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girllblogging777 · 11 months ago

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𝐵𝑅𝐸𝑊𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐻𝑂𝑃𝐸

↳ mattheo riddle x fem!reader (angst, slight fluff)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 1,5k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : you’re forced to work with your ex boyfriend on a potions project. (“you don’t hate me ?/could never hate you”)

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

if there was one thing every wizard knew about the world’s infamous mattheo riddle, it was that the brown haired boy was a professional at holding grudges. ever since the two of you had broken up against your will a couple of months ago, leaving your soul hollow and your heart shattered, he had been avoiding you like the plague. as if you hadn’t once been his other half, a fragment of his soul, your relationship was buried deep, replaced by an usual facade of sarcasm and bitterness.

breaking mattheo’s walls down had taken time and patience from you, the result of years of slowly trying to earn his trust and make your way into his heart. however when you two called it off, his demeanour completely changed. in the blink of an eye he’d become closed off and distant again, nonchalantly deciding to ignore the way the two of you could’ve had it all if he hadn’t thrown it all away.

“get over it, it’s been months already” the voice in your head echoed when you found yourself analysing the situation for the hundredth time instead of focusing in class. without noticing, your attention had completely shifted from professors snape’s monotonous potions lesson to the one and only boy that occupied your mind, and it seemed, your heart too. straightening your posture and leaning back in your chair, you brought your focus back to what your teacher was saying.

being about to raise your hand to tell the professor that he’d forgotten to pair you up for the upcoming potions project, you were interrupted by a loud sound coming from behind you. there was a boy, entering the classroom in the middle of the lesson without a care in the world. no other mattheo riddle, the one and only brunette who perpetually clouded your thoughts.

“glorious entrance as always, mr riddle. you sure know how to stand out” bitterly declared the teacher, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. you restrained yourself from turning around, the sudden shift in the atmosphere sending tingles down your spine. over the past few months, it had become a habit everytime the familiar brunette boy entered the room. “i was just about to pair up the last student for the upcoming project” pursed snape while mattheo casually sat down in the back of the class.

and there it was. the realisation. “given your delay, you won’t have a choice. you will have to work with mrs delarose.” your shoulders tensed at the sound of your last name. of course he had to pair you, the perfect and smart student, with your troublemaker ex boyfriend. “so much for getting over it” you thought, anxiously biting your bottom lip and thinking about the consequences of snape’s decision. the rest of the classroom had already moved on and began writing down some notes, leaving only you and mattheo reeling at the though of having to face eachother again.

✩✩✩✩

hours passed slowly until the sun finally set on hogwarts. the walls of the castle echoed with the sound of students heading to the great hall, but you had a different destination in mind. holding your potions textbook tightly in your arms, you made your way to the astronomy tower, a place that once held beautiful memories, but now only reminded you of what you had lost.

you hesitated at the bottom of the staircase, your heart hammering in your chest. you knew mattheo would be up there, waiting, and the thought made your breath catch. but there was no escaping this and snape had made sure of that. when you finally reached the platform, you found mattheo already there, leaning against the stone wall. he didn’t turn around, but you knew he was aware of your presence. the silence between you was thick and almost suffocating.

“we should get started,” you finally said, breaking the tension that hung in the air. your voice was steadier than you felt, not giving away how nervous you were feeling about finally talking to him again. “yeah,” mattheo replied, his tone void of emotion. he turned to face you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “let’s just get this over with.”

you nodded, trying to focus on the task at hand. without even properly greeting eachother, the two of you sat down and got to work in silence, the only sounds coming from the soft bubbling of the potion. despite the close proximity, it felt like there was a barrier of unsaid thoughts between you. as the potion simmered in the cauldron, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. his face once so familiar, seemed distant and unapproachable. you wondered if he ever thought about what you had or if he had truly managed to bury it all under his layers of indifference.

“why did it have to end like this?” the question slipped out before you registered it, your voice barely above a whisper. you weren’t sure if you wanted him to answer, or to brush it off like he usually did. mattheo froze, his hand hovering over the cauldron. for a moment, you thought he might not respond and that he would continue to pretend you didn’t exist. but then he sighed softly and spoke up.

“because i thought it was for the best,” he said quietly, not meeting your gaze. “but i was wrong.” your heart skipped a beat at his admission, causing it to beat a little faster. “then why are you still pushing me away?” you asked, “why are we still doing this?” mattheo finally looked up from the cauldron, his eyes betraying the emotions he’d tried so hard to hide. “because it’s easier to be angry than to feel the pain,” he confessed. “i thought that if i hated you, it would make it easier to forget. but i can’t.”

the raw honesty in his words ignited something inside you, and before you knew it, you spoke up again. “you don’t hate me ?” mattheo stared at you, his expression torn between surprise and guilt. for a long moment, he didn’t move, as if he was replaying your words in his head. “i never hated you. never have, never will” he confessed in a whisper.

the words hung in the air between you and you felt a tightness in your chest ease just a little, like a weight lifting. "then why did we have to go through all of this?" you asked, your voice soft, not accusing but genuinely curious. "why did we let it get this far?"

mattheo closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. when he opened them again, he looked at you with regret. "because i was scared," he admitted, "scared of how much you meant to me. of how much losing you would hurt. scared of bringing you into my dark life, or making you my father’s target.” he confessed, taking deep breaths. “so, i thought if i distanced myself and if i pushed you away, it would make it easier. but it didn’t. it just made everything worse."

“i didn’t want that. i never would’ve pushed you away because of who you are.” you declared, mattheo’s eyes searching yours as if trying to see if you were genuine. then, he muttered. "i don’t want to keep hurting you," he said, his voice low and rough with emotions. "and i didn’t want to break up with you, i just thought… i thought you deserved better and i was being selfish”

you felt a spark of hope, something you hadn’t felt in a long time, and chuckled. "you were selfish for stealing my chocolate bars and for wanting me to give you scalp massages all the time. most of all, you were selfish for breaking up with me" you said simply, offering him a small, tentative smile. "but never for thinking you didn’t deserve my love."

he let out a small smile at your familiar banter and for a moment, neither of you moved. the reality of what you were saying seemed was too fragile to touch. and could at any moment. but then mattheo reached out, his hand hesitating for just a second before gently taking yours. the touch was warm, grounding, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sense of peace.

"really ?" he said, his voice soft but filled with curiosity. you nodded, squeezing his hand lightly as he looked at you to make sure you meant it. "really." you echoed, the silence of the night wrapping itself comfortably around the two of you.

you realized that while the past couldn’t be erased, the future was still yours to make. maybe the universe (and mattheo) would try to keep you away, but you’ll always end up coming back to eachother no matter what. that was just the simple truth, mattheo riddle was your person, and you were his.

“i’m still expecting chocolate bars and scalp massages, though…”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

a/n : for the person who made a request to @tateshifts !!! please like/comment/reblog and don’t hesitate to give requests <3

tell me if you want to be tagged when i post ! @shiftingwithmars @dexoq @elsie-bells @larmesdevanille @redeemingvillains @helendeath @jolly4holly @fluffycookies22 @fbvreadingblog @icantkeepmyplantsalive @moonlightreader649 @myunperfektstorys @iris-qt @clar2aa @reys-letters @yikesitslush @bellatrix-lestrange5 @chelawrites @sp7-mr

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akairawrites · 3 months ago

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When the Silence Breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

At Gotham Academy, no one asks too many questions—especially when your past is too heavy to carry out loud. Y/n L/n is no exception. The daughter of a once-feared mob figure, she hides behind sharp eyes and graphite sketches, trying to stay invisible while the weight of her childhood still claws at her spine. When a school project unexpectedly pairs her with Damian Wayne, the two begin to orbit each other in quiet, careful steps.

