#Like I said. There is a pattern. Vaguely so where

[the--firevenus]

Kinda funny to think about that if there ever one universe where Bruce Wayne is truely happy, the rest of world probably more fucked up somehow

Not saying this is Canon or true, but there is a pattern,

[sha-brytols]

i think like. the best example i can come up with in regards to the lack of internalized understanding in the writing is the way queerness is portrayed in the game.

you have zevran, a bisexual man written by a gay man. he uses his sexuality as a weapon to both seduce and distract his enemies, but also as a way to cope with his fear of attachment. this is. obviously a tired trope about bisexuals, but bear with me here.

zevran is incredibly open about his sexuality in a very down to earth and honest way. a female warden romancing him cannot do so without also accepting that he is interested in men as well. he tells her, up front, he's slept with men. he likes the company of men. this does not negate his affection towards her or vice versa, but he will not be made to feel ashamed or uncomfortable about his attraction for the sake of someone who won't accept them as part of who he is.

one game later. you have anders. a bisexual man written by a straight woman. his bisexuality is locked behind a romanced male hawke who is. well. clearly. also queer. a female hawke has no knowledge of anders being interested in men, and the only point in which past relationships are alluded to anders vaguely speaks as though he's never had one before. his writer openly said this was to avoid alienating the female player. bisexual men are gross. women don't find it attractive when bisexual men sleep with other men. you cannot have a bisexual man who is open about his sexuality with a heterosexual woman, she might get insecure and thus the player would be offended.

and thats just the queer men. leliana, written by a straight person, has entire portions of her romance arbitrarily cut out entirely from a female warden. a female warden literally cannot flirt with her unless she flirts first. half of leliana's romance banter is locked behind a male warden. there's no external acknowledgement of a warden that romances both her and alistair in the same way that there is for a warden that romanced her and morrigan, because well duh! alistair can only be romanced by women. why would a woman romance leliana?

and then there's da2. the game where a male hawke can have a cute discussion about being into men with anders. where a male hawke can feel insecure about fenris leaving him because what if he isnt actually interested in men? the game where there was a gay man behind the scenes likely advocating for a better portrayal for queer men. but no queer women. isabela's romance with a femhawke gets almost no recognition as a fxf relationship outside of an EXTRAORDINARILY uncomfortable "lets have some girl fun ���" merrill's romance with a femhawke gets weirdly rewritten into this. very. very odd semifreudian idol worship thing. a hawke that slept with isabela but moved on to merrill gets banter where its implied isabela actually still has feelings for them and is heartbroken that theyve moved on. a hawke that slept with isabela but moved onto anders/fenris gets "get over yourselves i did them too." because why would two women genuinely be interested in each other outside of sex when they have men?

it's a consistent problem. a consistent pattern. dorian's sexuality is front and center in his character and its done with the lens of a gay man who struggled with his own external environment in relation to his identity. sera's sexuality is a footnote in the game, barely alluded to outside of a few jokes and one moment where she'll reject a male inquisitor. and her romance is also a huge joke (which i dont mind i like how lighthearted it is, but is it not a huge contrast to how every other romance in the game is written? why is our first lesbian romance in the series given this treatment?) like it's a very interesting contrast to me in the way queerness is approached in the games depending on the writer's own experiences. and that's why i think a broader variety of voices would really benefit the series.

[desigal-26]

I have used Taylor Swift’s songs for this. Hope no one minds anything 😅

Deal?

Max Verstappen x Singer-Songwriter!Reader

Magic, madness, heaven, sin.

Bad PR, too many exes, too many dates. Solution? A PR relationship between a global superstar and a world champion—only that they don’t know when to stop.

Warnings: SMAU + Real life. Reader and Max both have a reputation of being seen with new partners frequently. Fake dating. It gets steamy in the end. Enemies with Benefits?

MAX VERSTAPPEN MEAN IN BED: CLAIMS HIS LONDON FLING

HOW MAX’S BREAKUP TURNED OUT TO BE A POTENTIAL CAREER-ENDER FOR HIM?

FAMOUS SINGER RELEASES HER NEWEST SINGLE ‘BLANK SPACE’—RECEIVES BACKLASH

TOO MANY WRONG CHOICES? OR A PATTERN?

ALL PUBLICITY NOT GOOD PUBLICITY: RED BULL DRIVER AND REPUTATION SINGER PROVES IT

WHERE IT WENT WRONG FOR THE WORLD CHAMPION?

SOURCE CLAIMS MAX VERSTAPPEN IS SPIRALLING OUT OF CONTROL

‘GOT A LONG LIST OF EX-LOVERS/THEY TELL YOU I’M INSANE…’ JUST LYRICS OR THE TRUTH?

“If the media sees you with another woman this week, your reputation is gone, Max. Do you understand me? Gone!” Raymond Vermeulen snapped, his voice sharp with exasperation. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, the lines on his forehead deepening as he glared at his client like a parent scolding a reckless teenager.

Max Verstappen barely looked up. Seated with his legs stretched out and his phone balanced loosely in his hand, he only hummed in vague acknowledgment. His thumbs tapped quickly, already typing out a message to the latest girl he’d met on Raya. Hey, free later? Thought we could catch up… The irony of Raymond’s words and his own actions didn’t even register.

The door to the conference room swung open with a soft click, the sound of two pairs of heels echoing sharply against the polished floor. Instinctively, Max glanced up—more out of habit than curiosity.

Two women entered.

The first he didn’t recognize—tall, sleek, efficient-looking, with a folder tucked under her arm and an expression that warned not to waste her time.

But the second…

He straightened slightly. There was something about her—familiar, but just out of reach. She wasn’t looking at him. In fact, she avoided his gaze entirely, settling into her seat at the far end of the table like she had every intention of being invisible. Still, there was a certain air about her—cool, composed, untouchable.

Max squinted slightly. He knew he’d seen her before. But where?

Raymond, still simmering beside him, didn’t notice the shift in Max’s attention.

But Max wasn’t texting anymore.

“I hope you’ve briefed your client on the situation,” the first woman said crisply, her tone polished and professional but laced with something sharper—annoyance, maybe impatience. Her gaze was fixed on Raymond, who let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to Max with a look that practically screamed, for the love of God, behave.

Max, as usual, found that request borderline impossible. Still, he relented—barely. With a dramatic exhale, he set his phone on the polished surface of the conference table, crossed his arms, and raised a brow at his manager with mock curiosity. His expression said everything: Let’s hear this genius plan.

“You both,” Raymond gestured between Max and the woman seated opposite him, the one who hadn’t looked up once since entering the room, “find yourselves in similar positions. Too much bad PR, too much bad publicity.”

That earned a slight snort from Max—he found “bad PR” to be a wildly dramatic term for sleeping with the wrong influencer at the wrong yacht party. But his eyes flicked back to the girl.

She still hadn’t looked at him.

Her manager sat beside her, tense, as if waiting for her to bolt.

Max tilted his head slightly. There was something vaguely familiar about her. He couldn’t place it, but the way she carried herself—distant but composed, like she had built walls so high even she couldn’t see over them—stuck with him.

The other woman at the table, clearly the fixer or legal rep, opened a folder and placed two pristine files on the table in front of her, sliding them forward like a dealer laying down high-stakes cards.

“So,” she began with a cool, practiced smile, “we have an idea. Something that might just help steer the narrative in our favour.”

Max didn’t like that smile. It was too smooth. Too rehearsed. His stomach twisted with the kind of instinctive dread that came just before your brakes failed or your rear wing gave out mid-corner. Every cell in his body warned: this is a trap.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice a touch more serious now. “And that is?”

He glanced at the girl across the table just as she looked up—only for a second—and shot a death glare at her manager. Not a pout, not a frown—a glare full of contempt and resignation, the kind that said I didn’t agree to this, but they didn’t give me a choice.

Max’s gut sank even lower.

Whatever was about to happen, she hated it.

And that meant he probably would too.

“A PR relationship.”

A beat of silence followed.

One second. Two.

And then—chaos.

“What?” Max nearly choked, his chair scraping back with a screech as he surged forward in disbelief, palms slamming flat on the table. “You want me to fake date someone?” He threw a hand toward the quiet woman seated across from him like she was some sort of absurd suggestion. “Her? I don’t even know her name!”

That was the moment she looked up.

And everything stilled.

Her eyes locked onto his with a glare so sharp it could’ve sliced through carbon fiber. Cold, unbothered, and dripping with disdain, it hit Max like a bucket of ice water to the chest. He wasn’t easily rattled—but something about her stare forced him into a moment of silence.

“That’s more of a you problem than mine,” she said, voice smooth and lilting, with the dangerous allure of a vengeful siren luring sailors to their doom.

Max blinked, momentarily thrown off by how calm and lethal she sounded.

“Not necessary for now,” her manager cut in tightly, clearly used to reining in her client’s defiance. “You’ll learn each other’s names in the coming days. What matters is optics—cleaning up both of your reputations. Before your brands bleed out entirely.”

Max let out a short, bitter laugh, half disbelieving and half on the verge of hysterical. “You people are insane. You actually think this is going to work?”

Raymond didn’t speak. He just leveled Max with the same expression he wore every time his driver crashed a perfectly good strategy with a reckless overtake: You did this to yourself.

“No. No, no, no, no!” Max jabbed a finger across the table. “What if she’s a complete psychopath?”

“I heard that,” she deadpanned, eyes narrowing. The chill in her tone could’ve frozen Monaco.

“Good,” Max shot back, unapologetic. “I wasn’t whispering.”

“Enough!” her manager snapped, her carefully curated calm finally cracking as she slammed her folder shut. “This is the deal. Neither of you are in a position to negotiate. She had the audacity to release a song that all but poured gasoline on the firestorm the media already had around her—”

“Oh, please,” the girl muttered under her breath, looking away.

“—and you,” she continued, now spinning toward Max like a hawk, “were just filmed sneaking out of a London hotel at 6 AM with someone who turned around and sold a three-part exposé to The Sun.”

Max winced. Okay. That one… yeah, not ideal.

“And now,” the woman chimed in smoothly, back in control, “we’re offering you both a lifeline. A partnership. A chance to redirect the headlines and reframe your images—together.”

She leaned back in her chair with arms folded, “This is damage control by romance,” she said dryly. “Cute. Very Netflix.”

“Temporary,” her manager clarified. “Six months. Appearances. Handholding. Maybe a few ‘leaked’ pictures on a beach in the Maldives.”

Max turned his head slowly toward her, incredulous. “You sing, and you think I’m the problem?”

She met his gaze coolly. “At least I didn’t get caught doing the walk of shame in front of a tabloid intern with an iPhone 12.”

He scoffed. “Oh, you’re funny.”

“I’m perfectly hilarious, actually,” she replied with a saccharine smile, folding her hands on the table. “But don’t worry—you don’t have to laugh. Just pretend you like me for a few staged photos.”

“Fine,” Max gritted out, glancing at Raymond. “What happens if I say no?”

Raymond didn’t flinch. “You lose half your endorsements. Maybe more.” Max exhaled, jaw ticking. This was a corner he hadn’t seen coming.

He turned to her again. She didn’t look happy either—just… tired. Like she’d fought this already and lost. Her eyes met his one last time, emotionless.

“Well,” she said, her voice softer now, almost resigned. “Here’s to six months of pretending not to hate each other.”

Max snorted. “You already hate me?”

She smirked. “You grow on me, Verstappen. Like a rash.”

The clutch landed on the couch with a soft, careless thud, followed by the distinct click of heels being kicked aside—sharp against marble, then silent. The coolness of the stone met her aching feet like a long-forgotten lover, coaxing a sigh from deep within her chest. Her posture slackened, finally free from the stiff elegance she’d held onto all evening like a second skin.

The white dress clung to her curves with liquid ease, the silky fabric catching the low light in soft glimmers. The high slit draped open around her thigh, revealing a tantalizing stretch of skin—an image she’d already captured for Instagram. Just enough exposure. Just enough tease. Filtered, cropped, and captioned with something vague and poetic that screamed soft launch and secret lover. Something people would read too far into. Something that made the lie believable.

It was routine now—this dance. This curated fantasy. Smiles that weren’t real, touches that meant nothing, pictures that spoke louder than either of them ever dared to. The picture-perfect girlfriend. The elegant date. The arm candy with a glass of champagne and lips stained just enough to be noticed.

Tonight had been no different.

But when she turned around—He was.

He sat on the couch like a barely caged storm. A man carved in tension, blue eyes glassy with something darker than irritation. Rage, maybe. Or worse—desire laced with restraint. Every muscle in his body locked tight, his jaw ticking as if clenching it was the only thing keeping his words from escaping.

He hadn’t said much since that photo.

That single frame: her leg crossed over another, thigh exposed, his hand on her skin, her fingers catching his wrist like she was stopping him—but not really. They hadn’t even looked at each other. But the camera hadn’t needed that.

It had looked real.

Too real.

She frowned, something twisting in her chest. Had she said something? Crossed a line? All she remembered doing was existing—and they had long moved past hating each other for that.

Right?

Especially after he had been the one to invite her to the F1 75 event. No obligation. No press strategy. Just: “You coming with me or what?”

The night had been dull and painful—the kind of event where even the champagne tasted bitter and polite conversation felt like a slow death. And when the booing had started, echoing like gunfire in the marble lobby, she had instinctively slipped her arm through his. Anchored herself to him. Pretended it didn’t sting.

So now, watching him simmer in silence, she crossed her arms and leaned against the couch with narrowed eyes. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

His head snapped toward her.

The force of his gaze hit like a current, washing over her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

There was something different in his eyes tonight. They didn’t just look at her—they held her. Dragged their way over her slowly, devouring every inch in a silent, steady undressing. From the delicate dip of her collarbone, down the silk-wrapped curve of her waist, to the slit that revealed the smooth line of her thigh.

And lower. And then—back up.

Lingering.

She swallowed.

He had never looked at her like that before. Not like he was pretending. Not like there was a camera nearby. Not like he had to.

This wasn’t for show.

And that made it dangerous.

“Come here,” he said.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

It was a command, low and gritted, like it had clawed its way from the center of his chest.

Her throat tightened. No smart remark came. Her signature tongue—sharp and ready—fell strangely silent. Not out of fear. Out of instinct.

Because some primal part of her recognized the shift. The lion wasn’t sleeping anymore. And she had no interest in poking it.

So she obeyed.

Each step closer was like walking into the mouth of something she knew she couldn’t tame. Her breath was shallow, her hands suddenly useless at her sides, her heart beating a little too fast to ignore.

The moment she was close enough, his hands found her waist—rough, sure, claiming—and dragged her down to straddle him with a sharp yelp. Her thighs bracketed his, the dress slipping higher. His hands didn’t falter. They slid up her sides with the reverence of someone touching fire and welcoming the burn.

His eyes found hers again, dark with intent.

Not lust.

Possession.

She gasped, her body instinctively melting into his, her arms locking around his neck as if her limbs had a will of their own. Their faces were close—too close. Warm breath mingled in the sliver of space that still remained, their mouths brushing but never quite touching.

