#I don't draw like I used to... its so sad...

[kisslandeds]

“Reunion”

summary: you and itachi shared your childhood together, with your fondest memories taking place in a plum blossom tree near the uchiha compound. before he left the village, you both became painfully aware of your feelings for each other. when he left, you struggled to find closure. years later, you decide to visit the plum blossom tree again—to find you may have some closure after all.

t/w: flashbacks, some themes of angst or sadness, complicated feelings, kissing, scratching, slight choking, pain, sex, romantic in its own way

word count: 3,321

a/n: it was time for a long overdue self insert itachi smut. i liked writing this bc i love yearning and as you guys know, i am a hopeless romantic lolz

     Night wrapped around you like a memory—thick with an icy chill, the kind that clung to your skin and slowed your breath. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, clouds drifting like ghosts across the moon's pale face. You stood alone in the clearing just beyond the village, where the wild plum trees still bloomed every spring despite the thinning soil and broken roots.

    It was quiet here. The kind of silence that made your ears ring, the kind that reminded you of the Uchiha compound in the dead hours of the night before it all had changed.

   The old tree beside you was withering now, its bark split with age, petals few and faint, but you remembered it at its peak. When the blossoms were thick and white like snowfall, and you and Itachi used to sit beneath its shade as children, brushing fallen petals from each other's hair. The tree was a reservoir for memories.

    You used to tell him everything back then—what you were afraid of, what you dreamed of, the silly things that didn't matter to anyone else but him. He used to listen like it mattered, because you mattered.

    The two of you had always shared a certain tenderness—one that existed in the pauses, in the quiet glances, in the way your shoulders would brush when you walked too close and neither of you ever moved away.

    You remembered the nights you'd sneak out just to sit beside him at the edge of the koi pond, your knees drawn up to your chest, fireflies floating low over the water. You'd tell him the things you couldn't tell anyone else—how sometimes you hated your clan's expectations, your thoughts, how you were terrified of what the future held.

    In turn, he would tell you things no one else would believe he could feel; how tired he was, how heavy everything felt, but also vulnerable feelings, like his ambition, and his love for his family, especially his younger brother.

    You remember one night you shared under the tree.

   You were twelve when you turned to him and said, "If you could go anywhere—like, anywhere in the world—where would you go?"

    He was quiet for a long moment, eyes on the stream of water that treaded near the tree. Your eyes meet the floating lily pads that moved about idly on the water.

    "I don't know," he murmured. "Somewhere without noise . . . somewhere pleasant. Maybe somewhere I can take Sasuke."

    You tilted your head, watching him. "Like the outside of the village?"

    "Maybe," he said. "Somewhere free of obligation, I guess." The expression on his visage communicated his thought—the soft drawing of his eyebrows, the way his black eyes found the stream, and the way his hair billowed softly in the wind.

    You nudged him with your knee. "You always think too much."

    That got the faintest smile out of him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

    "It is," you teased. "Your brain's probably overheating."

    "Maybe that's why I feel so tired all the time."

    You paused at that. He hadn't said it like a joke. He hadn't looked at you, either.

    You reached out, touching his sleeve. "Hey."

    He finally looked at you.

    "If you ever go," you said quietly, "I want to come with you."

    The look on his face was something you'd never forget—surprise, affection, something else you couldn't name. He nodded once, and the juvenile look in his eyes began to twinkle. He smiled. "Okay."

    You smile to yourself as you remember the memory. Though it felt so close, it was many years ago, and no longer tangible.

You had loved him with the kind of ache that started young and never left. Not in the sweet, passing way children often love—but in the way your whole world silently shaped itself around someone. As though your heart had made space for him long before you ever understood what that all meant.

When you were little, it was a nervous flutter in your stomach when his hand brushed yours. At thirteen, it was fire—low, deep, and constant. The kind of desire you didn't know how to name, only feel. For him, it was the same.

You saw it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching, in how his voice dropped when he said your name. In the rare moments he let his walls slip, when he smiled not for the sake of others but because of you.

You kissed often—but never carelessly.

Whenever you kissed, it was meaningful. Sometimes, it was behind the old training hall at dusk, beneath the plum blossom tree when the village was asleep, or pressed into the silence of the library's shadowed corridors. Each kiss was a secret, a tether, a promise. Sometimes sweet and tentative, other times breathless and burning. You knew his breath, the way his fingers would shake against your jaw, the slight tilt of his mouth when he let himself be unguarded.

It wasn't just infatuation. You gave him pieces of yourself—your fears, your hopes, your darkest thoughts. You told him things you hadn't even admitted to yourself yet. He gave you just as much in return, quietly, always with restraint, like he was trying to savor every moment before it was taken from him.

It should have been the beginning of something. A slow, sacred unfolding.

But, that was before—before you lost him, before he was consumed and condemned to a damned and cursed path, before he killed his entire lineage in one night. Yes, that was before he disappeared and took something from you that you couldn't name, only feel—in your bones, in your dreams, in the hollowness of your chest every time someone mentioned his name.

Now, years later, you still loved him. That was the part you could never quite kill.

    You had come back to that tree tonight, a reservoir of memories. The air was cool, tinged with the faint sweetness of plum blossoms, their petals scattered like soft snow across the damp earth. The gnarled branches stretched overhead, skeletal against the dark velvet sky, their shadows weaving delicate patterns on the ground.

    You weren't sure what had drawn you here—maybe a desperate hope that this place still held something real, something unbroken.

   Then, without warning, the subtle shift in the night made your skin prickle—like a whispered warning.

    You turned your head slowly, heart tightening in your chest, and you felt him.

    Standing just beyond the reach of the branches, half-hidden in shadows, yet impossibly present. The moonlight draped over him like liquid silver, tracing the sharp angles of his face—the high cheekbones dusted with stress, the strong line of his jaw shadowed and defined. His skin was tan and smooth but held the hard edge of years lived on the run, of battles fought in silence.

    His hair, longer now, fell in soft, dark tresses that caught the breeze, some strands brushing against his collarbone, the faintest shimmer of black against moonlit skin. One hand slides up to his face, his palm taking a handful of hair to cover his face from his billowing locks. His visage was no longer juvenile or carried the twinkling innocence it did before. Now, the lines that ran down under his eyes stretched longer, which animated and conveyed torment and stress.

   He wore a cloak hung loose around his lean frame, shifting gently with each quiet breath he took. The fabric whispered secrets as it brushed the grass, revealing glimpses of the deep black shirt underneath that clung to his torso—muscles taut and lithe, powerful yet restrained.

   His eyes found yours—those onyx depths that once held only warmth, now flickered with shadows of things you couldn't name. They were calm, yes, but beneath that still surface burned an intensity so fierce it made your breath catch.

   He was taller than you remembered, and his frame was broader. And yet, still the same Itachi—the boy you had loved and lost, the man who haunted every corner of your heart.

    “It's been a long time," you said, voice steady despite the tremor that fluttered beneath your ribs.

    He nodded slowly, deliberately. "Too long."

    "Itachi," you whispered, the sound fragile, like a prayer or a confession.

   His gaze softened just a fraction—an almost imperceptible flicker that made your throat tighten.

    He looked older, tired, but still devastatingly beautiful—the elegance of a shadow, the mystery of a storm just beyond the horizon.

    You hadn't seen him in years. Not since the blood had stained your past, shattering everything you thought you knew.

“You've come," you said again, quieter this time.

“I shouldn't have," he murmured, voice low and rough, like gravel brushing velvet. "But I couldn't stay away."

Neither of you moved. The space between you hummed  with a heat that wasn't from the night air—it was the weight of all that had passed, of closeness twisted into something complicated and fragile.

   "You were always good at disappearing," you said softly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. "But you were never good at letting go."

That did something to him. You saw it—the flicker in his gaze, the way his jaw tensed.

"I told myself I didn't deserve this," he said, voice low, quiet as a confession. "Didn't deserve you . . ." his black eyes softened. "That's why I left you."

Your heart ached.  "I don't know if you do."

He stepped closer. "I'm sorry for leaving it behind, and presenting myself here . . . like a failure."

You should have pushed him away. You should have asked why it took him this long, why you had to carry the ghost of him for so many years while he vanished into the cracks of the world. But all you could feel was the raw gravity of him, pulling at every part of you that still remembered—how he held your hand through a storm when you were six and scared of lightning, how he once fixed your braid as it fell apart in the middle of a lecture, how he looked at you the night before it all ended like he already knew it would.

You closed the distance, slowly, as if you weren't sure he was real. Your fingers grazed his jaw.

"Show me," you whispered. "If you deserve this."

The soft, golden and silver lighting of the moon amalgamated with the lanterns of the village and danced on his visage like a flame. The stars above you twinkled, a witness to this moment between you two.

    The distance between the two of you narrowed, and you reluctantly placed your hand onto his cheek. Your thumb brushed his skin, and your hair blew softly in the air as you analyzed the expression on his face. The contours of his face were beautiful, but tragically reminiscent of melancholy.

    His lips were on you in the next breath—slow at first, like he was relearning you, like he didn't want to shatter the moment. But it deepened fast, rougher, needier, years of restraint fraying at the seams.

His hands slid down your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you to something that felt like both home and danger. You shuddered as you felt the cool sensation of his metal rings on your skin. His mouth traced the curve of your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, reverent like prayer and desperate like sin.

"You never left me," he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled a trembling breath. Part of you felt defeat. "I couldn't."

His touch was both familiar and new, every graze and grip made heavier by all the time lost. The way he moved—deliberate, controlled, but hungry—made your back arch, your fingers dig into his shoulder blades.

     He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he needed to taste every year he'd missed, every moment you'd both let slip through your fingers. With this kiss, you become painfully aware that you were no longer children, and your kisses were not innocent—they communicated want. His hands slid beneath your red blouse, palms broad and warm against your skin. You shiver as you feel his cold skin slide against the contours of your ribs to the suppleness of your breasts. You gasped softly against his mouth as he moved lower, mouth tracing your throat, your collarbone, every inch he could reach with reverent hunger.

    Clothes slipped off like old memories. Your blouse came off first, discarded beneath you, and you shuddered as you felt your skin raise in the presence of the cold air. His followed, tugged loose from his body and discarded without ceremony. The moonlight caught the shape of him—lean, cut muscle beneath smooth, tan skin, marred by old scars like brushstrokes on a masterpiece. You reached out and traced one along his ribs, and he shuddered slightly at your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

    You felt the control in him—the way every movement was precise, restrained, as if he were afraid he might break you, or himself. But beneath that was need, need that had simmered in silence for too long.

    He set his cloak down onto the grass, part of it met the rough bark of the tree. When your lips met again, you were pushed gently back until your spine met the rough bark of the tree. One of his hands braced beside your head, the other slid down your side, slow and sure, fingers ghosting over your waist, your hip, down to your thigh.

    Your breath caught when he lifted your leg against his waist, his body pressing flush to yours. The heat of him was overwhelming—his skin against yours, his breath on your neck, the hard, aching evidence of how much he wanted you, pressed firm against the softness between your thighs. The warmth was a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside.

   His eyes meet your body, the soft contours and curves of your skin. His hands tread carefully, and he observes your body with regret and admiration. Stopping his hands at the area in which your pants met your hips, he pressed his forehead against yours. "You're so beautiful."

   "Itachi," you whispered, your voice barely a breath. You weren't sure if it was a plea or a prayer. "How I've needed you all these years . . ."

   He looked at you then, a desire that his beautiful visage conveyed. His eyes were dark and heavy with everything unsaid, but his voice was soft when he spoke. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

   You shook your head slowly. "Don't."

    He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding down the back of your thighs, his lips tracing the soft skin of your stomach as he undid the last of your clothing with careful, almost trembling hands. His mouth followed the path of his fingers, worshipping every inch of exposed skin.

   You fall to your legs, your body meeting the soft fabric of his cloak that covered the texture of the grass. Plum blossoms fell on you both as the wind shook the tree. The soft hum of cicadas filled your ears, a sound other than your kisses.

His soft hand delicately wraps around your throat, pulling you into a rough kiss as your naked bodies locked. He was sat, and you sat above him, your thighs wrapped around his waist. Your fingers meet his hair, the soft locks you used to play with when you were little.

You longed for him more than you could admit to yourself. Your body ached for him as much as your heart did.

His hand forcefully pushed your jaw back with his thumb, a touch that was gentle but nonetheless commanding. His lips plant kisses along your neck, His lips drag down to your collarbone, sucking your skin softly until it left soft bruises onto the upper area of your breasts. His soft lips along your skin prompted soft sighs of satisfaction from your lips. Your fingers meet his neck, playing with the soft string that held his necklace together.

His hand tightens along your throat, a tender embrace that was not painful—just commanding. He pulls you toward him, his index finger prompting your jaw open. His lips meet your mouth, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, tugging at it softly. You wince in soft pain, tugging at his hair in want.

You think of how you were no longer kids that possessed a fleeting love, but two people that loved each other, and desperately wanted to communicate that after many years.

"I need you to tell me you want this," his voice is coarse, stiff from the tension, "that you, by your own free will, desire this."

    Your breath catches, and your skin turns hot despite the cold. "I do."

    His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping the flesh. You feel your body get lifted up, his forearm taking your entire body. He aligns himself with your womanhood, which ached in desire. His grip tightened on your hips as he plunged himself into you.

Your lips part, a high sound emerging, as your body sank into his. You felt your sex become filled by him, a painful sensation that pushed an intense pressure into you. You wrap your arms around his neck, nails digging into his delicate skin as you softly gasp and let the pain subside. Truthfully, you made every effort to not show that you felt pain—you didn’t want him to know that you letting him into something so intimate was painful.

Itachi places both hands onto your hips, pulling your body onto his at a slow rhythm that made you a writhing mess. His movements were deliberate, solely focused on having you feel him entirely, the union you two were in. You play with his soft, long hair, eyes closing as you let out wavy breaths of pleasure. “Itachi . . .”

His hand meets the back of your head, trailing up from your neck. He forcefully but gently pulls you away from the crevice of his neck, fingers interlocked with your hair. His lips crash into yours, an effort to stifle his own moans. Itachi’s free hand leaves your waist, sliding onto your chest, carefully cupping your breast—careful not to do anything to hurt you.