Previous | Next

The room is quiet except for the soft creak of rope-bound wooden floors. The air smells of incense and sweat. A small girl— Y/n L/n, nine years old—kneels in seiza at the center of the dojo. Her hair clings to her damp forehead. Her arms tremble, her knees bruised beneath her training gi.

Across from her stands her father, KENJI L/N, in an immaculate three-piece suit. His tie is loosened, but his posture is perfect. He stares down at her with the unflinching calm of a man who’s broken people for far less than weakness.

“Again,” Kenji says, his voice smooth as glass but sharp underneath.

Y/n’s eyes flick up. “I—I tried.”

“You hesitated,” he snaps. “If this were real, you’d already be dead.”

She flinches. He doesn’t miss it.

“Stand.”

She rises, shaky on her feet. Her fists clench at her sides. She’s small, but she’s trying—desperate to earn something from him.

Kenji reaches into a lacquered box beside him and draws a wooden training knife. He tosses it onto the mat with a heavy clack.

“Pick it up.”

Y/n kneels slowly, retrieves it with both hands like a sacred object. Her knuckles are white.

“Attack me.”

She hesitates—just a blink—but that’s all he needs.

“Now.”

She lunges at him, surprisingly fast for her age. He sidesteps her and grabs her arm, twisting it behind her back. She hits the mat hard with her elbow.

Again.

And again. Her breathing grows louder, more ragged as sweat drips from her chin.

He doesn’t hold back. Not even when she gasps. Not when her knees buckle. Not when she stumbles and coughs—

And then—

A deep gag. Her body clenches violently.

She vomits onto the mat, retching until there’s nothing left. Her body crumples in on itself.

Kenji remains motionless, offering no assistance

His silence is deafening as he watches his daughter in a puddle of her own vomit. Finally, he speaks, his voice cold and accusatory, “You’re weak because you choose to be.”

With that, he turns but just before he walks away, he turns to look at her “Clean this up. Training resumes tomorrow.”

Moonlight streaks across Y/n’s ceiling. She lies awake in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the shadows on the wall.

Down the hall, behind her closed door—voices rise.

“You pushed her too hard!” her mother’s voice—Elise—shakes with fury and fear.

“You weren’t there,” Kenji replies, his tone level, emotionless. “She broke form. She needs discipline.”

“She’s nine, Kenji! She vomited on the mat!”

A pause.

“She’ll thank me when it saves her life.”

“No. She won’t.” Elise’s voice cracks. “Because she’s not going to survive you.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “She’s our daughter. Not your soldier.”

Y/n turns to face the wall. Her expression is blank, her eyes hot. She pulls the blanket over her head, as if it could shut out the voices—or the truth. But it’s not enough.

“I wanted a son.”

Y/n flinches like she’s been struck. Her breath catches.

“And I made do.”

GOTHAM ACADEMY – MORNING

The campus looms like a Gothic castle swallowed by Y/n. Spires reach into the sky, arched windows reflect the gray clouds above, and the courtyard hums with life—students laughing, rushing to classes, voices echoing against the cobblestone paths.

A black town car idles at the curb. The rear door opens.

Y/n, fifteen now, steps out.

She moves with silent precision, her uniform immaculate—blazer fitted, skirt pressed, tie flawless. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun. No loose strands. No distractions.

But her eyes?

Cold and guarded.

As the car pulls away behind her, she walks alone through the courtyard. She doesn’t smile or wave. She doesn’t need to.

Inside the school the late morning light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows of Gotham Academy, casting shards of color across the stone floor. The scent of old books, waxed wood, and expensive perfume lingered in the halls like memory. Everything about the school is old money and prestige. But here is where whispers follow Y/n wherever she goes.

“She’s the mob kid, right?”

“Her dad’s in prison.”

“I heard she’s crazy smart. Like scary smart.”

“She never talks to anyone.”

She doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

Instead, she moves with quiet purpose—like someone who’s already calculated the most efficient path from class to class, including exits.

ART ROOM – FIRST PERIOD

Y/n takes the back-left seat. Not hidden, but isolated. She sets down her sketchbook without a sound. The other students chatter. One of them is loud and animated—Max, an aspiring filmmaker always in Y/n’s orbit, never quite her friend.

“You’re gonna love this prompt,” Max says to no one in particular. “‘Self-portrait as emotion.’ Intense, right?”

When the teacher walks in the room finally settles

“Alright class today’s focus? Expression. Let it hurt if it needs to.”

Y/n opens her sketchbook. Her pencil touches the page.

And stops.

Her hand trembles.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Then she begins to draw. Slow, controlled. A face forms on the page..she quickly realizes it’s not her.

It’s a younger version. A shadow behind her, tall and cold.

She shades it in without a word.

Y/n walked slowly down the corridor after the bell rung, her shoes making no sound against the polished floor. Students passed in waves around her—laughing, bumping into each other, already swapping answers for second period chemistry. She moved through them like smoke—seen, maybe, but never touched.

She stopped at her locker, spun the dial, opened it. Inside: everything in order. Textbooks lined up by subject. A notebook tucked behind the last one—thick, black and unmarked. The only thing that felt like hers.

As she reached for her literature binder, she heard the voice behind her.

“Y/n L/n, right?”

She didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened.

Turning slightly, she saw Max standing there. All camera bag and chaotic energy, his lopsided grin already halfway to a question she didn’t want to answer.

“You got moved up to AP art?” he asked, shifting his weight. “That’s kind of awesome. They don’t usually let first-years skip the basics.”

“They made an exception,” she said, voice even and distant

Max chuckled, not taking the hint. “Must’ve been a hell of a portfolio.”

She closed her locker slowly. “It was.”

There was a pause—him waiting for her to ask something, anything but she didn’t Instead, she turned and walked.

LUNCHROOM – NOON

The clatter of trays, the rise and fall of a hundred conversations—Gotham Academy’s lunchroom was never quiet. Everything was polished stone and long wooden tables, too grand for something as mundane as eating.

Y/n moved through the crowd with the same silence she wore everywhere else. No one called her name. No one tried to sit beside her.

She didn’t expect them to.

Her table sat tucked beneath a tall arched window, vines creeping in along the stone outside, filtered light casting soft green shadows across her tray. She sat, opened a book she wasn’t really reading, and pushed her food around like it had wronged her.

Then—

A shift in the air.

She looked up.

Across the room, half-shielded by the central column, someone was watching her.

A boy she didn’t recognize. New. Dark uniform jacket worn like armor, collar still stiff, posture too upright for a place like this.

He wasn’t whispering. Wasn’t laughing. Just watching. Eyes unreadable.

Damian Wayne.

Their eyes met for only a second.

Y/n blinked. Looked back down.

Probably just curious, she told herself. New students always stared. It would pass.

Still—

She flipped a page she hadn’t finished reading.

The bell rang for a final time that day, echoing across the marble halls like a final verdict.

By the time most students had reached the gates, Y/n had already slipped past them. Her steps were careful. Not rushed, just… intentional. She didn’t like crowds. Didn’t like the way they pulled at your thoughts, the way noise tried to settle into your skin.