His hands traveled again—slow, calculated, like he was trying to memorize the map of her. She felt every inch of it, every pause, every press of his fingers against the curves of her waist, the dip of her spine.

They panted—both of them. Not from exertion. From restraint.

The air was thick with something unsaid.

Heavy. Dangerous. Sin.

She could feel it vibrating between their bodies like static. Like something alive. And for the first time since they’d signed the contracts, since they’d posed and smiled and lied—

None of it felt fake.

Not the way his hands refused to let go.

Not the way her lips tilted just slightly forward, breath catching.

Not the way he looked at her like he already knew what she tasted like—and wanted to be reminded.

“Let’s make a deal,” he growled, voice low and ragged, the syllables vibrating against her lips. His face was so close now—foreheads almost brushing, noses grazing. And yet, he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. The restraint was maddening.

His grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath hitch again. It wasn’t possessive.

It was warning.

He inhaled, slow and deliberate, the tip of his nose trailing along the curve of her cheek as he buried his face in the space between her ear and jaw. Her scent hit him like a drug—something soft, expensive, and maddeningly her. The kind of scent that lingered. That haunted.

She shivered under the attention, hands fisting against his chest.

“A deal?” she managed, her voice thin and unsteady, despite how hard she tried to control it. “What kind of deal?”

He leaned back just enough to meet her eyes again. His were darker now—stormy, intense, like they were seconds away from pulling her under.

“We add a little clause, not tell our managers, relieve each other of our stress from time to time,” he rasped, hips pivoting forward to brush against her body, sending a jolt through her spine. She gasped, her body on its own accords, rolling her hips against him in a desperation unique to itself.

He kissed her then.

Not the way the cameras caught.

Not the way their contracts outlined.

But real and hungry.

A kiss that didn’t ask permission, only took. Mouths crashing, breathing ragged, hands wandering—desperate to claim what had been off-limits for too long. It was clumsy and hungry and alive, all teeth and tongues and muffled gasps. She gripped his jaw, nails scraping, and he groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer until there was nothing left to hide behind.

No audience. No script.

Just them.

And it was a deal.

nightmareordaydream just posted!

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing and 24689 others

nightmareordaydream wreck my plan, that’s my man 🧡

view all comments

maxverstappen1 mijn lieve liefde 💗 (my sweet love)

nightmareordaydream king of my heart 🫶🏻

user my roman empire is her using her own lyrics for max 😭

redbullracing our fav couple 😍

user not the red bull admin simping

redbullracing 🫣

user stop with the fake dating already

user stop with the hate comments?

user well we know they will never stop 🤷🏻‍♀️

lando I thought we were playing paddle today?

maxverstappen1 can’t make it mate, too busy

lando busy doing what huh?

user playing with his 🐱 lando

lando what…oh

nightmareordaydream @lando 😉

[chalamvts]

⌗ ANGELS BE CALLIN’┆ LN⁴ .ᐟ

౨ৎ .. SYNOPSIS — Slow mornings with Lando has always been the best part, especially because he has a certain way of waking you up all the time.

౨ৎ .. PAIRING — Lando Norris x afab!reader. established relationship.

౨ৎ .. CAUTION — profanities. smut warning. unprotected sex. creampie. soft-ish sex. minors dni.

wc — 1.5k

[ song — get you by daniel caesar ]

DESPITE THE VAGUE WARMTH OF THE SUN peeking through the blinds, a cold shiver ran up your spine as your eyes gently fluttered. The soft hum of the ac filled the dense air, hitting your exposed shoulder as you slightly shifted—reminding you of the lack of clothing you were dealing with underneath the duvet.

You peered over your shoulder, barely making out the familiar figure of Lando right beside you through half lidded eyes. A soft smile crept up your lips once you did, shifting your weight to completely face him. It’s always been a bliss to see him like this—so peaceful, the slight afterglow lingering just right on his face as his curls sat messily, like it always did.

Without much thought, you placed a hand on his cheek, letting your thumb travel over his skin, not missing the way his eyebrows slightly twitched at your touch. It was one of those mornings where you’d be awake before him, and to you, it was always a great opportunity to just.. admire him.

You gently leaned in, placing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, letting your lips stay there for a bit longer. As if on cue, he started to stir, his arms absentmindedly pulling you closer to him. You watched his eyes flutter open, fighting back a smile as you stayed still.

“Hi.” he mumbled through a sleepy smile, his voice still thick with sleep,

You breathed out a laugh, running your hand up to his curls, fiddling with it. “Hi. Good morning.”

Lando responded by leaning in, planting a kiss on your temple, running a hand through the curve of your waist. He pulled away, just enough to look at you. “You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah,” you sighed out, snuggling closer to him. “Just a bit cold.”

He chuckled, looking down to your covered chest, letting his hands roam freely under the sheet. “Yeah, I can feel that.”

You playfully rolled your eyes, lightly shoving him, scoffing. “Yeah, well I hope you can also feel how sore I am right now.”

Lando grinned, swiftly catching your hand as it smacked softly into the sheets. “That’s quite flattering.”

You gave him a look “It’s concerning.”

“You’re still here though,” he pointed out, his smile never faltering as he watched your frown deepen.

“Unfortunately.” you murmur, tilting your head up to give him access as his lips latched onto your neck, Lando let the silence stretch for a moment, just his thumb tracing lazy patterns across your skin. You watched him reach out to remove the covers, with a soft groan, you stopped him.

“Lando.”

“What?” he laughed, voice low. “You said you were cold, gotta know if I need to start warming up again.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “I swear to god— what part of ‘sore’ can you not understand?“

“Who says you have to move?” he whispered, lips brushing against your jaw, littering wet kisses all over. “We’ll go slow. Promise.”

For a moment, you stared at him. A part of you considered it as the look he was giving you was not helping at all. You could feel a sense of heat rush through your neck as he stared, breathing out a shaky sigh.

Lando watched as the corners of your lips turned upward, taking it as an instant response as he pulled your chin, crashing your lips with his into a deep, breathtaking kiss.

Shortly, he pulled away, his lips still subtly touching yours. “Say it.” he panted, his eyes searching your face for an answer. “You trust me, yeah?”

God, he always looked so pretty like this, the morning glow illuminating with his broad form, all worked up, just for you. Your breath shuddered as you meekly nodded. “Always.”

Lando didn’t have to think twice, abruptly latching his mouth back to your parted lips, slowly pulling on your arm to reposition you. You let him turn you over, now having your back pressed against his chest. Your breath hitched as you could feel that familiar hardness pressed just above your inner thigh, the same rush you felt the night before coming back instantly.

“Just.. relax. I got you.” he muttered in your ear, his palms finding its way to one of your breasts, kneading it gently, yielding a soft moan from you. “You have me.”

“Oh, fuck.” you hissed as reached further down, his middle finger made contact with your damp slick, dragging it back and forth in a slow manner. Lando hummed, amused as he added another digit. “Still so wet for me, baby..”

You barely mustered an answer, biting your lip as you nodded, miserably stopping a whimper from coming out. Desperately, you slightly jolted your hips, eager for a bit of friction. “Lan, I need—“

“Shh, love, I know.” he whispered low, pumping himself for a moment, that reddish hue of his leaking tip gradually intensifying. A quiet groan emitted from you as you felt his tip dragging teasingly against your aching slick, threatening to meddle with your sensitive folds.

Just as you were about to complain, a whine escaped your lips as he suddenly inserted an inch of himself, subconsciously making you arch your back against him. “Oh my god, baby..” you gasped, a mischievous glint against Lando’s eyes as he slowly pushed his cock in you.

“Yeah? like that? Nice and slow, love.” he cooed, placing a kiss on your shoulder as he led the palm of your hand to your abdomen, feeling that slight bump on your skin. “You feel me? That’s how deep you’re taking me right now..” he muttered against your ear.

“I.. fuck— I need you to move, please.”

Lando complied, starting slowly as he moved his hips forward, pulling you in with each thrust, the speed only picking up with each second. As he busied both his hands on your breasts, you could feel yourself spiraling as his muffled praises filled your senses, the slight curve of his cock hitting all the right places.

“Taking me so fucking good.” he rasped, a hand now softly clasped on your neck, slightly turning your head to give him a good view of your mixed expressions as you bit your lip, soft mewls still escaping, shamelessly.

“Oh god— don’t stop.” you sighed out, breathlessly.

“Wasn’t planning to, baby.” Lando replied, a vague smile on his face as he kept his pace, leaving open-mouth kisses on your bare shoulders every now and then. Despite being together for a while, he couldn’t deny, you always had that effect on him. Just like how he affects you, always so eager to be touched. “Gonna fill you up so good, yeah?”

“Mhm, s..so big.” you could barely realize what you were saying, too engulfed by his cock stretching you good with every single thrust. “Fuck, right there, yes..” ever so slightly, you could feel that familiar knot in your stomach forming, unaware of the lewd sounds you produced as Lando kept going.

“Shit, I—“

“You’re cumming, baby?” he intervened your moans, the way you clench uncontrollably around his girth stroking his ego even more as he sped up. “Tell me where you want it, pretty.”

“I-inside. Right inside me, please.” you managed to mumble, almost incomprehensible as you threw your head back. Though Lando must’ve understood, without a word, placing pecks on your hair, chasing his own high.

Eventually, your body shuddered as you felt the knot in your stomach collapsing, a high-pitched moan emitting from your lips. Your chest heaved, Lando’s palm soothing your body as you came right on his cock, twitching at the feeling of his cum pushed against yours.

“So, so pretty.” he muttered, gently stroking your cheek as you catched your breath, a mixture of yours and his fluids seeping over your clit as he pulled out. As soon as your eyes slowly opened, you were met with the love of your life as your body turned to face him again, softly smiling at you.

“Still feeling cold?” he asked, slightly joking.

With a tired laugh, you pushed him weakly. “I’m quite warm now actually. Thanks to you.”

“Told you so.” he pulled you closer, resting his face on the crook of your neck. “Great to see it helped.” he muttered against your skin, that worn out tone in his voice slightly showing.

You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly where this was going. Another hour in bed. “Well, unfortunately, we can’t stay here all day.” you said, tapping his shoulder, in hopes he’d let go.

A groan emitted from Lando, lifting his head from your shoulder. “What? Says who?”

“Your trainer, who is probably wondering where you are right now.” you chuckled, watching the pout forming on his face.

“You’re evil.” he sighed, running a hand through his face.

“May I remind you whose idea this was?” you countered.

“And anyway,” you sat up, wincing in the process, turning towards your pouting boyfriend like he didn’t just wreck you moments ago. You leaned down to his face, kissing his nose, then his cheek, and finally on his lips.

“Only an idiot would say no to morning sex.”

[ RADIO. yeah.. sorta took me a while. not proofread though </3 ]

[mournaeve]

❝ almost, always ❞

paring : yeon si-eun (weak hero) × gn!reader

genre : fluff, mild angst/hurt-comfort, emotional miscommunication, slow burn

warnings : mentions of emotional exhaustion/burn out, emotional whiplash but make it quiet and poetic, excessive eye contact with a emotionally constipated boy, 9/10 confession (where's the last 1, no one knows)

synopsis : Two people, both quiet in different ways, six missed chances, one almost-confession—and a love that grows in the silence between what’s said and what’s meant.

joy speaks : hi, and welcome to my first fic <3 genuinely hope you like it. don't be a silent reader!

1. The first time you met Si-eun, you were stealing Baku's snack and threatening to bite Gotak. Not seriously, of course, but with the kind of conviction that only came from a lack of shame and too little sleep.

Your mouth still tasted like instant noodles and regret. Your hair was a chaos theory. Your hoodie?—stolen from Baku, smelled faintly of laundry detergent and sweat, like a boy who lived his life in motion and never washed anything properly and also had a giant yellow pikachu on the front.

You didn't notice him at first.

No, at first you were too busy lying on the classroom floor, narrating your slow descent into madness because Gotak had, in your words, 'emotionally betrayed you' by siding with Baku over what was clearly your bag of chips. Baku, naturally, just sat on your back and told you to accept death with dignity.

Then you saw a pair of shoes. Clean, white, very still. Not fidgety like Gotak's or scuffed like Humin's.

You tilted your head up, squinting from the floor like a raccoon caught under fluorescent light, and there he was.

Expression unreadable. Face sharp in that quiet way—like something drawn in pencil and not yet colored in. Si-eun. Yeon Si-eun. You knew his name only because Gotak had once whispered it like he was talking about a ghost who might hear him.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked down at the mess on the floor, you, mostly, and blinked.

You, still on your stomach, gave a small wave.

"Hey. I swear I'm not usually like this."

He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of the mouth. But you swore later, swore, that his eyes lingered for half a second too long. Like he was trying to decide whether to ignore you or classify you as some new species.

Maybe both.

That was the first time. You didn’t know yet that it would become a pattern—him appearing silently, you saying something ridiculous, the two of you orbiting each other like mismatched planets with slightly wrong gravity.

But in that moment, on the floor of a classroom you barely stayed awake in, with Baku sitting on your back and Gotak looking vaguely concerned for everyone’s sanity—

—you thought, 'huh'

He’s kind of cute when he looks confused.

◎⫘◎

2. You didn't expect to see him again. Not so soon, not without the buffer of Baku's laughter or Gotak's nervous commentary or the chaos of you being your usual, spiraling self. But there he was, outside the convenience store, earphones in, staring at the gum rack like it had personally offended him.

You stopped short. He didn't look up.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain even under emotional duress, you didn't keep walking. You hovered.

Like an idiot.

"Didn't peg you for a mint guy," you said finally, voice casual, like you hadn’t just debated crossing the street to avoid standing next to him and his inexplicably intense aura.

He looked up, slow. Blank expression unreadable. Those same pencil drawn beautiful eyes.

Then, flatly, "I'm not."

You blinked. Looked at the gum in his hand. "You've been holding that for like three minutes."

"I was spacing out."

"Oh."

Beat.

You nodded, like that explained the universe, and turned to grab a bottle of water. Behind you, you could feel his silence — not heavy, just… neutral. Like air that hadn’t decided if it was humid or cold.

"I wasn't following you, by the way," you added without being prompted, twisting the bottle cap as you rejoined him at the register. "In case your survival instincts kicked in."

Another pause. He looked at you.

"I didn't think you were."

You laughed — too loud, too fast — and instantly regretted it. "Right. Cool. Great. Just clearing that up, y'know, for the record."

"I don’t think about you that much."

And there it was.

You froze mid-step, plastic bottle crinkling in your hand. A second too slow, your brain tried to patch the damage: he didn't mean it like that. Probably. Hopefully?

"Oh," you said, smile cracking just slightly. "No offense taken. I also don't, like, catalogue your whereabouts or anything. That would be psychotic."

He gave you a look, like he was either very confused or wondering if you were having a stroke.

You both stood there, the cashier watching, deeply done with both your energies.

Si-eun finally paid for his gum. That he definitely didn’t want.

And you stood holding a bottle of water and the first bruise of misunderstanding, shaped like a boy who said things without malice but still managed to dig a little too deep.

Later that night, Baku asked why you were chewing mint gum with a dramatic sigh.

