trembling fingers, you reached out, barely brushing George's palm. His hand remained perfectly still, allowing you to dictate the level of contact. Slowly, you pressed your palm against his, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into yours.

George's thumb gently stroked the back of your hand, the gesture soothing and grounding. "That's it," he whispered encouragingly. "You're doing great, love."

The gentle praise washed over you, chasing away some of the darkness clouding your mind. You focused on the sensation of George's hand in yours, using it as an anchor to pull yourself back to the present.

"I'm going to tell you five things I can see," George said softly, his voice steady and calm. "Is that okay?"

You managed another small nod, grateful for his attempt to ground you.

"Alright," he began. "I can see the sunlight filtering through the curtains, making patterns on the floor. I can see the little cactus on the windowsill that you bought last week. I can see the framed photo of us at the beach on the fridge. I can see the stack of cookbooks on the counter that we never use. And I can see you, love, right here with me."

As George spoke, you felt your breathing begin to slow, matching the rhythm of his words. The vivid flashbacks began to fade, replaced by the reality of your shared kitchen.

His last words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt a flicker of warmth in your chest, a tiny spark pushing back against the darkness that had consumed you.

"Can you tell me four things you can feel?" George asked gently.

You took a shaky breath, focusing on the physical sensations around you. Your voice was barely audible as you whispered, "Your hand. The cold floor. My... my heartbeat. The cabinet against my back."

George's smile was soft and encouraging. "That's brilliant, love. You're doing so well. How about three things you can hear?"

You closed your eyes, concentrating. "The clock ticking. A car outside. Your breathing."

"Perfect," George murmured. "Two things you can smell?"

"Your cologne," you said, the familiar scent bringing a sense of comfort. "And... coffee from earlier."

George's thumb continued its soothing motion across your hand. "Last one. Can you tell me one thing you can taste?"

You ran your tongue over your dry lips. "Salt," you whispered, realizing there were tears on your cheeks.

"There you go love," George said softly. "You're here, in our kitchen. You're safe."

The grounding exercise had helped pull you further from the grip of your memories. The kitchen came into sharper focus - the pale yellow walls you and George had painted together, laughing as you got more paint on each other than the walls. The mismatched chairs at the dinning table and the various pictures around the room.

George's smile was warm and encouraging. "That's brilliant, love. You're doing so well."

The praise washed over you like a soothing balm, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. You focused on your breathing, trying to match the slow, steady rhythm George had established.

"I'm sorry," you managed to whisper, your voice hoarse and unsteady. "I didn't mean to... to shut down like that."

George shook his head gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who should be sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that."

You wanted to explain, to tell him about the memories that had overwhelmed you, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you tightened your grip on his hand trying to get rid of the pins and needles from your fingertips.

George's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, his touch feather-light and comforting. "You don't have to explain anything right now," he murmured. "But whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here to listen."

His words, so full of patience and understanding, made your chest ache. You almost couldn’t believe that there was a time when silence was met with anger, when every moment of hesitation was twisted into an excuse for violence. Your ex had never been able to handle your non-verbal episodes, viewing them as a personal affront rather than a symptom of your trauma.

You could still hear his voice, harsh and mocking, echoing in your mind. "What's wrong with you? Can't even string a sentence together? Pathetic."

The memory made you flinch, your body tensing involuntarily. George noticed immediately, his brow furrowing with concern. "It's okay," he soothed. "You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you."

You wanted to believe him, to trust in the sincerity of his words. But years of conditioning had left their mark, making it difficult to separate past from present. In your mind's eye, you could see your ex looming over you, his face contorted with rage. You remembered the sickening crack of his fist connecting with your jaw, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

The phantom pain made you wince, your free hand instinctively moving to touch your face. George watched the movement,his eyes widening with a mix of realization and horror. "Oh, love," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did someone... did someone hurt you?"

You couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, shame and fear warring within you. What if George saw you differently once he knew? What if he decided you were too broken, too damaged to love? Your silence was answer enough.

George's grip on your hand tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you in the present. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, his accent thickening with emotion. "I had no idea. I never meant to... God, I'm such an idiot."

His self-recrimination made you want to protest, to assure him that it wasn't his fault. But the words were stuck, your throat constricting around everything you want to tell him.

As if sensing your inner turmoil, George spoke again, his voice soft and reassuring. "You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with. But I want you to know that whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. And it doesn't change how I feel about you."

His words pierced through the fog of your anxiety, touching something deep within you. You felt the tears now slipping down your cheeks, then another, until you were crying silently, your body shaking with the force of your sobs.

"Can I..." George hesitated, his voice uncertain. "Would it be okay if I hugged you?"

The question caught you off guard. Your ex had never asked for permission, taking what he wanted without regard for your feelings. George's consideration brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

Slowly, you nodded, uncurling yourself from the tight ball you'd formed. George moved carefully, telegraphing his movements as he shifted closer. He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in warmth and the comforting scent of his cologne.

For a moment, you tensed, your body remembering a time when embraces led to pain. But George's touch remained gentle, his arms loose enough that you could easily break free if you needed to.

"I've got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "You're safe. I promise."

Gradually, you allowed yourself to relax into his embrace, your tears soaking into the soft fabric of his hoodie. George held you patiently, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back while the other cradled your head against his chest. You could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, its rhythm grounding you in the present.

As your sobs subsided, replaced by quiet sniffles, George began to hum softly. It was a familiar tune, one you recognized from his videos - a silly little jingle he'd made up for a brand deal. The gentle vibrations of his chest as he hummed sent a wave of comfort through you, chasing away the last tendrils of your panic.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."

George's arms tightened around you fractionally. "You have nothing to apologize for," he said firmly. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I never meant to trigger you like that."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at his face. George's eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks damp with tears of his own. The sight made your heart ache. You'd never meant to cause him pain.

"It's not your fault," you managed to say, your voice hoarse from crying. "You didn't know."

Slowly, you allowed yourself to relax against him, burying your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie.

George took a hesitant breathe, his hands rubbing your back. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to tell me about it. Just... can you look at me? Please?"

Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his. As George's eyes met yours, filled with a mixture of concern and tenderness that made your heart ache. "I love you," he said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace. "I love you, and I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?"

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with sincerity. You wanted to believe him, to trust in the love shining in his eyes. But years of abuse had left their mark, making it difficult to separate past from present.

"I..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know you wouldn't. Not on purpose. But..."

George waited patiently as you struggled to find the words, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand. The gentle touch grounded you, giving you the courage to continue.

"My ex," you said, the words feeling like broken glass in your throat. "He... he wasn't a good person."

George's expression darkened, but he remained silent, allowing you to speak at your own pace.

"At first, it was great. He was charming, funny. Made me feel special," you continued, your gaze fixed on a point over George's shoulder. "But then... things changed."

You told him everything. The first time your ex raised his voice, making you flinch. The way he'd grab your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. The constant criticisms, chipping away at your self-esteem.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue. "It started small. He'd get angry over little things, yell and throw things. I told myself it wasn't that bad, that everyone argues sometimes. But then..."

Your voice trailed off, memories flooding back. George squeezed your hand gently, encouraging you to continue.

"The first time he hit me, I was so shocked I couldn't even cry," you whispered. "He apologized immediately, swore it would never happen again. I wanted to believe him."

George's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, letting you speak.

"It only got worse after that. The violence escalated, and so did the emotional abuse. He'd call me worthless, stupid, tell me no one else would ever want me. And I believed him."

Tears streamed down your face as you recounted the worst moments - the times you'd hidden bruises with makeup, the nights you'd lain awake in fear, the way you'd slowly lost touch with friends and family until he was your whole world.

"I lost myself," you admitted, tears streaming down your face. "I stopped talking to friends, quit my job. Everything I did, every decision I made, was about keeping him happy. But it was never enough."

George's arms tightened around you, a protective gesture that made your heart ache with a mixture of gratitude and residual fear.

"The night I left," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "He was angry about... God, I don't even remember what. Something small. Insignificant. He left. I could take it anymore, I started to pack. When he came home he was so angry.” You took a strained breathe as you continued.

“But that night, I thought he might kill me," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "He'd been drinking, and he was so so angry. Something in me just... snapped. I ran, and I didn't look back."

George's arms loosened around you as he took in the severities of you words, his own tears falling into your hair. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. "You didn't deserve any of that. You're so strong, so brave. I'm in awe of you.

George's voice broke as he whispered, "I love you. I love you so much, and I swear I would never, ever hurt you like that."