Your thighs tighten around his hips, and you take the initiative and move at a rhythm you’re comfortable with. When you felt your climax was near, you pulled away from his kiss, and buried your face into the crevice of his neck, scratching his back.

You made sure to analyze the blissful expression on his visage after you came. His beautiful physiognomy was devoid of stress, pain, but enveloped in pleasure. You cup his cheek and lace your fingers with his.

Afterward, your bodies rested against each other, your breasts pressed against his chest, your own chest heaving as you caught your breath. Your foreheads rested together, your skin both damp with the sweat and cold humidity of the night.

"I thought about you every night," he whispered. "Even when I tried not to. Especially then."

You leaned into him, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. "Then stop running."

His eyes opened, sharp and clear in the moonlight. "It's not over. What I've done—what I still have to do . . . it's not finished."

"And neither is this," you said. There was no anger in your voice. Only truth. "You don't have to carry it all alone."

His beautiful eyes meet your visage, analyzing you, as if  memorizing you like he was afraid he'd never see you again.

"I don't know what kind of life I can offer you," he said finally. "But if you're still willing to walk it with me . . ."

Your fingers curled around his. "I don't want perfect. I want real. I want you."

For a long while, he said nothing. Then he pressed your joined hands against his chest, over his heart. "Then come with me.”

[peachpopfizz]

so originally i was just doing a ref of the twins for the sake of my own memory. but then i realized "hey i can also make a blind felix au ref outta this"

i chose to dress the bfau boys as i did for specific reasons and i yap about it all under the cut so if you wanna see an autistic person lose their mind about character design uhhh open it ig

• Felix likes wearing thick, baggy clothing because it makes him feel more weighted and secure. also, he often runs into stuff during his first few months of blindness, and the thicker clothing helps reduce injury. it just kinda subconsciously became his preferred style of clothing after that. yes, he will wear a knitted sweater in 90° heat. no, he's not okay

• Felix's shoes are also noticeably thicker-soled than Ted's bc, again, he's scared he's gonna step on something on accident. his shoes are also velcro instead of lace so he doesn't struggle with putting them on by himself

• bc Felix Sr/Mr. Huxely is an Asshole who teaches his kids Assholish Values, Felix is very much ashamed of having to use a cane for a long, long time. he normally has Ted carry it around for him and only uses it when he absolutely has to. normally TED is his living cane so he doesn't need it much agdhagsgaha

• Felix replaces his bandages the start of every day, and every night before he goes to bed. ...or, Ted does it for him. a few nurses have tried before but Felix always complains about them 'not doing it right' or 'making it too tight' and even if they manage to get the bandages on, Felix would just rip them off and demand for Ted to do it afterwards (this is my way of subtly saying Felix only wants and trusts Ted to do his bandages and he's terrified of everyone else lol haha)

• He's still a little snobby asshole but he gets better every day, especially after meeting other disabled people. it's a slow process, but he's getting there. slowly. sooooo slowly.

• ong the whole time I was drawing bfau Ted the more details i added to him the louder that at one Markiplier audio played in my head. 'oh, it's adorable! ...oh, it has anxiety. oh, it's traumatized-'

• the only positive about this situation is that since Felix isn't on his ass about upholding a formal appearance for the family name anymore, Ted can dress more to his style, which is like. how any 5 year old would wanna dress ODGOSGAIG

• also, Ted not only primarily wears red bc it's like. His Color, it also hides bloodstains very well. and as I said in my first bfau post, blood comes out when Felix cries, Ted just.. doesn't mention that

• there's not much else to say about Ted's design other than that I slapped the top of that bad boy and saw how much guilt I could fit in em. spoiler: its a lot

• Ted doesn't get very good sleep a lot of the time, and when hes not with Felix, it's bc Felix Sr is dragging him to a business meeting so that he can 'learn the ropes'. Ted sleeps the best whenever Felix is in the same room as him, so thats why he has the eyebags. he doesn't get to, often

• as I said in my last post, Ted blames himself for what happened, even if it like. isn't at all his fault. he smiles a lot less and has lost a lot of his joyous whimsy. he still is the kinder and more positive twin, hes just. hes really Sad

• if someone makes fun of Felix for being blind Ted will beat them with the cane, fullstop. don't test him

• ...okay this isnt an au-specific thing its just how I draw the twins but every time I get to do it it makes me go 'teehee'. Felix's little hair part thing is shaped like an apple, and Ted's is a heart. teehee. I love details

okay that's it thank you for reading the rambles of an autistic maniac now shoo shoo sprays you with spray bottle

[zebratimw]

2021

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Disco Elysium AU part 2 - Psyche Skills

Part 1 - Part 3

[sysig]

Feeling and looking good 🌈 (Patreon)

[b0nelessdoodles]

hehehehe silly goblin doodles from the year

[usagifuyusummer]

Urusami September 2024 Log

I'm just sharing this for fun and to mull about. I'll be around and work (collab) on the self creative projects that I'm doing currently, but as October nears, I will inevitably be getting more and more busier with my studies. Still, I'll continue on with the projects that I want to do whenever I can. (I can't be online much as the end of the semester nears though, as the amount of reports/work are staggering around that time.)

Yesterday, I went out with my siblings to the city just to hang out. And during that hang out session, we visited a Apple Store. These types of shops usually leave their electronic products outside for consumer testing, so I tried messing around with the (newest?) ipadmini (particularly their drawing app, Procreate). And WOW, holy fucking shit, it's so smooth, it felt like drawing on the heavenly clouds itself lmao.

Imagine if I had a better device to create the stuff I want to do..., I would improve in lightning speed lol. All of these ideas will be easily formulated.... Asks from others? Create a quick mini comic sketch to explain your concepts, then boom, finished! Drawing in a smartphone is already a miracle for most, but... I have a desire to have a better way of creating art and improving my skills...

Besides that, my smartphone is quite old, like circa 2019. It still functions well as a phone, but it is not really a device you can dump heavy art projects in. Like, this phone's memory is dwindling fast as I create more and more stuff lmao. Plus, my wrists and hands do hurt from doing creative projects on a small ass screen. Those are one of the many reasons on why the length of time between my art posts is so long.

As I still can't really buy the art devices that I need for my own self-fulfilment in this current-time, I'll just create the stuff I wanna do with the way I can. Adapt and improvise... and just be grateful with the way it is for now...

Agh, when will I get to the point where I can do whatever I want in life without my parents restrictions and scrutinisations. Being a young adult in this current times and economy sucks major fucking ass and I hate to breathe another day sometimes. I'll survive, until I can't. For now though? I just want to have fun and enjoy what I can do while it lasts. In the meantime, I'll also adore and admire what art others have created (while I suffer daily life and have fun in my own art progress).

I'm just expressing my dissatisfaction on here with how my life has been going by that short glorious experience with that ipadmini lmao. So yeah, this is just me being a whiny baby lol.

If you read this far, I hope your life is better than mine. And if you're still young, study smart and well to create a better future for yourself than the unfortunate few of us who are stuck in any type of unfavorable situation by our own weaknesses and the previous generation faults. Like, we, as in the current young adult generation want to create a better and brighter future, but I really don't know if it'll get better from here. All I know is that, as you age, it doesn't get any easier and personally, I can't see my future from my experiences and failures.

Yeah, I think that's all for now... I'll see you whenever I can. Have a nice day! 💐

[graphic--horde]

How do you make your stamps? :0

Disclaimer: this is an obscenely long explanation, with pictures. Efficiency is stupid

So, for the static ones, I make a 99x56 px file on ibis paint x. Other programs are probably available online but I don't use them.

After that, I either upload an image I want to make into a stamp, or I draw one.

Then, I find a frame I want to use. Ill upload them here but let it be known I stole all of these right from deviantart

Most of them are from Lil-Devil-Melii on deviantart. The rest i have no idea. They're not all 99x56px but you can crop the canvas it's fine

Make sure to erase the edges of the picture , so they're transparent. It's not as cute otherwise

Upload those frames over your image in whatever art program you're using and viola, stamp.

For moving ones, it's a lot harder. Mostly because I refuse to download Photoshop.

There are a couple ways to do this. Some are simple animations, like with flashing text and whatnot. For these, you download the individual animation frames from your art program. Make sure it's transparent.

Then, upload each frame to ezgif.com under the option "GIF maker." You can play around with how fast each frame goes and whatnot but in the end, it'll be a stamp with some rad text that moves. This is easy, and doesn't make me want to shit my pants and cry. If you're new, do this. This is fun. This is good. This does not kill me inside

I made that↓ stamp with this method :)

this next one is how we turn gifs into stamps. This one makes me sad. It involves math and sucks. But we gotta do it. For the vibe

First, grab your gif. I'm using this cow gif because it's awesome

Then, I resize it using ezgif. Literally everything for this will be using ezgif. I am a simple man

At this point you should decide what frame to use. I'm using this one because its the first one I clicked

Figured out what size the inside of the frame is. That's what I resize the gif to, so the edges can be transparent. The inside of this one is 93x50 px, so those are the dimensions I'm making the gif.

Figure it out by putting the frame into ibis paint and realizing the canvas to fit just the inside of the frame, then seeing what the dimensions are. But there could be easier ways

Woah it's so small now

Then, still on ezgif, I go to the "crop" option.

Make sureeee to upload the smaller gif

press the button that says "extend canvas size", and then put the "width" and "height" as the dimensions for your FRAME. This'll put a bit of a transparent border around the gif. For this frame, I did 99px and 56px.

The "left" and "top" boxes show how many pixels the cropping happens from the edges of the canvas. The formula for finding that is

(width of gif / 2) - (difference between gif width and frame width / 2) = left box

For me it's (93 / 2) - (6 / 2) = 43.5

Then you do the same.for the height, which for me ends up being 22 from the top

This is reallyyy touchy and annoying though

Here's my result , with no visible difference

Okay so THEN you go to the "overlay" option, under "effects." And upload your frame. If the cropping was done right, you shouldn't have to move the frame at all and can just download it

Here's my result:

if you don't care about transparency, you can resize your gif to be the same size as the frame, and then put the frame over it. But I'm a slut for transparency

Anyways. I'm sorry if anything was unclear, it's two am. And I hope this was helpful :) these really are fun to make once you get it down

also if anyone has an easier way to make stamps from gifs, please god tell me

[nightingale-prompts]

Depersonalization-DCxDP

What is a god?

What makes someone a god?

The answer is all at once a paralyzing and horrific idea that humans were not meant to imagine as well as the coldest comfort you will ever have.

Some imagine a god as a parental figure of light and happiness. Others imagine a vengeful tyrant of flame and ice. Some imagine nothing at all because that doesn't line up with the reality they seek. Who is to say what is wrong or right when gods do not walk among mortal men?

But let's stretch the mind and think more abstract. What is a god other than an idea? Can an idea be made flesh and blood? Could a human truly reach what the universe's perfect form?

"What is your name?" Superman asked.

They had found the boy some time ago. He had been found locked in a room during a raid by the police. They were only able to tell he was a meta being kept there by a group of what would be best be called cultists but they called themselves artists. They had an obsession with the boy. Drawing him, writing songs about him, taking photos of him, writing books about him...using him. They had this ritual as they called it to get inspiration from him. Well they were all arrested and the boy was thankfully unharmed—they think.

The best guess was that the metahuman's ability caused psychological effects. One he couldn't control. Just like Ace—that poor girl. Of course, no one wanted the boy to suffer like that. But they had a feeling that someone had beat them to it.

He didn't seem to recognize that he...existed? He looked blankly at the world around him without acknowledging anything that happened. Bruce hypothesized that someone might have preemptively lobotomized the child and he hated the very idea of someone doing it. He understood better than the rest of the team where that led.

Thankfully that wasn't the case, because he finally responded.

"I am a—god? God?" He said, writing asked. He didn't seem to understand what he was saying. As if he was surprised by himself. "I am YOUR god."

"What is your name?" Superman asked again.

"I don't understand. I am your god. Please tell me what you want and I will give you it." He said more desperate this time.

"What did they call you?" Superman insisted. He wanted to break the boy of the delusion that the culitst as put him under.

The boy was not human though nor metahuman.

He was not anything. The god was not being more powerful than men. It was an idea made by man and molded by it. An idea made flesh was what the boy was. It had no name, no self. Whoever he was was none existent now.

He had no name, because a name implies identity. A center. A boundary between self and other.

But he was only other. Only what others projected, like a canvas that bled with the thoughts of those who gazed upon it. He was formed not by birth, not by nature, but by need.

“I want…” Superman began, then stopped himself. The boy's—its—eyes locked onto his face. Wide. Empty. Not searching for understanding but waiting for command. The way a mirror waits for you to move, so it may follow.

“I want you to tell me who you are,” Superman said gently.

The boy blinked. “I am who you need.”

"No," Superman said, his voice firmer now. "Who you are. Not who they said. Not what I want. Who you are."

But the boy only tilted his head. And for the first time, something shifted behind his eyes—like a curtain of static briefly parting to reveal the void. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t sadness. It was the growing awareness that there was nothing behind the curtain. Nothing had ever been there.

He clutched his head. "I don’t know what I want. I don't know if I can want. I am....a god. Their god. They made me. Formed me. I need to help. Give you want you need. But do understand what you need. Please ask for something I can give."

The lights flickered. Reality, for a moment, bent at the edges like heat rising from asphalt.

Constantine stepped forward, slow and cautious. “He’s not lying. He’s an idea. And now the idea might collapse. Maybe because we’re not feeding it.”

Superman turned toward him. “Feeding it?”

Constantine’s voice was grim. “Belief. Worship. Desire. He exists because they wanted him to. He lives on expectation. He doesn’t know how to be anything else.”

There was silence. Then the boy—no, the god, because what else could you call a creature sustained by thought alone?—spoke again.

“If I stop being what you want… do I die?”

Superman didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because this god wasn’t power or divinity. He was the horror of an infinite mirror, of a void given form, of something born from the minds of broken people who needed something to love, to fear, to own.

And now he was real.

The boy had once been human.

There are no records. No missing person’s report. No fingerprints. No DNA match in any database. He’s a blank space, a redacted sentence in the story of the world. And yet he bleeds, breathes, and dreams things no child should dream.