You told him it was an aesthetic choice. You didn't mention Si-eun. Not yet.

◎⫘◎

3. It happened because Gotak's mom called.

Loudly. On speaker. In the middle of the table, right as he was halfway through explaining some physics concept that sounded like witchcraft. He panicked, unplugged his charger wrong, and blew the socket.

And just like that, the lights went out in Baku's room.

Chaos. Swearing. Baku tripping over a dumbbell. You, laughing until your ribs hurt. Gotak apologizing to the socket like it had feelings. Juntae being all flustered while trying to keep the others in check.

Eventually, they both left to 'buy snacks and air out their humiliation.' You were too tired to follow.

And Si-eun didn't leave.

He stayed sitting on the floor, back against Baku’s bed frame, eyes unreadable. You weren’t sure if he didn't move because he was comfortable or because inertia had claimed him.

You sat across from him, the silence sitting with you like a third presence. It wasn't uncomfortable. It just… was.

You cleared your throat. "You always this quiet?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: "Do you always talk this much?"

Your jaw dropped. "Are you saying I talk too much?"

"No," he said, and blinked, slowly, "I'm saying I wasn't aware human lungs could handle this level of dialogue per minute."

You gawked at him.

He didn’t look smug. Or mean. Just… factual. As if he were reading weather data.

You threw a pillow at his face.

He caught it with both hands, unimpressed.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes," you muttered, curling into a cross-legged huff.

Silence again.

You should’ve let it drop. But something in you always needed to make sense of things. Of people.

"You don't like me, do you?" you asked.

He looked up at that. Not startled. Just puzzled.

"Why would you say that?"

You mentally snorted 'I wonder why."

"I don't know. The gum comment. The lungs comment. The general 'I'm enduring your presence like a particularly inconvenient fire drill' energy."

His brows furrowed slightly.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I don’t dislike you."

"But you don't like me."

He looked at you for a moment too long.

"I don’t not like you."

It was the kind of answer that made your brain run into a wall. You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"…Wow," you said. "Poetry."

He frowned faintly, clearly confused why you sounded so sarcastic.

You didn't push it. But when Baku and Gotak returned and flopped dramatically into the room with ice cream and shame, you laughed louder than you meant to.

And you refused to meet Si-eun’s eyes for the rest of the night.

◎⫘◎

4. You were wearing another hoodie.

Not Baku's this time — a different one. Slightly too big. Worn in the elbows. Charcoal gray with a weird bleach stain near the zipper. Not your usual look.

Si-eun noticed it immediately.

He didn't say anything, of course. He just stared.

You were too busy trying to untangle Gotak's wired earphones (how did they still exist?) while sitting on the cafeteria bench, ranting about something inconsequential — probably the school vending machine robbing you again. Baku was making jokes, as usual. Gotak laughed too loudly, as usual. Juntae was swinging his legs adorably like a child waiting for his mother to provide him with candy.

Then a boy walked past. Said your name. Smiled.

You looked up. "Oh—hey. Thanks again for the hoodie."

Si-eun's gaze didn't shift. He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

You caught it in the twitch of his fingers, the flick of his eyes, the way his entire body went very, very still.

Later, in the hallway, he stopped next to you. Not with you — next to. A detail you couldn’t unfeel.

"Is that your boyfriend?" he asked, tone flat.

You blinked. "Who?"

"The guy. With the hoodie. The one you smiled at like he invented oxygen."

You snorted. "No. He just lent me this when I spilled coffee on my shirt this morning."

He nodded. Slowly. You waited for a follow-up. It didn’t come.

Instead, he walked away with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, that silent wall rising like it always did when he didn't understand what he was feeling.

You stared after him, eyebrows pulled together.

You weren't his. He wasn't yours.

But still, you wanted to yell down the hallway,

'I would tressure your hoodie, if you ever offered it.'

◎⫘◎

5. It was raining the way it only rains in cities—sideways, rude, unforgiving. You hadn't meant to forget your umbrella. You were just late, and your brain had been full of other things. Like him. Like the hoodie thing. Like the way he hadn't spoken to you in two days. You were treading recklessly on the thin line between friends and strangers who know each other because of their mutual friends. No matter what you tried, attempted at, maybe to bring you both closer and not be strangers or just be his friend- he would always retract. Push you away with words or build walls around his heart that were too big and impossible not to notice.

You were soaked through by the time you reached the courtyard gate. Shoes squeaking, hair clinging to your face, hoodie (not his, not anyone's) weighing you down like a wet dog sweater.

Your heavy wet eyes widened at the sight before you.

Si-eun.

Standing under a small blue umbrella like the sky had personally chosen to leave him untouched.

You stopped. He didn't wave, or smile, or call out. Just lifted the umbrella a little higher.

You stared. Your heart twisted sideways.

"…Are you offering me that?" you asked, cautious.

"I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't."

You blinked. Walked over. Shoulders tense.

He didn't say anything. Just turned slightly, so the umbrella covered half of your body. His half was still mostly dry. You were dripping.

After a minute, you exhaled. "You didn’t have to wait."

"I know."

"…I thought you were mad at me."

"I'm not."

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me anymore."

"I do."

You were quiet.

Then you whispered it. Half a joke, half a plea:

"So this is... pity, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, eyes sharp and unreadable.

You couldn't hold the silence.

You stepped out from under the umbrella. "Forget it. I'm fine."

Rain hit your skin like needles. Cold. Fast. Real.

He didn't follow. You didn't look back. And by the time you got home, soaked to the bone and furious with yourself, it was too late to ask him what he really meant.

◎⫘◎

6. It was late.

Too late to be in the library. Too late for the lights to still hum this way, for the floor to be cold against your knee pits as you sat between shelves with your hoodie bunched up beneath you like a failed pillow.

You weren't crying.

But you were close. That tight-throated silence. That wet weight behind the eyes that made everything feel distant. The kind of sad that didn"t have a name. The kind that didn't explode — just leaked.

He found you anyway.

You didn't ask how.

Si-eun stood there, backpack still on, hair a little rumpled, shirt collar tugged loose like he'd either run or paced in circles before finding you.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just sat beside you. Close, but not close enough to touch.

After a long, long moment, he said, low,

"I'm not good at this."

You blinked. "At what?"

"This. Talking. Reading people. Knowing the right thing to say."

You looked at him, sharp, surprised. His voice didn't waver, but it wasn't calm. It was something else — strained. Steady, but brittle at the edges.

He went on, "I don't realize when I'm being too blunt, or too distant. I've… ruined a lot of things that way."

You didn’t speak.

He stared at his hands.

"I used to think it didn’t matter. Not anymore. That being quiet kept things simple. But you—"

He stopped. Swallowed. "You confuse the hell out of me."

Your breath hitched.

"You talk like your words are racing to escape you. You say things I don’t know how to answer. You make me feel like I’m always three steps behind and—and I hate it."

The silence rang.

Then, quieter:

"But I hate it more when you're not around."

You didn't move.

You didn't say anything.

Your brain tripped over itself. Every version of you — the loud one, the jokey one, the brave one — went silent. And in that stretch of hesitation, Si-eun stood.

He didn't look at you.

"I shouldn't have said that," he murmured. "I knew it would come out wrong."

He walked away before you could tell him it didn't.

Later, lying in your bed, face buried in a damp hoodie, you whispered it,

'But it didn’t come out wrong at all.'

◎⫘◎

6. It started with silence.

Not the usual kind — not Si-eun's quiet that felt full of thinking, full of weight. This was emptier. Distant. Clean, like someone had wiped the board.

He'd stopped showing up to group study sessions. Stopped responding to your messages. Left early from lunch. Didn't make eye contact in the hall.

You told yourself he was just busy. That midterms had fried his brain. That he'd drop a deadpan one-liner in your DMs any second now.

He didn't.

When you finally cornered Baku and asked what was going on, he just shrugged — unconvincingly.

And so, armed with indignation and mild sleep deprivation, you found Si-eun after school, outside the campus gates, hoodie up, hands in pockets, looking like a ghost of himself.

"You’re avoiding me," you said.

His eyes flicked up. Then away. "No, I'm not."

"You are." You laughed — humorless. "Jesus, Si-eun, at least lie with conviction."

He was quiet for a beat. He exhaled quietly, "I thought you might want space."

"From you?"

"You looked uncomfortable. Last time. When I said… all that."

You stared. Mouth open. Head buzzing.

"That’s why?" you whispered. “You thought I was uncomfortable?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. "You didn't say anything. So, I figured I'd made things weird."

You exhaled, slow. Almost a laugh. Almost a scream.

"You idiot," you said, soft.

He flinched — just slightly. Gazing up with his eyes, 'god damn his eyes, were they always this beautiful?'

You looked away before your voice could crack. "You didn't make it weird. I did. I didn't know what to say, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to say something."

He didn't answer.

The wind was cold. The sky was turning gray, like it couldn't make up its mind.

You looked at him again.

"You always do that," you said. "Assume how people feel and then act like it's confirmed data."

"It's easier than asking."

"Well, maybe next time, ask."

He looked at you then.

Like he heard you for the first time.

But still, he didn't move. And neither did you.

The moment passed like a train that didn't stop.

You both walked away feeling like you’d missed something important.

Because you had.

◎◎⫘◎◎

1. It didn't happen at some climactic hour, in some big cinematic way.

There was no rainstorm this time, no bruised hallway lighting, no tension humming between the inches of silence.

Just a classroom. Late. Empty. Gold evening light spilling sideways through the windows, dust drifting in slow motion. The kind of warmth that didn't burn — just sat in your bones like an old memory.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep.

You'd only meant to rest your eyes. Just for a second. But the warmth got to you — the sunlight, the still air, the safety of a quiet room without anyone needing anything from you. You drifted.

When you opened your eyes again, Si-eun was there.

Sitting on a chair beside the desk. Back against the wall. Book in his lap. Head tilted slightly toward you.

Not watching. Just being.

Your first instinct was to speak. Crack a joke. Break the softness with your usual deflection.

But for once, you didn't. You just looked at him. Let the quiet stretch.

He closed the book.

"Bad dream?" he asked, voice like a whisper folded in linen.

You blinked the sleep out of your eyes. "Not really. Just... weird."

A pause.

"Felt like I was floating."

He nodded. Like he understood.

You sat up slowly, wincing a little at the crick in your neck.

He reached into his bag and passed you a water bottle without a word.

You took it. Sipped.

He didn't fill the silence. He didn't shrink from it either. Just sat there with you, like he had nowhere else to be, no one else to become in that moment.

And then—"Thank you," you said.

He looked at you, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "For what?"

"For... not leaving."

It came out so softly you weren't sure it even reached him.

But his eyes held yours, steady.

You took in his eyes, his eyes were a study in contradiction — sharp in thought, but soft in shape, always watching like they were learning you in real time. Slightly wide, dark, and quietly luminous, like they held whole libraries of things left unsaid. They didn’t flicker much when he spoke — they lingered, honest in a way his voice never quite managed.

And when he looked at you, really looked, it felt like standing barefoot in the middle of something sacred.

Like silence could be tender. Like you could finally stop explaining yourself. Those eyes didn’t ask for words. They just understood.

Then he added, not quickly, but like it had been waiting:

"I wasn't going to."

Nothing more. No sudden hand grabs, no confessions, no dizzying declarations. Just that.

For the first time, there was nothing to correct. Nothing to fix.

You both stayed there. In the gold-lit quiet. In the stillness that didn't ask for answers. Just presence.

And this time — finally — you both understood.

◎◎⫘◎◎

2. It was dark by the time the rooftop emptied out.

The others had gone. Baku, Gotak, Juntae— loud footsteps, louder laughter, the crunch of snack wrappers left behind. The kind of after-school chaos that made everything feel alive. But now it was quiet. That dusky, hush-hour kind of quiet, where even the wind didn't bother to speak.

You stayed behind to clean up. He stayed behind for... something else.

Neither of you said it.

Si-eun was leaning against the railing, hood pulled halfway up, hair catching in the breeze. You were stacking drink cans into neat, metallic towers and pretending not to feel the weight of his gaze on your back.

"You always do that," he said.

You blinked. "Do what?"

"Stay behind. Fix things no one notices."

You smiled — crooked, tired. "Someone has to."

Silence again. Not heavy. Just full.

"I used to think I was fine alone," he said. Quiet. Almost to himself. "That being alone meant being safe. That silence meant control."

You straightened. Slowly.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept talking, eyes on the horizon where the sky bled orange into navy.

"But it’s not quiet when you're gone. It's louder. It’s—"

He cut himself off. Bit his lip. Exhaled sharp.

You waited.

"I don't know how to say it right," he admitted.

"You don’t have to."

"I want to," he said. "I—"

He turned then. Finally looked at you.

"I think about you. All the time. In the middle of things that don’t matter. Like math problems and weather reports and the noise in the hallway. You just show up. In my head."

Your throat tightened.

He stepped forward — one pace. No more.

"If you asked me what we are," he said, "I don't have the word. But I know what I want it to be."

You didn't breathe.

"-and if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine. I'll try to not think of it" His voice cracked slightly, "But I don't want to keep pretending this is nothing."

You looked at him.

"I feel it too."

He smiled.

Actually smiled.

Not the polite curl of the corners of his lips he wore in passing, but the real one, the one that came slow and reluctant, like it wasn't used to being let out. It broke across his face like sunlight through fog, fleeting and precious, the kind of thing you only caught if you were paying attention.

Now that it happened, everything softened: the edges of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the guarded quiet in his eyes. It was a smile that felt like a secret, like you’d been trusted with something he didn’t give away easily. A quiet admission that, for a moment, he let himself feel joy — and let you see it.

And in that soft rooftop dark, with cans clinking quietly in your hands and the wind threading through your sleeves, you realized something simple:

There was no misunderstanding anymore.

There was just you.

And him.

And everything you hadn’t said — finally, beautifully heard.

◎◎⫘◎◎

@mournaeve 2025, I don't allow translations or reposting of my work however reblogging is fine :)

[ivyues]

Room 143 ⋅ Lee Know

Behind closed hotel doors, the word's quiter and time slows.

Minho wasn’t usually one to be obvious, but the pattern was becoming hard to ignore.

Once, maybe twice a week depending on how hectic his schedules were, he’d slip away. No big announcement, no drawn-out goodbyes. Just a hoodie, his mask and dressed casually but a little more put-together than a simple errand required.

At first, his members didn’t question it. Minho liked his space – always has. But they weren’t stupid. They knew about you. He didn’t keep that a secret. But where he disappeared to when the clock struck ten? That part was left vague.

He did it for you both. The dorms were cramped. There was always someone around, and even if the guys wouldn’t have minded him bringing you over sometimes, Minho valued privacy. Real privacy. The kind that couldn't be interrupted by footsteps outside the door or someone yelling down the hall.

So he booked hotel rooms.

Nothing flashy – modest places with warm lighting, clean sheets, and thick walls. Places that gave you both a few stolen hours where the rest of the world didn’t matter. 

He even used a different name.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed. Far from it. He just didn’t want to share you – not with the world, not even with the boys, not in that way. Not yet.