His words, so earnest and heartfelt, broke something inside you. The dam you'd built around your emotions crumbled, and suddenly you were sobbing uncontrollably, your entire body shaking with the force of your cries.

George held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. He murmured soft words of comfort, his accent thickening with emotion.

"It's okay, love. Let it out. I've got you. You're safe now."

You cried for what felt like hours, releasing years of pent-up fear, anger, and pain. George never wavered, his embrace warm and steady, anchoring you in the present.

As your sobs finally subsided into quiet hiccups, George gently pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes. His own were red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks damp with tears.

"Thank you for telling me," he said softly. "I know how hard that must have been. You're so brave, love. So incredibly brave."

You shook your head, feeling anything but brave. "I should have left sooner. I should have been stronger."

George's expression grew fierce. "No," he said firmly. "You did everything you could to survive an impossible situation.”

George cupped your face gently, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "Listen to me," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You are not weak. You are not stupid. You are a survivor, and I am in awe of your strength."

His words, so different from the cruel taunts you'd grown accustomed to, made fresh tears well up in your eyes. George continued, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I love you," he said, each word weighted with sincerity. "I love your kindness, your humor, your resilience. I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about things you're passionate about. I love how you always remember to water the plants, even when I forget. I love the little dance you do when you're excited about something."

You felt a warmth blooming in your chest, pushing back against the cold fear that had gripped you earlier. George's words washed over you, soothing the jagged edges of your pain.

"I love the way you scrunch up your nose when you're concentrating," he continued, a soft smile playing at his lips. "I love how you always make sure to ask our delivery drivers if they want a bottle of water. I love your strength, your courage, your ability to keep going even when things get tough."

"I promise you," George continued, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket, "that I will spend every day showing you how much you're worth. I'll remind you of your strength when you forget. I'll hold you when the memories get too much. And I'll always, always ask before I touch you."

As if to demonstrate, he held out his hand, palm up. "May I hold your hand?"

The simple gesture, so respectful of your boundaries, brought fresh tears to your eyes. You couldn’t understand stand how you shed so many tries in such a short amount of time. Wordlessly you took his hand. His words, so full of admiration and love, broke something inside you. You sobbed openly, clinging to him as years of pent-up emotions poured out. George held you through it all, his presence steady and comforting.

As your tears subsided, George gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the lingering wetness on your cheeks. "Thank you for trusting me with this," he said softly. "I know it couldn't have been easy to talk about."

You managed a watery smile, feeling lighter than you had in years. "It wasn't. But... I'm glad you know now. I've been carrying this alone for so long. Thank you for listening," you whispered.

George pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Always," he promised. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. "I'm here, whenever you need me. Whether that's to talk, or just to sit in silence, or... anything through everything. The good days, the bad days, and everything in between."

You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to believe in the sincerity of his words. The fear and shame that had held you captive for so long began to loosen their grip, replaced by a tentative hope.

"I love you," George said again, his voice thick with emotion. "Every part of you. Your strength, your resilience, your kindness. I love the way you laugh at my terrible jokes, and how you always remember to water the plants even when I forget. I love how passionate you get about your favourite books, and the way your eyes light up when you talk about your work."

His words washed over you, chasing away the lingering shadows of your past. You looked up at him, really looked at him, taking in the sincerity in his warm brown eyes, the gentle curve of his smile, the faint stubble on his jaw that he'd forgotten to shave this morning.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice hoarse but steady. "So much that it scares me sometimes."

George's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you adored. "Good scared or bad scared?" he asked, a hint of his usual playfulness creeping back into his tone.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound watery but genuine. "Good scared," you assured him. "Like... like standing at the edge of something amazing and wonderful, knowing that jumping in might change everything."

"Well," George said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "I'm right here beside you, ready to jump whenever you are."

George's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you adored. He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't. Instead, you met him halfway, your lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise.

When you finally pulled apart, George rested his forehead against yours. "I know I can't erase what happened to you," he said softly. "But I promise, I'll spend every day trying to show you what real love looks like. If you'll let me."

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. George understood, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Come on," he said, slowly getting to his feet and offering you his hand. "Let's get off this cold floor.

How about we make some tea?"

You nodded, allowing him to help you up. Your legs felt shaky, and you leaned against him for support as you made your way to the living room. George guided you to the couch, wrapping a soft throw blanket around your shoulders before heading to the kitchen.

You could hear him moving around, the familiar sounds of kettle boiling and mugs clinking providing a soothing backdrop. The apartment was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows across the floor. You focused on the little details around you - the framed photos on the wall, capturing moments of laughter and joy with George and your friends; the collection of houseplants on the windowsill, each one carefully tended; the stack of board games in the corner, evidence of cozy nights in.

George returned a few minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs. He handed you one - your favourite oversized mug, the one with little cartoon cats all over it. The scent of chamomile and honey wafted up, warm and comforting.

"Thank you," you murmured, wrapping your hands around the mug and letting its warmth seep into your palms.

George settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his presence but not so close as to crowd you. The two of you sat there on the couch, wrapped in each other's arms, as the afternoon sun slowly shifted across the room. The argument that had been forgotten.

As the afternoon light shifted, painting the room in soft golden hues, George spoke softly. "I've been thinking," he said, his voice gentle. "Maybe we could look into couples therapy? Not because there's anything wrong with us," he added quickly, "but to help us communicate better, especially about... about your past."

You considered his words, turning the idea over in your mind. The thought of opening up to a stranger was daunting, but the idea of having professional help to navigate your trauma and its impact on your relationship was appealing.

"I think... I think that might be good," you said slowly. "But can we maybe start with individual therapy for me first? I feel like I need to work through some things on my own before I'm ready to tackle them as a couple."

George's face lit up with a mixture of relief and pride. "Of course, love. Whatever you need. I'm so proud of you for considering it."

His words warmed you from the inside out, chasing away the last lingering chill of your earlier panic. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Thank you," you murmured. "For being so patient with me. For not giving up when I shut down."

George pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a moment. "I'll never give up on you," he murmured. "You're worth every bit of patience and understanding I can give."

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your tea and watching the play of light across the room. As the shadows lengthened, George spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant.

"I've been thinking about my videos," he said. "I know I get pretty animated sometimes, especially when I'm gaming. Do the loud noises or sudden movements ever... trigger anything for you?"

You considered his question, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But it's not just you. Loud noises in general can be difficult. And when you get really competitive with the boys, the shouting can be a bit much."

George nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What if I put up soundproofing foam?" he suggested. "It would cut out the really loud bits. And I could try to be more mindful of my volume when we're filming."

The fact that he was willing to make changes to his content, his livelihood, for your comfort brought tears to your eyes. "You don't have to change your whole style for me," you protested weakly.

"I want to," George said firmly. "Your comfort and well-being are more important than any video. Besides," he added with a grin, "my editors have been begging me to tone it down a bit anyway. They say I'm giving them hearing damage," he chuckled softly.

You managed a small smile, touched by his willingness to adapt. "Maybe we could work on some signals?" you suggested hesitantly. "Like, if things get too intense during filming, I could give you a sign to dial it back a bit?"

George's eyes lit up. "That's good idea. We could have a little system, like traffic lights. Green for 'all good', yellow for 'getting close to the edge', and red for 'need to stop now'."

His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself nodding along. "That could work. And maybe... maybe we could have a code word? For times when I'm feeling overwhelmed but can't quite explain why?"

"Absolutely," George agreed immediately. "What word would you like to use?"

You thought for a moment, then smiled. "How about 'cactus'? Like that little plant you got me when we first moved in together."

George's face softened at the memory. "Perfect," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Cactus it is."

As the evening wore on, you and George continued to talk, making plans and setting boundaries. You discussed ways to handle future arguments, strategies for dealing with your non-verbal episodes, and how to navigate intimacy with your trauma history.

As you sat there, wrapped in George's arms, you felt a sense of peace settling over you. The weight you'd been carrying for so long felt lighter, shared between the two of you. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room and highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.

You could hear the faint sounds of the city outside - cars passing by, the distant laughter of children playing in the park down the street. Inside, the apartment was quiet save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the gentle rhythm of George's breathing.

Your gaze wandered around the room, taking in the little details that made this space feel like home. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with a mismatched collection of your favourite novels and George's gaming guides. The framed photo on the coffee table from your first vacation together, both of you grinning widely at the camera, your eyes shining with excitement.