The black car wasn’t waiting for her today. Her mother had texted something about a charity brunch that “couldn’t be missed.” Y/n didn’t answer.

She didn’t need a ride.

The garden behind the science wing was a forgotten corner of the campus. Most students didn’t even know it was there—just overgrown hedges, a dry fountain, and a crooked bench that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it wrong.

Wind rustled through the hedges. Old ivy crept up the walls. The broken fountain hadn’t worked in years, but she liked that about it. No one else came here.

She sat cross-legged on the cracked stone bench, notebook open across her lap. The page was half-filled with lines—sharp, precise, too calculated to be personal.

Her pencil hovered midair, unmoving.

That boy’s face kept flickering at the edge of her thoughts. The way he didn’t avert his gaze. The calmness in it. It wasn’t judgment. Not interest, either.

It was something else.

She exhaled slowly and shook it off.

Then—

Footsteps.

Too controlled to belong to any of the usual idiots who smoked behind the gym.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” said a voice behind her.

Y/n turned, just enough to see him.

Damian Wayne. Hands in his pockets. Eyes steady. Posture too perfect for a fifteen-year-old. His tie was loosened just slightly, like he knew the rules but didn’t care enough to follow all of them.

She blinked, once. “I didn’t realize I was being followed.

“You weren’t,” he said. “You’re just predictable.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “That supposed to be charming?”

“No. Just honest.”

He didn’t sit. Didn’t ask to. Just stood in the half-shadow of the crooked tree overhead.

She glanced back at her notebook. “Most people say hi before analyzing me.”

“I’m not most people.”

“That much I’ve gathered.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching her sketch. “Your technique’s military. Taught, not learned.”

Y/n’s pencil paused.

She looked at him again, slower this time.

“You get that from one glance at lunch?”

“No,” he said. “I get that from knowing what to look for.”

His expression didn’t shift, but there was something different in his voice. Something softer.

“Someone who isn’t pretending.”

Y/n stared at him, her pulse just slightly out of rhythm.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

She closed her notebook slowly. “You still haven’t said your name.”

“Damian.”

“Of course it is,” she muttered.

And for the first time all day, the corner of her mouth lifted—just barely.

The campus gates creaked shut behind her.

The streets outside Gotham Academy were lined with skeletal trees and cold stone buildings. Not the parts of the city people took photos of. These sidewalks didn’t care if you were alone.

She walked with her hands in her coat pockets, the late afternoon light slanting gold and gray across the pavement. One earbud in. The other left dangling—not for safety, but habit. She liked having one foot in the silence.

A kid on a bike sped past. Y/n didn’t turn. Just kept walking. Past the coffee shop that changed names every six months. Past the pawn shop that still had her father’s name burned into the window glass, long faded.

She looked away before she could think too hard.

Her family’s house sat at the end of a long block, tucked behind iron gates and trimmed hedges. It was the kind of house that pretended nothing bad had ever happened inside it.

The lights were on.

The house sat behind a tall wrought-iron gate, its bars curled like vines, black paint flaking at the edges from years of salt and rain. Beyond it, a long stone path cut through a perfectly trimmed lawn, the kind that looked untouched by weather or time—maintained, immaculate, performative.

The house itself was old Gotham money. Three stories of dark gray brick and sharp lines, with tall windows framed in black and ivy crawling up the eastern wall like nature trying to take something back. The roof was steep and slate, the kind that made the whole place look like it could fold in on itself at any moment.

White shutters. Heavy doors. A porch no one sat on.

It was beautiful in the way museums are beautiful—silent, imposing, full of things no one talks about.

There were no welcome mats. No bikes left out. No plants in pots or cracks in the concrete.

Everything was in its place.

As if that meant nothing had ever gone wrong there.

As if that could make it true.

The front door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

Y/n toed off her shoes, set down her bag. Her movements were quiet. Automatic. Like a ghost returning to its haunt.

From down the hall, the sound of a knife on a cutting board echoed faintly.

“Y/n?” her mother called. “There’s food. I made that soup you used to like.”

Used to.

Y/n didn’t answer right away. She stood in the foyer for a long moment, staring at the framed family photo on the side table. She was seven in it. Grinning too hard. Her father’s hand on her shoulder like a claim.

She turned it facedown before making her way to the kitchen.

The lights were low, warm gold humming against the cold marble counters. The soup on the stove hissed quietly, the scent of ginger and garlic thick in the air—too familiar. Too heavy.

Her mother stood at the island, sleeves rolled to her elbows, chopping scallions with mechanical focus. Her hair was pinned up, a little uneven, like she’d done it in a rush. Her eyes flicked up the second Y/n stepped in.

“Hey,” her mother said gently. “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“I always eat lunch.”

Her mother hesitated. “You can tell me if you didn’t.”

Y/n didn’t respond. She pulled a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water.

“You look tired,” her mother tried again. “Was it the art class? Is it too much on top of everything else?”

Y/n’s hand paused.

“I’m not tired,” she said. Not exactly a lie.

Her mother set down the knife. Wiped her hands on a towel. “I just want to help, Y/n.”

The way she said it—it landed too soft, too careful. Like someone trying to tiptoe through a minefield they helped build.

The silence that followed had weight. Her mother crossed her arms, leaned slightly against the counter, as if bracing herself.

“You barely speak to me anymore.”

Y/n didn’t answer.

“I know what I let happen to you. I know what he did. And I know I should’ve—” her voice broke, just barely—“I should’ve stopped him.”

Y/n turned slowly. Her expression didn’t change. Not much. But something behind her eyes shifted—cold, hard, and aching.

“You didn’t try,” she said. “You watched.”

“I was scared, Y/n.”

“I was a child.” The words hit like glass breaking.

Her mother took a breath, shallow. “I kept telling myself it was for your protection. That what he was doing would make you strong. I thought—” she shook her head. “I thought I could keep you safe by staying silent. But I see you now and I know I was wrong.”

Y/n’s jaw clenched.

“I never wanted you to be a weapon. Never. But I let it happen anyway. I let him turn our home into a training ground.”

She looked down at her hands—still shaking slightly from the cutting. “I remember the night you threw up in the dojo. You were nine. I tried to tell him he was pushing you too hard, and he… he made me feel small. Like he always did. I’m so sorry I didn’t fight harder.”

Y/n stared at her for a long time. She remembered that night. The night those words he said echoed in her head. The apology landed, but it didn’t soften anything.

“I didn’t need you to fight harder,” she said quietly. “I just needed you to choose me.”

Her mother’s eyes welled up, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “I’m trying to now.”

Y/n stepped back.

“Now is too late.”

Then she turned. Walked out of the kitchen without another word.

Her mother didn’t argue. Just stood there, hands still damp, soup bubbling behind her.

Y/n grabbed her bag off the floor near the door and headed up the stairs to her room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She dropped her bag by the desk, peeled off her blazer, undid her tie. Everything folded, hung, aligned. She stood at the window for a long time, staring out into the city.

Somewhere out there, Damian Wayne was probably sitting in some marble mansion, pretending not to care about anything. Just like her.

She wondered if he had to sit through quiet dinners and pretend not to remember every bruise disguised as “training.”

She wondered if he ever wished someone would call it what it was.

Pulling her sketchbook from her bag, she sat on the floor by her bed and flipped to a blank page.

This time, the pencil didn’t hesitate.

She started to draw.

A boy. Watching her. Still and sharp as shadow. But the expression she gave him—there was something behind the eyes.