But the hotel stays? Those were his.

The first time he did it, he was nervous – more than he let on. His hand had hovered over the keycard before sliding it into the door.

“It’s not too much, right?” he’d asked, voice almost sheepish. “I just… wanted it to be us. Not the dorm. Not a parking lot. Just us.”

You’d kissed him before answering. That was enough.

Room 172. Room 325. Room 143. It didn’t matter. The numbers changed. The pattern didn’t.

He’d walk in, close the door behind him, and everything else melted away.  He’d find you already waiting, curled up in the soft light, and the tension in his shoulders would melt.

There, he didn’t have to hold back. He could touch you like he wanted to. Kiss you until you were breathless. Make you whisper his name in that tone only he got to hear.

“Been thinking about this all week,” he’d murmur against your skin, his hands already under your shirt, “Every time I’m in the practice room, I imagine you here.”

Time moved differently in those rooms. Hours passed in minutes, tangled up in sheets. Open-mouthed kisses. Soft gasps. Lingering fingertips. I love you’s that tasted like a promise. You made each other forget the world existed outside those four walls.

-----

Back at the dorm, the guys were catching on.

“Hyung’s vanishing again,” Hyunjin muttered, sipping his drink. “And don’t act like none of you are curious.”

“Where does he even go? It’s not the gym. He’s not rehearsing. He’s not with us. He’s definitely not alone,” Seungmin added, eyes narrowed.

Felix leaned back, grinning. “You think it’s his girlfriend?”

A beat passed.

“Duh,” Han said. “But where’s he taking her?”

Changbin smirked. “Somewhere soundproof, obviously.”

They all cracked up, but none of them pried. Not seriously. Because even if they didn’t know the hotel name, or the room number, they knew enough.

And Minho? He didn’t confirm a thing. 

He just came back every time with a calm he couldn’t fake, and a faint perfume scent clinging to him that definitely wasn’t his.

masterlist

[halfvalid]

pretty in that

ABOUT

rating: general audiences

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!monkey d. luffy | live action!nami

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

description: you have a hard time picking a dress for dinner whilst in kaya's mansion. zoro (sort of) helps!

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, fluff, kissing, confessions, no use of "y/n", special straw hat appearances (nami & luffy), soft zoro

author's note: i'm a sucker for dress-up scenes so i KNEW i was gonna write smth like this once that ep3 scene started playing. reader chooses a dress at the end; dress is non-described so you can imagine your ideal dress!

You were on Nami and Zoro’s side when it came to whatever was going on in Syrup Village. Kaya’s mansion made you feel vaguely unsettled, and stepping into the building made your heart pound quicker than you would like to admit. But if there was one thing that piqued your interest, it was the order of changing clothes for dinner. You’d been stuck in the same few outfits for weeks now, and the promise of something new—and formal—was nearly exciting, although you’d never admit it in front of Nami and her disapproving gaze. 

Kaya’s kindness combined with the private guest room and bath you were treated to helped soothe your nerves. Soon you found yourself being led to the giant closet the rest of the Straw Hats were already in—Nami was trying on various different pieces, and Zoro seemed to have something in hand too. 

“Ah, there you are!” Luffy said, swiveling on his heel and giving you a big grin as you entered the room. You stared in disbelief at all of the racks around you. Hell, there were even clothes hanging from the ceiling. 

“Well, we certainly have a lot of options,” you said, skimming a hand over a nearby rack. There were a variety of different fabrics, but they all felt expensive: silk and velvet, damasks and brocades. “I don’t even know where to start.” 

“I’m just trying on anything,” Nami called from where she was, before stepping out from the room divider she’d been changing behind. She wore an emerald dress with a plunging neckline, the patterned silk clinging to her curves, and did a little spin. “What do you think?” 

Luffy shrugged. Zoro wrinkled his nose, barely glancing up from the armchair he was lounging on. “I think it looks nice,” you offered, but Nami still seemed dissuaded. 

“Ugh, these two are impossible. What are you going to wear?” 

“Uh, I’m getting there,” you said with a little laugh. “It’s a bit overwhelming; I’d rather help you guys pick first. Luffy, have you found something yet?” You turned towards the man in the center of the room, who nodded enthusiastically. 

“Yeah, I found this!” He raised up a black waistcoat. You frowned at it. 

“Um, Luffy, waistcoats are supposed to be worn with a suit,” you said, then paused, seeing his blank look. “...Never mind.” 

“And I’m wearing black,” Zoro added, despite the piece of clothing slung along his lap definitely not being black. You exchanged a glance with Nami, who just rolled her eyes. They’re stupid, she mouthed, then returned to the rack she was glancing through. She worked quickly, pulling out various numbers that she scrutinized before either setting on the couch beside her or putting back. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Need me to find you some pants with that, Cap?” Nami and Zoro let out identical groans as you spoke the pet name, both turning to give you exasperated looks. You suppressed your laugh. 

“Stop calling him that,” Zoro said with a tired sigh. “You’re encouraging him.” 

“Kind of the point, yeah,” you said cheerfully. While Zoro and Nami were both still largely unconvinced about the whole pirate crew thing, you’d joined the bandwagon rather quickly. Zoro rolled his eyes, and you turned towards the racks to find Luffy some slacks. “Assumedly you need something other than that shirt too?” 

“I’ll look later,” Zoro said passively. You watched him out of your peripheral vision. He was outfitted in a patterned kimono, his three swords slung along his lap. He didn’t seem too interested in his surroundings, though what he was doing, you weren’t sure. You let him be, turning to page through the racks of clothes again. Finally you found a pair of slacks that seemed like they’d fit Luffy. 

“Here,” you said, passing them over to him. “And find some shoes while you’re at it.” 

“Why does she even have clothes that don’t fit her?” Zoro murmured, sounding as baffled as he could get. “What, she just casually has clothes in all four of our sizes hanging around?” 

“Rich people own things just to own them,” Nami called. She’d changed again; this dress had a halter neckline and was blush pink. Zoro motioned with a hand at it, and Nami frowned, glancing down at the dress. “You don’t like it?” 

“Eh,” Zoro said. Nami made a face. 

“At this point I think you’re hating just to hate.” She pulled up a few more options, narrowing her eyes as she surveyed them. Luffy was seemingly satisfied with what you’d given him, because he took the pieces off of their hangers and slung them over his shoulder. 

“I’m off,” he announced. “Gonna go change in my room and do some exploring before dinner. Have fun!” With that, he left, and Nami sighed, turning towards you. She held up her final two options—a red cheongsam with delicate gold embroidery and a pastel blue dress with an a-line skirt. You gnawed on your bottom lip as you studied the two.

“I think the blue one might wash you out a bit,” you said eventually; it’d clash with her hair no doubt, and make her skin look even paler. The shade wasn’t a right match with her eyes, either. “I like the cheongsam; I think you should go with that one. It contrasts nicely with your hair.” 

Nami raised up the dress again, inspecting it. “You’re right,” she said, ducking back behind the room divider to change. You started pursuing the racks again; Nami stepped out a few moments later, successfully outfitted in her new dress. “Okay, I’m going to go do my hair in my guest room. Good luck.” 

“Bye,” you called, watching as she left the room. You clicked your tongue, almost alone now and with absolutely zero options of clothing. As much as you liked the idea of new clothes, the abundance of options was starting to seem a little daunting. “Okay, now that Nami’s done, it’s my turn to play dress-up.” 

Zoro laughed from where he sat, and you startled, almost having forgotten he was there. He was watching you attentively, his attention having diverted from whatever it was he’d been thinking about earlier. “You like this kind of thing?” 

“Well, I mean.” You shrugged, peering at a few of the pieces on the rack in front of you. You pulled out a deep green dress, eyeing the lace by the neckline before setting it back. “It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?” 

“Not really what I’m into.” 

“You wear jewelry, so clearly you have some fashionable instinct,” you pointed out, bending over to glance at the clothes hiding by your knees. These were all skirts or unreasonably short dresses, with so little fabric you were uncertain they would cover anything at all. “Unless the earrings are for another reason…?”

“Three swords, three earrings.” 

“Makes sense. What are you wearing with your shirt?” You glanced back to see Zoro’s answer, but he merely shrugged. “Do you want me to find you some trousers? A suit?” 

“You don’t need to find clothes for me. I can do that myself.” Still, Zoro made absolutely no move to do so. You rolled your eyes, but turned your attention back on what you’d be wearing for the dinner. Vaguely you wondered how Zoro would look wearing a suit. You flushed almost as soon as the thought popped into your head, shoving it into the very back of your skull and banishing it from seeing the light of day. 

“If you say so,” you said instead, mostly to distract yourself from the beyond inappropriate thoughts starting to run through your head. Honestly, you barely knew your crew mates—the four of you were close to tearing each other’s throats out before you ran into Buggy, after all. And the fact that Zoro was, well, conventionally attractive—and you tried to keep your thoughts on that and that alone, anything emotional was strictly out of the question—shouldn’t be something your mind lingered on. 

You picked out the first dress that looked to be your size. It was dark purple, backless with a tight trumpet skirt. Ducking behind the room divider Nami had used, you stripped off your clothes, donning the dress. There was a mirror along the other side of the divider, and you turned, trying to appraise the dress on your figure. The color didn’t look entirely right, and you were uneasy about the lack of mobility the skirt might have—Kaya’s staff were still extremely suspicious, after all, and you’d rather be safe than sorry. 

“Let me see,” Zoro called from outside. You tugged at the dress, suddenly nervous, but stepped out after you couldn’t find a good enough excuse not to. Zoro’s eyes ran up and down your figure, and you did a slow circle, showing off the dress. The bare skin of your back prickled. 

“You’re not going to be able to move in it,” he eventually said. 

You huffed out a breath, the nervous energy that had accumulated in your chest leaving with the action. Something in your belly stirred; disappointment, maybe, that Zoro had only commented on the practicality of the dress, not how you looked in it. But you pushed those thoughts away with an angry shove. Not the time, and definitely not the person to be thinking those sorts of things about. “Yeah, that’s what I was worried about. Let me find something else.” 

Zoro’s gaze didn’t flicker from your body as you started across the room, ducking between more racks to find something. “You dead-set on a dress?” 

“I haven’t worn a dress in a while,” you answered, picking out a red one before remembering Nami’s choice and setting it back. “Might as well take the opportunity.” The next one you pulled was blue, all shiny and soft. The material looked like some kind of tender silk. You set it aside to try on. “Why?” 

“Haven’t seen either you or Nami in a dress before.” 

“Actually, you have. I’m wearing one right now and Nami tried like five on earlier,” you said, glancing over your shoulder to shoot Zoro an unimpressed look. He scoffed, though there was a smile at the edges of his mouth as he turned his head away. Your next choice was soft pink, and made of tulle that vaguely resembled a puff pastry. You pulled it up. “Think I should try it?” 

“I mean, pick whatever,” Zoro said, though he seemed mildly disgusted by the amount of fabric the skirt had, all bunched up with layers like something a ballerina might wear. “What are you trying to achieve with the dress?” 

“What am I—I’m trying to look nice, Zoro,” you said, stifling your laughter. You set the pink dress back, replacing it with a sage green number instead. “Not everything has ulterior motives.” 

“You always look nice.” 

You froze, a soft chill curling around the back of your neck. Carefully, you straightened up from where’d you been bent over yet another rack of clothes, turning to look Zoro in the eye. His eyes hadn’t moved. “Oh,” you managed out, throat all dry and tongue like sandpaper in your mouth. “Well, thank you.” 

Zoro cleared his throat, a dull noise he made in the hollow of his throat without even parting his lips. His gaze flickered away. “Yeah. Go try those on.” 

Wordlessly, you stepped back behind the room divider and slipped on the blue dress. It had a texture like water—it was some kind of high-end silk, flexible enough that it was near liquid in movement. The dress itself fell to your ankles, and had a simple square neckline. You stepped outside, doing another slow twirl. “Better,” Zoro said. 

“Better how?” 

“You can probably run in it.” 

You twisted your lips, trying to suppress the urge to turn them down into a frown. “Okay. It’s not doing it for me.” You ducked back behind the divider to change yet again; the sage green one was satin, with long sleeves and a neckline you hadn’t anticipated would be that deep. 

Still, upon exiting the divider and turning for Zoro again, he didn’t have any worthwhile feedback. “It’s kind of plain,” he said eventually, not meeting your eyes. 

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest; you had to almost resist stomping over to the racks to find something more, and spent another few minutes gathering dresses and trying them on. 

To your immense disappointment, each one garnered little to no reaction from Zoro. You even shoved on one of the tiny, too-little fabric dresses you’d disapproved of earlier, but all Zoro did was scan you from head to toe and say, rather flatly, “you’d get stabbed pretty easily in that.” 

Frustration bled into your nerves as you hid behind the divider again. You glared at yourself in the mirror—your skin had started flushing with how annoyed you were getting, which might’ve been funny had you not been so ticked off. Men, you thought, irritated. Was it really so hard to tell you that you looked pretty? 

He’s a bounty hunter, you had to remind yourself. He doesn’t care about this kind of thing. Besides, he was the last person you should be setting your sights on anyway. You tugged at the short dress, the hem just barely grazing the tops of your thighs. 

You heard footsteps approaching from outside the divider, suddenly too close as you snapped yourself out of the reverie of thoughts you’d been lost in. Zoro turned the corner, arm propped up against the divider edge as he peered in, brows furrowed. “You stopped coming out,” he said. He was still in his kimono, swords tossed over one shoulder. The shirt he had was, assumedly, left on the couch he’d finally stood up from. 

“I’m frustrated,” you told him blandly. His frown deepened. 

“Because of… clothing?” 

You suppressed the sigh that threatened to escape your lungs. “Never mind. I’m fresh out of ideas.” You pushed past Zoro, opting to stand in the center of the room as if analyzing it from a different view would magically give you more options. Zoro turned to stare, still looking perplexed. “With so many options, it’s hard to make up my mind, that’s all.” 

“Uh huh.” Zoro was still studying you. “Did I do something?” 

“What? No,” you said hastily. Too hastily. The words had ripped out of your throat like a hiccup, and you seriously needed to learn how to lie a bit better because now Zoro’s expression was even more confused. “No. Why would I be mad at you?” 

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” 

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, turning away from Zoro to stare at some of the clothes hanging on the wall above his head. These were too high up to properly look at, and as you stepped back, you glanced through the dresses hanging off the arch of the ceiling. You perused them without too much interest, eyes glancing over the various colors and fabrics until— 

Zoro stepped next to you. “Hey,” he said, and you jolted, head snapping down to look at him. You let out a noise of irritation, then turned your focus back on the ceiling. 

Your gaze flickered through the racks until finally falling on one particular dress hanging by the mouth of the room. It was somewhat hidden, tucked in a little corner beside a few other pieces, but from your vantage point it seemed about your size. 

You took a step closer to it, surveying it with your neck craned. The material looked soft and comfortable but it still retained shape, and the color—even in the dim lighting of the closet—was one of your favorites. The undertone would suit your skin perfectly. And, well, you didn’t want to put all your bets on one dress you hadn’t even touched, but it was certainly promising. 