Your eyes landed on George's filming setup in the corner - the ring light, the carefully arranged backdrop, the high-end microphone. It was a stark reminder of the public life he led, the thousands of fans who watched his every move online. For a moment, anxiety gripped you. What if they found out about your past? What if they judged you

Your anxiety must have shown on your face, because George squeezed your hand gently. "Hey," he said softly, "what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

You hesitated, not wanting to burden him with more of your fears. But his patient, loving gaze encouraged you to open up.

"I was just thinking about your fans," you admitted quietly. "What if... what if they found out about my past? What if they judge me, or think I'm not good enough for you?"

George's expression softened, a mix of understanding and determination crossing his features. "Love," he said, his voice firm but gentle, "my fans don't get a say in our relationship. And anyone who would judge you for surviving what you've been through isn't worth our time."

He shifted, turning to face you more fully on the couch. "But more importantly, you are more than good enough for me. You're brilliant, kind, funny, and so incredibly strong. I'm the lucky one here."

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, chasing away some of the chill of your anxiety. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"I love you," you whispered, the words feeling inadequate to express the depth of your feelings.

"I love you too," George replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "More than I can ever say."

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, casting the apartment into a gentle twilight. The soft hum of the city outside became a soothing backdrop to the quiet moment you shared. George shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, his warmth a steady presence against your side.

"Hey," he murmured after a while, his voice thick with exhaustion but filled with tenderness. "No matter what happens, we're in this together. Okay?"

You nodded against his shoulder, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so terrifying. It felt possible when filled with quiet moments like this, with laughter, with love.

George pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, and you closed your eyes, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing lull you into calm.

The past had left its scars, but as you sat there, wrapped in the quiet strength of his love, you realized something profound: you were healing. Not all at once, not perfectly, but step by step. And with George by your side, maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t have to do it alone.

[chosolace]

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈ wanna be yours!

gojo satoru x shy!femreader

THIS IS A REPOST

part 1

mdni please! there are sexual themes.

flirty!satoru did his best to respect your wishes but he was losing his mind. with each day passing where he didn't hear from you, his overthinking got worse. what happened for you to distance yourself from him seemingly out of nowhere?

flirty!satoru refused to go out of his penthouse unless it was severely urgent. he would get his groceries delivered or ask either suguru or shoko to buy it for it. The two tried their best to get him to at least walk around his complex but satoru would drag his body weight, making it difficult to even get him up. it got to a point where shoko threatened him that she was going to tell you how disgusting he was being. (as mean as it was, it sure got the job done)

flirty!satoru had his phone basically glued to his hand. constantly refreshing his feeds and checking everyone's stories to see if you would be there in the background. it was his only solace, seeing you happy even if he did feel like he was there was a boulder on his chest that made him feel suffocated.

flirty!satoru who sat up instantly the millisecond he got your text. it didn't matter that it was 2 in the morning, he was responding to your message ASAP.

hey satoru I hope you're doing well. is it alright if I call you? 2:33 am

he replied with a quick "yes of course", and he didn't care if he sounded desperate, because well, he was. he's been waiting for you to reach out ever since he got that text a few weeks ago.

his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, each heartbeat thumps harder than the previous. he watches as his phone lights up with your contact photo and name, the ringtone blasting. within the second ring, he picks up, greeting you with a shaky voice.

"hi satoru," he hears your nervousness through the phone. your voice is nasally and he can make out the soft sniffling, but he stays quiet. "how have you been?"

satoru contemplated on what to say. should he be honest, or should he lie and say that he was doing well without you?

"better now that I can hear your voice." his heart rate sped up as he hears you soft laugh, "how about you?"

you sigh before you answer. "I'm in a dilemma to be honest."

"wanna tell me what it's about?" he urges, hoping he'll get the answer he's been looking for. satoru puts you on speaker and lets his phone drop onto his bed, his full undivided attention on you.

"well it's about you... kinda," you drift off before you continue. "the night before I sent you that text, I was working and someone asked me out."

satoru pleads in silence that this was not going where he thinks it's going. with this anxious feeling creeping up on him again, he doesn't say anything.

his uncommon reticence worries you but you carried on with the story.

"I didn't go out with him if that's what you're thinking of. I like you too much to do that. it just had me thinking because we spent months being more than friends, but am I the only one who feels that way?"

"no of course not!" satoru retorts, "I promise that it's not one-sided. why do you feel this way?"

it took you a few minutes to gather your thoughts, but satoru doesn't rush you. he hears a shaky exhale before you speak up, "I've noticed that you're flirty with everyone. you're not shy with touching other people and it just makes me feel like maybe it's wrong of me to feel special when I'm not the only one you've done these things with..."

flirty!satoru doesn't invalidate your feelings. he acknowledges each and every reason why you feel the way you do. satoru takes his time explaining that yes, he may be flirty and he's quite touchy, but it's different when it comes to you. the things he's done with you, he's never done with anyone else despite him having exes. although it's almost been a year since he's met you, the butterflies have never gone away and that each day his feelings grow.

flirty!satoru continues listing all the reasons why he loves likes you. he assures you that he may look like a fuckboy, he's far from it. he reminisces the time he had suguru psych him up to get your number because he's never had to ask for anyone's number (humble brag from him). he exhales a sigh of relief that the story earned a giggle from you.

flirty!satoru debates on telling you, but decided on keeping his plans of asking you out a secret. he wanted to prove to you that you're it for him and that there's no one else but you. satoru's big on actions speaking a lot more than words, so before he asks you out, he wants you to feel secure.

flirty!satoru posts you on his story constantly!!! whether you're out on a grocery run or a mini road trip for the long weekend, you can always count on satoru posting a soft launch story that has you in it. you don't know it, but satoru also has a secret instagram account, and the only thing he posts on it are pictures of you with the dates on it and a small paragraph of what you guys did that day. he likes to think it's modern-day scrapbooking.

flirty!satoru is obsessed with calling you nicknames, and as much as he loves saying your name - he will never not love calling you sweet nicknames like pretty girl, honey, or baby. satoru's fond of how your cheeks turn red and how you try to cover your face when he calls you any nicknames. it gives him cuteness aggression so bad, he ends up pinching your cheeks!

flirty!satoru can see how your eyes drift to look at his lips when you're talking to him face to face. you think you're so slick with it but satoru's quicker. whenever you do that little triangle trick you saw on tiktok, he leans in so he catches you by surprise. he observes with gleaming eyes as you back up to give yourself distance from him, but he just wraps his arms around you, pulling you towards him as he says, "hmm what was that baby?"

flirty!satoru has to hold himself back whenever he sees a customer come up to you and try to flirt with you. first and foremost, flirting is his thing! and second, he gets so jealous that sometimes he can't contain himself and ends up intervening. he'd make some stupid excuse to get you to leave like "hey I think someone clogged the toilet, can you check it please?" or something like that. you have to clean the stinky toilet but seeing satoru jealous is always a plus.

flirty!satoru is shocked when you made the first move and kissed him one night. it was the fact that you were sober too that surprised him even further. with you on top of him as he's sitting relaxed on the couch, his attention on the tv screen is stolen when you press your lips against his. the kiss, a seemingly innocent peck on the lips, turned into a heated make out session when satoru let go of his inhibitions. his hands roamed all over your body as his lips continue peppering kisses onto your cheeks, your jaw, and even down to your neck. satoru trails his hands from your body to hold your face gently so he can give you a final kiss before hugging you tightly.

flirty!satoru throws out all his ideas of asking you out, and opts for an intimate moment. on a cool wednesday night, he takes you back to his penthouse as per usual. he opens the door and waits to see your surprised face. he boasts that he decorated the place all by himself and even burned himself a few times with the hot glue gun to make the giant heart sign asking for you to be officially his (ngl it sounds like he's proposing but I mean who doesn't wanna marry satoru). obviously you said yes! let's just say that the heart balloons that were hanging and the flower petals scattered all over his living room were everywhere the morning after and cleaning it all up was tedious...... (but at least it was a fun night!)

flirtybf!satoru immediately changes all his profile pictures on every social media he has to pictures with you. his bio? your initials. his stories? all of you. he does not gaf he wants to show you off! the best part is satoru only follows a couple of people — you, suguru, shoko, and a few of his close relatives. satoru wants you to know that he only cares about you and only you. he never wants to and never will make you feel like you're in competition with anyone.

flirtybf!satoru is a no bs type of guy. now that your relationship was out in the open, you've gotten so many dms from other people trying to sabotage your relationship. satoru did not spend almost half a year proving his love to you for some jealous losers to try and break it, so he blocked the people who dmed you from his account and privated it.