He had a name once. A life. Parents, perhaps. Maybe a favorite color. Maybe a fear of the dark. All erased.

Not hidden—consumed.

Because that’s the price of godhood when it’s built, not born. Divinity is not an ascension but an infection when forced into mortal form. And when they made him—those “artists,” those cultists with ink-stained hands and starved eyes—they did not crown him. They emptied him. Scraped out the soft, warm, fallible human parts and filled the hollow with expectation. With longing. With belief so ravenous it took everything he was and called it holy.

Now, when he speaks, he doesn’t speak from memory, but from echo. He reflects. He mirrors. He gives.

“I am your god,” he says, not because he wants to be—he doesn't even know what want is—but because that is what they taught him to say. What they whispered into his ear as they molded his flesh into myth.

They gave him worship like knives. Carved their devotion into his mind with reverent cruelty. Called it a gift.

But the truth?

They murdered a child and left a godling in his place.

And now, they must decide what to do with something that shouldn’t be.

Because a god who does not know itself cannot be trusted. And a god who only exists to please others is no god at all.

[suhsweet]

double kisses ⟡ csc

wc: 5.7k+ | pair: idol!seungcheol x nonidolf!reader | genre: angst, fluff | tags: 65% sadness & 35% fluff, breaking up but getting back together, mention of divorce as a lighthearted joke, mention of being in the public eye, long-distance relationship, it is cute til it aint and then its cute again

summary: you and seungcheol, the leader of a world-famous boygroup, come up with a signal that he can use to let you know he's thinking of you even in front of the whole world... but is it enough?

authors note: i have reborn. yeah we rushed it but it's still something noooooo?

No one said dating an idol was easy. Probably because doing so would be admitting that they were dating an idol, and risk their partner's career.

However, you are dating an idol, specifically Choi Seungcheol. You of all people would know that it was challenging. Not only was he the leader of Seventeen, but Seventeen was taking over the world at a rapid pace— demand for them was at a high. This meant that you basically had to share your boyfriend.

The irregular schedules made it hard to see him. When he wasn't with you, he was either working or touring. Hours were irregular, and being apart never got easier.

You spent many nights alone wondering if this was all worth it. You had someone who you found to be your other half, who was devoted and loyal to you like no other. You desperately wanted to shout it out from the rooftops:

Seungcheol is mine!

Yet the world would come down upon the two of you if a whisper of your relationship came out. As sweet as Carats are, you feared the paparazzi or sasaengs who would take advantage of something so special to you. Most of all, you didn't want to risk Seungcheol's career. It was a dream that he worked so hard on ever since he was a teenager.

In front of the TV, his body is snuggled to your side, his head a welcome weight on your shoulder. His hair tickles your cheek as you glance down at him, to his lashes and down his nose. It's a reminder, physical evidence that he's right here with you.

You aren't paying attention to the screen. You know he isn't either.

His tour starts tomorrow. Two nights in Incheon, then he's off to Japan, and then the rest of the world. Two months of touring in a completely different continent, and then he's back for a month to promote the group's next comeback. Then he's back on tour once more.

You had a list of clocks, all set to each country that he'll be visiting on your phone. The both of you shared locations. You even had the widget app that lets you draw or write little messages to each other.

Seungcheol's left a whole basket full of his clothes for you to wear when you miss him. He has a bottle of your fragrance, one of your beanies, and a pair of your favorite Gentle Monster sunglasses.

The two of you have prepared the best you can to be apart for months on end– little pieces of each other to make up for the oceans that will separate you.

You've been trying to remain optimistic, but you know it wouldn't be enough. Knowing that it's 3am in Singapore won't make up for the loss of his arms around you. Seeing his cute little drawings appear on your phone screen won't make up for the lack of his sweet kisses.

A pressure presses from behind your eyes, and you quickly blink the moisture away. It doesn't work. A tear escapes. And then another. With your eyes squeezed shut, you bury your face in your lover's hair and inhale his scent, the one you've associated to home.

You don't want to cry. To leave Seungcheol with this image of you – unhappy and upset, is cruel. You need to be excited for him to travel the world and meet people who adore his group. He's going to be doing what he loves every night! Being on stage and performing with his family! Why are you crying?!

It's not like he's going to be gone forever. He's told you that he wants a future with you. One day, he'll retire. You'll get married, have a tonne of kids, and travel the world for as long as you want.

You just need to be patient. Don't be selfish.

Except you are.

All you want to do is beg him to stay, not to leave you. You want to tell him that you're scared he'll forget about you. You trust his loyalty, but you can't help the doubt that tickles the back of your mind.

A ragged breath escapes you, and Seungcheol's head immediately jerks up. His hand is on your wrist before you can block your face from his view.

"Baby," he breathes.

"I-I'm sorry," you whimper pathetically, and then you're immediately gathered in his arms. Now that he knows that you're crying, it's as if your body has given you no choice but to let the floodgates open.

You grip his shirt, just above his heart as he tries to soothe you. Sobs rack your body. Seungcheol squeezes you close to him and presses his lips to your head.

Deep down, in the deepest, ugliest depths of your conscience; you want to beg him to quit. You want him out of the public eye and to live a quiet life with you.

As soon as the thought enters your mind, you immediately shove it away. Shame floods you. You knew what you were getting into when Seungcheol asked you to be his girlfriend. He warned you.

Don't be selfish.

Your sobs eventually evolve into whimpers and sniffs. Seungcheol's hand smoothes circles across your back, and it helps you pull yourself together.

The two of you are silent for another five minutes. The sounds coming from the TV fills the room, the noise becoming a little clearer while the thundering of your pulse in your ears quiets.

Seungcheol, ever so patient, murmurs 'I love you's repeatedly, and presses kisses into your hairline.

When he sees that you've calmed down, he cautiously asks if you want to talk about it. When you look at him and see the concern in his gaze, you almost cry again.

But you don't. Instead, you nod quietly.

You explain your fears of him being away. Won't he forget about you? Won't the time apart make him bored of you? He'll be too busy to think about you, let alone set time aside for calls and messages.

Seungcheol immediately stops you. His thick brows are furrowed, as he wills you to look at him. He makes sure you're looking into his eyes. "There is never a moment when you aren't on my mind. When I'm on stage, I think about you and hope that you're watching. When I exercise, I think about how I want to impress you with my muscles. When I'm on a plane, I wonder if you've eaten and if you're safe."

Your heart squeezes. Every word sounds like a vow. You believe him. How could you not? His expression is imploring, imploring you to believe him because he desperately wants you to know it's true.

"When I'm with the guys, I think about how much you'd be giggling if you were there to witness their bullshit. They always ask about you, so I can't even forget about you even if I tried! When I go through hair and makeup, I think about the looks that you liked and ask the stylists to recreate it.

I don't want you to ever think that I'll forget about you. You are my life. Everything I do is for you."

Your lips quirk up into a small smile. "You're my life too." Yet, a part of you is still unsure. "Two months is a long time."

"It'll feel like years. But you'll be on my mind for every second."

"I'll be watching every single one of your fancams that gets posted," you warn playfully. "Don't flirt too hard with the fans."

He throws his head back to laugh, and it's a beautiful sound. A giggle of your own joins it.

He looks to you once more, a soft smile on his lips and his eyes sparkling with what could only be described as adoration. "We should come up with a signal for me to use."

Your head tilts in confusion.

"You said you'll be watching every fancam of me. Give me a signal I can use to show you that I'm thinking about you."

You suck in a gush of air as your chest warms at his eagerness to make you happy, even while across the world from you.

"You'd do that?"

"You seriously think that I wouldn't? C'mon! Give me something."

You rack your brain for an idea. You think about the little habits that you both have, and ways in which you can turn them into a gesture that can easily be overlooked, but unique enough to know that it's purely for you.

Immediately think about his habit of kissing you twice.

His lips press against yours once. "One kiss for you." He leans in once more. "One kiss for me."

You're walking in the park at night, when there is hardly anyone out. He brings your joined hand to his lips, pressing two kisses into the back of your hand.

As soon as he steps into your apartment after a long day at work, you're in his arms. He buries his head into the crook of your neck and kisses it twice: once to let you know he's home, and again to let him know that he's finally reunited with you.

With your hand flat, you tap your fingers to your lips twice and bring your arm out as if blowing a kiss.

His gaze softens as he recognises where you got your idea from. One for you, and one for me. He double taps his lips then brings his arm away to blow a kiss in one fluid move. "Like this?"

"I think it's good. Looks natural."

⟡

It's the first song of the concert, and as soon as the camera shows Seungcheol on screen, he's sends a double kiss.

You're sitting next to Jeonghan dressed like you're part of the staff. The face mask you have on hides both your identity, and your blush from the cheeky gaze of Seungcheol's right hand man.

"Can't believe you find him more attractive than me," Jeonghan teases. You knock your shoulders with his. "I might be doing my military service, but at least I'll still be in the same country as you."

As the concert goes on you look out for your signal and you're impressed by the way Seungcheol makes it look so natural. Sometimes he only double taps his lips, looking into the camera with a knowing look.

He'll explain to you later on that if he only does the original signal, it is a little repetitive but he still wants you to know that he's thinking of you. You'll tell him that he doesn't have to do it for every song or every time the camera's focused on him. He'll pout and tell you that he's brainstorming of other ways he can do your signal without completely transforming it.

At the end of the concert for the encore, all Seungcheol can do is send double kisses to the camera of every fan he can see. As Aju Nice turns into Fighting, he starts sending double kisses to the upper floors of the stadium.

Finally, he sends them to the balcony. The fans think that he's sending them to Jeonghan but you know they're for you. Some of the other members notice and join him. Most of them simply blow kisses but some of the other observant members, like Mingyu and The8, send double kisses the same way Seungcheol does. Dokyeom in particular makes a show of blowing kisses in an excessively flirtatious manner, only stopping when he sees Vernon’s confused stare from the corner of his eye.

The sight has you feeling like you're glowing. This is enough, you decide. To see Seungcheol surrounded by his dearest friends, doing what makes him happy, reminding you that he's thinking of you.

⟡

"Hi baby!" Seungcheol greets you, it's awfully bright wherever he is. The phone lights up your darkened room.

"Hi Cheollie," your voice is hoarse. It's four in the morning, where you are. You have a few hours of sleep left before you have to wake up for work.

"Shit, were you sleeping?" Seungcheol's concerned expression fills the screen. "I'm sorry baby, I thought the clock said it's four pm in Korea... Go back to sleep baby, I'll call you later."

"Okay... I love you." You nod, already feeling sleep come to you.

"I love you," he responds. Your eyes flutter close. Faintly you hear the sound of Seungcheol kissing the phone twice, and the sombre sound of the call ending.

⟡

"How many fancams did you find today, baby?" Seongcheol asks.

He's snuggled in bed just as you're walking home from work.

"Hmm, around eight I think. I didn't get to look properly because of work," you hum. "I don't think it works for Super."

Seungcheol laughs. "I told you, I'm thinking of an alternative for the cooler songs. I even enlisted Hoshi to help me."

"Great, so now Hoshi knows that I'm insecure and needy," you joke with a pout.

"No love. To Hoshi, I'm the one who's insecure and needy. Did you see my sign during God of Music?"

You laugh, "I did! You were so cute."

Seungcheol preens from your praise. A drunken smile is plastered on his face, one that lets you know that he's exhausted. His words are slurred together. "I miss you baby."

"I miss you more," you promise. "Nine days to go, but who's counting?"

Cheol smirks. "Time will fly. I can't wait to have you sit on my face again."

"Cheol!" You scold.

He cackles into your AirPods. "Hey! Two months is a long time! Lotion and my hand are nothing compared to my gorgeous, stunning girlfriend. You've ruined me."

"Gross!"

"I miss you," Seungcheol sighs again once the comedic air of your banter settles.

I miss you so much more. It hurts so much. I don't ever want you to leave again, you want to say. Spend a week in bed with me to make up for your absence.

Instead, you ask about his schedule once he gets home. You want to see if you'll have at least a full day with him. You don't even need to go out or do anything special. You just want to be with him.

The upcoming comeback schedule ruins your hopes. Every day, there is something happening. Between practice, fittings, music show pre-recording, variety show filming, and radio interviews; the only time you'll get to spend with him is whenever he's home. There are days where he won't even be able to go home to sleep.

You carefully control your facial expressions from showing betrayal, and grief. You nod slowly, and try to give him a genuine smile. He sees through your act, but stays quiet. He knows there's nothing that he can do to help. Instead he tells you a funny story from tour that he hopes will distract you. It works.

⟡

The grief of your heartbreak is consuming.

It's been a week since you and Seungcheol have broken up. A week since he left to go back on tour, and a week since you've told him that you can't handle him leaving again.

You couldn't eat, or sleep, or let alone breathe ever since you left your shared apartment with a duffle bag of your things. Seungcheol insisted that you stay since he's going to be gone for a while anyway but you refuse. To be surrounded by your memories, by what could've been your future, was to torture yourself.

On the day that he flys out, you try to forget that he won't be in the same country as you. The members send you messages as well but you try to be brief in your messages in case they find a way to convince you to get back together with Seungcheol. You try to stay busy, but he seemed to live in your mind.

In the month that he was back in Seoul, you hardly got to see him. His schedule was so jam packed that he might as well have been overseas again. Most nights, sometimes well after midnight, you'd hear him come into your room. He'd press two kisses into your temple, and tell you that he loves you. You'd pretend to be asleep. You didn't want him to deal with you crying after being at work for long hours.

He leaves to sleep on the couch, so as to not disturb you.

In the morning he's gone once more.

You had a massive fight on the last night that Seungcheol was in the country. He tells you that he knows you've been pretending to sleep. You tell him that he should've slept in the same bed as you. You don't know what you want from him, since he can't do anything for you. It's a bitter truth that the both of you have to face. You're the one who brings up the idea of breaking up, and he doesn't stop you.

You don't want Seungcheol to deal with the ball and chain he's left back home. Seungcheol doesn't want you to deal with waiting around for him to return.