INT. WAYNE MANOR – DAMIAN’S ROOM – NIGHT

The room was dark, save for the soft blue glow of the screen in front of him. Lines of code flickered by—encrypted feeds, Academy records, external cameras. Nothing he hadn’t broken through before.

But he wasn’t looking for information tonight.

He was watching the garden again. The one behind the school.

Her.

Damian sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes sharp even in the dim light. He’d replayed the conversation five times in his head already. The way she didn’t flinch. The way she didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

She’d looked right through him.

And didn’t turn away.

Titus, curled beside the desk, let out a quiet huff in his sleep.

Damian reached over and absentmindedly scratched behind the dog’s ears, but his gaze stayed on the screen. Then he shut the laptop.

He didn’t need surveillance to know she wouldn’t leave his mind tonight.

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sakuraryomen01 · 1 year ago

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Valentino /Sukuna Ryomen x Fem! Reader/ .11 [Slight Nsfw]

warnings: asshole sukuna, college prep. school (aka bitch u at an expensive ass school), former friends to lovers, slow burned love, yuji is sukuna's little brother, ec project with Nickolas the transfer student, drunk sukuna shows up at the dorm(!?), a small makeout session, some sexual touching and mentions of grinding/humping at readers thighs, caring for this stressed out man-slut, ooc sukuna.

reader: female reader; 23 years of age, college prep.

plot: It's been years since you've moved from country life, since you've forgotten about all the things you used to love about your hometown and where you grew up from... you didn't think it'd chase you to college in the city after almost a decade..

words: 5.036k

fanfic masterlist: .o1 .o2 .o3 .o4 .o5 .o6 .o7 .o8 .o9 .10 .11 .12 .13 .14 .15 .16 .17 .18 .19 .20

a/n: hey guys! sorry for the delay ^^ i've been wanting to get some chapters drafted before posting them! ty sm for the patience i hope u enjoy and r ready for the upcoming drama between sukuna and y/n!

a/n 2: so so sooooo sorry for being three days later after saying i'd be posting right away!!>< I was with family and the wifi was being iffy the last few days. I couldn't access many of my socials and much less work on the final draft of the chapter!! i powered thro until i was satified and it's finally here! i hope you enjoy!!

chapter/idea cred to: @misslauravillanueva i needed to give credit for the help! i was struggling on what to do!><

. . .

Thank you for reading this! Enjoy!

“Achoo!”

“Ah, are you alright?” Geto’s cool tone echoed from the kitchen, his brow raised with a curious expression written on his face. “Coming down with something? I told you to relax from studying for a while–”

“It’s not that!” You huff, cheeks burning with embarrassment. ”I just sneezed. I don’t know why though..”

“Okay, relax. I’m not gonna get upset.”

With a pout, you leaned against the armrest of the couch. Bowl of mac and cheese with little hot dogs in hand and a Coke on the coffee table. Eyes returning back to the TV screen and watching the current crime show playing, listening to the crimes that the murderer committed as he was handed a death sentence.

Sometimes, when I let my mind wander to Sukuna.. It feels like that.

The idea that he’s now stuck on your mind despite all the anger he had towards you. The almost strange obsession and addiction to the idea of him. While you’ve been repetitively trying to control these new emotions and thoughts, you couldn’t help it. Seeing Sukuna that day in Ec class all those days ago. Having to tutor him. Even dealing with his weird smirks and teasing.

..That kiss too..

“Your face is doing that thing again, Y/n,” Geto’s voice chirped out of nowhere, causing you to jolt in your spot. “So jumpy over a guy? You know therapy exists, right?”

Returning a rather poorly chosen burn, Geto stood from his spot on the couch and waved a hand at you. Grabbing his things and his shoes from the carpet near the door, he sent you another telling look.

“If you're this upset, just ask what's up. Seriously, seeing you get stressed over this is kinda.. sad.”

There was a stabbing pain in your chest. You knew.

“Good night to you too, Suguru,” You hum, leaning on your fist as the door closed with a click. Leaving you alone in the dormitory for a few moments.

Your thoughts clouding your headspace until you decided to go to bed. Unable to understand this dreadful lil thing people called love, unable to understand why Sukuna Ryomen had crawled his way into your heart just by being an ass.

Tomorrow is another day.. Right?

. . .

“Today we'll be picking partners for class projects!”

Eh?? Ehhhhh????

You blinked a few times at the announcement, looking down towards Toji as students began to groan and complain a little. Quickly these were silenced as Toji lifted a stack of papers and chuckled deeply in his husky voice.

“It's not my problem, just get them done. You have two weeks to do it, so get your partners. The class is uneven so be ready for one of y'all's groups to have an extra person. It's a self-pick topic type of thing so start discussing today or tomorrow your topic and go with it!”

Toji tapped the papers on his desk and sat, letting his tie loose as he started relaxing for the rest of the period.

“If you need suggestions for your topic, there's a list in here along with your presentation requirements. I expect all names and correct citations with these as well.”

You let out a small groan and rub your temple. Not only were you stressed, now you had to deal with this? Extra shifts at work couldn't save you from this type of annoyance. It's not that you hated group projects, it's just a small tick when half of them throw the work onto you.

Pros and cons. Pros– none. Cons– work was usually tossed onto you.

You stood from your desk and began making your way down the steps to grab a paper. A strange chill ran up your spine as you passed Sukuna’s. Sparing a glance over, your cheeks warmed almost immediately.

Some bits of hair were pinned back and a pen rested on an ear. His shirt had a few buttons undone with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Black pants tight enough to have made a bakery spawn on the seat he sat upon. He looked really handsome, daring to battle even Toji’s good looks, and it was getting to you.

What hit the nail in the coffin is when he just so happened to catch you ogling with your tongue practically hanging out of your mouth. His eyes sharpened at your expression as a smirk curled at the corners of his lips.

An almost playful yet teasing smile you weren't used to seeing on his face caught you off guard. It made your face hot, and your shame grow a few beats in that moment.

“Stop creeping” was basically what his face was saying.

Letting out a strained cough, you covered your face and made your way back up to your desk. Positive that his eyes had followed you all the way up the stairs before you sat in your spot. Hiding behind the paper and some random book you grabbed from your bag.

You couldn't be more obvious, could you?

While fellow students started to shift in their seats and partner up with friends and just random buddies from in the room, Sukuna was swarmed with a small audience of girls as he stood from his seat to also fetch a paper. The guys that sat around him gave him annoyed side-eyes and snorts as he absorbed the attention from all the women in the room.

“Sukuna, do you wanna partner with me?” One asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and letting the blush on her cheeks show.

“Me too, we could all do it together!” Another spoke up, poking her button nose into their conversation. Her bright green eyes staring up at Sukuna with a needy gleam.

It makes you confused to an extent, making you press your brows together as you look to the side. Sukuna probably thought that's what you looked like every time you saw him. It makes your heart ache and head throb, another grand headache to your already upsetting day.

Just let your mind be normal for once in your life.

You begin to gather your things and part from the room, the hustle and bustle of the classroom quietly fading into the background. Letting out a relaxed sigh as the sight of your bed creeped into the corners of your mind– oh, how you wished to be relaxing in bed with your favorite stuffy.

“Hello, miss? Would you like to be my partner for the project?” A voice suddenly called from behind you, somewhat echoing throughout the quiet hallways. It startled you since you didn’t expect anyone to follow you out of the classroom asking such a thing, it piqued your interest.

Lifting your head, you come face to face with someone you didn’t know.