Zoro stepped past you, barely exerting any effort to reach up and bring the dress down from where it hung up high. “This one, right?” he asked, and you swallowed, some of the annoyances you had towards him dissolving as he extended the dress hanger towards you. You nodded wordlessly, taking it. You stood there for a second before Zoro gestured with his head towards the divider. “Go try it on.” 

You did so, retreating safely behind your wall and stepping out of the little dress. You surveyed the one Zoro had grabbed for you again, heart lodged in your throat. It really was beautiful, and exactly your style; now that you saw it up close, you could safely affirm it was your size too, but nervousness still pulsed through your veins at it. 

Carefully, you slipped it on, adjusting the fabric around your hips and fixing up the neckline to rest evenly on your skin.

Zoro spoke out from the rest of the room. “So why are you mad at me?” 

“I’m not—” you sighed, dropping your arms before returning to fiddle with the dress. “I’m not mad at you.” 

“Is it because I wasn’t being helpful with the clothes? Because I already said that’s not exactly my area of expertise—” 

“It’s not because of the clothes, Zoro,” you said sharply, cutting him off. Zoro clicked his tongue, the sound reverberating around the room and thudding in time with your heartbeat. You turned your attention back onto your reflection. “It’s just me being silly. Don’t worry about it.” 

‘I’m worrying about it,” Zoro deadpanned. You sighed, adjusting the dress one final time before arranging your hair and staring at yourself in the mirror. It fit you perfectly, emphasizing all the right places and hiding all the parts of your body you were more insecure about. “Changed yet?” 

“Yeah,” you said, voice limp. 

“Let me see.” 

You bit your lip, suddenly nervous about how he’d react. Knowing him, it’d be something like it’s okay or the color’s fine; perhaps can you even walk in that? or weird shape if he was feeling a little more critical. Still, you stepped out anyway, not meeting Zoro’s eyes as you spun for him, letting him look at the dress from all angles. When you’d finished posing you glanced up, eyes meeting him tentatively. 

“It’s…” Zoro cleared his throat, ripping his gaze away from the dress on your figure to flicker up to your face. His gaze dropped again nearly as fast, like he couldn’t bear to keep eye contact. “Uh.” 

“It’s what?” you prompted, turning to face the nearest mirror. Your lips twisted into a worried frown, turning to glance at the dress again. Was it really not as perfect as you’d thought originally? “Do you like it? It’s my favorite so far, I think, but if you don’t like it—” 

“You look pretty in that,” Zoro blurted, cutting your rambles off with the strident, too-loud sentence. You froze, eyes flickering to meet him in the mirror. Carefully, he glanced up at you, and you could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. 

“Oh.” 

Zoro coughed, averting his gaze as you slowly turned around to face him. You couldn’t see properly with the less-than-ideal lighting of the room, but his face seemed to have taken on a ruddier complexion. “I like it,” he said, words softer than they’d been before. “It’s the one.” 

There was a little rush of something through your veins, and you felt vaguely lightheaded. “Okay,” you barely managed to squeak out. “Thanks.” You stumbled back behind the divider, sucking in a deep breath and trying to regulate your breathing. God, this was actually shameful at this point. 

You composed yourself quickly, gathering all the dresses you’d tried on and abandoned to return to their proper places. Zoro was still watching you attentively, and you glanced over your shoulder at him. Sparks prickled along your skin as your eyes met. “What?” you asked. 

“You’re acting weird.” 

“Am not.” 

Zoro stood up, rolling back his shoulders and stretching his head from side to side. He glanced through the racks and, without even a minute’s hesitation, plucked a suit jacket and matching pants out from beside him. “Yeah, you are. What’s up?”

“You’re just grabbing those without thinking about it?” you demanded, eager to change the subject. Zoro rolled his eyes.

“I picked them like fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Just didn’t grab them until you were done your whole… thing. Now spill it. You’re all red again.” 

You swiveled towards the closest mirror, unable to suppress your gape as you saw that your skin had indeed turned a distinctive shade of scarlet, flushed undertones creeping their way up your skin. It was entirely recognizable even in the terrible lighting. Even your skin was treacherous, now. “Nothing,” you muttered, unable to meet Zoro’s eyes as you spit it out. “I was annoyed because you weren’t telling me what you thought of the dresses.” 

“I… did, though?” Zoro said, perplexed. You let out a grating sigh, cheeks flaring even hotter now that he was forcing you to confess the entire extent of your sins. 

“Yeah, like, practically,” you said, wrapping your arms defensively over your chest. “You’ll get stabbed in that so easily. You won’t be able to walk. I just wanted you to tell me that—” you cut yourself off with another groan. “Don’t make me say it.”

Zoro blinked. “I have no idea what you’re edging towards, so you’re going to have to say it.”

“I just wanted you to tell me I looked nice!” you finally burst out, turning so you wouldn’t have to look at Zoro’s face. God, you were going to have to quit the Straw Hats after this. It was so entirely stupid. 

“But—” There was a laugh in Zoro’s voice, and you glared down at the floor, all of your dignity having left you by this point. You had no shame left to feel anymore. “I said ‘you always look nice’. Doesn’t that insinuate—” 

“That’s not the point,” you said hotly, tone almost argumentative now. “I wanted you to think I looked pretty in a dress, Zoro.” 

Zoro didn’t respond for a moment, brows creasing and face taking on a baffled expression. “But why—” Zoro cut himself off, and you turned even redder, holding your breath as he finally connected the dots. A single word fell from his lips, like a soft breath of air as he spoke. “Oh.” 

“Oh,” you muttered under your breath, unable to stop the almost whining tone your voice took on. Zoro stepped closer to you, a hand wrapping around your wrist and forcing you to look up at him. 

“I said you looked pretty in this one.” 

“I know,” you insisted, still all red, “which is why I’m not totally mad at you, but—” 

“You looked pretty in all of them,” Zoro said. He didn’t look bashful, per se—you didn’t think Zoro could get shy—but his voice was low, all hoarse in a more tentative way rather than one of his grating remarks this time. “For the record.” 

Your breath caught. 

“This one’s my favorite, though,” Zoro muttered. And then he was leaning down to kiss you, the ghost of his lips just on the corner of your mouth. You gaped up at him in shock as he averted his gaze, staring at some spot about your head. “Was that—” he started, before clearing his throat and trying again with a little more of his dignity this time. “Was that okay?” 

“Yes,” you blurted fervently, and before you could fix up the moment with something more, well, suitable, your big mouth ruined it for you. “But I think we’re holding up dinner. You should get changed, and I still need to find shoes.” 

You bit your tongue immediately after the words had been said, but it was too late—Zoro coughed, turning away from you. You panicked, and now it was your turn to grab his arm and tug you towards him. “Wait!” 

Zoro glanced down at you, perplexed, and then you leaned up to kiss him square on the mouth. He stumbled back, surprised, but adjusted quickly, hand going to cradle the back of your neck and pressing you right to him before you finally broke apart. 

“You should steal it,” he started. You stared up at him in question. “The dress, I mean. You should steal it.” 

“When am I ever going to need to wear this again?” you asked, perplexed. Zoro shrugged, fingers tugging at the edge of the dress's neckline. 

“Dunno. Just take it. She probably won’t even notice.” 

“You’re adorable,” you teased; Zoro wrinkled his nose but didn’t complain, opting instead to move away and pick up the clothes he still hadn’t changed into. “Go change. See you at dinner.” 

“Yeah,” Zoro said, his eyes not straying from your figure as you ducked out of the room. Before you could fully leave, though, Zoro grabbed your wrist, spinning you around towards him.

You didn’t have enough time to ask what he was doing when he leaned around to kiss you one final time, his hands cradling your face as your lips moved against each other. It was only a moment later that he stepped away, looking rather sheepish but not very apologetic as he finally let you go. 

“You look more than pretty,” he murmured, eyes sinking into yours, and your throat dried, any words you might’ve formed dying away within seconds. “You always look more than pretty. You look gorgeous.” 

“Thank you,” you whispered, and then he ducked back inside the closet to change. 

© halfvalid 2023

[dazevi]

PROLOGUE: DREAMS

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: on a quiet afternoon after school, your girlfriend wonders and imagines what the future might look like for the two of you.

content warnings: fluff, impending angst (yikes), established relationship, highschool!vi and reader, eventual 18+ nsfw content in later chapters so MDNI.

wc: 2,294

navigation | series masterlist | ko-fi

note: very excited to share this with u guys! i spent most of january writing the first three chapters—most of them (not including this one) run on for about 10k words!! i also kind of half proofread each chapter so there still might be a few grammar mistakes. but i hope you guys like it!! also lovely fanart by bunimint_ on ig!

YOU ALWAYS LOVED DAYS LIKE THIS.

Days when the late afternoon sun spilled through the open blinds of Vi’s bedroom, yellow rays stretching lazily across her hardwood floor, onto her posters scattered and stuck on the wall. It was just another weekday after school and you found yourself sitting cross-legged on her bed, the worn quilt beneath you with its faded patterns due to years of use. A paperback novel rested in your hands, its pages slightly dog-eared from where you’d paused and flipped back to reread sentences that caught your attention.

Your eyes traced the words, but your thoughts occasionally drifted to the girl sprawled out in front of you.

She was lying on her back, her head resting in your lap, legs dangling off the side of the bed, toes tapping softly to the beat in her head. Her electric guitar—a faded, black and white instrument scuffed and scratched in a few places—rested on her stomach. The amp cord dangled uselessly off the bed, unplugged and forgotten, but she didn’t really seem to mind. Her fingers danced over the strings, plucking out random chords and melodies.

She wasn’t really playing anything in particular, just experimenting, testing things out. Sometimes a particularly sweet combination of chords would make her pause, and she’d strum it again, smiling faintly to herself.

Every now and then, she tilted her head to glance up at you, her light blue eyes softening each time.

You could feel her gaze, even when you pretended not to notice, too focused on the paragraph in front of you. You always found it hard to concentrate with her so close. Her presence filled the room, as it always did. The faint smell of her shampoo mingled with the slightly metallic scent of the guitar strings. You could feel her warmth where her head pressed against your thighs, and her fingers—rough and calloused—moved so delicately now, brushing over the strings like they might break.

“You always look so serious when you read,” Vi murmured suddenly. Her lips curled into a lazy grin as she tilted her head further back, her pink hair splaying across your lap. “What’s this one about? Another tragic love story?”

You glanced down at her, unable to suppress the smile that found its way onto your lips.

“It’s just for class,” you said, holding up the book for her to see the title. “I don’t exactly have a choice.”

Vi squinted at the cover, scrunching her nose. “Is it any good?”

“It’s okay,” you replied with a shrug, running your fingers absentmindedly through her hair. She hummed in approval, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment, like a little puppy basking in attention. “The writing’s good, at least. But you wouldn’t care—it’s not exactly your kind of story.”

“Oh, yeah?” Vi opened one eye, her smirk deepening. “What’s my kind of story, then?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart skipped a beat at the way she was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“Something loud, fast, and reckless… full of action, I guess,” you teased. “Like you.”

“Fair enough,” she admitted with a smirk, plucking out a quick riff that sounded vaguely like a punk song you’d heard her play once before letting the guitar fall silent again. “But I think I’d make an exception for something you wrote.”

Your fingers froze in her hair, and you blinked down at her, startled. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. I like your writing. And… because it’d be you,” she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her voice was quiet now, and she lifted a hand to trace a lazy circle on the back of your knee. “You make everything interesting.”

You smiled again. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything at all as you brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.

Vi didn’t seem to mind the silence.

She went back to her guitar, strumming softly, her eyes drifting closed. The sunlight caught the curve of her cheek and the faint freckles scattered across her nose, making her look softer than usual. She looked so at peace, so content in your presence.

You never forget moments like these. With her head in your lap, the soft plucks of her guitar, the sunlight wrapping around both of you—it was all so achingly perfect that you wished you could freeze time and stay here forever.

Vi’s fingers slowed on the strings, the melody she had been absentmindedly strumming fading into silence. She tilted her head back further into your lap, the corners of her lips pulling into the softest smile as she gazed up at you. Like she was trying to memorize the way the light danced on your skin, the way your soft lips moved faintly as you read under your breath.

“I love you,” she murmured too quietly.

You paused, caught off guard, and glanced down at her. “What?”

Vi didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she reached up, her calloused fingers brushing gently against yours. She intertwined her fingers with yours, guiding your hand away from her hair. Her touch was uncharacteristically delicate, and before you could say anything, she pressed a featherlight kiss to the back of your hand.

Her lips were warm, slightly chapped, but the kiss was so soft, so tender, that it sent a shiver up your spine. And she didn’t stop there. Slowly, she trailed kisses along your knuckles, your palm, and then your wrist, her breath warm against your skin.

“I was saying,” she whispered between kisses, her voice barely above a whisper. “That you look beautiful.”

Your breath hitched, and your free hand instinctively reached out to touch her face, brushing your thumb along her cheekbone. Vi leaned into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“You’re making me lose my place,” you teased, though it was clear you didn’t mind.

Vi chuckled, and she finally opened her eyes, meeting your gaze.

“Good,” she said with a grin, her voice still carrying that teasing lilt. “I like having your attention on me.”

Her confession made your cheeks flush, and you tried to look away, but Vi wasn’t having it. She tugged on your hand gently, pulling it to her lips once more, kissing your wrist one last time before cradling it against her chest.

She played with your fingers absentmindedly, her calloused thumb brushing over your knuckles, tracing the delicate lines of your skin like it was something sacred. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the pages of your book and the muted sounds of life outside her window—a car passing through the neighborhood, a bird chirping in the distance.

You glanced down at her briefly. She seemed lost in thought, her thumb lingering on your ring finger as if it had found a home there. For a long moment, she said nothing, and you assumed she was simply daydreaming, unfocused on anything. But then, she spoke quietly, like the question wasn’t meant for anyone else—just for you.

“What’d you think we’d be doing in… I dunno, five—maybe ten years?”

The question caught you off guard, pulling you from the pages you’d been engrossed in. You marked your place in the book with a finger and looked down at her. Her gaze was fixed on your hand, her thumb still circling your ring finger, slow and soft. She hadn’t looked up yet, like she was too shy to meet your eyes after that question.

“Ten years?” you echoed softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That’s a long time from now, Vi.”

She finally tilted her head up to meet your gaze, her blue eyes searching yours.

“I know,” she said with a quiet laugh, though there was an unmistakable seriousness beneath her tone. “I just… I think about it sometimes, y’know? Like… where we’ll be. What we’ll be like. Together, I mean.”

Her voice dipped on the last word, almost hesitant, like she was afraid to hope too much.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, brushing your free hand through her soft pink hair. “After I graduate college, I guess I’d want to be writing somewhere—maybe a bookshop owner, too. That’d be nice, I think.”

Vi smiled faintly, the image of you surrounded by books bringing an warmth to her chest.