Now, an ever repeating cycle continues. You wake up, realize that you and Seungcheol have broken up. You give yourself a minute to cry, or just stare blankly at the bedroom wall. You remember that said wall doesn't belong to the home you had with him. You get out of bed, get ready for work, and then work. Sometimes you have dinner with friends or family. Other times, you have dinner alone. You go for walks, or play badminton. Badminton reminds you of Seungkwan, and thus reminds you of Seungcheol. You stop playing badminton.

Sometimes, the days are long. Those days are the days where the Seungcheol's absence are even more profound and you grieve what could have been your future with him. Other times, the days fly by and you wonder what you're doing with yourself.

On the tenth day since your breakup, you give in to the need to see Seungcheol. You open your social media for the first time in a while and are immediately presented with a fancam of Seungcheol from the night before.

The familiar chaos that is Aju Nice fills your room, as you watch Seungcheol interact with fans. He does his signature lopsided smile, looks into the camera, and sends a double kiss... It's unmistakable. He taps his lips twice, before swinging his arm out towards the camera.

'his energy seems a little down today... i hope he's okay :(', one of the replies say.

'scoups has been interacting with fans like crazy this time! i'm so jealous'

In another fancam, he tilts his head back, taps his lips twice with both of his hands and thrusts them towards the ceiling. Briefly, his face is cracked with vulnerability and remorse before it is fixed back into his charming, idol smile. Some will interpret it as him as thanking whatever deity for allowing him to live the life that he has. Really, he's just asking for a second chance.

Your heart twinges when you watch it happen. More than heartbreak, you feel the devastating guilt of breaking Seungcheol's heart when he's done nothing wrong.

What was the point of breaking up if you were happier together? But that's the thing isn't it? You wouldn't actually be with him. He's timezones away, and hardly around for you to truly feel like you're with him. You couldn't let yourself go through that. However, was not having him at all better than having pieces? Fragments?

Certainly, it hurt to be away from him during the first two months of tour. But now that you've broken up with no contact, the pain is even worse.

⟡

A week later, your phone lights up. You expect it to be your friends, or one of the members who’ve decided to call themselves ‘children of divorce’.

Instead, it’s Seungcheol. Your heart lurches at his name, and your mind shuffles through a million different reasons as to why he's texting you.

cheol 💕: hey, just checking in… how are you?

you: i’m good, how about you? how’s tour?

cheol 💞: could be better. tour’s been fun, just got to italy. the kids want to drag me to the colosseum so i can experience rome the way they did.

Your heart warms, knowing his members are taking good care of him. He tells you about what's been going on. You tell him about work, and what's going on with your own friends. It's like you haven't broken up at all, and you almost ask him to FaceTime before you remember that you're no longer entitled to that privilege.

Ten minutes of catching up quickly pass by before he has to leave. You immediately wonder if he'll text you again soon. Or if you should.

⟡

You're at Dongdaemun, doing some shopping for some new clothes. Retail therapy didn't work, but it was a nice distraction. You try not to think about what Seungcheol would think of the top you're holding up. He'd like it... Not that it matters. You throw the garment over your arm, deciding to buy it but not because your ex would like it.

Ex... You hate having to call him that. You haven't texted him since he reached out after the break up. You try not to be sad about it, you broke up with him after all.

Over your shoulder, you hear someone call your name.

"Mr Choi," you start in surprise.

"Please," his smile is warm. As if he doesn't know his son's heart is broken because of you. "I told you to call me abeoji. Dad."

"Abeoji," you correct yourself hesitantly.

“How are you? It’s been a while,” the man asks gently.

"I'm..." Broken, hollow. Irrevocably sorry for hurting Cheol. "Okay. How are you?"

"Could be better. I'm going to get myself something to drink. Would you care to join me?"

The cafe is located on the upper floors of Hyundai City Outlet. It overlooks the entrance to the building, and allows you to look at Dongdaemun Plaza. At night it's a beautiful sight.

"Seungcheol told me about what happened," Seungcheol's dad says, getting your attention.

Your heart skips a beat upon hearing Seungcheol's name. The hollowness in your chest deepens. Immediately you look down at the beverage in your hands, afraid to see the disdain you expect on his dad's face. "Oh. I-It was the hardest decision I've had to make. I want you to know that I didn't want to hurt him, but I think this is how things should be."

"I know, I warned him about this happening," Mr Choi responds.

You look up at him, and his smile is still warm. There's a tinge of sadness, or pity. But no hatred. The similarities between Seungcheol and his dad has your heart squeezing painfully. You miss him so much.

"I don't know how you do it. Having a son who is hardly there to see you..."

"The way I see it, my blood runs through him, so I'm with him wherever he is... My wife on the other hand? She's my other half. When we're apart, I can't even breathe. As Seungcheol's partner, you must be going through something similar.”

You note the way he doesn't say 'ex'.

"How is he?"

"Looks as heartbroken as you, probably feeling the same as well."

Nausea mixes with the guilt in your stomach. You don't know how to respond.

"I'm not telling you what to do, but wouldn't it be better to have him in your life than not at all?"

At your silence, he sighs and goes quiet for several beats. “His mother and I are flying out to watch his concert in LA in three weeks. If you want to come with us, we’ll get the company to organize something. He doesn’t even have to know. You can just go to see how you feel.”

“Abeoji…”

“His mother misses you, you know. If not for him, consider going for her. Call it a family trip.”

⟡

It’s been three weeks since you broke up with Seungcheol. On the days when your reserve is weak, you give in to watching recent fancams of his. Unfalteringly, he continues to do your signal.

He hasn’t forgotten you at all. The thought crushes you inside.

If you got back with him, what would have to change? You’ve been telling yourself that there was nothing either of you could do. Were you okay with dealing with the irregular schedules? The fans? All eyes on him?

You've come back to your apartment with the intent of picking up a change of clothes and doing some laundry. The left side of the closet has all of your things, while the right has Seungcheol's. You suck on your bottom lip in contemplation as you consider taking one of his jackets. It's not like he'd know since he'll be gone for another couple months.

Your broken heart encourages you to give in. So you do. You pull out one of his cardigans, your favorite, from the back of his stuffed closet. Your heart squeezes at the familiar scent, and you hug it to yourself. Then you hear the sound of something crinkling in the pocket.

It's a balled up piece of paper with faint pen markings. Flattening it out, your breath is drawn from your lungs.

All across the page are random words and scribbles, but they manage to make you choke out a sob nonetheless.

park?

restaurant?

holiday?

jewellers — ask uncle

sizing – to check

seungkwan sing? > Get tissues for him

diamond > check her ig and pin > bigger = better ㅋㅋ

family? private

mr and mrs choi

honeymoon locations?

mrs choi.

my wife ♡

⟡

The distant sound of screaming fans seem to embody how you're feeling perfectly in that moment. Eomeoni, Seungcheol's mother, has her arm linked with yours and her warmth, weight, and energy are grounding. Abeoji is next to her. The three of you are walking down the private hallway to enter the section with your seats.

Eomeoni sits between you and Seungcheol's dad, the woman constantly turning to you as if checking that you haven't run off yet. She places a warm hand on your knee, gently soothing your jittery leg.

Joshua's family comes to join your section, sitting in the row behind you. Josh's mom and Eomeoni appraise each other after being apart for so long. They turn to you.

Eomeoni leans in to say something to the other woman, but you can hardly hear because of the pre-show music blasting from the speakers. Whatever she says though, Josh's mom looks intrigued.

You introduce yourself to Joshua's mom and family just as the show begins. The show goes as well as it did back in Incheon. You notice minor differences, improvements that the guys have made after months of touring. You try to train your expression when you spot Seungcheol.

He doesn't do the double kiss for every song, but it takes your breath away every time he does. Your gaze flickers to his parents, and they hardly react. The signal really is something only for the two of you.

Towards the end of the show, you forget that you know the group personally and become absorbed as a Carat. You borrow Abeoji's light-stick and wave along to the songs. You laugh in delight as you jump with Seungcheol's parents to the encore song and translate the members' English ments for the non-English speaking family members.

Later on you can’t keep your eyes from the door of the waiting room. Waiting inside with Seungcheol and Joshua’s families, the conversations milling around you is all white noise.

“Mom!” Dokyeom wails as he spots you as soon as he steps inside. The others greet you with a mix of happiness, excitement, and apprehensiveness.

“You guys did really well,” you say as you grab the phone off Eomeoni, who silently gestured for you to take a photo of her and Abeoji with Chan and Seungkwan.

“Oh let me in too!” Dokyeom yelps as he stumbles into the frame.

You don’t even bother taking a photo with the members, too concerned about the one that is the sole reason you’re even here in the first place. So you sit in a corner of the room that has a set of sofas, joined by a couple of Joshua’s cousins.

You’re asking about one of the cousin’s outfit for a party they’re going to as you do a quick headcount of the boys, and of the managers. One manager missing, one member missing.

“Where is he?” You sigh to yourself.

“Doing leader stuff,” Mingyu says as he sits on the arm of the couch beside you. You smile at him in greeting and he pats your head softly, knowing why you’re here.

You sink into the sofa, letting your head fall back on the headrest of the couch and letting Mingyu’s large form block your view of the door.

He’ll come when he’s ready.

But then you hear the delighted exclamations of Eomeoni and you couldn’t stop your head from perking up even if you tried.

All sound fades as you watch Seungcheol enter the room. He’s smiling about something with the manager accompanying him as he rips out his in-ears and grabbing a water bottle from a nearby table. Then he spots his mother and his face lights up with the toothy grin that you haven’t seen in so long.

You can't stop the tears the well up, or the sudden tightness in your chest as it brims with emotion. The loss that you've managed to sweep under the rug is suddenly coming back to you full force.

He reunites with his parents, accepting their kisses and warm embraces. Abeoji rubs soothing circles into his child’s back, and Eomeoni has Seungcheol’s face in between her small hands.

Sound comes back to you while you watch the family of three catch-up.

Mingyu nudges you. “You gonna say hi or what?”

“Nope. I think I’ll hide.” You slump in your seat and duck your head behind Mingyu’s knee. You rub a soothing palm over your chest… Has your heart ever beaten this fast before?

Mingyu chuckles and gets up. You watch with growing horror as the tallest member approaches the Chois, clapping a hand to Seungcheol’s shoulder and muttering something into his ear. When your ex-boyfriend’s gaze darts over to where you sit, you smile awkwardly and then your eyes dart down into your lap to avoid seeing his reaction.

In your peripheral, with much fear, Seungcheol’s form slowly grows closer to you, until his feet are placed in front of yours and you can see his legs are standing in front of you. And then he squats down to look up at your face.

“Hello,” his voice is precious. It’s so full of warmth, and hope… And fear.

You look at him and suck in a breath. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him. His eyes gleam as they gaze up at you and his lips are spread thin in contemplation.

“Hi,” you whisper, sending him a timid smile.

“You wanna go somewhere to talk?”

You nod, despite the nerves that set in as soon as you hear his words. He stands up and offers you his hand, and you take it. As your palms meet and fingers slide into place, it’s like you’ve completed a jigsaw puzzle. All the pieces are fitting into place and your heart warms. How were you crazy enough to give up on this? On him?

Looking up, Seungcheol’s bittersweet smile seems to express the same sentiment.

⟡

1.5 YEARS LATER

“Whatcha doing?”

You pointedly rustle the magazine in front of your face. “Doing some light reading.”

“Oh yeah? What about? Looks interesting.”

“Yeah there’s this super hot idol who just announced his engagement to this amazing, stunning, angel-on-earth of a woman…”

“Wow, what a lucky man,” Seungcheol settles onto the sofa next to your feet, pulling them onto his lap.

“Seems like his fiancée’s the lucky one: ‘I’ve always said that my members and my family come first before anything else’,” you say in your best imitation of your future husband. He laughs then shoves your shoulder lightly.

The engagement band that he proudly wears on his left ring finger catches the light, and your chest never fails to warm at the sight.

In the fire-escape of the venue where Seungcheol just performed a sold-out concert with his group, the two of you sat on the stairs for what must've been an hour. In short, you both agreed to never go for that long without the other ever again. For the rest of your lives.

Things didn't work out immediately. For a few months, your relationship still struggled as the two of you worked out how best to go about your long-distance relationship, but when you figured it out? Oh, was it good.

At the end of that year, on Christmas Eve, Seungcheol proposed to you. It was adorable; the two of you bundled up in thick puffer jackets with wooly scarves and beanies and masks so that only your eyes were visible. You were taking a walk along the Han River, a ridiculous idea since it was winter, but the festive lights made it all worth it.

You cried as he bore his heart out to you, his beautiful round eyes glistening with tears. You knew that the hand holding up the little velvet wasn't trembling from the cold, but from nerves.

As soon as the ring slid onto your finger, Seungcheol was immediately tackled into a conveniently placed pile of snow nearby.

A little while after the proposal, you propose to Seungcheol as well. Call it feminism, or equality. Really, he just told you that he wanted an engagement ring of his own.

Immediately, news agencies hear tips about a peculiar silver band that never seems to part from Seventeen's S.Coup's ring finger. Fans notice his latest contents include him having a cute, dazed smile. His instagram posts always seem to feature a photo of his left hand.

The one thing that hasn't changed though, is that he continues to give you all of his double-kisses.

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ CHAPTER FIVE: DON'T HATE THE PLAYERS

violet; 5,460 words; fluff, suggestive content, drama, hockey!vi, figure skater!reader, smau-intermissions, miscommunication, fake dating, lesbian situationships rly hit diff, toxic ex!cait, simp!vi, rival!sevika, inappropriate use of locker rooms, vi is down so horrifically bad its kind of sad tbh

summary: in which instagrams are posted, texts are sent, hockey games are played, and you try your best to make it back in time to gie vi her present.

a/n: a lot of things happen here. LOL but i promise they're not all bad! ALSO. the insta post picture IS NOT PERFECT but it was the best i could do. and i didn't have time to commission an artist to draw the exact image that i wanted :( but i hope it at least gives the vibe of the post. and... it starts getting frisky here so... yall have been warned!

< table of contents

─── Ⅵ "OH SHIT, she said that?”

Vi grunts, rolling her eyes as she drops the deadlift bar with a loud thunk, flicking her belt off with her thumb.

“Yeah. I told her to fuck off.”