flirtybf!satoru loves going on vacations with you, especially if it's a destination you've been telling him about. he'll almost always keep it a secret so that you don't have to worry your pretty little head about anything. costs, booking it off, transportation, he takes care of everything so the only thing you need to do is pack your bags. satoru loves how carefree you are when you're away from everyone else, and it's just the two of you in your own little world.

flirtybf!satoru is insatiable. his sex drive is so incredibly high, you wonder where his stamina comes from since he rarely did any sports. the first time you had sex, he wanted to take it slow because he wanted to savour the time with you. even though you were close when you two were just friends, having sex was a different level of intimacy. satoru wanted to show you that to him, this was not just a fuck that a one night stand will give you, no. it was making love, and he'll spend the whole night — dusk to dawn — just to show you how much he loves each and every part of you.

flirtybf!satoru started working out during his free time. he overheard you telling your friends that you love a man with a sleeper build, and well whatever his love wants, you will get. it doesn't take long until he starts seeing the fruits of his labor. he seldoms wear a shirt when he's home with just you, choosing to just wear a pair of sweatpants that he doesn't bother tying up so you can see the waistband of his calvin klein boxers. even though you two fuck often, he thinks it's so captivating that you still get bashful whenever he's being coy with you.

flirtybf!satoru loves talking about the future with you. he'll often ask you what kind of house you see yourself living in with him, and he'll make sure to get every little detail you're telling him. you've already moved into his penthouse after he begged for days for you to leave your apartment and just live with him. he takes notice of how you decorate and makes a mental note of it. satoru will make sure to say "when we have kids" or "when we're married", because he knows you're his endgame and he just can't wait for the day he's been looking forward to since he fell in love with you.

flirtybf!satoru surprises you with a trip to your dream vacation that you guys didn't get to go to before. the weather was horrendous, so the flight was cancelled but satoru booked another one closer to your birthday. he didn't tell you about it because he had a plan to make your birthday extra special. after you were done packing, he tells you that he'll meet you in the car. before satoru leaves the penthouse and locks the door, he double checks that the engagement ring is packed securely in his bag.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

hi everyone! I hope this satisfies everyone's request for a part 2 ◡̈ ngl I had to use some moments with my boyfriend because my mind was blanking out and I am prayinggggg that this one is not a disappointment to you guys! again not proofread <3

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

taglist:

@lvrndkoo @sorenflyinn @realalpacorn @ninani-nanina @msun1c0rn @ourfinalisation @rio-reid-whoreee @staarflowerr @leonesimp @okayiamkassandra @starpachinko @atashiboba @blueemochii @hawkswifie @secrtjncoblog @esperssox @smiling-16

a few of them did not show up so please let me know if you didn't get a notification ◡̈

[jacarandaaaas]

It actually needs to be studied how the encanto fandom took one tiny verse from a song and misconstrued pepas entire character. Where did this narrative that she’s bitter and mean even come from??? how did y’all manage to successfully convince people that was true!? people think pepa is SO hung up about thr wedding but mirabel literally asked her a question??? was she meant to just say nothing????? god forbid a woman wants to tell a fun story😭 these lyrics aren’t even mean either it’s literally just what happened “it was my wedding day we were getting ready and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky” “Bruno walks in with a mischievous grin” “Bruno said it looked like rain” “in doing so he floods my brain” where is the “mean” in this? where is the bitter?? mind you this is the one and ONLY time she brings up the wedding and it’s because mirabel wanted to know. like even if pepa was bitter she has every right to be! you would think growing up with a sister who you KNOW has weather depending on her mood and the anxiety that comes with it, would be enough of a reason to not make a bad taste joke! It was her WEDDING DAY!!!

Any other instance I see people stating pepa was “mean” is literally just she looked at mirabel funny. Im sorry if you had your seat taken at the table you would look at her funny too! it’s a look that lasts less than 3 seconds and mirabel is not bothered at all in fact she looks guilty! People say oh but the proposal but the woman was panicking! she got told like everyone else this was all happening because of mirabel! Pepa is passionate she can be sassy and she’s fiercely loving but she is not a mean bitter person and never was!!

[notaaronsroommate]

Forewarning, I am very drunk. Power is only strength. That's it. If you say the word can you have people put in the ground? If yes, you can more or less do what you want. We built democratic institutions for the same reason that everyone bought colt revolvers: with this tool, the whole world cannot be run by whoever is the biggest. In the case of the gun, it meant that no longer would the guy who grew up in a castle with plenty to eat and money for a horse be able to personally and effortlessly massacre shit shoveling peasants. No amount of being built like a linebacker can protect you when a woman decides telling you to fuck off isn't working. The democratic institutions were much the same. by making it complicated and hard to say the word that puts people in the ground, the idea is that power will not be held solely by the biggest and most violent son of a bitch in the land. It didn't end up working that way, of course. Unlike a gun, institutions are made up. They require buy in. You have to believe the story. The liberals regularly refused to lift a finger to build a country worth fighting for. the last one was LBJ and the stupid son of a bitch let the better part of the Great Society get shot to pieces in southeast Asia. So, it's been decay and stripping copper wire out of the walls for twice as long as I've been alive. And if that's the case, why the fuck would you be willing to suspend your disbelief and pretend like these democratic institutions are real? Nations are fake, we made them up. You have to believe in them for them to work and to be real. and for roughly 60-70 years the mewling little shit baby boomers have been taking the world that their parents and grandparents fought and bled for and selling it off for coke money. Yeah yeah, I know, all the racism and imperialism of the US and USSR and all of it. I know. But for a brief moment, two vast empires decided that they would be governments, real states, and use power directly to try to improve the lives of at least some of the citizenry. And just like you had the farm collapse and the reagan era of boomers who benefited from the post war wealth hocking pieces of the new deal by the roadside for quick cash, chopping off the fingers of industry for a bump in stocks, you had post soviet boomers fucking their fellow workers in the ass and selling off all things of the public good in exchange for shiny western consumer goods. And anyway where the fuck was I going with this. Yeah, so, the fucking democrats hold on to shit like the senate parlimentarian and all these finnicky made up rules like someone with a rusted revolver they refused to maintain. They didn't bother maintaining the public trust, this weapon against strongmen, and now it doesn't work when they need it. People use the term "healthy democracy" only when comparing that negatively to third world dictatorships that spring up. But here, we see a perfect example of an unhealthy democracy. These geriatric bastards are waving roberts rules of order around basically like a rain dance in the hopes that the days of impeaching nixon and it actually MEANING something will come back again. But it won't. Fuck it all.

im gonna be honest it's kind of hard to watch all the shit trump and his admin are pulling without getting even madder at biden for doing jack shit about his campaign promises. student loans, minimum wage, reproductive rights... and i know some picrew icon who voted for the first time last year is already rushing to the reblog button to write a YA protagonist monologue about how those would have been/were blocked by congress/the senate/inclement weather/etc. but the thing is that at this point i literally do not care about "established legal and political processes" and "working within the system", i just want my views enacted into law. which would be childish if it wasn't the exact strategy that has been working unbelievably well for republicans for the last decade!

i want to grab a democrat career politician by the shoulders and scream in their face: do something good for once in your god damn life! fuck "checks and balances", fuck "legal precedent", just keep packing the courts and gerrymandering districts and throwing shit at the wall until something sticks! fucking fight back god dammit! where's your dignity? your rage? your humanity? you're playing checkers against someone eating your pieces while adding their own to the board and you're trying to give an impassioned speech about how "they go low we go high" while they simultaneously piss on you and shoot your dog!

[sukibenders]

Intersectionality is something that, sadly, is often pushed to the side in Arcane discussions, specifically from a certain side of that fandom. They will go on and on about Viktor, as they usually do, talking about how he suffers from classicism and ableism within the show and fandom respectively (as they should as these are issues, but there is a catch when it comes to these fans as well), but when others in the fandom, especially Mel or even Sky fans, point out the racism and misogyny (misogynoir) that is often rampant in this fandom, particularly from said fans mentioned prior, all of a sudden its not possible or being overdramatized. Like they suddenly can't understand how some of their rhetoric includes or invites the same thing black fans have been calling out since the beginning, because how can you discuss the ableism and such that Viktor faces, but laugh or joke around with people who call Mel slurs or just denounce her to a trope? I thought you were for calling out forms of hate within fandom, or does your "activism" only stretch so far? And back to a previous statement, about the catch regarding those particularly fans----some of them regurgitate the same harmful rhetoric towards Viktor that they say they supposedly hate, just in mode subtle ways. How are you going to say you hate when Viktor is infantilized, but will be quick to forget he's a grown man who can defend himself (often when trying to pair him against Mel, framing her as the aggressor, and sometimes even Jayce too but to a lesser degree)? Not saying Jayce doesn't get equal amounts of hate, but his more so gets pushed aside along with his character to ultimately frame Viktor in higher regard, often making him ooc. It's like they pick and choose when the issues are prevalent, and when they aren't, and it's so frustrating.