His dark hair was up in a bun with his undercut showing behind his pierced ears, a kind smile flashing behind yet another piercing on his lip. Tanned skin that seemed to glow like it was pampered with the best beauty products around, not a scar or pimple in sight. Cute dimples at the corners of his lips adding to his boyish charm while his honey eyes gleamed at you. It reminded you of Yuji in a sense, but this was not Yuji.

You’ve never seen this guy before– a really cute one at that.

“Hello,” you say, momentarily stunned at the stranger, letting your hand weakly wave. “Uhm, partner?”

There was an adorable chuckle that furthered your stunned silence before you heard a response. “Yes, I saw you walk out here alone and thought you might need one.”

You take in a deep breath, regaining your composure quickly and patting yourself down. “Ah, right. I actually don’t like having a partner, my past experiences have led me to conclude that they’re not the best option for a project. Besides, I’m a big girl, I can handle one on my own.”

“I can see why,” He starts, looking back at the classroom with the still clamoring students before returning his attention to you. “That horde in there was after one guy, they don’t care about this project. I was actually about to do the same as you when I saw my choices were so low.”

Rubbing a big calloused hand over his nape, the strangers’ almond eyes looked from the empty halls and to you, his smile sheepish. “Please? Don’t make me beg now.”

There was a small silence between you and the stranger as you considered walking off and letting him go with his original plan before the Economics class erupted with whines as Sukuna and a girl walked from inside. The color left your cheeks, seeing the girl’s arm wrapped tightly around Sukuna’s. Looking as if he was protecting her from the growing crowd of the class, engaging in an active conversation as they walked on by.

Your heart sank sharply, seeing Sukuna letting someone else into his circle. He used to be so cold, so annoyed with people when he was younger. Only letting you really hold him that close, giving you nuzzles of appreciation since he didn’t like to say it aloud.

Now, he gives you the cold shoulder and holds others that aren’t you close.

Without letting your head finish its last thought and your eyes still trained on the back of Sukuna’s head, you gave a nod and looked back at the stranger. “Sure. I’m Y/n L/n, by the way.”

“Really? That’s great!” He smiled, the warmth of his company lightening your mood sufficiently more than it was a few moments ago. “My name’s Nickolas Alveres, it’s nice to meet you, L/n.”

The both of you share a smile for a second before Nickolas nods down the hall, motioning for the both of you to head to your next classes. He doesn’t wait for you to join him, but you do anyway. Trying to make small talk with him as you try to get to know your partner, letting the smile on your lips stick.

While you wore a smile, someone else had a frown. A deep scowl, if you will. You didn’t feel it, but Sukuna’s partner saw it.

She raised a brow, cheeks tinted a slight color as she cast her gaze in the same direction. Seeing you close to another man, only escalating the befuddlement.

“What’s wrong, Sukuna?”

A disgruntled look was plastered all over said man’s face, his frown so prominent it was a waste of time to even attempt to hide it. A chasm of wrinkles forming on his forehead as his brows pressed together at the sight before him. Watching the way you and some kid walked side by side with a smile on your face, not a care in the world.

When did you get so chummy?

“It’s nothing.. Let’s go, Haru,” He said, not sparing a second to look back at you. With a huff, he pulled his work partner, Haru, with him to the nearby library to find a good subject for this project.

It’s what he wanted anyways.. right?

. . .

“Wait, wait.. He punched Gojo in the face?!” Nickolas laughed, holding his cup up to his lips quickly to cover his giggles and chuckles. His nose crinkled up as they continued despite his obvious resistance. “He must’ve been drunk too to get so defensive!! I thought he was just a jerk most of the time.”

“Usually he is,” You start, crossing your legs under the coffee table. Looking over some of the notebooks the both of you had sprawled out onto the wood to look for any good topics to talk about in the presentation. Quickly, you scribbled out one, taking a sip from your cup and looking back up to Nickolas. “Recently though, he’s been alright. Not as mean as he used to be, but not one-hundred percent rude and annoying.”

A calm silence filled the air as Nickolas rested his work in his lap, taking a moment to look from them to you. “Speaking of, how long have you known this guy? You talk about him like he’s an old friend.”

The corner of your lips twitch upwards for a short second before you let your face relax. “He was. Not really interested in joining forces again recently.”

Nickolas nodded his head in understanding, eyes glazing over somewhat on what response to give. Seeing that the idea of this guy somehow hurt you, it got him concerned. Why bother letting him get to you so deeply if this is the result? It doesn’t make sense.

“Don’t let it get to you too much, Y/n,” He mustered after a short silence, placing his cup on the coffee table and letting his ring tap against the plastic. “If he’s still letting you be this close, even helping you care for a friend, that’s gotta be something.”

You nod numbly, knowing the obvious has been said too many times. Talk to him, ask him how he’s doing about the relationship, what does he want from you? The same three things that you always wanted to say when you were with him, but how. Other than tutoring, other than being near each other in class, you and Sukuna spent little to no time together.

All you remember about him is that he was the tough kid in school with home problems that liked to play tag and hide and seek. That he scared you with bugs and frogs while at the lake or near the Willow tree. The fond memories you shared with him couldn’t be the only factor that you had to use to judge what you wanted, you had to be around him more.

How was going to be the hardest puzzle to solve.

“Oh well,” Nickolas yawned, stretching his arms over his head. “It’s about time i get headed to my dorm. I have an early class tomorrow. I’ll leave you my number so that we can plan meetings for the project!”

Jokes and laughter filled the room as you and your partner exchanged information when there was a loud commotion at the door. You glanced from Nickolas to the dorm door and let out a light hearted chuckle, waving your hands next to your head.

“Ah, I’ll go get that! Gather your things, okay?”

Nickolas nodded and turned to his open binder and mess of notebook paper splayed on the coffee table, humming to himself as you rushed over to the front door. Hair stood at attention when you opened that door, seeing a messed up man laying on the hallway floor. A big wine bottle squeezed tightly in his right hand, the other placed next to his head on the floor.

His voice came out in gentle hums of some random rock song, lyrics jumping out from his mouth every second or so in a drunken daze. His fluffy hair was messy and almost unrecognizable until you realized who it was.

It was Sukuna.

“Wh.. What are you doing here?” You shout, shocked at his arrival, but there was not really a response. Only his hand raising to wave his finger around to the hum of his song. “Sukuna, answer me!!”

“..rather be.. Than lonely..”

Letting out a sigh, you look back at Nickolas and see his confused face staring at the gap between you and the door down at Sukuna. He stood there ready to go with his bag strap on his shoulder and keys in hand, giving you quick glances for some semblance of an answer. You give a small shrug, looking back to the immobile man on the ground.

Gently, you kick at one of his legs to try and get something out of him. “Sukuna, get up!”

Not a single thing, just a grunt and a tussle before your eyes finally connect with glazed ones. Maroon pools that were foggy beyond belief, not having a thought behind them. Nickolas tilts his head to the side and shakes it, giving you a pat on the arm and a sheepish smile.

“I'll get out of your hair, Y/n. Good luck!”

You step out of the man’s way, looking down at the disgruntled Sukuna and give a weak chuckle. Parting ways with Nickolas for the evening and kneeling down to Sukuna and shaking his shoulder. “Sukuna, you’ll get sick, get up.”

“..Doesn’t matter,” Sukuna mumbled, closing his eyes and taking a sip of his drink. “F’m sick, I’ll just be sick..”