“Atta girl!” Jayce says, thumping her on the shoulder. Vi casts him a disgusted look.

“If you value your future offspring, Talis, never call me that again.”

Jayce laughs, reaching down to help Vi put the weights back onto the rack.

“I honestly thought it was gonna take much longer for you to, y’know —”

Vi pauses before straightening to pin him with a look.

“What? You thought I’d super hung up on her or something?”

Jayce shrugs, “Well, yeah. You seemed pretty deep in it when you two were together so…”

Vi sighs, carding a hand through her sweat-slicked hair.

“I mean, I was, but… I dunno… seeing her with that new girlfriend of hers… and just… her reaching out to try and — what… sabotage my…” Vi bites back the word ‘relationship’ so she just makes a vague sort of gesture and continues, “really kinda put things into perspective for me.”

Jayce hums thoughtfully, “Yeah, but that Nolen girl’s no joke either. Her whole family’s been in the military — her dad’s some sort of war hero, and her mom’s the daughter of a politician, I think.”

Vi casts him a sidelong glance before scoffing, “Wow. Mel really did her research, huh?”

At this, Jayce jerks up, sputtering, “Well — she just — you know — her family’s also — I —”

Vi laughs, waving him off, “Whatever dude… but I already knew all that — why d’you think Caitlyn even ditched me in the first place?”

Jayce frowns, “Wasn’t it… because her mom didn’t approve of you or something like that?”

“Yep. We had one dinner together, and her mother made it very clear that she didn’t think someone of ‘my elk’ was worthy of being with her daughter. Apparently, having an adoptive father who owns a local watering hole and coaches college hockey isn’t the exact pedigree she’s looking for.”

Jayce lets out a low whistle.

Vi grabs a dumbbell for bicep curls.

“And… it seems like Caitlyn really look her mother’s words to heart. Cause a few weeks later… well, you know the rest.”

Jayce sighs, “That’s… unfortunate. But hey, look on the bright side. Without Cait’s mom, you would’ve never had the chance to date an Olympic athlete, right?”

Vi’s mouth twists into a half-grimace as she puffs out a breath and flexes her arm up, her eyes focused on her form in the mirror.

“Yeah well — not sure what exactly we are right now so… who knows.”

Jayce folds his arms, “Give her time. I haven’t known her as long as Mel has but she’s still a really good friend and…” Jayce allows himself a tiny, slanted grin as Vi pushes through her reps, “Mel wasn’t lying when she told you that we’ve never seen her like this with anyone else before.”

Vi finishes her first set with a loud exhale, glancing up at him.

“Don’t go getting my hopes up like that, pretty boy,” but she’s smiling when Jayce bends down to hand her a bottle of Gatorade, “hasn’t anyone told you it’s not good manners to toy with a girl’s feelings?” she pitches her voice up at the end, wiggling her fingers through the air even as Jayce rolls his eyes.

A few minutes later, Jayce frowns as he turns back to Vi.

“You’ve blocked her number, right?”

Vi huffs, still counting beneath her breath, “— twenty-two, twenty-three — who? What? — Twenty-four —”

“Caitlyn’s.”

Vi grunts, straining through a few more reps before stopping to glance up at Jayce.

“No. Why? Should I?”

Jayce licks his lips, frowning slightly.

“Yeah. Might be a good idea.”

Vi shrugs, “Yeah. I’ll do it later.”

Jayce nods, “Good. Alright — abs, lets go.”

You’re antsy all the way to the airport, checking your phone every four seconds, your knee bouncing even as the cab driver pulls up into the terminal and opens the trunk to grab your bag with a smile.

You bolt through the doors, thanking the heavens that the TSA Pre line is nearly empty.

Just as soon as you get through security, Mel calls.

“Have you got it?” you ask, without even saying hello.

Mel sigh, “Yes, yes, but it won’t do much good if you’re not here to give it to her —”

“I know! I know — I’m at the airport, and just got through security. Are you and Jayce —”

“I’ll come pick you up at the airport — thank god it’s only 16 minutes away from campus.”

“And you’re sure we’ll still make it on time for the game?”

“So long as your flight doesn’t get delayed —”

“It won’t.”

Mel laughs, the sound soft as you speed-walk your way through the terminal, slumping down next to your designated one with a long breath.

“Alright then, darling. I’ll see you in a few hours,” Mel says.

You make a loud kissing noise into the speaker and hang up, your fingers automatically flicking through the open windows till you come to yours and Vi’s text history.

You grin down at it stupidly for a few more seconds before jolting out of your seat as one of the gate agents comes to shake your hand and help you board first. As you sink into the wide, business-class seat, you close your eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Your fingers fiddle with a thin gold chain around your neck and you bite back another grin.

You tug out the small teardrop locket dangling from the chain and flick open the clasp. Inside is nestled a single violet flower, pressed and perfect, preserved behind a thin pane of shimmering glass.

Vi makes a round of the rink, scanning the crowd with furrowed brows.

Nope. Nope. Nope…

She swears silently to herself, rolling her shoulders as the crowd roars.

You promised you’d be here tonight.

“And tonight, we’ve got our season’s top two favorites for the NCAA’s Frozen Four Championship — the Piltover Enforcers, and the Zaunite Barons!”

Vi grins as the stadium positively shakes with applause. It’s always nice playing on home-ice. Across the rink, she can see the huge, lumbering shapes of the Barons, and her jaw clenches as she catches Sevika’s eye.

They’d been something like childhood friends once upon a time. But after a falling out of meteoric proportions, they’d settled somewhere between grudging acquaintances and mortal enemies. Where they land on the scale on any particular day typically depends on the weather, the orbital tide height, and whether or not Mercury is currently in retrograde.

Though judging by the smirk that’s visible from beneath Sevika’s helmet, Vi thinks it’s nearing the mortal enemies end of the spectrum today.

All the players line up for the face off.

Vi bites down on her mouth guard and smacks her stick against the ice. Sevika skates up to her, bending down so close their helmets clack.

And for a brief, interminable second, Vi thinks Sevika’s going to stay quiet. But the moment passes and Sevika chuckles, the sound low and hoarse and utterly derisive. It sets Vi’s teeth on edge even before the first word leaves her mouth.

“Heard America’s snowflake-sweetheart’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

“Tch. What’s it to you?” Vi’s eyes flash up.

Sevika’s smirk has morphed into a full blown grin, sharp as freshly turned blades.

She shrugs, keeping her voice low as the official says something or other to both the teams.

“Well… just a lotta people buzzin’ online about her perfect skate at her competition this past weekend and I’m just thinkin’… man… you must not be fuckin’ her right —”

“You —” Vi nearly jerks up, but Sevika presses in just a bit tighter and Vi grounds her teeth down over the mouth guard.

“Cause if you lemme **take her for a spin, you can bet your scrawny ass that she won’t even be able to stand up straight, let alone skate clean.”

The puck hits the ice as if in slow motion; Vi feels a white-hot anger mixed with something very much like hurt surging up the length of her spine as she watches Sevika’s stick make contact with the puck first. But she doesn’t care — she slams her body forward and feels her shoulder check into Sevika’s chest as they both go sprawling across the ice and the puck goes wide.

They scramble up and take off after the puck, now in Zaunite possession, Sevika’s shoulder ramming reflectively into Vi’s as they jostle down the length of the rink.

Vi cracks her shoulder back into Sevika and the momentary gap is all she needs to break away, circling wide behind the goal. Someone shouts Reverse! and Vi feels more than sees the tiny black puck make contact with her stick. Her body moves on instinct, and she’s halfway down the rink before the others catch up to her.

She allows herself a single, tight-lipped grin before someone slams into her back with the force of a speeding firetruck. The world spins, but a second later, Vi hears the unmistakable sounds of Sevika’s heaving breaths.

“Ha. Aren’t you glad your little girlfriend isn’t here to see you eat shit?”

Vi flips around and before she knows it, she’s swinging her left arm into Sevika’s helmet, knocking it askew.

“Vi!”

Vi’s whole body seizes at the sound of your voice, and she looks up wildly, but she pays for it a moment later as Sevika’s fist connects with her jaw and her head snaps back. She brings her elbow down against Sevika’s extended arm, her free hand grappling to keep Sevika’s head shoved against the ice.

A whistle blows and they shove apart, shaking their heads and spitting blood. Vi tastes iron on her tongue and winces as she rotates her jaw. There’ll be a nasty bruise, but it’s not dislocated, and Vi’s suffered much worse at Sevika’s hands.

Half a foot from her, Sevika is shaking out her arm, looking murderous as the official comes up to point them towards the penalty box.

Vi looks around, and halfway across the rink, she sees you, your eyes wide, your hands pressed over your mouth, Mel and Jayce sitting next to you, both looking worried. But you’ve got dark streaks painted on your cheeks, and it takes her a second to recognize the large “VI” written there — her number, her name.

The world melts around her as she meets your eyes, and you look so worried that she almost laughs. This is nothing, she wants to say, you ain’t seen nothing yet, princess.

But the second is short lived as the official skates over and jerks his head towards the penalty box. She sighs, begrudgingly skating over and settling herself as far away from Sevika as humanly possible as the clock starts on their five minutes.

When all’s said and done, the game is a good one — with the final score of 3-2 in Piltover’ s favor. Sevika gets another penalty, but Vi manages to keep her cool. And by the end, everyone’s sweaty and tired, but riding high, and Vi can’t help the way she once more scans the cheering crowd for your face.

But, you’re not there. The seat next to Jayce and Mel is empty, and Vi can’t help the clawing, hollowing sensation that burrows up her chest from the base of her stomach.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Margot teases, bumping Vi as they all clamber off the ice.

Vi narrows her eyes, “What’dyou mean?”

Margot only grins, shooting Vi a wink before following the rest of the team towards the lockers.

Her phone buzzes and Vi glances down, only to see a single line of text from you:

come to the figure skating lockers. i’ve got a present for you.

Electricity zings up Vi’s limbs as she pivots hard left and makes her way down the heavily padded hallway towards the figure skating lockers, tugging off her gear as she goes. By the time she gets there, she’s managed to get most of her upper pads off, shucking them outside the door, leaving her in her loose jersey and pants.

She pushes through the thick metal door into the figure skating lockers. They’re smaller, brighter, and generally cleaner than the hockey team lockers. Vi’s never thought herself a stickler for things like nicer locker rooms but stepping in, she can’t help the way that her eyebrows shoot up.

“Whoa.”

“They’re not all this nice.”

Vi whips her head around so fast she almost gets a crick in her neck at the sound of your voice. And there — standing next to the far row of pure white lockers, with your hands behind your back and her number (her name still painted on your cheek), you.

“Yeah?” she asks, even as she drops her helmet on the thickly padded floor and shuffles forward in her skates. She takes her time looking you over — and objectively, she knows it’s only been a few days since she’d last seen you, but it feels like forever, the way time stretches endless when you’re a little kid on the playground and eternity is just another thing you can take for granted.

You purse your lips around a shy grin and Vi almost groans as she notices the bright pink ribbon tied around your neck like a choker. You’re wearing the little black dress that you’d worn to that sorority party, the one that’s been the subject of one too many of her dirty daydreams — her varsity jacket slung around your shoulders.

“Sweet god, princess… is this the present you have for me? Please tell me it is —”

You let out a soft puff of exasperated laughter.

“No! I mean —” your eyes cut away as you shift your weight from one foot to another, falling back half a step as Vi takes a few steps closer. “I-if you want it to be — this can be — uhm — an additional present —”

“Mm… I don’t think I want any other present if I’ve got this one —” Vi says, inwardly thanking the heavens that she’d kept her skates on as they give her a few more inches as she corners you against a row of snow-white lockers, so bright they’re almost blinding.

“I — well that’s —”

“Mm… cat got your tongue, princess?” Vi asks, reaching up to tug your chin back towards her as you try to glance away.

You suck in a short breath, your lashes fluttering as you meet her gaze with yours — dark to light, amber and ice.

There’s adrenaline coursing through her system, and Vi knows she’s still riding high off the win, off the knowledge that you’re here, and that you’re here for her. She looks you over with reverent eyes, her gaze lingering on the dark paint now slightly smeared across your cheeks in a large “VI”.

“I… I got this for you a while back…” you say, pressing something into her chest. Vi pauses, glancing down to see a small black box wrapped in a length of bright pink ribbon the exact same make and color as the one around your neck.

Vi falls back a step to take the box in her hands, turning it over.

“What is it?”

You shrug, a tiny, bird-like movement. Sweet and almost daring.

Vi grins as she traces a finger along a single ear of the perfectly tied bow.

“Can I?” she asks.

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

Vi tugs on the ribbon and it comes loose with a whisper. She opens the box to reveal a simple, teardrop locket set on a golden chain. She picks it up, letting the locket dangle from her fingers.

“Go on, open it,” you prompt, looking both bashful and eager. Vi gives you one more glance before fumbling open the locket to reveal a single snowflake, carved into the thick glass set into the middle of the locket.

“Oh.” Vi breathes, her voice nothing but a whisper. She stare at the locket, at the simplicity and delicacy of it. And then, she looks back up at you.

“It’s — Mel and Jayce helped me pick it — I didn’t know if you even wore stuff like this but —”

“I’ll wear it,” Vi says, letting the pendant drop into the palm of her opened hand. She offers it to you with a lopsided grin. “Can you help me put it on?”

You nod, a bit breathless, even as you take the locket from her and undo the clasp with trembling fingers. Vi grins as she leans in to let you fasten the chain around her neck, reveling in the tiny kiss of cold metal against her sweaty skin as she pulls back.

“So? How’s it look?” she asks.

You stare at the locket, and then up at her, and she swears she can see your eyes go molten.

“It looks… good.”

“Good,” Vi whispers, reaching up to finger at the tiny pink bow still tied around your neck. You suck in a breath, going still against her as she ghosts her breath along the long column of your neck. And she thinks she can almost hear the sound of your heart pounding against your ribcage by the way your pulse flutters in your neck — she sure as hell can feel her own traitorous heart thundering away in her chest as she glances from the bow around your neck up to you and back down again.

“Can I?” she asks again, though this time, her voice is gentle, imploring, something like a plea as opposed to question.

She revels in the way your pulse flutters beneath the bright pink of the satin.