“That fits,” she murmured, her voice gentle. “You’d have this cute little shop, and you’d always smell like old pages and coffee… maybe you’ll play that old Al Green record I got for you in the background… with flowers your mom brought for you sitting in a tiny pot by the window…” She trailed off, her smile growing wistful.

“Mhm,” you smile, the picture she was painting in your head almost felt tangible. “Maybe, an apartment nearby. With big windows for the sun to come in… A cozy kitchen to cook in with plants everywhere… A study for me to write in…”

“Do I fit anywhere in there?”

“Oh, definitely.” It’s impossible to fight the smile on your face from growing wider, “All your things would be everywhere, because you never clean… Guitar racks in the corner and a keyboard somewhere in the living room…Maybe you’d wanna set up a small bedroom studio. Oh, and you’re definitely hanging a punching bag somewhere.”

Vi let out a soft laugh.

“We’d probably have that karaoke machine you like so much by the TV… or a jukebox… And we’d have mismatching mugs sitting next to each other on the kitchen counter. Oh, and definitely a bed bigger than this one, since you move around too much—”

You pause.

“But, you’d probably be away most of the time.”

“Away?”

“Yeah,” you look at her with a soft nod. “You’d get your big break—music, touring… all that stuff. Heard Ekko’s all excited for this gig you’ve got next month.”

Vi let out a breathy laugh, “Hah, yeah, lots of other big bands are coming in for the musical festival, so… good start to get our name out there… But, band practice is still on hold until Jayce fixes Loris’ bass.”

“Mhm,” The smile on your face stays as you look at her longingly. “I see it y’know… You’re this big rockstar… posters of your band everywhere, big arenas, lots of fans squealing to get your attention…”

She grinned widely, “You think?”

You nodded in response, “Yeah. You’ll travel all around the world, experience a bunch of new things… and lots girls would have a crush on you, I bet… you’d be living your dream.”

“But it wouldn’t mean anything if I didn’t have you to come home to.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you couldn’t say anything. Vi glanced up, her lips quirking into a sheepish grin like she always does when she says something that gets your cheeks to turn the same color as her hair.

“I’m serious,” she added quietly. “I don’t want to think about a future where you’re not there.”

The softness in her voice made your stomach flutter, and without thinking, you leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“I’ll kill you if you use that line on anyone else,” you teased, though the sound of your voice was warm and full of affection.

“I know,” Vi admitted with a small laugh, pulling your hand closer to her lips. She kissed your knuckles softly, her eyes never leaving yours.

Vi didn’t say anything else after that. She just let herself fall into the silence, her guitar forgotten beside her, turning her body to have her arms lazily draped around your waist. She watched you as you shifted back into your book, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the page before turning it, completely unaware of the smile playing on her lips. You were so focused, so peaceful, so beautiful, and Vi couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world to be able to share her space with you.

Her gaze flickered to the faint glint of silver just visible under your collar, and with a careful hand, she reached up to tug gently at the chain around your neck. Her fingers brushed against your skin, and when she pulled the necklace free, her smile grew. Two small rings dangled from the delicate chain, their edges catching the soft light of her room. One was engraved with Roman numerals—she liked it because, well, it had her name on it—while the other glimmered faintly with small, clear stones that sparkled even in the dim glow. They overlapped perfectly, and that’s how Vi wants her relationship with you to be like all the time.

Vi turned the rings over in her fingers, tracing their familiar grooves. She played with the chain gently, letting it slip between her fingers as the rings swayed slightly against your chest.

Her own necklace felt heavy against her, the identical rings resting just beneath her shirt.

Satisfied with the way the rings settled back against your skin, she let the chain fall back into place and smiled at you, her thumb brushing over your collarbone.

Then, you continued to your book, and Vi just sat there, leaning into you, her fingers brushing softly against your thigh as she let herself bask in just being with you.

The future was such a big, hazy thing, full of unknown possibilities she couldn’t understand…. But sitting here with you, your hand still resting in hers, she felt nothing but excitement—hope, even—for whatever the world would throw at her, if it meant living in it with you.

But she didn’t know then how time and space would pull you both in different directions, that the version of forever she dreamed of in that moment would one day feel so far away.

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[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

HI I know the new Halloween character isn't out yet but I needed an outlet for my excitement (Yes, I am unfortunately a Nightmare Before Christmas girlie) 💀 so please be advised that he may not be in character here, I'm just writing based on vibes! This is technically a twisted!Jack Skellington x Reader fic, but the Reader is basically playing a role similar as Sally from the film.

P.S. I want everyone to know that I busted out my drawing tablet to make this special border for him the same day he was first announced... Yeah...

Boo.

On the nights with full moons, he liked to steal away to the Spiral Hill on the outskirts of town.

The outcrop of land overlooked a vast graveyard and field laden with pumpkins, perfuming the air with the crisp sweetness characteristic of autumn. Beyond it, uncharted territory. When he squinted into the darkness, he could make out the vague shapes of naked trees, their gnarled branches like fingers beckoning him to approach, whispering his name.

He draped his long, lithe legs over the hill, letting them hang in the frigid air. Spindly as he was, the wind easily blew them, knocking his legs around like the straw-stuffed limbs of a scarecrow. He kicked with the breeze, carefree as a child on a playground swing.

The moon stitched his pinstriped suit and tattered cravat with silver thread, touched his pointed crown at its highest points. Even the white ribbons ribbing his jacket and the pattern of bones tugged over his gloves seemed to glow under the celestial light. He liked the view, and the view seemed to like him, too.

Held in his skeletal hand was a single flower. He stroked a silken petal, then slipped another finger under it, plucking the petal free. The wind claimed it, setting it sailing off into the unknown.

He continued. A second, a third. So on and so forth, until the flower was left stripped down and barren, even robbed of its leaves.

He dropped the stem off the hill. The pumpkins below consumed it, and the once lovely flower’s body became one with the patch.

"I figured this is where you were."

He lowered his dark circular lenses. His bright eyes slid to the figure that had approached from behind, on feet so swift they hardly made a sound. They came in with the sweetness of deadly nightshade, the trace of a poisoning committed at midnight. "Not a lethal dose, just enough to knock the doctor out for a few hours," as they always said. "How else would I sneak out to see you?"

Dry, ghostly lips dashed with hatch marks pried into an open smile, both teeth and the gaps between them. Charming, in a crooked sort of way. "My dear. You've come."

You bent down. “If you don't mind, I'd like to join.”

“The spot beside me is always reserved for you.” He patted it, inviting you to take a seat.

"Such a gentleman." You sunk down, folding your hands in your lap. "And so handsome when you're brooding. You're terribly good at that."

He was, he was, especially silhouetted by the moon. The man was practically monochrome, but bathed in silver like this, his pale skin was less sickly and more ethereal. He almost appeared like a cruel angel in the light, descending to expunge evil.

"I'm not brooding," he pouted, "I'm dreaming."

“Dreaming." You reached out and tucked a strand of alabaster hair behind his ear. "Father says it’s a ridiculous, wild thing.”

"Ah, but that's what makes it so much thrilling. Life’s no fun without a good scare.”

His mouth quirked to one side, and his smile became off-kilter--as his ideas often were. "He'll bring us to ruin with his crazy, new-fangled thinking and flights of fancy," your father would complain. But you adored that about the boy. How spontaneous he was, how his curiosity was never-ending. He'd race about like a child, picking items up and sticking his face where it probably shouldn't go.

Full of life in this otherwise lifeless town.

"What's this? What's this?" he'd say. "I must know!"

"He's gone daffy," your father would declare.

"Mmm." You nodded absentmindedly, tracing your fingers along the shell of his ear and down to his arm. "What were you dreaming about today?"

He lifted his head, looking beyond the hill and to the woods. Not a word was exchanged. None had to be.

"The Hinterlands?" you whispered. "But we don't know what's out there. No ghoul or monster has ever ventured out that far."

"Then sounds like I'll be the first! They’ll put me down in the history books as a pioneer." His laughter brightened up the gloomy night. When he quieted, his gaze was solemn—more solemn than you'd ever witnessed him. "... Don't you wonder about what's out there? Stuff that's cold and fluffy and falls from the sky. Things that come in colors we haven't seen."

"Sometimes," you admitted quietly, "but those are just dreams. I don't chase them."

"Maybe you should. We should," he mused, fingers tucked under his chin. "I bet there's all sorts of things we've never even dreamed of, too. And wouldn’t you like to see something strange?”

"I would. I really, really would," you told him in a soothing tone. Trying to reassure him as much as you were yourself. "Let's not doing anything dangerous though. I sense something in the wind—tragedy at hand. I can't shake that feeling that something bad is around the bend if you tread that path."

You gingerly laid your hand over his. Behind tinted lenses, his eyes widened.

"Stay here with me," you begged. "We can be together. Gaze at the stars. Be safe in one another's arms."

“… Sweetness, I would love for nothing more than to have you and to hold you ‘til death do us part.” His voice fluttered like the brush of a falling leaf upon your cheek. He regarded you tenderly, locking his fingers with yours and squeezing. “But you know that’s not the kind of man I am.”

“Yes, you’re every flavor of foolish imaginable,” you replied, pressing your forehead against his, “and I love you for that.”

“As do I.” He brought his icy lips to the back of your hand. A chill spider-walked up your arm, and you shivered.

“Then…”

“That’s why I must depart one day.” He pushed his glasses up. You caught the tragic reflection of your face in his lenses. “Out there… something more awaits us. I’m sure of that. I intend to find it and revive our town, this season that’s gone stale.”

“I won’t stop you if you decide to go,” you murmured. “And I will count the days until you return to me.”

“I knew you’d understand.” His smile—now it was touched with sadness, the knowledge of soon parting ways. “Thank you, dearest.”

He stood slowly, drawing you up with him. Your feet followed, as if pulled along by a puppeteer. How in sync the two of you were, how nicely molded your bodies were to one another’s. Your joy melded under the watchful eye of the moon.

“Shall we share a dance? One for the road,” he crooned. An errant breeze tousled his pallid hair, his tattered coattails—but to you, he was fairest of them all. “Our last dance for a while.”

“Alright, let’s make this one count,” you chuckled, “so I can send you off on your travels with a smile.”

“Excellent 🎵” He slid a hand around your waist, guiding you to lean into him. “Let the merrymaking commence!!”

“Yes…!!”

The midnight waltz began.

He led you, step by step, and you trailed after. Movements easy and effortless, like two intertwining maple leaves, spinning and spiraling. Their partner, the center of their universe.

“It’s as plain anyone can see,” he breathed.

“We’re simply meant to be,” you returned.

They danced as if possessed or an enchantment was cast upon their footwear. The moment too sweet, too succulent, to relinquish so soon. They wanted to savor it, indulge in it—and each other.

For never was there a more perfect pair than the Pumpkin King and his consort.

[starrydali]

hii i got a request for a luke castellan fic🤭

so i thought of it the other day.. what if its during a capture the flag game but reader and luke get carried away with yk.. making out or smth and they get caught !

do what you want with it, i just thought it could be cute😊

Friends With Benefits - Luke Castellan

∘°∘♡∘° Stoppp I love this so much♡

✧˖*°࿐*✧.┊You and Luke have always been close friends, but lately, things have been a little… complicated. You're not quite dating, but you're not just friends either. Stolen kisses here and there, moments where the line between friendship and something more starts to blur. ✧. ┊

The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. You were supposed to be patrolling—Luke was supposed to be patrolling—but instead, you were backed against the rough bark of a tree, his lips brushing against yours in a way that sent your thoughts spiraling into chaos.

“Luke,” you mumbled between kisses, though you made no effort to stop him. “We’re going to get caught.”

He pulled back slightly, his face so close that his breath warmed your skin. His smirk was maddeningly cocky, the kind that made you simultaneously want to shove him and kiss him again. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and full of amusement. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” you shot back, your hands resting awkwardly on his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Luke just chuckled, leaning in again, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth before moving to trail down your jaw. “It’s adorable how you think anyone’s paying attention to us right now.”

You were about to retort when—

“Luke Castellan.”

The sharp voice cut through the quiet of the woods like a blade. Your head snapped toward the source of the sound, and your stomach dropped. Annabeth.

She stood a few feet away, arms crossed and a look of utter disbelief etched on her face. For once, her calculating gaze wasn’t directed at some strategic move in Capture the Flag—it was pinned squarely on the two of you.

“Oh gods,” you muttered under your breath, stepping away from Luke so fast you nearly tripped over a root.

Luke, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. He leaned casually against the tree, his arms crossed over his chest, and gave Annabeth his most infuriating grin. “Hey, Annabeth,” he said, as if she’d just caught him skipping chores and not...well, this.

“‘Hey, Annabeth?’” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. Her eyes flicked between you and Luke, her expression a mix of shock, confusion, and something that looked suspiciously like secondhand embarrassment. “What the hell was that?”

You opened your mouth to explain—or maybe apologize—but no sound came out. Your face was burning so hot you were sure it could rival Apollo’s chariot.

“We were just...uh...” Luke began, his grin widening as he glanced at you.

“Don’t,” Annabeth interrupted, holding up a hand. “Don’t even try to explain.”

Luke shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Alright, if you insist.”

“Luke!” you hissed, swatting his arm.

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “I’m not lying. She told me not to explain.”

Annabeth groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I cannot believe this. You two are supposed to be best friends.”

“We are,” Luke said, the casual tone in his voice almost convincing.

“Best friends don’t...” Annabeth gestured vaguely between the two of you, clearly at a loss for words.

You wanted to sink into the ground and disappear forever. “This isn’t—it’s not—”

“Not what it looked like?” Annabeth supplied, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded furiously, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were agreeing to.

Luke, ever the opportunist, slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Come on, Annabeth,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “Can’t two best friends share a kiss now and then without it being a big deal?”

“No!” Annabeth snapped, her face incredulous. “No, they can’t!”

“Well,” Luke said, his smirk practically glowing in the dark, “guess we missed the memo.”

Annabeth threw her hands up in frustration. “You’re both unbelievable.” She turned on her heel and stalked back toward the creek, muttering something about idiocy and never being able to unsee things.

As soon as she was out of earshot, you turned to Luke, your jaw dropping. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, his expression far too pleased with himself. “That went better than I expected.”

“Better?” you repeated, your voice a mix of disbelief and mortification. “She’s never going to let us live this down.”

“Probably not,” Luke agreed, his grin softening into something almost fond as he looked at you. “But hey, at least now you know what you're dealing with.”

“And what exactly am dealing with?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

Luke’s gaze flicked briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “A best friend who doesn’t play by the rules.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased, leaning in just enough that your noses brushed.

You shoved him lightly, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. “Come on,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in the direction of the creek. “Let’s actually do our job before we get caught again.”

“Whatever you say, best friend,” he said, his laughter echoing through the trees as he followed you.

✧. ┊ Send requests! :)

[sinofwriting]

Fling - Charles Leclerc

Words: 1,072 Summary: Charles overhears his girlfriend telling someone that they are just a fling and will be ending soon which is more than confusing for him. Note(s): Reader is plus size in this. It is not said outright but very much implied. Charles and Reader both suck at communicating btw. Also this is based on a somewhat recent convo I had with someone where they told me I’d be pretty if it weren’t for me being fat so… Good thing I have thick skin

Masterlist | Support Me!