[elryuse]

Our True Colours

Tsuki X Male Reader

Tags : Trauma, Bad Past, Vanilla Sex, Love, Romance, Lots of Emotions

Words : 6,333 Words

This Story, Is dedicated to all you Who have ever been in this position before. Feeling Depressed, Traumatized by Past Memories, and Basically Not knowing what to do. I just want to say, You're not alone. I know that You can do it. Don't give Up yet.

I Also made This story, For those of you Who requested me to make more stories about Billie. I hope You Enjoyed it.

The afternoon sun drapes over the college campus, casting long, golden shadows on the ground. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves, sending a crisp whisper through the air. It’s a perfect day to stay indoors—exactly what you always preferred. But something about today made you take a detour from your usual quiet routine.

Hands buried in the pockets of your hoodie, you stroll absentmindedly past the library, weaving through the quiet garden at the center of campus. You walk these paths every day, yet they never feel quite familiar. College is a place full of people—loud conversations, laughter, and the occasional rush of students running late for class. It’s overwhelming at times. That’s why you always blend into the background, existing on the edges, unnoticed.

And then you see her.

She sits on a wooden stool, poised like a vision of serenity, a canvas set before her. A delicate hand moves a paintbrush across the surface, slow and precise, as though every stroke holds meaning. The soft golden light catches her dark brown hair, making it glow like strands of silk. Large, expensive Sony headphones cover her ears, allowing her to drift into her own world, untouched by the noise of the campus.

She’s painting.

You pause mid-step. Something about her presence is… captivating. Maybe it’s the way she sways slightly to the music only she can hear. Or the way her lips curl into a soft, satisfied smile as she mixes colors on her palette. Whatever it is, you can’t seem to look away.

Your heart stirs—an unfamiliar warmth spreading through your chest.

She’s breathtaking.

The sight of her, lost in her own world, makes your stomach twist. You should walk away. You should keep moving, pretend you never saw her. But your feet stay rooted in place. You watch as she dips her brush into a deep shade of blue and glides it effortlessly onto the canvas.

Then, suddenly—

She looks up.

Your breath catches.

For a fleeting moment, time slows as her gaze meets yours. Her eyes—deep and filled with quiet curiosity—lock onto you. There’s no shyness in them, only a soft, steady awareness. You feel the blood rush to your cheeks, your entire body warming under the weight of her attention.

She tilts her head, studying you, and then—

A small smile.

Your heart pounds. You’ve been staring for too long. You quickly look away, pretending to be interested in the grass at your feet, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

And then, her voice—soft, yet clear—cuts through the air.

"Do you like my painting?"

Your stomach flips.

You glance up, hesitant, still flustered from being caught. She’s looking at you expectantly, her eyes holding a hint of amusement. She must have noticed your staring.

“I—uh,” you stammer, throat suddenly dry. You shift awkwardly, glancing at the canvas for the first time.

It’s beautiful.

The painting is an almost dreamlike rendition of the college garden—the very place you’re standing in. The way she’s captured the afternoon light, the way the colors seem to melt into one another—it’s stunning.

You swallow hard, feeling a strange nervousness build in your chest. “Yeah,” you manage, voice quieter than you intended. “It’s… really good.”

A soft chuckle escapes her lips, like a gentle melody. “You don’t sound convinced.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I mean it. It’s amazing.”

She studies you for a moment, as if trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then, with a small nod, she looks back at her canvas, dipping her brush into a lighter shade of blue.

“You come here often?” she asks, her voice casual, yet laced with genuine curiosity.

You blink. No one ever asks you that.

“Uh… yeah,” you reply hesitantly. “I like… quiet places.”

She hums in acknowledgment, as if she understands. “Me too.”

Silence settles between you, but it isn’t uncomfortable. She continues painting, and you… you don’t know what to do. Should you leave? Stay? The moment feels fragile, like one wrong move might shatter it.

She suddenly gestures toward the empty bench nearby. “You can sit, if you want.”

You hesitate.

She notices. “Unless you’re in a hurry?”

You weren’t. But you also weren’t sure why she was offering. Most people didn’t pay much attention to you. Yet, here she was, inviting you—someone she barely knew—to stay.

After a beat, you nod and move to the bench, sitting down awkwardly. You keep a respectable distance, unsure of what to say. The air between you is filled with nothing but the occasional scratch of her brush against the canvas and the soft rustling of leaves.

Minutes pass.

You steal a glance at her, watching the way her brow furrows slightly in concentration, the way her fingers gently blend the colors with careful precision. There’s something calming about watching her work, like she’s in sync with the world in a way you never quite felt.

Then—

She turns to you again, her expression thoughtful. “You never told me your name.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh. It’s… Y/n.”

A slow smile spreads across her lips. “Y/n,” she repeats, testing the sound. Then, she holds out her paint-stained hand. “I’m Tsuki.”

Tsuki.

The name lingers in your mind, settling into a space you didn’t realize was empty.

You hesitate before reaching out, your fingers brushing against hers in a brief handshake. Her skin is warm, slightly rough from handling brushes and paint, but the contact sends an unexpected jolt through you.

She grins, her eyes shining with something unreadable. “Nice to meet you, Y/n.”

Your heart beats a little faster.

"Yeah,” you murmur. “Nice to meet you too.”

And just like that, something shifts.

Something fragile, something new—something that makes the world feel just a little less quiet.

The days pass, but you can’t stop thinking about her.

Tsuki.

The way her name rolled off your tongue felt strange yet familiar, like something that belonged in your life long before you met her. You find yourself returning to the garden more often than usual, your steps unconsciously leading you back to that same wooden bench.

And each time, she’s there.

Always painting. Always lost in the world of colors and brushes. Always wearing those heavy Sony headphones, swaying slightly to music only she can hear.

But now—there’s something different.

She notices you.

The first time you came back after your first meeting, she had looked up from her canvas, a flicker of recognition flashing in her deep brown eyes. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips, as if she had been expecting you all along.

"Back again?" she had said, teasingly.

You had stammered, made up some excuse about liking the quiet, but she only chuckled before turning back to her work. And somehow, without words, the two of you had settled into a new kind of routine.

Now, every time you show up, she acknowledges you—not with words, but with small gestures. A slight shift in her posture, as if making space for you in her world. A quiet smile before she dips her brush into paint. Sometimes, she’d pull off her headphones for a moment, asking about your day before returning to her art.

It becomes comfortable.

Familiar.

And strangely, you don’t mind it.

One late afternoon, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink, you find yourself back at the garden. The moment your eyes land on her, a sense of calm washes over you.

She’s wearing an oversized sweater today, the sleeves slightly covering her hands as she mixes colors on her palette. Strands of hair fall over her face, but she doesn’t seem to care, too focused on perfecting a stroke.

Without thinking, you take your usual seat on the bench.

She doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, she lets you watch her, like always. The air between you is thick with unspoken words, but neither of you feel the need to fill the silence.

Then—

"Do you ever feel like you don’t belong?"

Her voice is soft, yet it cuts through the air like a whisper of wind.

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

Tsuki doesn’t look at you. Instead, she tilts her head, eyes scanning the half-finished painting before her.

"Like no matter where you are, you’re always just… observing. Never really part of anything."

Your heart skips a beat.

Because—yes.

You know that feeling all too well.

For years, you’ve been the guy in the background. The quiet one. The one who never quite fit in, never truly stood out. Always watching from the sidelines as life moved around you, never quite knowing where you were supposed to be.

Tsuki finally turns to look at you, her gaze deep and searching. "You seem like someone who understands."

And in that moment, you realize—she sees you.

Not just as some passing stranger, but as someone who might just understand her in a way others don’t.

You swallow hard, your fingers gripping the fabric of your hoodie. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you say—

"Yeah. I get it."

She smiles then—not her usual teasing one, but something softer. Sadder.

And for the first time, the space between you doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

The days blur together as you find yourself coming back to the garden more often, drawn not just by the peace it offers, but by Tsuki’s quiet presence. You begin to notice the small details about her—the way she hums a song under her breath when she paints, the little frown she gets when she’s frustrated with a stroke, or how her eyes light up when she talks about her art.

There’s a rhythm to it now.

You show up, sit on the bench, and wait for her to acknowledge you. Sometimes she doesn’t speak for a while, lost in her own world of colors. Other times, she’ll turn to you and offer a small conversation—nothing deep, but enough to make you feel like you belong.