“Y-yeah —” you say, your own voice a harsh scrape of sound over a burgeoning need that Vi can almost taste on her tongue. But, she wants to take her time with you, she thinks, so she trails her fingers up to your neck and teases at the rabbit ears of the butterfly bow before tugging one end loose. And just like before, the ribbon gives way much too easily, and something gold shimmers as it drops from beneath the pink satin.

She stares.

It’s a gold chain identical to the one around her neck, with a teardrop pendant strung from it that mirrors her own.

This time, when she glances up, her eyes are wide, almost disbelieving.

Your throat bobs as you clench your fingers at your sides, resisting the urge to lift your hands and help her.

“What…” her voice trails off, disbelieving.

You lick your lips. “Go on — open it.”

Vi nearly fumbles the locket twice before she gets it open, and her short intake of breath is the only sign you get that she’s seen what’s inside. You hold your own breath, watching her face as it flickers through a film-frame series of emotions.

“Is that —” her voice is hoarse; she clears her throat, running a thumb over the glass.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching up to take the open pendant from her, glancing down at it yourself, heat pricking into your cheeks as your eyes settle on the pressed violet.

She’s kissing you before either of you can say another word, and the force of it nearly slams your head back into the lockers but Vi’s hand is somehow there to cushion you, her fingers digging into your hair as you gasp open for her wanting mouth. It’s not a sweet kiss and there’s nothing gentle in the sting of her nails raking against your scalp as she presses you close, and then closer.

It’s a clash of teeth and tongue, skin and sound — your tiny, surprised squeak eclipsed by the low moan that reverberates from her chest to yours as she licks into the hot cavern of your mouth and feels you soften against her — sweet as sun-warmed honey.

“F-fuck princess —” Vi hisses, pulling back with a panting breath as you let your head fall back, gasping for air even as she yanks you towards her till both of you are toppling onto one of the long benches, your legs falling open to straddle her thighs, her hands poised over the round of your hips.

You look down at her, running your thumbs along her cheeks eyes flickering over her face — and the admiration caught behind the fractured glass of your eyes is so obvious that Vi almost turns away, embarrassed. Instead, she leans up to nose into the triangle of your threading pulse, delighting in the shiver that chases down the shape of you, in the involuntary way your thighs squeeze on either side of hers.

She grins, inching her fingers beneath the hem of your little black dress, groaning as she finds the winged hollows of your hipbones and realizes, half a breath later, that you’re not wearing any panties.

“Holy shit — w-were you like this the whole game?” she asks, her eyes going wide with awe.

You bite your lips, cocking your head to one side as you reach up to brush away a strand of hair from her forehead.

“No…” you say, but your voice trails off and you glance towards the side. She follows your gaze to the left, only to find your bookbag sagging against one of the far lockers. A smirk twists her lips as her eyes slingshot back to you.

“Oh wow… so…” she drawls, trailing her fingers ever so slowly up the bare skin of your hips, hitching the hem of your tight black dress further and further up till it’s barely covering what she now knows is your bare cunt.

“You came in here and took them off… just for me?” she bats her lashes at you, her skylight eyes going dark and liquid as she watches you fidget above her. Your tongue swipes across your bottom lip and Vi has to physically bite back a moan.

“Maybe I did — what of it?”

Vi’s smirk stretches as she reaches up to tug your face down towards hers, so close you can taste her breath dissolving on your tongue like sugar into tea.

“Princess…” she says, and her voice is so thick with desire it might’ve been spread there with a butter knife, “I thought… you wanted to take things slow.” Her fingers have successfully rucked your dress up high enough for it to gather at your waist, though she keeps her eyes on yours and makes no move to take advantage of the fact that you’re now entirely naked from the waist down.

You shrug up a single shoulder.

“Right… but I also remember telling you that I’m not the best with impulsivity…”

Vi laughs, the sound bright and honest. You giggle, pursing your lips, your cheeks tinted such a darling shade of crimson that Vi doubts rosy-fingered dawn would’ve had the power to eclipse it.

“Good,” she says, reaching up to cup your face with both her hands, bringing you down to tease her lips over yours, her words soft and indulgent, “cause honestly, I’ve never been the best with that either.”

She’s about to kiss you again, content to lose herself in the intoxicating drag of your lips on hers, but a text message alarm blips from her pants pocket and it jars the both of you from your desire-induced trance.

You blink, a slight frown creasing your forehead as she reaches into her hockey pants and digs out her phone. You sit back slightly as Vi clicks on her screen to see a slew of notifications dating back till god knows when, but the latest is sent from a few seconds ago and only reads:

New iMessage from cupcake 🧁

“What the —” Vi frowns.

But a second later, you’re pushing off her lap, and Vi catches a glint of the hurt in your eyes before you’re tugging down your dress and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“That’s Caitlyn, right?” you ask, your voice tenuous.

And for a second, Vi seriously considers lying to you, telling you that it’s someone else — that it’s Powder or even one of the girls from the hockey team, but she sees the fractured look in your eyes and knows that she can’t.

“Y-yeah — it is but —”

You suck in a deep breath, your fingers twisting in front of you even as Vi pushes up from the bench to try and reach for you. You jerk away, your back hitting the lockers with a loud clang that set’s Vi’s teeth on edge, even as she clenches her fist and drops her arm.

“No, it’s — it’s fine,” you say, making your swift way to your bag and snatching it up, digging around for your phone before shouldering the straps and rounding the benches again. And maybe it’s the sheer desperation curling up her chest, or the fact that the name had just come up on her screen but when she opens her mouth again, Vi says the worst possible combination of words —

“Wait, cupcake —”

You physically flinch at the pet name and Vi squeezes her eyes shut with sigh. Fuck.

When she opens her eyes again, you’re by the locker room door, your hand poised on the handle. You shoot her a single, broken backwards glance before pulling it open and slipping away.

Vi stands there, held still by the oppressive silence and the bleached-white metal all around her. She’s frozen for a single second longer before she swings her fist into the row of lockers next to her and pain ricochets up her arm from her knuckles, and her fingers pull away, already bruised.

“Fuck!”

Your fingers are shaking so badly it takes you three tries before you manage to punch the call button on Mel’s speed dial. She picks up after a single ring.

“Hey there, darling — well that was quick — we’re all heading to the after party if you —”

“Mel — c-can you come and p-pick me up?”

Mel goes quiet, and then —

“Darling? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“N-Nothing I just — can you come pick me up?” you hiccup halfway through your sentence, wiping at the fat, traitorous tears welling up in the corners of your eyes.

Distantly, you can hear Mel saying something and Jayce’s voice answering back. A moment later, she’s back on the line.

“I’ll come get you, but you have to tell me what’s wrong. Why’re you crying? Did Vi do something?”

“No — it’s — it’s nothing — I just d-don’t feel very good —”

Mel sighs, “Alright then, stay where you are and I’ll come get you. I’ll be right there, okay?”

“Yeah — t-thanks Mel.”

You hang up the phone and dart into the nearly abandoned parking lot, the crowds have long since dispersed, leaving you thankfully alone. You slump against the outer wall of the rink and suck in a deep, shuddering breath, reaching up to rub at your eyes with an angry palm. You cast your eyes up at the ruefully clear autumn night, the moon hanging fat and low, the stars twinkling with their cold, far-off light.

Approximately five minutes later, Mel pulls into the parking lot, mercifully alone, rolling down the windows as you rush forward and let yourself into the passenger’s side of the car, sinking into the seat with a bitten-off sob.

“Oh my darling… what happened?” Mel reaches over to give your hand a squeeze.

You bite your lips, blinking hard at the dark tarp roof of her convertible, clutching at your bag.

“Sh-she got a text from ‘cupcake’.”

Mel stares at you for a solid three seconds before slumping back into her seat and reaching up to pinch her nose bridge.

“I’m going to murder Jayce.”

“I fucked up — I fucked up —”

“Whoa, whoa — slow down — what the hell happened?”

Vi nearly chucks her skates into the already dented lockers just as Jayce makes an abortive move forward as if to stop her. She drops her skates and buries her face in her hands instead.

“Caitlyn texted me, and — and I never changed her contact from ‘cupcake’ —”

Jayce groans, running a hand through his hair.

“I thought I told you to block her?”

“I forgot, okay?” Vi says, tugging so hard on her own hair that Jayce has to reach out and smack her hands away.

Jayce sighs, leaning back against the lockers, looking over the shape of her. He can’t help the tiny grin that hitches his lips or the small puff of helpless laughter.

“Wow.”

Vi looks up, “What?”

Jayce just shrugs, “No, it’s just — been a while since I’ve seen you down this bad.”

Vi flips him off, “Fuck you, Talis. Yeah, laugh it up — look! It’s Vi! Piltover’s favorite train-crash lesbian, fumbling yet another —”

“Y’know, one of the things about being in a nice, committed, completely non-toxic long-term relationship —” Jayce says loudly, cutting her off despite the murderous look in Vi’s eyes, “is that you learn real quick that you’re always gonna be the one that’s wrong, and that your dear, darling, perfect girlfriend will always be the one that’s right.”

He grins, bitten-lipped and open-palmed. Like this, he looks almost like the politician that Vi knows Mel’s parents so desperately want him to be.

Vi frowns, “What’re you getting at, pretty boy? Spit it the fuck out — I don’t have the patience for your bullshit right —”

“And you know what people do when they’re wrong?” Jayce continues in that chipper, Sunday-morning commercial voice of his. He leans forward even as Vi leans back, the frown digging ever deeper between her brows.

“Uh… cry and punch things and shoot for a new PR at the gym?”

Jayce snorts, but at least Vi’s smiling.

“No, you fuckin’ fratbro son of a — you apologize.”

Vi’s gaze goes flat. “Ah. Right. Of course — why didn’t I think of —”

“And then — ” Jayce continues, raising his voice even higher, a finger pointed up in the air as if he were delivering the valedictorian speech at graduation, before he twists his hand and pokes it into Vi’s jersey-clad chest.

“You do better.”

Vi’s breath catches; she blinks up at Jayce before swallowing around the peach pit in her throat.

“R-right…”

Jayce hikes both of his eyebrows comically high. Vi glances up towards them before puffing out a breath.

“Think you can do that?” Jayce asks, his voice now finally back to normal.

Vi chews on the inside of her cheek before shrugging up a shoulder.

“Dunno, but… I really wanna try.”

Jayce thumps a fist into her chest.

“Good answer, Lanes. Now. Phone.” He opens his hand palm up.

She blinks at it for a second before sighing and digging her phone from her pocket and dropping it into his hand.

Jayce punches in the password without breaking eye contact, pulling up her text history and turning the phone around to face Vi as he clicks — Contact > Info > Block Caller — on Caitlyn’s number.

He hands it back just as the screen goes dark.

Vi stares at the long crack running through the center of her screen before the phone lights up again, this time, with a text from an unknown number.

Jayce barely glances at it before smiling.

“That’ll be Mel.”

Vi’s eyebrows knit as she flicks open the screen. There are two texts in quick succession:

i’ve gotten her to agree to come to the afterparty.

Do not. Fuck this up.

taglist: @traiitorjoe@rizzscary @wetcat020 @alex-thegiraffeboyy @nanasemo @saturnhas82moons @unear7hly@drsnowrose @grantaires-waistcoat @isab3lita @ally-all-around @starrysetup22@lipsent @lewd_alien @jack-frost-2010 @starsfortaylor @onesockcat @lesbian-useless@armins-slvt@lin-elizabeth @ryescapades @kingkamk @princesssmars @chobssss @mybelovedvi @bouqette @noietta @brooks-lin @ally-all-around @bunnyrose01 @stumpystump @lia-winther @folklore13lover @sawaagyapong @sevikas-whore @sunflowerwinds @taurtel @tourmalinetyrone @oidloid @marcylated @krisziepowlet @vikaswife @pa-co @devotedlyelectronicartisan @aliluvszs @elliecoochieeater

[aroace-madness]

Deaf Captian Marvel

When Billy came to the Rock of Eternity he was so confused and oh so excited

The idea of getting super powers and helping people? A dream come true

The wizard told him to prepare himself and called the lightining

It was loud and scary, the crackling, booming sound echoed trough the throne room, filling every little nook and cranny with its presence

And thus, Billy Batsons word came silent

And Captain Marvel awoke

Justice league had the newbie from Fawcett on their radar for a while now, he seems good at what he does and seems genuinely nice

They eventually decided that it's time to finally recruit him

They land on the roof of a tall building where Captain Marvel, as the people called him, was hovering on, drawing something in a notebook

Superman: hello, you're Captian Marvel, right?

The Captian didn't answer him, didn't even acknowledge him, just kept drawing. Rude

Bruce: Captian Marvel

Still nothing

Wonder Woman: I kindly ask you to at least look at us when we're talking to you

When she placed her hand on his shoulder he flinched and turned around frightenent

Like he didn't notice they've been there for some time now

Superman: ah finally, we'd like to talk to you about- huh?

Captian Marvel was motioning him to stop, he opened his notebook on a fresh page and started scribbling something and showed them when he was done

I'm deaf, sorry

Oh

Oh

That explains why he didn't hear them earlier

Batman started signing to him but was met with frantic shaking head

So he took out a notebook

How long have you been deaf?

Since always

The how come you don't know sign language? Don't people who are born deaf learn it early on to talk with people?

I never really had anyone to teach me or talk to

Well that was, sad

Are you interested in joining the Justice League?

As soon as Captian Marvel readed the note he started nodding his head and smiling as brightly as a sun

Well then it's decided

On the next meeting Batman assigned mandatory sign language lessons

[creatingblackcharacters]

Something I've noticed in fandom is that when a Black person comes out to talk about the racism they've experienced or are experiencing, most of the time they're told to block and move on and keep creating to spite the haters. I don't necessarily disagree with this sentiment, I'm all for curating your online space, but I rarely, if ever, see people really call out the people being racist? They get some push back like a callout post or two, but a majority of the time it blows over and they're usually still active and, often, more popular than before.

I'm sure no one ever says to block and keep going to be malicious, and maybe this is me being a bit jaded, but having been on the receiving end of fandom racism and its particular brand of awfulness, being told to "just keep creating" felt so...dismissive? I felt traumatized and hurt and sad and angry, I didn't feel like going back to drawing fanart.