“It does matter, now get up.”

You did your best to pull Sukuna up by his arm and into a sitting position, hooking the limp appendage over your shoulder and lifting him up onto his feet. It was a struggle since Sukuna was so heavy, but you managed. The stench of alcohol reeked from his breath and shirt, mixes of dirt and some stains that you didn’t feel the need to ask where they came from.

Stumbling into your dormitory you freed the near empty beer bottle from Sukuna’s grasp and pulled the door close. He wasn’t giving much fight– probably due to the amount he drank– and just leaned his weight onto you. Mumbling to himself about things you weren’t going to pressure him into answering. Still, it made you wonder.

What the hell drove him to come to my place?

Surely, he wouldn’t mind answering that.

With a huff to your lips you plopped Sukuna’s heavy ass onto the couch and folded your arms. The beer bottle in your hand swirling around as you rotate your wrist ever so slightly, brow raising at Sukuna’s nearly asleep form. It was odd to see the big, strong and mean Sukuna Ryomen on his last leg from intoxication.

Despite this, you found it cute.

“I’ll go get you some water and maybe a change of clothes,” You announce, tilting your head to see if that gauges a reaction. Sadly there was nothing but a huff and some finger taps on the couch’s cushions. Letting your arms fall to your side, you grunt and place the beer on the table. “Whatever, I’ll be right back.”

You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and some extra sheets from your bedroom before making your way back into the living room to Sukuna. A fresh set of clothing was provided, thanks to Geto’s many late night bang sessions with Shoko, and some cooling pads were placed next to Sukuna on the couch. He didn’t do much but glance at the items, turning his face away in– what you assumed– was a quiet protest.

Sukuna never acted this petty and spoiled before. What’s gotten into him?

“Let’s get you changed, yeah?” Gently, you press your hands to his chest, earning a reaffirming nod and proceeding to undo the buttons of his collared shirt.

It was strange to be in this position. On your knees, undressing the man you’ve pinned for for so long, only to be seeing this messy and unkempt side you didn’t like to imagine him being. The feelings in your chest that you wanted to put away were making your heart race once more, every glance you got to see from the mess you called Sukuna.

His hair made him resemble his brother more than anything else now, hanging over his sweaty forehead and tattoo. Arms hanging loosely at his sides, man spreading for all of the world to see. Shamefully, you enjoyed the calm attention. Even though it was unsightly, you liked getting to touch all over Sukuna’s body.

“There,” You mumble to yourself, having officially released Sukuna from his shirt. “N-Now, onto your..”

Trailing off, you look down at Sukuna’s pants. Swallowing thickly at the idea of pulling off his trousers, you took a deep breath. I’m never going to live this shame down!

Gently, you began to undo his belt. You face burning ever more as the air began to tense, wishing that anyone but you would be this bashful over something so silly. Still, regret hit you harder than the embarrassment or shame ever could.

Sukuna was watching you. Watching your hands slip the belt loose, pulling his button undone and pulling at his waistband. You tugged, unable to yank them down and free his lower half.

“Sukuna.. Can you lift your hips?” You ask in a soft voice, startled by the quick response. But what was it really, he was watching your every move. You felt like you were being examined in some office and not helping Sukuna undress. “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

Making haste of the situation, you pulled down the fabric of his trousers and grabbed the loose shorts you had found from earlier. Ignoring all thoughts of Sukuna and how perfect his legs looked, the thick black bands of his tattoos on the fat of his thigh. The way the bulge in his briefs was much a cause for distraction, even denying that it twitched once freed from it’s confines.

Yep, never happened.

“There, all better,” You sigh, satisfied. “Now that your ready for bed, I’m going to do the same.”

It took a few minutes, but you had completely reclothed Sukuna and he now looked more sleepy and ready for bed rather than drunk off his ass and about to black out on the couch. You had struggled to even get him to take a sip of water and sober up, but to no avail. You figured you’d have to try again tomorrow morning and explain the situation once he woke up in a confused fit.

Getting him comfortable on the couch too was another ordeal you didn’t think you’d go through, but you did. Tucking in the large male until he was all cozy and warm, safely resting his head on one of your spare pillows.

“I’ll see ya in the morning, Ryo,” You mumble, letting your mind wander for a moment and tracing the outline of one of his tattoos on his bicep. Feeling the muscle twitch under your touch momentarily.

“Mgh,” Sukuna muffled out, cheeks warm to the touch.

Letting out another sigh, you stand from your spot next to the couch. Only to be pulled back towards the culprit at hand, falling ass first next to his lap. Sukuna didn’t make a sound, just grasped onto your hips and pulled you in for a hug. His arms anchored around your lower stomach, pressing into the arch of your spine and forcing you to press against him as well.

His nose was pressed into the crook of your shoulder, but you continued to crusade for answers from the sudden affection. “AGH! Sukuna, that was highly uncalled for!! What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Answer me, dammit–!!”

“Who was that guy?”

You flinch, caught off guard. The clarity and conviction in Sukuna’s voice was strange, seeing as he had been stumbling and leaning into you for the last few moments. “Uhm, my Economics partner Nickolas. It shouldn’t matter, you need to sleep!”

“I don’t need sleep,” Sukuna grunts out, lifting himself off of the couch and trapping you underneath him. Using his big arms like a cage, eyes locking you in place with a vice on your heart. “What was he doin’ hanging here?”

“Sukuna, this is childish,” You start, ready to defend yourself for a confrontation. “He’s my class partner, you shouldn’t be upset over it.”

Wait.. why was he upset?

Previously, he had never seemed to give a flying fuck what you did or whom you did it with. What’s with the sudden change of heart? It made yours ache at the possibilities, wondering what could it be that made him so hostile all of the sudden over Nickolas.

“I barely know him anyways..”

“And you let him sit here on this couch?”

There was a small slap sound as skin met skin, Sukuna’s palm and fingers grasping your chin and cheeks. A gentle but firm squeeze sent shivers down your spine, your hand reaching up to try and pull Sukuna’s off but to no avail. His eyes scanned your face for anything, a sign.

Something. Anything that would make this ache in his chest stop.

“What is he to you, huh?” His voice came out rough, deep. Intimidating.

It was scary, but a shudder was sent up your spine. A lustful and unneeded shudder, one that sent ideas to your brain. That made your mind wander, but you held them back.

Even as Sukuna’s lips captured yours, as his teeth grazed and nibbled at your lower lip, your hands reached up to tangle themselves in his pink locks. You had to deny, because the Sukuna that was here wasn’t really him. It was a drunk and dissociated version of him, a side that you normally didn’t see.

A side that he probably didn’t like showing.

“Did you let him do this, mh?” Sukuna muttered, pulling away from your mouth. A string of saliva connecting the both of you for a moment as your lungs fought for breath. Chest rising and falling heavily, your hands hold onto Sukuna’s arms, trying to find something to stabilize yourself in this mess of kisses.

“N-No, we just.. Talked about class–”

“Talked? About class? Me? You?”

Sukuna retreated his touch from your face and instead placed them on your thighs. Laying beside you on the couch, keeping you trapped against his chest and making sure to dress the blankets over you.

“Sukuna, seriously, this isn’t funny anymore,” You whimper, covering your face. How could you push this away? You’ve wanted nothing but to be closer to him, haven’t you?

Desired, pleaded. You wanted everything.. But this wasn’t the way.