It’s during one of those quiet afternoons that something shifts.

You’ve been sitting there for a while, letting your mind wander as Tsuki works, when she suddenly pulls off her headphones and sets them beside her on the bench. Her fingers brush the paint on her canvas absentmindedly, but she doesn’t seem to be focusing.

When you glance up, she’s looking at you.

"You always come here," she says, her voice soft and introspective. "You don’t talk much, but you’re always here. I think I’d miss you if you stopped coming."

Your chest tightens. It’s strange, hearing those words from her. Tsuki—the girl who seemed so self-contained, so distant at times—was saying that she would miss you.

For a moment, you don’t know what to say. The words are stuck in your throat, a mix of surprise and something else—something warmer.

But she seems to understand. She gives you a small, knowing smile and turns back to her canvas.

"I don’t talk to a lot of people," she continues, her fingers tracing an abstract pattern on the canvas. "It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just... I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I can’t say the right things. Like my thoughts don’t fit into words."

You nod slowly. You understand that feeling all too well. It’s exactly why you’ve spent so much of your life hiding away—because words never seemed to come out the way you wanted them to.

After a beat, Tsuki glances at you again, her eyes lingering for a moment before she speaks again.

"I paint because... it’s the only way I can say everything I feel," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "Each brushstroke, each color... it’s like I’m finally letting everything out. Everything I can’t say with words."

You watch her, captivated by the raw vulnerability in her eyes. Tsuki, the girl who always seemed so composed, was opening up in a way you hadn’t expected. She wasn’t just telling you about her art; she was telling you about herself.

"I guess painting is my way of breathing," she adds, her voice soft and distant, like she’s lost in the thought. "Without it, I don’t think I’d be able to stay sane."

The air between you feels thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The only sound is the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft scratch of Tsuki’s brush on the canvas.

Finally, you speak, your voice quiet but sincere.

"I get that."

Tsuki turns to look at you, her gaze soft and searching. For the first time, she doesn’t seem like the confident, carefree girl she usually is. Instead, she seems... fragile, like she’s trusting you with a part of herself she’s rarely shared.

"You do?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

You nod, your heart racing in your chest. You don’t know why, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you want to say more—to open up in a way you never have with anyone else.

"I’m not great with words," you begin, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach. "I’ve always felt like I’m... in the background. Like I’m not really part of anything. But when I’m here, watching you paint... it feels like, for a moment, I’m part of something. Like I’m... included."

Tsuki’s eyes widen slightly, and her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just looks at you for a long moment, as if taking in what you’ve just shared.

And then—

She smiles.

It’s soft, but it reaches her eyes in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. There’s no teasing this time. No playful challenge. Just... a quiet understanding.

"I think I understand you, Y/n," she says, her voice gentle, but with an underlying warmth. "You don’t have to be loud to matter. Sometimes, just being there is enough."

You feel a lump form in your throat. For a moment, you can’t find the words. You just sit there, watching as Tsuki dips her brush into a new color, the motion fluid and effortless, like everything about her is in perfect harmony.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re finally starting to understand her, too.

The days go by, and you start to visit her more frequently.

It’s become a quiet ritual. You arrive, she’s painting, and the two of you share small conversations. Some days, she tells you more about herself—about her family, her childhood, the reasons she started painting in the first place. Other days, she’s quieter, lost in her own world of colors and shapes. But no matter what, there’s always an unspoken connection between you.

And as time passes, it becomes harder to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster when she’s near. The way your stomach flips when she smiles at you. The way you find yourself looking forward to every moment you spend together, even if it’s just sitting in silence.

You’ve always been the kind of person who shied away from feelings—who hid them behind walls of indifference. But with Tsuki, everything feels different.

It’s like she’s slowly breaking down the walls you’ve built around yourself, piece by piece, and you don’t know whether to stop her or let her in completely.

But one thing’s for sure—you don’t want to leave. Not anymore.

The days turn into weeks.

You visit Tsuki more often now—not just out of curiosity, but because something about her presence feels... right. Natural. Like she’s always been part of your world, and you just never noticed until now.

She’s become comfortable with you. You can tell by the way she no longer hesitates to speak, how she pulls off her headphones more frequently to engage in conversation, how she doesn’t seem to mind your quiet nature.

And you—

You’re starting to realize that you crave this.

The sound of her voice, the way her laughter lingers in the air, the gentle scratch of her brush against the canvas. The way her eyes soften when she looks at you, as if she sees something no one else ever has.

You’re drawn to her, in ways you don’t fully understand.

One afternoon, you arrive at the garden expecting to find her where she always is.

But today is different.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the grass instead of her usual seat. Her canvas is on the ground beside her, untouched. Her eyes are fixed on the sky, lost in thought.

You hesitate before approaching, sensing that something is off.

"Hey," you say softly, settling down on the bench.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she sighs, running a hand through her long, dark hair before finally looking at you.

"Y/n."

There’s something in the way she says your name that makes your stomach flip. It’s not just casual acknowledgment. It’s deeper, heavier.

"Do you ever feel like no matter how much you love something, it’s never enough?"

You blink. "What do you mean?"

Tsuki exhales, tilting her head back. The sunlight catches on her skin, making her look almost ethereal.

"Painting," she says. "It’s everything to me. It’s how I breathe, how I escape. But lately... I don’t know. It’s like I’m stuck. Like no matter how much I try, I can’t make anything feel... real."

You frown, glancing at the blank canvas beside her. You’ve never seen it empty before.

"Is this the first time you’ve felt like this?"

She shakes her head, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. "No. It happens sometimes. I just... I don’t talk about it much."

You hesitate, then ask the question that’s been lingering in your mind for a while.

"Why do you paint, Tsuki?"

She looks at you then, her expression unreadable. But after a moment, she sighs and leans back on her hands, gazing up at the sky.

"When I was a kid, my mom used to paint a lot," she says quietly. "She told me that colors could tell stories better than words ever could. I didn’t understand what she meant back then, but... I do now."

You listen, not interrupting, just letting her talk.

"I started painting because I wanted to hold onto things," she continues. "Memories, feelings, people. I wanted to capture moments so they’d never disappear. But sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can’t get it right. It’s frustrating. Like I’m losing something important, and there’s nothing I can do about it."

She exhales, shaking her head. "Sorry, that probably sounds stupid."

You shake your head immediately. "No. It doesn’t."

Tsuki studies you for a moment, then smiles faintly. "You’re a good listener, Y/n. I like that about you."

Your heart skips a beat. You open your mouth to say something, but the words don’t come. Instead, you reach out, hesitantly, and pick up her canvas.

"Then let’s paint something together," you suggest, surprising even yourself.

Tsuki raises an eyebrow, amused. "You paint?"

You scratch the back of your neck, a little embarrassed. "Not really. But... I want to try. With you."

For a moment, she just looks at you, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiles—soft and genuine.

"Okay."

And just like that, she hands you a brush.

As your fingers brush against hers, a warmth spreads through your chest.

You don’t know what this feeling is yet.

But you know one thing for sure—

You never want to let it go.

Painting with Tsuki becomes a new part of your routine.

At first, you’re terrible at it. Your strokes are clumsy, your colors mix into an unrecognizable mess, and more paint ends up on your hands than on the canvas. Tsuki watches you struggle with an amused smile, occasionally guiding your hand, her fingers grazing yours in a way that makes your heartbeat quicken.

But you don’t mind. Because every moment with her feels... right.

And the more time you spend together, the more you start to notice things.

Like how Tsuki isn’t as confident as she seems.

She’s quiet, often retreating into herself when she thinks no one is watching. Her laughter sometimes sounds forced, as if she’s trying to convince herself that she’s happy. And then there are the days when she doesn’t paint at all—when she just sits there, staring at a blank canvas, lost in thoughts she never shares.

It makes you wonder.

What is she hiding?

One evening, as the sun sets behind the campus, casting long golden shadows, you find Tsuki sitting alone in the garden, her knees pulled to her chest. She isn’t painting. Her headphones are nowhere in sight.

She looks... fragile.

You hesitate before sitting beside her.

"Hey," you say softly.

She doesn’t respond at first. Then, after a long silence, she whispers,

"Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?"

The question catches you off guard.

You glance at her, noting the way her fingers clutch the fabric of her sweater, how her nails dig into her skin as if trying to hold herself together.

"Yeah," you admit. "All the time."

She exhales shakily, nodding as if she expected your answer.

"Me too."