“It’s not going to last.”

Her eyes flicker off her phone screen for a second, eyebrow raising just a hint before they go back, typing a message. “Okay.”

“That’s all you have to say? Okay.”

“Well, you were a bit vague.” She draws out the last word, sighing. “So, yeah,” she nods, pausing. “Okay.”

The other huffs, shaking her head. “Charles and you, it’s never going to last. It was a good fling, a summer romance, but by next year you’ll be gone.”

Her lips thin and she pockets her phone, finally making eye contact with Silvia. “I’m more than aware that I don’t look like Charles’ past partners and that you have more than your fair share of issues with that and me. But Silvia, you don’t have to state the obvious. I’ve been aware.”

The older woman’s eyes are wide.

“It’s called enjoying something while it lasts and I intend to do so, enjoy this thing with Charles until it inevitably comes to end. Probably in the next month. We all know how you like him to be single going into the new year.”

Respect settles across Silvia’s face. “You are different than I thought.”

“Should’ve had a conversation with me.” She counters and Silvia concedes with a nod of her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll put out an insta story saying we parted on good terms and that things just don’t always work out. I’d say better as friends, but I think you’d kill me if I ever showed up in the garage again after this.”

“Just a bit.” Silvia then frowns. “You really knew this was never going to last? Between you and Charles?”

“Silvia,” And her tone softens for the first time. “It’s like I said. I’m aware of what I look like, especially compared to Charles and his exes. But it’s Charles, I would have been more stupid to say no to him and then to have him for at least a few months.”

Silvia holds her gaze for a few seconds before nodding and reaching forward, patting her hand. “It is a shame how you look. You would have made the perfect partner.”

And she doesn’t even flinch at the insult to her weight.

—

“Is everything okay?”

Her eyes are full of concern as she watches Charles move around the hotel room. His body tense, lips pressed together, jaw twitching.

His nostrils flare and she swears she can hear his teeth grinding.

“I overheard something, you and Silvia.” He fully turns to look at her and she’s unable to even get a second to mourn the loss of his side profile as she sees hurt in his eyes that’s surrounded by frustration.

“We aren’t going to last? I’m leaving you in the next month?”

“Charles,”

“No.” He shakes his head, cutting her off. “This is all news to me.”

“Is it?”

His head jerks back, “what?”

“We never talked about being serious, Charles. And you have a type, I’m so far away from that type it’s not even funny.”

“We never talked about being serious because every time I try to talk about our future you shut me down, you change the subject. And my type is you!” His voice is louder. “I know what my exes look like, I know my pattern, the jokes of how and why I date, but you are the most gorgeous woman in the world, as soon as I saw you, my type changed, I have no type, it is just you. It’s been seven months and I haven’t even looked at another woman.”

Her mind is struggling to process, her heart nearly beating out of her chest, her mouth slack with shock.

“You never tried talking about our future.” It’s all she can say because she can’t think of a single time he brought it up, he tried bringing it up.

“I tried asking you to come to lunch with my brothers and mom.”

Her eyes widened. “That was in July.”

“I asked about holiday plans, I asked about meeting your family. If you wanted kids, when you wanted them. And all I know is that you are going to family for two days for the holidays and that you want kids. That is all I got out of you. I tried giving you a key to my apartment.”

“I’m only ever in Monaco when I’m with you. Why would I ever need a key?”

He flushes, rubbing at the back of his neck. “This might be my bad, it was my way of asking you to move in, or just keep things at my place at least.”

“Charles.”

“I love you.”

Her heart skips a beat and all the hurt and frustration that had been on Charles’ face is gone, replaced by something she’s never seen directed at her.

“I’m crazy in love with you. And obviously we both need to work on things, talking, but I want to do that. I want you. I want you to move in with me, to continue going to all my races, to chide Leo before cuddling him. I want to marry you. In a day, a week, a month, a year, I don’t care when. And I want children with you. I want them to have your smile, your laugh, your stubbornness even though it infuriates me.”

Tears are spilling down her cheeks, lip trembling, and she nearly can’t speak.

“Charles, I want you too. I want all of that. I love you.”

He’s striding forward, his hands gentle on her face as he steals the breath from her lips.

They’ve shared many kisses in the seven months since they’ve known each other, but none like this.

“We are never breaking up.” Charles states when he pulls away after brushing their lips together once more.

“Never.” She agrees, a rush of excitement flooding her as she realizes that she gets to have this, have him, and never give him up.

He smiles at the answer, at the happiness that has flooded her face, the tension he didn’t even know was there that has left her body. “Now, when would you like to get married? I think I have a favor or two I could call to get us married tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Charles,” She shakes her head.

“What?”

“Take me to bed.”

His eyes widen for a brief second and then a smirk plays on his lips. “Happily, amour.”

[shuafiles]

lie to girls [l.jn] preview

SUMMARY | it was hard watching jeno struggle with his relationship, but it was even harder when he ran to you for comfort every time. especially when you, his long-time best friend, have been in love with him for the longest time. but when jeno starts lying about where he’s going and who he’s with, you realize the biggest lie might be the one you’re telling yourself—that he’ll ever choose you. or girls will cry, and girls will lie, and girls will lose their goddamn minds for you.

PAIRING | nonidol!jeno x afab!reader

CONTENT | university au, angst, best friends to ?, aespa members included, cheating, swearing, drinking, smut (not everything is included in the teaser yet but just so you know whats in store)

WORDS | 855 (just this teaser)

A/N | sneak peek of what im working on! im planning on making this a looong one but i was too excited so i decided to share without spoiling too much. let me know if you like it! total wc is still unknown and the release date will hopefully be before november ends. also its my birthday today so heres my gift to you :D

“hey.” jeno greeted you, standing at your front door, which only meant one thing. they fought again.

you pushed the door wider, letting him inside. he looked like a mess, his shoulders slumped, dark bags around his eyes, hair disheveled. even from afar, you could tell he was going through something. his phone was in his hand, checking for notifications, but he let out a huge sigh when the home screen was empty.

“do i even want to know?” you prodded, eyes watching him as he plopped down on the couch. his head tilting back on the headrest, head filled with thoughts.

“you know how she is.” jeno mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands. “said she needed some space.”

unfortunately, i do know how she is. jeno’s girlfriend, karina. they’ve been together since first year of college when jeno met her at some random party. they were the kind of couple on campus that, at first glance, seemed perfect, but you knew all too well what kind of chaos haunted them in private. you were too familiar with how she behaved with jeno; most of the time, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

jeno didn’t even have to say anything when you saw him at your front door. you have grown accustomed to this pattern: the same heartache, apologies, and cycle of hope and disappointment. and every time it occurred, jeno ended up here—at your door, at your couch, sulking.

you wanted nothing more than to scold jeno for letting himself get run over by her, but you kept your lips sealed. deciding that giving him comfort and support was probably what he needed right now.

“again, huh?” you sat down on the opposite side of him, tucking your legs beneath you.

“i don’t even know what that means, y/n.” jeno sighed, running his hand through his hair. he lifted his head to face you, gaze soft as he held eye contact with you. “one minute, everything’s perfect, and we’re fine, but suddenly, i’ve apparently done something wrong, and she won't even tell me.” his voice cracked, hopelessness evident in his tone. it pained you to see him like this. how many times is he going to let her do this to him?

“well, did you do something wrong?” you asked, but you knew jeno too well, he wouldn’t do anything to sabotage his relationship. sure, he has made mistakes in the past, but he was a good person, a good friend, and a good lover, you suppose.

jeno stayed silent for a moment, recalling if he had done something to make his girlfriend upset. “i–no, at least i don’t think so.” he shook his head, “i’ve just been busy with classes, but i always make time for her. and everything we’re together, i always try to make it special. you know?”

you nodded along to his words, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. you have heard this story countless times, so you could probably recite it to him. it wasn’t unusual for karina to act like this; she’d get upset over something vague, and then jeno would beat himself up for it, but he’d still bend over backward to get her back.

“maybe she’s just going through something?” you said, trying to think of what to say to ease his mind.

you and karina were acquaintances at best. it’s not like you didn’t try to be her friend, but something about her attitude just seems so off-putting to you. you weren’t entirely sure if karina was fond of you either. of course, you never told jeno any of these. you knew he wouldn’t listen, not when it comes to her. he loves her. he’d return to her every time, like a moth to a flame. and you’d be there, picking up the pieces when he got burned.

“i wish she’d just tell me what’s on her mind instead of leaving me wondering what i did wrong.” his face twisted into frustration with a mix of confusion.

“jen, you know i can’t help you if you don’t tell her what you’re feeling.” this time, you couldn’t hold back. “you’re supposed to tell her these, not me.”

jeno flinched at your words, somehow unsatisfied with your advice. “yeah… you’re right.”

you watched his expression, his eyebrows furrowed while he was deep in thought. “i’m sorry if it’s not what you wanted to hear.” you hesitated, knowing you were treading dangerous waters. “i just think… you deserve someone who actually appreciates you.”

jeno stayed silent, processing your words as if he hadn’t told himself that a million times. but for some stupid reason, he couldn’t keep it in his head. he looked down at his phone, tapping the screen once more, but to his disappointment, there was still nothing. “i know you’re just looking out for me, y/n. but… i just can’t give up on her. not yet.”

and just like that, you could feel him slipping away, back into her orbit, leaving you alone with all the things you couldn’t say, wondering when he would run back to you again.

[annabelle--cane]

so um. I think I accidentally figured out who my hater anon is. saw a post by happenstance that pinged my "hang on this sounds familiar" alarm, searched a keyword on their blog, and found a couple of posts with almost exactly the same wording and overall syntax as the anons I've gotten, made on the same days I received them. not sure what to do about this one, I don't think that would be enough evidence for a proper harassment report even if staff weren't running on a skeleton crew, and I am not too keen on the ethics of publicizing their url, but. uhhh. I might? if they don't back off?

so, as a final peace offering, an open letter to my weird hater anon:

from what I can tell, your problem is not actually with me, it is with how tma is written, and I just happen to like and frequently talk about the parts you hate the most. we have a fundamental disagreement about a work of art that we're both invested in, but That's Fine, we can and should just block each other. heck, I think I've had your main blocked for like two years maybe, and hey presto you stopped passively annoying me with your posts until you started regularly directly harassing me in my inbox and serially block evading.

you seem to be motivated, at least in part, by a desire for people to treat addicts with more sympathy. that's great! love that for you. I also wish people would treat addicts with more sympathy, this is a matter on which we can both agree. the problem is, you are directing all of that desire for sympathy towards a fictional character who does not exist and cannot ever feel pain or suffering while continually insulting and belittling me, a real life human addict who can feel pain and suffering, whenever I talk about the themes of addiction I enjoy and relate to as they are presented in that fictional character. you clearly receive my analysis of this piece of fiction as demonizing of addiction and condoning violence against addicts, and I as the person who is me shrimply know that is not what I have ever said nor thought, because, and I really cannot stress this enough, I am an addict, and have been since I was fourteen of god's own years old. I do not believe that I, or anyone like me, should be "put down like a dog" for having disordered patterns of substance use, and I find it frankly offensive that you would repeatedly accuse me of advocating for that both in my inbox and in a series of vagues on your main.

I am usually much more didactic and direct in anything I say about real life human non-allegorical substance addiction, but, to be as fair as is possible, you might have missed most of what I've posted on that topic in the recent past, as I talk about it considerably less than I did 2-3 years ago. this is because when I talk directly about it without the oven mitts of metaphor, people are usually very quick to inform me that they think I'm not human and should be put down like a dog. believe it or not, I don't really enjoy this. even when it's coming from easily blockable faceless anons, there was really only so much of that I was willing to voluntarily subject myself to before deciding to be a bit more judicious about when and where I talk about addiction in public online spaces.

I tell you the above for two reasons.

1. to let you know that I'm intimately familiar with the kind of dehumanization you keep accusing me of and appear to believe that only you can truly understand. for realsies, I am sorry that anyone has ever made you feel like that, that feeling is the kind of awful and insidious that's hard to ever fully shake, and I'm doubly sorry that you feel like no one else gets it and the world is uncompassionate to your experience. I profoundly get it, if I went into any of my offline history with addiction in my mid teens then this would become unpostably upsetting, and I know that kind of thing makes one liable to be prickly and lash out.

2. to explain as clearly as I can that your harassment does not come in isolation, and why I take such an issue with it. I can't make bland-ass PSAs about treating substance users like human beings without people coming into my inbox with stories of abuse and explanations of why this makes it okay for them to hope all addicts die alone and in pain, I can't make casual personal posts about addiction without people coming into my inbox with graphic accounts of loved ones' overdoses and demands to know why I'm encouraging substance abuse, and now, because of you, I can't even talk about. fucking. jon podcastman's metaphorical addiction-like character arc about peeping the horrors and feeling like the torture sphere had a sort of "je ne sais quoi" without risk. it is very hard to exist as an addict on tumblr dot edu, and you are singlehandedly making my one relatively low-stakes outlet for talking about it like 5x more inhospitable. you are one arm of the great machine making this site hostile to me and people like me.

so, like, maybe you still hate my fiction podcast analysis posts and the ideology you read them as conveying, that's your right, so block me, add my url to your content filtering, and move on. you cannot be honest with me and tell me again that you think I believe addicts should be summarily executed because of, and I say once more, my fiction podcast analysis posts, but the great news is that there is no malevolent entity out there forcing you to tell me that over and over again. you can just hit da bricks and Stop.

after many attempts at blocking you that you have repeatedly bypassed, I am explicitly laying down the final boundary that I do not want you ever interacting with me again.

you are thirty-two of god's own years old. give it a rest.

[hoe4hotchner]

As a fellow Danish Hotch enjoyer (han er min lille pookie) , I need Hotch x Danish reader who starts speaking Danish when she gets tired. She also keeps insisting that Jack should watch Kaj og Andrea.

Bakke snagvendt | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Danish fem!reader | WC: 1.5k | CW: Fluff

A/N: I LOVE THIS!!!! Honestly I think I have the puppets laying somewhere in my parents' house.

This is very niche, so I added translations to the parts in danish ;)

The first time you slipped into Danish around Aaron, he didn’t interrupt. The silence of his response was as gentle as the moment itself. You were sprawled across his couch, your feet tucked beneath a soft blanket he kept draped over the armrest. Your head rested against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you deeper and deeper into sleep as your eyelids grew heavier with each passing second.

The living room was bathed in the soft glow from a single lamp, casting warm shadows across the carpeted floor. In the background, a crime documentary droned on the television, which you were surprised he had agreed to watch with you given his job.

An hour earlier, you’d been sitting cross-legged on Jack’s bed, reading Where the Wild Things Are to him with an exaggerated, vaguely British accent that sent him into fits of giggles. His laughter had echoed through the small bedroom, his small hands clutching the edges of his dinosaur-patterned duvet as he begged for “just one more page.”

Now, with Jack tucked in and the apartment settled into silence, you felt the weight of the day pulling you under. Your lips parted, and a string of words spilled out, soft and slurred, utterly incomprehensible to Aaron’s tired ears.