Feeling Sukuna’s hands wrap around your waist, having his hot breath on your neck and shoulder as he rutted his hips against the fat of your ass. You felt utterly guilty, like trash. Wanting to crawl away from Sukuna and save him the little grace he had, to avoid giving him something to wake up and regret tomorrow.

“Y/n.. look at me.. Look at what you’ve done,” The man in question ordered, hooking your top leg over his elbow. Letting the bulge in his pants grow more and more, his voice becoming ragged and deep as he got harder and harder. “You’re making a mess of me, can’t you tell?”

You nod, wanting to pull away and sleep in your bed. But the desires in you only wanted you to fall deeper. The strings of your heart being plucked as Sukuna’s lips found the sensitive skin of your neck. Marking and sucking, lewd sucking sounds erupting from his lips as he made harsh hickeys form on the skin.

Mewl after moan escaped you, your pussy wet and slick under the confines of your panties and pajama bottoms. Sukuna could tell, releasing your leg from his hold and slowing his hips for a moment until his hand migrated to your front.

Grinding the flat surface of his palm against your clothed cunt, whispering naughty words into your ear that you had to drown out. Even if the wants in your belly wished for Sukuna to be there, to fill up your insides and make a mess. To be closer than he’s ever let you been for the last month or so, you had to stop this.

And you did, with much regret.

“Sukuna, stop,” You whimper, pulling Sukuna’s hand away from your body. Breaths coming out in baited huffs, you sat up. Not taking a moment to let yourself get lured back in, feeling Sukuna’s hand find your waist again as you resisted further.

“Stop what?” He mutters, annoyance in his voice. Laced with an emotion you wished to unhear. “Didn’t you want this too?”

“Not like this.” Cold, respectful. You had to be this way, to give Sukuna another chance. Letting him have his way now in such a drunken state, you wouldn’t be able to recover a good relationship. “If I was like anyone else, you’d be taken advantage of.”

Sukuna’s touch softened, his glazed eyes clearing for a moment as he looked at the back of your head. Seeing a shimmer of something on your cheek, his fingers trembled. He desired to reach up, to brush those tears away. It was against his very nature, his very being.

He didn’t like the idea of being all cuddly and cozy, being soft and vulnerable with someone. The idea of it made his stomach churn and made the urge to vomit impending.

But, with you. Seeing those tears form, for his sake. He felt irritated with himself. He caused it. Him.

“I’m going to bed now,” You say, voice shaken up. “Get some water, sleep.”

You stood from your place on the sofa and walked over to the small hallway, entering your bedroom and letting out a shuddering exhale. A weight was now firmly sitting on your chest. It ached, it hurt, it burned.

Everything that pain felt like was exploding in your chest. Reaching up a hand to try and comfort yourself wasn’t worth the effort either as you slid down the wood of your bedroom door. Curling into a feeble position as the tears fell from your eyes, finally free after holding them the whole time.

What you wished you could do about the man on your couch.

. . .

a/n: y'all i literally have a crippling addiction to crime videos and all that shit it's just so interesting for no reason oml (crying inside) also sorry for the month long pause (i say sorry too much) i was creating new characters and working on ideas for the next few chapters!

Chapter Song Them: — Granite - Sleep Token (Lyrics)

taglist: @mageyboo, @mzladyd , @mysticwonderlandangel, @sukunaspersonalfleshlight, @kawaiipenguin20, @k-indie, @okkotsufav, @cafeinthemoon93, @pulchritxde, @bontenbunny, @deepinballs, @kleebloomed, @fiierytearzx, @wo-ming-bai, @instantgalaxysheep, @watyousayin, @z3r0art, @sukunaobsessed, @lik0, @sukunasfirstlove, @princesstiti14, @nemoyr, @ladywolf44005, @cat-mak20, @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn, @hxlalokidottir, @domainofmarie, @the-moongoddess, @dark-n-dirty-duchess, @agentdedf1sh, @sukunastoy, @lyn-soso, @bao-yu-sarah-morningstar-wang-9, @heyitstacy, @lost-in-tokyo, @marksassybanana, @bozos-r-us , @p-3-4-c-h, @chaoticqueen33, @dxxny-loves-u, @l0tus-in-l0ve , @jiordeci, @opossum0-0, @gumisgirl, @mommasbigd, @heyitstacy, @misslauravillanueva, @fallenlostarchives, @infinitivesearch

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pinguwrites · 2 years ago

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Our True Nature | Tom Buckley

Pairing -> dom!tom buckley x student!psychic!reader

Summary -> You're different, you always have been; you've know that ever since you were a little kid who made your toys float in the air. Despite your great abilities you've pursued a rather humble life, looking for others like you. Your search comes to an end when you realize that your professor's assistant, Tom Buckley — the one you've been harboring a secret crush on — is a psychic, just like you.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), dom!Tom and sub!reader, age-gap (not specified, but reader is college-aged), praise kink, slight degradation, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, um superpower play??? telekinesis play??? I don't know what that shit's called, overstimulation, mild breeding kink, tom is wild and says dirty stuff, weird magic lore I made up (you can trust me, I used to write fantasy), mild hamilton reference ig, rough sex but not much emphasis on it

Disclaimer: Red Lights characters, plots, quotes, etc. do not belong to me and belong to the rightful owner(s). This is only fanfiction and this is just for fun.

When you first saw him it was like the world around you stopped. The rain that had been pouring down like a storm the entire day ceased its brutal assault, and in that week of dull weather and gray skies, the sun finally peeked out from behind the clouds and cast a heavenly glow around his body.

He looked like an angel. Dark hair caressed by sunlight, eyes as pale blue as a glacier, and the most handsome face you’d ever seen. It was all right there, across the parking lot of the university, just waiting to be seen. A god amongst humans, a flower in a field of grass.

But then the moment passed. He walked away, without any word or acknowledgment, like he never even saw you at all. It wasn’t until later on did you realize who this man was — Tom Buckley, your new professor’s assistant.

You supposed that was when the attraction started. You tried to kid yourself and say that it was actually halfway through the year when he started offering private study sessions, or when he made it a point to greet you good morning every day, or even when he insisted you call him Tom, but you knew the truth. You had fallen for him the second you saw him but were only too ashamed to admit it.

A god amongst humans.

It was a silly phrase you used to describe him. He wasn’t a god. Not even close to one. He was nothing like you. He couldn’t see visions of the future, or make a door open and close at his whim. He was just a person, a person you had a silly, undeniable crush on. A person you could not stop staring at.

He was currently leading the lesson today, showcasing a video on how a fake psychic used tricks behind the scenes to fool her audience, but you weren’t paying attention at all. Your chin was resting in your hand, and your gaze was upon Tom like he was the only thing that mattered.

You could barely see him in the poor lighting. The best you got was a figure and a shadow on the projection, but that didn’t deter you at all. All you wanted was to observe him, the way he moved, the way he talked, the way his hands would gesture as he explained the concepts students didn’t understand.

He seemed to notice your blatant staring, because after the video ended and he turned the lights back on, his eyes locked with yours, and he did what he always did: made you stay behind after class.

“Is something wrong?” you asked. It was a routine question. When the students got up to leave you would approach his desk, feigning confusion, waiting for him to say, ‘No, nothing, I just wanted to look over the assignment with you.’

You were sure your friends thought you were dumb. Why else would you need extra help all the time? but that was a much better assumption than the idea that you were fucking Mr. Buckley, so you never bothered correcting them.