There’s something different about her tonight—something raw, unguarded. You’ve seen her tease, you’ve seen her focused, you’ve even seen her frustrated with her art. But this—this is new.

"Tsuki... are you okay?" you ask gently.

She lets out a small, humorless laugh. "That’s a dangerous question, Y/n."

You wait.

You don’t push, don’t pry. You just wait, giving her space to decide if she wants to let you in.

And after what feels like an eternity, she finally speaks.

"I ran away."

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable.

"From what?" you ask carefully.

She closes her eyes for a moment before answering.

"My family."

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that.

She swallows hard, staring at the ground. "I grew up in a house where love was... conditional. If I was perfect, if I did what they wanted, then I was worth something. If I made a mistake, if I showed weakness, then I was... nothing."

Your fists clench at her words.

"That’s not love, Tsuki," you say quietly.

She gives you a sad smile. "I know that now. But back then, I just wanted to be good enough. I wanted them to see me. To care."

A lump forms in your throat.

"They didn’t?"

She shakes her head. "Not in the way I needed them to."

Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken pain.

Then, she takes a deep breath. "One day, I realized that no matter how much I tried, I’d never be what they wanted. And I got tired of pretending. So... I left. I packed a bag, took whatever money I had, and ran."

She looks at you then, her eyes filled with something you can’t quite name.

"That’s why I paint, Y/n. Because if I stop, I’ll remember. And if I remember... it hurts too much."

Your chest tightens.

All this time, you thought Tsuki was free—untouchable, confident in ways you could never be. But now, you realize she’s just like you.

She’s been hiding, too.

She hides behind colors the same way you hide behind silence. She smiles to cover the scars no one else can see. And for the first time, you understand—

You’re not alone.

Neither of you are.

Without thinking, you reach out and gently take her hand. She flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.

"You don’t have to keep running," you say softly. "Not alone."

She looks at you, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

And then—

She squeezes your hand back.

It’s small. Barely noticeable. But it’s enough.

And in that moment, you know—

You’re falling for her.

Tsuki’s pain isn’t something she talks about often.

But you see it.

In the way her hands tremble when she thinks too much. In the way her smiles sometimes don’t reach her eyes. In the way she stares at her paintings as if she’s searching for something—something she lost a long time ago.

You don’t push her to talk. You just stay.

And somehow, that’s enough.

She starts opening up to you in pieces, small fragments of her past slipping through the cracks.

"My mother loved art, but she never really loved me."

"My father never yelled, but his silence hurt worse."

"I tried to be perfect. I tried so hard. But no matter what I did, it was never enough."

Every word feels like a knife to your heart.

You want to tell her that she was always enough. That she shouldn’t have had to fight for love. That she deserves everything she never got.

But you don’t know how to say it.

So instead, you stay by her side.

You listen.

You understand.

And maybe that’s why she keeps letting you in.

One night, it’s different.

Tsuki is quieter than usual, staring at a half-finished painting in her dimly lit dorm room. You sit on the floor beside her, your shoulder just barely brushing hers.

"Do you ever wish you could go back and change things?" she asks suddenly.

You glance at her. "What do you mean?"

She exhales, shaking her head. "If I had been stronger, maybe I wouldn’t have run away. Maybe I could’ve fixed things. Maybe they would have—"

"Don’t."

She stops, surprised at the firmness in your voice.

You take a deep breath. "Don’t blame yourself for surviving, Tsuki."

Her eyes widen slightly.

"You were never the problem," you continue, your voice softer now. "They should have loved you the way you are. They should have seen how amazing you are. But they didn’t. And that’s not your fault."

Her lower lip trembles. She turns away, but not before you see the way her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"Y/n..."

You swallow hard, heart pounding in your chest.

You’ve been holding back for so long—afraid of saying too much, afraid of ruining what you have. But seeing her like this, breaking under the weight of a past that never loved her—

You can’t keep it in anymore.

"Tsuki, I love you."

The words slip out, raw and real.

Her whole body stiffens.

You feel your pulse hammering in your ears, but you don’t take it back.

"I love you," you repeat, gentler this time. "Not because I pity you, not because I want to fix you. I love you because you’re strong, because you’re kind, because you see the world in colors no one else does. Because when I’m with you, I feel like I belong somewhere for the first time in my life."

Tears spill down her cheeks.

She shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hands, as if trying to hold herself together. But it’s too late. The sobs break through, raw and unfiltered, years of pain crashing down all at once.

"Why...?" she chokes out between ragged breaths. "Why would you love someone like me?"

You move closer, hesitating for only a moment before wrapping your arms around her.

She doesn’t push you away.

Instead, she clings to you, burying her face in your shoulder as she cries.

And you hold her.

For as long as she needs.

For as long as it takes for her to finally believe that she is loved.

Tsuki doesn’t let go.

Her body trembles as she clings to you, her sobs shaking both of you. You don’t know how long you sit there, just holding her, whispering soft reassurances as she soaks your shoulder with her tears.

It could be minutes.

It could be hours.

But you don’t care.

Because right now, all that matters is her.

Eventually, her cries quiet into soft, broken whimpers. Her breathing is uneven, her grip still desperate, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she loosens her hold even slightly.

Then, in a voice so small you almost miss it, she whispers,

"Come with me."

You don’t hesitate.

She stands on unsteady legs, her fingers tightening around your wrist as she leads you out of her dorm. The night air is cold against your skin, but she doesn’t let go of you, and you don’t complain.

She walks fast, as if afraid that if she slows down, you’ll change your mind. But you won’t.

You’d follow her anywhere.

Tsuki’s apartment is small, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It’s simple—minimal furniture, a bed pushed against the wall, an easel in the corner with half-finished paintings scattered around the room. The faint smell of paint lingers in the air, mixing with something softer, something uniquely hers.

She closes the door behind you, and for a moment, she just stands there.

Then, without warning, she turns and wraps her arms around you again, burying her face against your chest.

"Please stay," she whispers, her voice barely holding together. "I don’t want to be alone tonight. I—I'm scared, Y/n. I'm so scared."

Your heart clenches.

You lift your hand, gently stroking her hair.

"I’m here," you murmur. "I’m not going anywhere."

She exhales shakily, gripping the fabric of your shirt.

"Promise?"

You cup her face, tilting it up so she has no choice but to look at you. Her eyes are swollen from crying, her lips trembling.

"I promise, Tsuki."

A tear slips down her cheek, and you wipe it away with your thumb.

"You don’t have to be afraid anymore," you tell her. "I’ll stay for as long as you need me. And even after that, if you'll have me, I’ll still be here. Because I meant what I said—I love you. And I want to create new memories with you. Happy ones."

She lets out a shaky breath, her eyes searching yours, looking for something—doubt, hesitation, a reason to not believe you. But she finds none.

Instead, she finds warmth.

Safety.

Love.

With a quiet sob, she presses her forehead against yours.

"I don’t deserve you," she whispers.

You shake your head.

"You deserve everything, Tsuki."

She closes her eyes, another tear falling.

But this time, it isn’t from pain.

It's from something softer.

Something she hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Hope.

And as you pull her into your arms once more, holding her as she lets herself believe—if only just a little—you know that this is only the beginning.

Of something beautiful.

Of something real.

Of something that neither of you will ever have to run from again.

The world outside fades into silence.

Here, in the dim glow of Tsuki’s apartment, it’s just the two of you—wrapped in warmth, in emotion, in something too deep to name.

She clings to you, her body trembling slightly, her breath uneven. But this time, it isn’t from sadness. It’s something else.

Something raw.

Something desperate.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes still glistening from all the tears she shed. But beneath the vulnerability, there’s something stronger—something unspoken.

Then, she moves.

Soft. Tentative. A quiet plea.

Her lips brush against yours.

A slow, delicate touch—like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she presses too hard. Like she’s still trying to believe this is real.

But you’re here.

And you’re never leaving.

You cup her face gently, deepening the kiss, pouring every unspoken word into it—every promise, every reassurance, every ounce of love you’ve been holding inside for so long.

She melts into you, her hands fisting your shirt as if anchoring herself.

"Y/n..." she whispers against your lips, her voice breaking slightly.

"I’m here," you murmur, your forehead resting against hers. "I’m not going anywhere, Tsuki."

Her breath shudders, and then she pulls you closer—so close there’s no space left between you.

She wants to feel you.

She wants to believe you.

She wants to drown in the warmth you give her, in the love she never thought she’d have.

And so, you let her.

You hold her close, pressing soft kisses against her skin, letting your fingers trace the shape of her as if memorizing every piece of her existence. Every scar, every wound, every part of her that she’s spent so long hiding—you take it all in, worshipping her in a way no one ever has.