It felt unfair that I had to live with this experience and process it and go back to posting while they still get to be out there being racist with little to no repercussions. It feels unfair seeing other Black creators talk about their similar experiences and having that response be "so sorry that happened, but please keep making art/fics/etc for us!" from nonblack people.

And, again, I don't necessarily think it's coming from a bad place. I just wish nonblack people were more mindful of how this effects us and would put more of that energy into not only making a safer space for Black people, but making it an unwelcome place for racists. Do I think that'll happen? No, because as long as someone can draw or write something white people like, they can get away with anything. But I can hope.

You are not alone in this experience, and I'm sorry that you had to have it at all.

I feel the same way, fr. I'm jaded to it, but not enough for it to not cause resentment. It burns me deep inside that there are people who are or have been openly antiblack, to me and in general (fandom and non), and they get to continue on like shits okay and they're "so cool".

You'll see posts from "supportive allies" saying "oh don't stop creating, you're welcome here! I like Black people!" But they're nowhere in sight when it's time to actually defend you from the racism that makes you want to leave 😐. No one's willing to give up their comfort, to give up the shield of the status quo to actually be an ally. "Tumblr's for entertainment" yeah and apparently a lot of people are entertained by racism 😅

Like... 👀👀👀 So you were all talk lol. You want me to stay and feel valued because I create and you're entertained, not because you actually value me as a human. It's a avocado! Thaaaaaanks. I always say it's the thought that counts but the action that delivers. Nobody knows that you "aren't racist" in your head or through empty words. We make that judgment based off your actions.

And a lot of people's actions speak of complicity, unfortunately. It's easier to tell you as the victim to block and move on than it is to take that next step and say "damn, I guess I can't be such and such's friend anymore". It's easier to deny outright that something is racist (because if that thing is racist, and they like it, then- EGADS-) then to realize that "hey, I need to be more open to engaging with this in a more inclusive way". Fandoms not a vacuum, unfortunately.

It's an ongoing battle. What's the meme- "I'm doing my part!"

[yesimwriting]

Phantom Lurking

A/n This is a story set in the bestie reader verse that I briefly mentioned in an ask, but there's no specific context needed outside of the fact that reader and louis are extremely close best friends

Warnings: nothing too crazy (especially when compared to the source material) but there's mentions/implications of someone putting something in reader's drink but, within the fic, reader is never actually in danger of being physically hurt, reader feeling sick/anxious, Armand being emotionally manipulative as a way of expressing affection

Summary: After an argument with Louis, you decide to go out with an old friend. Once you're home again, you're forced to deal with two realizations. The first is that you feel a lot worse than you should, and the second is that Armand isn't the worst at being helpful when he wants to be.

----

The world feels flat, like one of the three dimensions you're used to being able to perceive has slipped into nonexistence. You frown, letting the thought inch its way up your spine.

You blink. Once and then twice, as if the familiarity of the gesture will be enough to remind you of what you were doing--of the reason for the phone in your hand.

"Woah," the voice is sharp enough in its happiness to jab at your stomach. You lift your head, ignoring the rigidness of the movement as you look to the source of the sound. Grace--your friend, Grace. A part of you is almost complacent enough to be eased by the realization that she's here. "You look so sad."

You can feel your eyebrows draw together. Do you? And then, as your fingers tighten around your cell phone, a second thought latches itself onto the first: Are you?

"Don't worry," she says, voice so chipper it almost stings. "He'll be over it tomorrow."

Right. On instinct, you let your head fall downwards. You unlock your phone, eyes narrowing at the screen's brightness as you open your messages. No new ones. Just the last texts you managed to send to Louis before you started feeling too nauseous to type: Not feeling. Okkay.

The lack of response presses itself into your lungs, making it impossible to breathe right. Louis was upset , but you can't imagine him ever being mad enough to not text you back. "But Louis answers."

Grace watches you for a second, her head tilting curiously at your phrasing. "Maybe he's sleeping." When the suggestion doesn't seem to sway you, she places a hand on your bare shoulder. Your mind is aware enough to acknowledge the intentions behind the contact, but her skin is so warm and sweaty against yours it's nearly nauseating. "It's late."

Louis keeps different hours than the general population, but that's not something you can fault her for not knowing. Besides, maybe it is so late that the night is morphing into morning. It wouldn't be the first time you and Grace lost an entire night to partying, and it would explain why you feel so incredibly out of it.

And...if Louis was really upset, he might have gone to bed early. He mentioned once that sometimes vampires enclose themselves in their coffins to avoid dealing with discomfort. It sounds deeply dramatic to you, but it's possible he's doing something similar.

You exhale, nodding so slowly the motion feels like more of a caricature of a human response than anything else. She laughs, the sound full in its certainty. Your stomach doesn't know how to digest her easiness.

"You'll feel better tomorrow." Grace's hand pulls itself away from your arm. "Okay--keys." When all you do is stare at her, she sighs. "First, I have to stop you from going home with that weird guy you met while waiting for the bathroom..." She trails off as she reaches for your purse. "And now you don't even remember where you are."

Hm. Grace's chastising gives you something to focus on. You blink, lifting your gaze as you glance around the building. The pale walls and warm lighting are familiar...this is your apartment building. How did you get to your apartment building?

Grace rifles through your purse, the contents of your bag clinking together as she searches through it. After a second, she seems to find what she's looking for. She turns away from you and towards the door.

"Okay," she hums triumphantly, "We're in."

You take the words as a sign to step forward. Your thoughts don't align with your movements. The delay is enough to make you stumble, your foot missing the base of your heel.

Grace is next to you in a second, her hands latching onto your arms to keep you stable. "How much did you drink?" The question lacks her earlier amusement.

You're not sure you're meant to respond, but you think about it anyway. It didn't feel like that much...but you don't exactly remember every moment, every drink--and you were mad at Louis.

She watches you for a second, her eyes wide and much too focused. "Are you okay?" It's a question your mind refuses to dwell on. Of course you're okay. "Like--okay to be left alone."

"Mhm," the answer feels hollow, "Yeah." Grace continues to stare, her lips pressed together in a way that conveys her uncertainty. "I'm just gonna go to sleep."

She studies you for another beat, and then sighs, "Okay--but straight to bed. And no more texting." Easy enough to follow. Grace lets go of you slowly. "And maybe try to drink some water--and--and try to sleep on your side."

You nod blankly, your hands reaching for the door in front of you. "Water, side, no texting."

Grace sighs as she walks forward. "And call me in the morning, okay?"

You squeeze the side of the door in an attempt to feel more stable. Tomorrow morning feels so far...so impossible. "Okay. Yeah."

She turns her head to look at you one last time before continuing down the hall. You step into your apartment before shutting the door behind you.

The darkness of your apartment immediately pushes itself to the front of your mind, blending into your unease in a way that's dizzying. You exhale, letting your weight rest against the door. You shut your eyes, inhaling as you force yourself to focus on the concrete. The ground beneath your feet is steady, the wood against your back is stable.

"You turned off your location."

The tension that takes over your body is so sharp, so heavy it briefly leaves you paralyzed. You open your eyes, pushing yourself further against the door.

Wait. The voice. You know that voice. The recognition doesn't ease you until a familiar figure pulls itself away from the shadows enshrouding your living room in darkness.

"Oh my god," you manage a second too late, the words devoid of the necessary bite needed to turn the phrase into a warning. "I thought you were a serial killer."

Armand doesn't care about your reaction. He just continues walking towards you with slow, even steps. Your mind is too foggy for his theatrics. "What..." Your questions feel too inadequate for you to make them mean anything. "Is Louis--is he okay?"

He stills at that, but it doesn't really matter. He's close enough now that the darkness isn't obscuring his features. For a moment, you think the question might have softened his expression. "Now you can find it in yourself to worry about him? After the way you spoke to him?"

Of course Louis told him. The haziness clinging to your thoughts has turned everything into sludge. Your lips part, some barely coherent defense-apology hybrid attempting to crawl its way up your throat. All you can manage is a slurred, "He was--dramatic, and I--" You push a hand against the door in an attempt to make yourself stand on your own. "I'm sorry." You're not sure why you're apologizing. It's not like Louis can hear it.

Armand continues forward. You don't think about where he might be going until you feel his hand on your arm. He's a lot less careful than Grace was, but something about the feel of his skin against yours is also a lot less overwhelming. If anything, the coolness of his touch is almost alievating.

"I don't--" You're not sure there's much point in explaining anything. Not when the only thing tethering you to consciousness is your nausea. You can't remember ever feeling so separate from yourself. "I don't feel good. If you're gonna lecture me, do it tomorrow."

Tomorrow. It feels more like a concept than a date. Things would be so much better if you could just fade out of existence until then.

Armand pulls you away from the door. Your limbs are too stiff to protest. His eyebrows draw together, and something behind his expression shifts. "I'm not here to lecture you."

"Then why are you here?"

His thumb moves out of place, brushing against your skin soothingly. "After your argument--Louis came back to me, he told me about what you said, how you treated him, and then he went to bed. Hours later, you sent him a message saying you didn't feel well..." He squeezes your arm a little tighter. "And you turned off your location."

It had been an extremely petty move, but in the moment, a few drinks in, it had felt so reasonable. If Louis was going to see you as fragile, you'd have to show him that you felt no interest in being looked after. "I was mad."

"And now you're experiencing natural consequence." His hold on you morphs into something that borders on uncomfortable, his nails pressing into your skin. "Do you know what people see when they look at you?" You can't do anything but stare at him. "You refuse to acknowledge your vulnerability, and then you stumble home like this."

Okay--you're drunk, but not--not horrible. You’re standing (mostly), and you haven't said anything weird to him. "You're not clueless." The words almost feel like a compliment. "How much did you have to drink?" You don't have an answer. "You don't know? Because I've seen you with Louis, and even when alcohol makes you sick, it's never like this."

Your limbs seem to grow heavier at the implication of his words. Did someone drug you? There was that one guy that hung around you and Grace a little too long, but he never got you a drink.

"Maybe you'll learn to appreciate Louis's warnings instead of running off with the first girl that offers you something simple."

Louis--when he learns about what happened, when he learns that you tried to call him...and that he wasn't there. "Don't tell him."

He angles his head towards you. "You're asking me to keep a secret from my companion for you?"

Ugh. "No." You didn't mean it that way, or at the very least, you didn't want to mean it that way. You can't make sense of things for yourself let alone for another person. "I don't know." Your head is starting to ache. "I just don't--I don't want him to feel bad."

Armand lets go of you slowly, his fingertips brushing against your arm as he straightens. "We'll worry about him tomorrow." There's a certainty there that leaves no room for argument.

The thought of delaying your worry doesn't feel as simple as he's making it out to be, but you can't find the words or energy to disagree. You're not sure what you'd be arguing for, anyway.

He turns with no warning, walking down the hall like this is his apartment. His decisiveness might have bothered you if it didn't make things feel a little easier. Even with Armand serving as a guiding force, your mind seems to buffer. It takes you a second to think to act on the desire to follow him.

It shouldn't be surprising that Armand seems so comfortable moving through your apartment. He's nowhere near as familiar with this space as Louis, but you find it hard to imagine Armand uncomfortable anywhere.

He finds your room. A more coherent version of yourself would have had the energy to worry about the last minute outfits you rejected and didn't have time to put away sitting on your desk chair.

The familiarity of your bedroom is enough to get you to move forward. You approach your bed, half-sitting-half-stumbling onto the mattress. You're not given the chance to settle before your muscles slump out of place. It's an unraveling of tension that offers you no peace.

Dread pools in your stomach. You blink, screwing your eyes shut before forcing them open again in an attempt to fight against the drowsiness blurring your vision. It's too sudden, too heavy.

"You can't fall asleep like that." The words are gentle enough to reach you through your panic.

You want to tell him that you can't be falling asleep, that falling asleep doesn't hold this kind of weight. Instead of struggling to piece your thoughts into something intelligible, you lift your head slightly and mumble a flat, "I'm not."

Armand's back is to you, his attention focused on your dresser. When he turns to face you again, he's holding a familiar piece of fabric. One of the oversized T-shirts you sleep in.

It takes much more focus than it should for you to press your elbows into your bedding. The edges of your vision grow spotty as you stand. You're managing, but everything about your positioning feels circumstantial, like the slightest shift could push you into unconsciousness.

He hands you your shirt. You squeeze the fabric between your fingers. Before you can think to do anything else, Armand's hand finds your wrist. You still at the contact. He moves towards you with slow, deliberate steps.

Armand stops directly behind you. He sets his palm against your shoulder, his thumb smoothing patterns against your shoulder. His other hand settles against your upper back. Something about the contact makes it a little easier to breathe.

You're just getting used to his proximity making things feel easier when he pulls his palm away from you. Before you can overthink the shift, you realize what he's doing. The zipper of your dress has been tugged out of its place.

Armand's slow to release you, his fingertips dragging against your skin as he steps away from you. He walks forward until he's in front of you again, his attention firmly focused on the wall. It takes you a moment to realize that this is him offering you privacy.

You pull the T-shirt over your head with a tact that feels similar to that of a toddler dressing themselves for the first time. You adjust the shirt's hem before pulling the straps of your dress off of your shoulders and down your arms. The material pools at your feet. You step out of the puddle of sequined fabric.

You tilt your head downwards, frowning at the discarded dress. You need to pick it up.

"Sit." The instruction is presented with a directness that leaves no room for resistance, and yet all you can bring yourself to do is blink at him. He turns to face you again. "The last thing you need is proximity to the ground."

His voice is implying a level of irritation you can't handle right now, so you step away from the dress and move to sit on your bed. Armand walks forward. He bends down, picking up the dress before approaching your desk. He lays the dress over the back of your desk chair neatly.

He approaches your bed again, this time sitting down next to you. The return of his proximity is strangely easing. When he doesn't say anything else, you give in to the need to break the silence, "Thanks."

Armand nods once in acknowledgement of the sentiment. "Lie down." The thought immediately digs at you. If you lay down, if you lose consciousness, you'll be letting go of the little control you still have. Anything could happen to you, and--and you'd be so alone.