“–jeg kan ikke holde mine øjne åbne længere, de er tunge som bly–” (I can't keep my eyes open anymore, they're as heavy as lead)

Aaron blinked, his eyes flickering with curiosity as he tilted his head slightly, trying to parse the unfamiliar syllables. “What was that?” he asked, his voice low, careful not to disturb the peace of the moment.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you let out a contented sigh, your body sinking deeper into his side, your murmurs fading into a quiet mumble. The cadence of your voice was different in Danish–softer, more melodic, the consonants rounded and gentle.

Aaron didn’t press further. He watched you, the way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the way your fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket. There was something intimate about it, the way your mother tongue surfaced when your defenses were down. He didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to.

It wasn’t until a week later, in the midst of a different kind of chaos, that he brought it up. The living room was a battlefield of LEGO pieces, scattered across the rug like colorful shrapnel. You were sprawled on the floor, one of his old academy shirts on, its hem brushing your thighs as you sat cross-legged beside Jack. The two of you were deep in the construction of a LEGO dinosaur, a T-Rex with a wobbly head and a tail that kept snapping off.

Your eyes were pink-rimmed from a long day at work, but you were patient, handing Jack pieces and offering quiet encouragement as he debated where the next block should go.

Jack had scampered off to brush his teeth, leaving you alone with the half-built creature. You slumped against the base of the couch, the T-Rex dangling from your hand as you muttered to yourself, “Det giver ingen mening, LEGO er i mit DNA!” (It makes no sense, LEGO is in my DNA!)

Aaron, seated in his armchair with a newspaper spread across his lap, lowered the pages just enough to peer at you over the top. “Sweetheart?” he called, his voice carrying that familiar mix of amusement and affection.

“Hm?” you replied, your head tilting lazily toward him, your expression dazed and dreamy.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Doing what?” you asked, blinking as if your brain was slowly rebooting.

He folded the newspaper with care, setting it aside before crossing the room to kneel beside you. His hand found your hair, his fingers brushing it back from your face with a tenderness that felt like it belonged to a different world. “Speaking…Danish. I think,” he said, his smile widening just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes.

You froze, your cheeks flushing a soft pink as realization dawned. “Oh,” you said, your voice small. “Sorry. I–I do that sometimes. When I’m tired.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, his tone firm but warm, his thumb grazing your cheek. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?” you huffed, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curling into a reluctant smile. “Well. Det er fandme første gang nogen har sagt det.” (Damn, that's the first time anyone's ever said that.)

Aaron’s brow arched, his expression a mix of curiosity and mock suspicion. “I assume that wasn’t an insult.”

Your grin widened, bright and mischievous. “No. Just…never mind. You’re not ready for that one.”

It became a quiet thread woven into the fabric of your relationship, slipping into Danish when the world grew heavy or soft. It was never intentional, never a performance–just you, sleepy, your sweater slipping off one shoulder, your hair mussed from the couch pillow or the armrest of Aaron’s car.

The words mostly came in fragments, not full sentences, as if your brain relinquished its hold on English when exhaustion took over. Aaron began to notice the patterns: the way your voice softened, the way the Danish words carried a rhythm that felt like home to you, even if he couldn’t follow the meaning.

One evening, as summer bled into autumn, you were both out on the balcony, the air crisp and cool. You were curled up in a wicker chair, a glass of red wine cradled in your hands, the deep ruby liquid catching the light from the string of bulbs you had hung on the railing.

You were half-asleep, your head tipped back, when you mumbled, “Skal vi ikke bare gå i seng…” (Shouldn’t we just go to bed)

Aaron, seated beside you with a book he hadn’t been reading, glanced over and gently pried the wine glass from your fingers before it could tip.

“We will,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just one more minute.”

You nodded, your eyes closed, your lips curving into a faint smile, even though you hadn’t fully registered his words. He didn’t mind.

But then came your campaign, and with it, a new kind of chaos. It started one evening in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of garlic and thyme as Aaron chopped vegetables for dinner. You leaned over the island, your elbows propped on the granite, your eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made Jack your instant ally.

“Jack,” you said, your voice low and conspiratorial, as if you were plotting a heist. “You know what you need to watch?”

Jack, perched on a stool with a glass of apple juice, leaned in, his eyes wide with excitement. “What?”

“Kaj og Andrea,” you declared, with the gravitas of someone revealing a long-guarded secret.

Aaron paused, his knife hovering over a carrot. “What’s that?” he asked, his tone cautious, as if he sensed the tide turning against him.

“The best thing ever,” you said, straightening up and planting your hands on your hips. “It’s a Danish children’s show. About a frog and a parrot. They live in a little apartment and argue and eat popcorn. It’s iconic.”

Jack’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Can we watch it?” he asked, already sliding off the stool and making a beeline for the living room.

Aaron held up a hand, his expression a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Let’s…just take a moment. Is this in English?”

You stared at him, your mouth slightly open, as if he’d just asked if the moon was made of cheese. “No. Of course not. It’s in Danish. That’s the whole charm.”

Jack, already halfway to the couch, called back, “I wanna watch the frog one!”

You shot Aaron a smug look, your eyes dancing with victory. “He’s a man of culture.”

Aaron gave you a long, measured look over the counter, his lips twitching. “If he starts mixing Danish with his math homework, that’s on you.”

“Helt fair,” (Fair enough) you said sweetly, batting your lashes. “You’ll just have to learn too.”

Later that night, long after Jack had been tucked into bed and the house had settled into its familiar quiet, you were curled up against Aaron in his bed. The soft glow of your phone illuminated your face as you scrolled through clips on YouTube, your enthusiasm undimmed despite the late hour.

You held the phone out to him, your eyes bright. “Just watch one clip. One. They sing about talking backward.”

Aaron took one look at the brightly colored puppets–a green frog with a lopsided grin and a parrot with a penchant for dramatic gestures–and shook his head, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m Danish,” you corrected, your voice thick with sleep as you yawned. “It’s worse, the Swedes would agree.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as he pulled the blankets up higher around you, tucking them beneath your chin. “I wouldn’t change a thing,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Even when you started mumbling about frogs and parrots in Danish, your voice trailing off into soft, happy nonsense as you drifted to sleep against his chest, Aaron only smiled. He tightened his arms around you, holding you close, and let the unfamiliar words wash over him like a lullaby.

[stupidphototricks]

Nobody's doing it like Otto Chriek. He's a vampire who has sworn off drinking b-word. He likes hanging out in cellars and hanging from chandeliers. Photography is his passion, and his passion is painful and comes with a high risk of discorporation. He experiments with dark light and philosophizes about the nature of time. He figures out how to create photo plates with hardly any effort. He invents the three-color printing process. He designs a method to auto-reanimate himself. He lays down his life for the team (but then picks it up again*).

*(yes this is a joke from the book, all credit to Sir Terry)

William caught Sacharissa's gaze. Her look said it all: We've hired him. Have we got the heart to fire him now? And don't make fun of his accent unless your Uberwaldean is really good, okay? -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

"Vell?" he said sternly. "Vot you all looking at? It is just a normal reaction, zat is all. I am vorking on it. Light in all itz forms is mine passion. Light is my canvas, shadows are my brush." "But strong light hurts you!" said Sacharissa. "It hurts vampires!" "Yes. It iss a bit of a bugger, but zere you go." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

William vaguely remembered something someone had once said: the only thing more dangerous than a vampire crazed with blood lust was a vampire crazed with anything else. All the meticulous single-mindedness that went into finding young women who slept with their bedroom door open got channeled into some other interest, with merciless and painstaking efficiency. -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

"Good mornink," said Otto. "Do not movink, please, you are making a good pattern of light and shade." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

"I cannot promise an absolutely vunderful job first cat out of zer bag, off course." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

"Bodrozvachski zhaltziet! …oh, sorry, Miss Sacharissa! Zere has been a minor pothole on zer road to progress…" -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

"Zer philosopher Heidehollen tells us zat the universe is just a cold soup of time, all time mixed up together, and vot we call zer passage of time is merely qvantum fluctuations in zer fabric of space-time." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

(Sounds kind of like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff...)

"It [dark light] is a light without time. Vot it illuminates, you see . . . is not necessarily now." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

"You vanted color, I gif you color," said Otto sulkily. "You never said qvick." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

A couple of bits that are more spoilerish under the cut:

That thing where Otto screams and (sometimes) turns to ash when he takes a picture is particularly funny if you imagine it from the point of view of the unwitting photographic subject, in this case Cheery Littlebottom:

"Ah, a vonderful framing effect!" said Otto, who'd been on the other side of the door. Click! William shut his eyes. WHOOMPH. "Ohhbuggerrrrr . . ." This time William caught the little piece of paper before it hit the ground. The dwarf stood open-mouthed. Then she closed her mouth. Then she opened it again to say: "What the hell just happened?" "I suppose you could call it a sort of industrial injury," said William. -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

And the scene where Otto goes up against William's father is just a thing of beauty.

"Ve have people like you back home," he said. "Zey are the ones that tell the mob vot to do. I come here to Ankh-Morpork, zey tell me things are different, but really it is alvays the same. Always zere are damn people like you! And now, vot shall I do with you?" [...] "You think I bite him? Shall I bite you, Mister Lordship? Vell, maybe not, because Villiam here thinks I am a good person." He pulled Lord de Worde close, so their faces were a few inches apart. "Now, maybe I have to ask myself, how good am I? Or maybe I just have to ask myself… am I better zan you?" He hesitated for a second or two, and then in a sudden movement jerked the man towards him. With great delicacy, he planted a kiss on Lord de Worde's forehead. Then he put the trembling man back down on the floor and patted him on the head. -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

[cosmiclily]

Hi, Vi x Reader, where Reader is hanging out with Vi at her place and she wants to paint Vi nails with designs on it. Reader decided to do French tips nails with designs on it and Vi said okay. Reader took like 30 minutes to do Vi’s nails and when she was done. Vi took a look and she was stunned and she grabbed Reader and kissed her hard.

matching

vi x f!reader

wc: 977

notes: i want her so bad guys 😭😭😭😭 oh to have matching nails with my beautiful wife. can you believe a video about couples matching nails showed up to me on tiktok yesterday 🤔 i think it’s a sign

You were spending the weekend at Vi’s place, and as much as you loved your girlfriend, there wasn’t much to do at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night. The two of you were laying on her couch, face masks on (courtesy of you), lazily doom-scrolling through social media with the occasional half-hearted comment about whatever nonsense popped up on your feeds.

It wasn’t exactly the most eventful evening. In fact, you were bored out of your mind—until a video caught your eye.

It was a cute montage of couples getting matching nail designs, their hands intertwined, fingers adorned with tiny, coordinated patterns. The idea hit you instantly.

"You know what I think you should let me do?" You turned to Vi, a finger tapping against your chin like you were deep in thought, but really, you were plotting. Obviously.

Vi, sensing trouble, arched an eyebrow. "Oh boy”she muttered. "What now?"

You grinned, turning your phone toward her so she could see the video. "I think you should let me paint your nails. And I’ll do mine too, so we match!"

Vi’s expression immediately turned skeptical. "No way."

"Yes way," you countered, sitting up straighter. "Come on, it’ll be fun! And it’s not like we have anything better to do."

"I can think of, like, ten things we could do instead," she said, crossing her arms. "Most of which don’t involve me looking like I just walked out of a salon."

You huffed dramatically. "Vi, it’s just nail polish." Then, narrowing your eyes, you added, "Unless… are you scared you’ll actually like it?"

That did it.

Vi scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Please. I’m not scared of anything."

"Good," you said smugly, already reaching for your bag. "I bought some nail polishes, there aren’t many options, but it will do."

Vi groaned, but there was a small, amused smile tugging at her lips as she watched you excitedly lay out the polishes.

"Now, pick a color, babe. Or I’ll pick for you."

Vi sighed, eyeing the selection before reluctantly reaching for a dark red polish. "Fine. But if anyone sees this, I’m telling them you forced me."

You beamed, grabbing her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Deal. Now, give me those hands so I can make them look prettier."

Easier said than done.

What should’ve been a simple nail-painting session quickly turned into a twenty-minute debate over what design to go for. You scrolled through different options, furrowing your brows in concentration while Vi sat there, her patience slowly wearing thin.

"I don’t know if I want just the little stars or something else..." you murmured, chewing on your bottom lip as you flipped between pictures.

Vi groaned, tilting her head back dramatically. "Just pick whichever you like the most, princess."

"That’s the problem," you pouted, turning your phone toward her. "I like all of them."

Vi sighed, slumping further into the couch. "If it’s any help, I like the stars and the little lines at the bottom of the nails," she offered, tracing vague shapes in the air with her finger.

You squinted at her movements. "...French tips?"

"Yeah, that." Vi nodded, glad you understood her terrible attempt at drawing.

You hummed in thought, glancing back at the designs before an idea struck. "Wait. What if I do both?"

"Both?" Vi gave you a skeptical look.

"Yeah! Like, little stars on some nails and French tips on the others. It’ll be cute!" Your excitement was contagious, and despite herself, Vi couldn’t help but crack a smile.

"Alright, alright," she said, shaking her head. "Do whatever makes you happy, pretty."

You immediately got to work, holding Vi’s hand gently in yours as you carefully painted the base coat. She watched you with an amused look, lips twitching as you stuck your tongue out in concentration.

"You’re really into this, huh?"

"Obviously," you said without looking up. "You have great nails, Vi. I can’t waste this opportunity."

Vi chuckled, leaning her head against the back of the couch.

A comfortable silence settled between you as you worked, the only sounds being the occasional clinking of polish bottles and Vi’s soft breathing. Every now and then, she’d sneak a glance at your face—how focused you were, how gentle your touch felt. It was... nice.

By the time you finished, you pulled back, admiring your work with a satisfied grin. "Ta-da! Perfect."

Vi lifted her hands, inspecting the tiny stars and crisp French tips. "...Okay, I hate to admit it, but this actually looks kinda cool."

"You love it," you teased, nudging her playfully.

Vi rolled her eyes but didn't deny it. She looked down at her nails, then back up at you, taking in the proud, satisfied smile on your face. The way your eyes lit up when you were excited, the way your nose scrunched in concentration, the way you always roped her into these little things just to spend time together.

Before she could think twice, she leaned in, pressing her lips against yours.

You let out a surprised squeak before melting into the kiss, laughing softly against her lips.

“Vi,” you mumbled between kisses, “be careful with your nails, they’re still wet!”

She smirked, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Worth it."

You huffed, trying to act annoyed, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. "If you smudge them, you're fixing them."

Vi grinned, her fingers brushing against your jaw. "Deal. But only if I get another kiss after."

You rolled your eyes but pulled her back in anyway. "Fine. Just don't ruin my masterpiece."

"Yeah, yeah," Vi said, smirking as she flexed her fingers, admiring the design again. Then, with a teasing glint in her eyes, she added, "But now you have to match me."

You giggled, already reaching for the brush. "Oh, don’t worry, I plan to."

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masterlist