And Tsuki?

She gives herself to you. Completely.

Her walls fall, her fears crumble. In this moment, she isn’t the girl who ran away. She isn’t the girl who paints to forget.

She’s just Tsuki.

The girl who needs you.

The girl you love.

And as the night deepens, as your breaths intertwine and your hearts beat as one, you hold her close—whispering, promising, ensuring her that this isn’t a dream.

That you’re real.

That your love is real.

That you’ll never let her go.

Not now.

Not ever.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

A small, delicate weight against your chest, soft breaths fanning over your skin. The scent of paint, vanilla, and something uniquely Tsuki lingers in the air, mixing with the quiet hum of the early morning.

You open your eyes slowly, the dim sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room.

And there she is.

Tsuki.

Curled up against you, her face buried in your chest, her arms wrapped tightly around you as if afraid you’ll disappear. Her fingers clutch onto your shirt, even in sleep, refusing to let go.

Your heart aches at the sight.

She looks peaceful now, but you remember the way she cried last night, the way she begged you to stay, the way she held onto you like you were the only thing keeping her from breaking.

And now, even in sleep, she still clings to you.

You smile softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

She stirs at the touch, shifting slightly before letting out a quiet sigh.

Then, without warning, she tightens her hold on you, pressing herself closer, burying her face even deeper against your chest.

"Mmm... don’t move..." she murmurs, her voice husky from sleep.

You chuckle, wrapping your arms around her. "Good morning to you too."

She hums softly, nuzzling against you like a kitten seeking warmth.

"Too early..." she mumbles, her fingers gripping your shirt. "Stay like this... just a little longer..."

You smile, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

"Alright. I’m not going anywhere."

She lets out a small, content sigh.

For a long moment, there’s only silence. The soft rise and fall of her breathing, the quiet rhythm of your heartbeats in sync.

Then, she speaks.

"I haven’t woken up like this in years..." she whispers.

You glance down at her, brushing your fingers through her hair.

"Like what?"

She hesitates, then shifts slightly, resting her chin against your chest as she looks up at you. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, are softer than you’ve ever seen them.

"Safe."

Your breath catches.

You don’t know what to say.

So you just hold her tighter.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because Tsuki smiles—a small, real smile—and buries herself against you again, holding onto you like you’re the only thing she has left in this world.

And maybe, for her, you are.

And you’ll stay.

For as long as she needs.

For as long as she wants.

For as long as forever.

The days pass like a dream.

Tsuki never leaves your side.

She clings to you in the quiet moments, cuddling against you whenever she gets the chance. When you cook, she stands behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist. When you sit on her couch, she curls up beside you, resting her head on your chest. Even in sleep, she never lets go, as if afraid you’ll slip away if she loosens her grip.

And you don’t mind.

You hold her every time.

You whisper reassurances when she needs them. You stay with her through every vulnerable moment, through every silent battle she fights inside her head.

And slowly, Tsuki changes.

She starts to smile more—not the small, fleeting smiles of before, but real ones. Ones that reach her eyes. Ones that carry warmth.

She starts to talk more—not just about her pain, but about her dreams, her hopes, the things that make her heart feel light.

And most of all, she starts to trust you.

Not just in words.

But in the way she looks at you.

In the way she leans into your touch without hesitation.

In the way she reaches for you first, without fear of being left behind.

And that trust—fragile, beautiful, something she’s never given anyone before—means more to you than anything.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Tsuki tugs at your hand.

"Come with me," she says softly.

She leads you to the corner of her apartment where her easel stands. A blank canvas rests on it, waiting.

She hands you a brush.

"Let’s paint something together."

You hesitate.

"I’ve never painted before."

She smiles—one of those soft, secret smiles that make your heart ache.

"Then I’ll teach you."

And so, you do.

You dip your brush into the paint, following her lead, your strokes clumsy at first. But she doesn’t laugh. She only guides you, her fingers brushing against yours, her voice soft as she teaches you how to bring color to the canvas.

Time fades away.

There’s only the two of you.

The quiet hum of the evening. The warmth of her beside you. The colors blending together, shaping something new—something that belongs to both of you.

At some point, she stops painting.

You feel her shift, and then—gently, so gently—she leans her head against your shoulder.

You pause, turning slightly, and there she is—eyes half-lidded, lips curved into the faintest smile.

"Thank you," she whispers.

You don’t ask why.

You already know.

You lift your hand, resting it over hers, fingers intertwining.

And together, in the quiet of her small apartment, with the scent of paint in the air and the weight of her against you, you realize—

This moment.

This warmth.

This love.

It’s everything.

And it’s enough.

The End.

[jiamekare]

Okay so if anyone in Veilguard figured out what was going on with Rook and Varric, it had to be Neve, right?

More below the cut because spoilers

She’s from Minrathous, so she knows blood magic in action even if she doesn’t touch it herself, she knew Varric in person before all this happened, and she’s a good enough detective to suss out that Emmrich was born poor from candle stubs and meal times, she’s absolutely going to put the pieces together.

And you might be going, “well why didn’t she say anything?” And narratively, because that’s the big act 3 twist, right? That’s the needle that Solas needs to really stitch Rook into the Fade Prison in his place, so we can’t have one of your party members wandering around Arlathan going BTW Varric is dead.

But I can’t stop thinking about this in-story. What if the team didn’t bring it up to Rook because they can’t? Or at least, not in a way that sticks.

Like, maybe at the beginning Neve and Harding thought this might be a temporary block, right? Sure, they realize right after the prologue and Rook’s first dialogue with Solas that 1) Solas is in Rook’s head and 2) there was enough blood at the ritual site that Solas could, if he chose to, do blood magic about it.

But also, Rook did end up taking a trip to Massive Head Trauma Bay, right? Maybe this isn’t magical, maybe this is just a bog standard head wound and while they don’t remember Varric dying right now, maybe things will clear up as time goes on. Harding’s holding on to hope harder than Neve is for this- Neve’s a trained cynic, but Harding keeps thinking maybe when we go retrieve the dagger from the ritual site, that will jog some memories, maybe if I keep talking about Varric, maybe maybe maybe

But every time Harding shares a story, makes a comment, outright refers to Varrics death, it just slides off of Rook’s brain like egg off teflon. Rook is confused, upset, but with no reason why as far as they understand.

Harding’s not having the easiest time dealing with that, either, because in a normal grieving situation she’d be talking with Rook all the time about Varric; what he’d be saying about everyone who joins the party, what he’d be complaining about, breaking out the Varricisms that he’d pop off with while they were all travelling together; and Neve is nice, Neve is fine, but she wasn’t travelling with Varric like Harding and Rook were, it’s not the same commiserating, and everyone who joins knows Varric only in the past tense. You can write to your Ma and you can write to Charter, but it’s not the same as talking to someone.

Bellara broaches the idea with Neve about trying to un-block Rook’s brain, but she’s shot down almost immediately for a handful of reasons. First, trying to un-block Rook’s brain has a very real chance of simply scrambling Rook’s brain beyond comprehension. Dealing with blood magic on the level that Solas has apparently performed it is *really* tricky per what we see in the universe- I think the closest we come previously is in Dorian’s backstory with his father trying to Magical Conversion Therapy Dorian, and iirc there’s a fairly high chance that could have just straight up lobotomized him; how much more complicated must ‘just ignore this one fact and anything that contradicts it’ be to magically install in someone’s brain? Second, as much as they all may not be comfortable with the idea, they are in a position where they need Solas to keep talking to Rook in order to keep moving forward against the Evanuris, and if they fuck with the blood magic in Rook’s brain, they also may lose that link with Solas.

When you’re dealing with someone with long term memory loss- Alzheimer’s patients, for example- it eventually becomes kinder to accommodate their understanding of the world where you can rather than try and impress the real truth around them. Your husband is at work, or the grocery store, your husband isn’t dead, because every time you try and tell them that their husband is dead, they’re very upset and confused and they don’t remember WHY they’re upset and confused minutes later, but the upset and confusion are real regardless. So Neve and Harding have a quiet conversation with everyone that joins, letting them know ‘hey, just don’t talk about this one subject around Rook.’

As the game progresses, the Varric Issue becomes less of an issue for the team because other things force their way to the forefront. Treviso happens, or Minrathous happens. Weisshaupt happens. Aelia happens, and Cyrian happens, and Johanna Hezenkoss happens, and so talking around the Varric Issue becomes less of a problem for everyone -

Until Tearstone Island happens.