When you don't move, Armand straightens, his arm extending towards you. His hand finds your shoulder. "I can stay..." The offer feels fragile, like the slightest mistake on your end could force it to crumble into dust. "But only if you listen to me." He turns his hand over as you let his words sink in. He drags his knuckles against your arm patiently. "Are you going to listen to me?"

You nod, if for no other reason than to keep him here. If your acceptance means anything to him, his expression gives no indication of it. "Lie down."

You give in with a sigh, pushing your bedding back as best as you can from your position on the bed. You move beneath your sheets before relaxing against a pillow. After a second, Armand begins to shift. You're not sure what he's doing until he's lying down next to you. The return of his proximity is unexpected, but not unwelcome.

He adjusts your comforter just enough to expose your forearm. Before you can think about the change, he begins to trace patterns against your inner arm. The gesture is oddly grounding...and considerate...which, even in your current state, you can tell is odd.

"Can I ask you something?"

He continues to drag his fingertips against your skin. "A lack of permission has never stopped you before."

A fair point. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

He tilts his head slightly as he considers the question. "Am I usually cruel to you?"

That's not exactly the difference. Armand is never particularly cruel to you. He's never made you feel like you're in physical danger, which means a lot when considering what he is. You've never even had much of a reason to fear arguing with him. However, you can't recall him ever being so understanding.

"No," you find yourself hoping he can feel how much you mean the answer. "But you're usually less patient."

His hand briefly stills against your arm. "I prefer a fair fight."

The sentiment roots itself in your chest, leaving your skin a little warmer than it was a moment again. "We can have one tomorrow."

"I don't doubt it," he says, voice much flatter than before.

Hm. The comment isn't exactly aggressive, but it implies an annoyance that doesn't suit his actions. Something uneasy wedges itself between your lungs and ribs. "Are you mad at me?"

You turn your head as best as you can, staring at him with an openness that a more sober version of yourself would have never allowed. "Mad at you, the darling sun?"

You sigh, letting your eyes fall shut. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything," his defense, though already weak, is further softened by the easiness of his tone. "I'm only recognizing what you are."

Opening your eyes, you turn your head to face him again. "What am I?"

He's quiet for a moment before angling his head towards you. It's a subtle shift, but something about it seems to amplify his proximity. Armand's eyes look a little softer than you remember them being, his irises closer to a brown-tinged ember than their usual amber hue. Maybe it's the limited lighting.

"Worthwhile suffering."

The answer feels much too soft to be considered an insult. You're not sure what to think of it. "You're very dramatic."

His hand stills against your arm. "I'm dramatic, when you're the one that turned off your location."

You don't have a decent response. Even as a teenager, you knew better than to completely turn off your location without letting anyone know where you were going during a night out. You're lucky that Grace was there and aware enough to get you back home, but things could have gone so much worse.

The thought of how incredibly stupid you've been burrows itself into your stomach, adding a sharpness to the underlying nausea you've almost been able to forget. Knowing that you're wrong and Armand's right isn't helping things, either.

And Louis--your Louis. Who cares if sometimes he worries so much it makes you feel like burden? At least he cares about you.

"I was mean to Louis."

Armand's hand stills against your forearm, his fingers pressing into your skin in a way that somehow feels both reassuring and resentful. "He'll let it pass."

You let out a self deprecating sigh. There's no reason to believe that Louis won't forgive you, but that doesn't make things okay. "He shouldn't."

"Don't be a martyr." His dismissal isn't enough to diminish your angst. You frown, shifting away from him so that you can lie flat on your back. He's quick to counter your resistance, adjusting his position so that he's sitting up a lot more than you are. He's practically leaning over you, and all you can think to do is stare.

"He loves you," Armand's voice is a lot quieter than you thought it'd be, "There isn't a single thing you could do that he wouldn't forgive."

His certainty is enough for both of you. After a second of blankness, you find it in yourself to nod. The gesture is stiff and uneasy, but it seems to be enough for him. He relaxes slowly, moving to rest his head against your ribs.

His closeness is more of a surprise than it should be. You and Louis have fallen asleep like this more times than you can count. The shock takes a moment to subside, but once it does, you realize that you're... not uncomfortable.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, you move a hand to rest against his upper back. Neither of you move.

"You should go to sleep," he whispers after what could be a long or short stretch of silence, "You'll be yourself in the morning."

The suggestion is a lot less overwhelming now. Maybe it's because you feel a lot more concrete now. You shut your eyes, but before you can try to find rest, you remember where you are and who you're with.

"Wait," you mumble, "The window--" You're not managing the urgency you feel. While your room isn't exactly flooded with light in the morning, the sun does reach your bed in the mornings if you don't remember to fully shut your curtains.

"The curtains are fine." Armand shifts slightly, his hand settling against the arm not bent against his back. "Rest."

You close your eyes again, this time finding it in yourself to relax fully.

----

@joong-of-gold this is the fic i mentioned having in my drafts a little while ago!!

[hivemuthur]

Can I request Viktor accidentally or unintentionally making reader cry and immediately going to comfort them (whether it be crys of sadness or overwhelming happiness, it’s up to you!)

Hi Anon! Here's your fic:

Tearjerker

viktorxgn!reader general, fluff and very light angst, Reader just had a bad day (don't we all sometimes)

word count: 1K

author's note: I know it's kind of OOC for Viktor to use baby as a term of endearment, but it's one of my favourite ones, so I drop it here and there :')

And! This is the last of my drafts from previous requests round, so I'm gonna fuck off for a couple of days and chill my ass. D&M will be updated ofc, but otherwise, I'm cooking some new things that need some time, ciao!

artist on X!

—

You’re quiet on the way home, and Viktor notices immediately. You don’t reach for his hand like you usually do. You don’t lean into him when the wind picks up, don’t murmur idle thoughts the way you always do when the walk feels long. Instead, you’re stiff, tense. Your eyes stay locked ahead, shoulders drawn up tight, and when Viktor offers a small remark about the night—about Jayce being in particularly loud spirits—you only hum.

It’s not like you.

And he has to admit, it’s unsettling. But he doesn’t press—not yet. He simply walks beside you, eyes flickering toward you every few moments, waiting for you to give him something.

Which you don’t, because crying on the street is the last thing you want right now.

Jayce’s loud spirits had found a victim in you tonight. Being the butt of his jokes was bearable—until it wasn’t. At first, it was just annoying. Then it became outright hurtful, especially when Viktor had joined in. You and Mel had only exchanged apologetic glances across the table. Boys.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you move toward the kitchen without a word. Viktor watches you disappear around the corner, rubbing the back of his neck before following. You’re pulling a glass from the cupboard when he leans against the counter, cane hooked over his wrist.

"You have been quiet," he says. "Since we left."

"I’m tired," you lie, and it’s not convincing in the slightest.

He tilts his head. "Something is wrong."

"No." A sigh.

Viktor exhales through his nose, then steps closer. "You forget, I know you too well to believe that."

You stiffen, and the words slip out before you can swallow them back—before you can stop the wave of hot tears tightening your throat. "How come you do not know when to stop talking, then?"

His brows draw together. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Did you have fun tonight?" you snap, turning to face him, lips already forming a pout, eyes unmistakably wet. "At my expense?"

And Viktor—oh. You almost feel sorry for him when you see the horror on his face, but you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Any other day, you might have let it pass, but today had been a disaster—a morning gone wrong, a workday you barely got through, and a double date you’d forced yourself to attend, only to regret every second of it.

"Darling, we were jesting," he says carefully. "Jayce did not mean any harm, and neither did I."

He steps toward you, hands already reaching to cradle you, but the way you flinch away makes his arms drop to his sides in idle defeat.

"Oh, I know," you say, voice trembling, tears spilling despite yourself. "But if you know me so well, then you should have noticed when I was getting uncomfortable."

Viktor goes very still.

In his head, he relives the evening in a series of scenes, and since none of them seem so utterly harmful, he makes a terrible mistake. "Baby, don’t you think you’re overreacting?"

He knows it the moment it’s too late.

The look you give him—oh. Excruciating. Tears swell, and you say nothing, but disappointment oozes from you, sharp enough to make a point.

His expression shifts—caution dissolving, something horrible settling in its place. His throat works, guilt creeping into the lines of his face.

"Beloved," he starts softly.

"Don’t." You shake your head, stepping back until your spine meets the wall. You try to sniff your tears up—to no avail.

And for the first time in a long time, Viktor doesn’t know what to say.

So instead, he closes the space between you, hands hesitating before settling at your waist. You tense, but when he squeezes—gently, firmly—you don’t push him away.

"I did not realise," he murmurs. "I should have."

You swallow hard, looking anywhere but at him. Viktor exhales, lowering his forehead to yours—leaving you no space to run. "I am so sorry," he says quietly, earnest and raw. "I was foolish. I did not see the cut I was adding to."

A breath shudders out of you, and he hates that he caused it.

His arms tighten, pulling you flush against him, his lips brushing your temple. "It will not happen again," he promises, voice thick. "I can’t stand that I made you cry, miláčku."

A kiss—long and firm—pressed into your hair. Another, when his lips ghost over your cheek, and he drags his mouth across the salty trail.

"Forgive me, please," he whispers, showering you with slow, lingering pecks.

You say nothing, but you let him cradle your face, let him nuzzle into you. Then his hands fall to yours, and he picks them up, pressing his lips to your knuckles. "I will keep my mouth shut. Or better, I will swat Jayce across the back of his head next time."

You chuckle—weakly, but it’s a chuckle. Your eyes roll, and Viktor’s chest loosens as he reaches up to wipe away your tears. "My darling," he says, out of ideas for how else to atone.

You take a long breath—then finally hug him back. Your arms wrap around his neck, and he exhales in relief, his breath warm against your skin. The weight of it has your mouth quirking into a smile. "Fine," you say quietly.

"Am I forgiven?" he asks, nose buried in your shoulder as he rocks you gently.

“Yes, but only because I enjoyed the dramatics of it,” you hum, your fingers tangling into his hair. “Such a tearjerker.”

“Oh baby, I can atone further, you have seen nothing yet.”

[thicctails]

I need more info on the get better children au, especially about when Bill shows up.

*rubs hands together* I finally got some extra time to draw up some new art for this AU, so let's give it some substance >:3 Long post below the read more with extra art :D

Before Euclydia was destroyed, Euclid and Scalene Cipher were some of its most powerful members. Bill saying that everyone loved him as a baby was true for a time; children aren't born very often, and the Ciphers are considered to almost be royalty. It wasn't until Bill's mutation became apparent that people began to shun him. If he had been born to any other family, he likely would have been abandoned.

Though neither Euclid nor Scalene could really comprehend the concept of something being "up", let alone what "stars" could possibly be, both of them used their status to try and find any scrap of forbidden information, hoping that they could find an answer, could find some confirmation that their son wasn't crazy, and didn't need to be blinded by his "medicine."

It was this research that eventually saved their lives. Having the knowledge that it was possible for things to, hypothetically, exist in a three dimensional plane allowed them to pool their powers and create 3D forms for themselves when Euclydia began to burn, pulling themselves off the 2D plane like a sticker being peeled off a page. It wasn't a smooth transition in the slightest, and the flames managed to damage parts of their bodies before they managed to fully free themselves. The rest of their power went into escaping their collapsing reality, and when all was said and done, they were left near catatonic and floating in the space between time and space for many, many years.

They don't really start to recover until a certain frilly guy upstairs nudges them into a new, stable dimension. This one is almost entirely 3D, and inhabited by creatures that look completely alien to the Euclydians. Creatures called humans.

They meet Dipper and Mabel not long after, and the two triangles attach themselves to the babies, doing their best to care for them in their weakened states when their young, unprepared parents fail to be adequate caretakers. Being 2D is far easier for them, so they stick to the walls like shadows and find ways to speak to the twins, slipping into videos and pictures, music and books, their forms changing slightly to match whatever media they slipped into. They teach Dipper and Mabel their colours, shapes, ABC's, ect, comfort them when they get sad or scared, and once they're old enough, how to do basic things like getting themselves food and water when they get left alone too long.

Neither Pines parent really notices their children making grabby hands and babbling at open air at first, though they do become a bit concerned when years pass and they still stare at walls and empty corners like there's something there.

Eventually, as we all know, the Pines twins get shipped off to a sleepy town in Oregon, and Euclid and Scalene are, of course, coming along to watch over their little stars. However, they become deeply uncomfortable when they start to see visages of their son carved into every room of the twin's temporary home.

It doesn't take long for the show's antics to start, but Grunkle Stan gets involved in the twins adventures far earlier because during The Inconveniecing, Euclid uses his ability to manipulate televisions to play one of those old PSA's on loop until he gets spooked enough to actually check on the twins, only to find them missing.

Eventually, through the help of Scalene using a radio to drag up an old advert for the Dusk 2 Dawn, he figures out where they are and arrives just in time to see the tail end of their ghostly encounter. Unable to deny his knowledge of Gravity Falls' weirdness, he and the twins have their Season 1 finale talk that night, and Dipper shows Stan Journal 3, which leads to all three of them searching for Journal 2 (Stan doesn't reveal the portal yet)

Bill gets summoned by Gideon like in Canon, but things veer wildly off course when, upon entering Stan's mind, Mabel asks him if he knows Euclid or Scalene. He freezes up upon hearing the names of his parents, and he immediately calls off the deal with Gideon, ripping himself out of Stan's Dreamscape. Before he can process what happened, he comes face to face with someone he's only seen in daymares for the past trillion years

Bill dips the fuck out once he realizes he's not hallucinating, disappearing to Axolotl knows where to do fun, productive things such as: scream, cry, break shit, sob on the floor, drink until the teeth in his eye ache, stare at the space between stars for days on end, and interrogate every single one of his henchmaniacs to see if they spiked his drink.

Mans has absolutely zero clue on how to navigate this situation, eventually settling on stalking the Pines because he genuinely cannot think of any possible way to approach his (apparently alive????) parents. How do you go about atoning for the extinction of your entire species?

Bill Cipher has never been one to do things for others for any other reason than to get something back, but he figures the best place to start is by protecting these fleshy human young that his parents seem so attached to.

Wait, would that make them siblings? Axolotl, he sure hopes not.