“No, nothing, I just . . . ” Tom started but then trailed off. From this distance, you could properly admire the light freckles scattered across his pale face and took a moment to save the image in your head. When he continued, your attention snapped back. “I have a couple of questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Let’s go to my office.” He looked a little nervous for some reason. The walk to his office was spent trying to deduce why. Maybe something was wrong this time.

You sat down on one of the chairs by his desk. His room was filled with all sorts of odd things, namely technology used to disprove — or prove — paranormal activity. Occasionally, this material would be showcased in class, and he and Matheson would do replicas of former encounters to demonstrate how they worked.

You always paid very close attention to those days, in case you ever need the information in the future. How to Evade Ghost Hunters 101!

“What is it? Have I really done something wrong this time?” you joked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

He laughed. A beautiful smile.

“Of course not, you’re my star student.” Your heart warmed at that. “I just wanted to test some things out with you. For the curriculum, Dr. Matheson and I were considering adding it to the course, and we want your opinion.”

You nodded. “That’s fine with me.”

“Good.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a tarot card pack.

“We want to do a lesson on how pictures and symbolism can be manipulated to fit the victim’s life,” he said, shuffling the deck. “Tarot cards are so vague and general — The Fool, for example, represents new beginnings and adventure. Is that not the foundation of everyone’s life? To explore, to be inexperienced?”

You agreed. “And how are you planning on presenting this to the class? Give out a tarot reading to everyone?”

Tom chuckled. “I just want to try it out with you, to prove it.”

He held out the cards for you to pick, but you stopped him. “Aren’t I supposed to tell you what I want to know?”

There was a brief silence, and if you looked carefully, you could see a light pink tinge glaze over his cheeks, and his breathing hitch ever so slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Don’t worry. Whatever you want to know about me,” you offered, amused at his reaction. “Tell me, what are you looking for?”

“I want to know your secrets,” he admitted. “I want to know what you’re hiding.”

“You’ll be disappointed. There’s nothing interesting about me.”

“We’ll see.”

You picked three cards and placed them down on the table. Each representative of either the past, present, or future, or at least, that’s how you were assuming he was doing the reading.

He turned the first card. It was The Star, reversed.

“Something in the past was bothering you,” he said. “You felt hopeless, like you had no more motivation . . . Am I right in guessing it was the result of something specific?”

“Yes,” you said. Obviously, his reading wasn’t true, how could it be? he wasn’t like you, but he was definitely right about the way people manipulated the symbolism. You doubted he knew the real reason why you had been so depressed.

He flipped over the next card. The Lovers.

He grinned. “I’m sure you can guess what this means. Are you in a relationship?”

You shook your head.

“Then it’s about a potential someone. You’ll find your complimentary, someone you can balance with — it could be platonic, or romantic, but no matter the type of relationship, they’ll be loving, and supportive.”

You looked into his eyes before returning your attention back down to the cards. Oh, how you wished it was him.

He turned the last card.

“The Ten of Cups. Your desires will be fulfilled. You’ll be happy, whatever problems you had in the past will be resolved.”

It was silent for a moment. You expected him to ask you questions of how accurate it was, and how quickly you connected his predictions to events in your life, but he didn’t.

“Do you believe in magic?” he asked bluntly. “The supernatural? You either do or you don’t, I can’t imagine you’d be wasting your time in this class if your opinion was neutral.”

You felt like you’d been put right on the spot. You thought about the right way to answer. “I believe in it, in the sense that I’m open about what we don’t know, and am optimistic about all the possibilities.”

He all but rolled his eyes. “C’mon. That was so wordy. I want to hear the truth.”

He leaned in closer. Your faces were inches apart, and you could feel his minty breath on your face.

“Yes,” you breathed out. “I believe in magic.”

He pulled away, satisfied. “I believe in magic, too.”

You quirked an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? Have you ever seen it in action?”

“Maybe,” he answered vaguely, a grin on his face. “Let me see your palm.”

You wanted to laugh, but you yourself was very eager to comply with his demands, not because you thought the experiments were interesting, but rather you enjoyed spending time with him, and the prospect of him touching you—even though it was only your hand—was thrilling.

Tom caressed the lines on your palms. He was distracted by it.

You weren’t sure what it was about him that made you so drawn. You didn’t believe in love at first sight, it was only something based on lust and looks, but this was more. You didn’t just like him, you found him utterly attractive, in a way that surpassed physicality.

It certainly wasn’t his personality. You thought you two were compatible in mentality, and you got along well, but he was rather boring. He wasn’t fiery nor exciting, nothing that could take you off guard or pique your curiosity.

He was intelligent. He told you he used to study physics, something you just had to respect him for, but you didn’t know that until just recently, and it’s not like his day-to-day actions showcased his genius.

You really didn’t know what it was, and a part of not knowing made it all the more mysterious. But it also made you feel vulnerable. In less than a year, you had become so hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with someone. He could do anything and you wouldn’t blink an eye. He had so much power over you, and he didn’t even know it.

“Can you feel it?” he asked softly, looking up at you.

You pulled your hand away, too flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He took your hand again, unrelenting. He gripped it tighter, encasing it in his warmth. It felt so nice.

“Between us,” he clarified, his voice low. He was gazing at you intently.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you like me?” he asked, his tone almost desperate. “I see you do things, impossible things. When you drop a pencil in class it floats back up to your hand, when your coffee gets too cold I see you wrap your hand around the cup and make it bubble. No one else notices, but I do. I see it.”

You froze, or rather, your mind was instantly filled with so many thoughts you couldn’t comprehend them all at once.

You thought you were careful with your abilities because up until now, no one had caught you. Not since you were a teenager who copied off others during a test, not since you got your first car and put it on autopilot so you could sleep during a drive, not even since you were a little girl who was too lazy to tie her own braid at school.

“T-Tom,” you stuttered. “I don’t . . .”

And what was that he said about being like him? Was he implying that he could do these things too? That after all these years of searching, you’d finally found another psychic?

Tom’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” He chuckled nervously. “I don’t know what I was saying. Just forget it.”

He cleared his throat. You still didn’t say anything. It was like someone had pressed a mute button and you couldn’t speak, no matter how badly you wanted to say something.

“You should go,” he suggested. “Thank you, for all the help.”

He stood up, and you did too, mirroring his actions. He lead you over to the exit. “Have a nice day, I look forward to seeing you in class next week.”

You turned around, not wanting to leave yet. “Tom . . .”

He was about to close the door when you stopped it with your foot, budged it open, and leapt into his arms, placing a passionate kiss on his lips.

You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know what you were thinking. All that you knew was that you wanted him. Badly. As you pushed your way back inside the room, you feared for a moment that he was going to shove you off, tell you he didn’t mean it like that, but he didn’t. He pulled you inside and lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, and sat you on top of his desk, returning the kiss with even more intensity.

“Tom,” you all but moaned. You felt confused and dazed, but with the way Tom was nibbling at your neck, sucking and licking, you could tell he wasn’t in the same boat as you. You relaxed, letting everything go. You could let him take care of this—whatever this was. Let him take care of you.

“Can I take it off?” he asked in between kisses. He tugged at your shirt, fingers hovering above the buttons.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Please, please, please—”

The buttons unbuttoned themselves. You gasped a little in surprise as your shirt was tossed to the side. That was all the confirmation you needed—Tom Buckley was just like you.

The realization that you had finally found another was lost when he started kneading your breasts through your bra. “Such a needy girl,” he cooed. “Didn’t know she could get like that. Doesn’t want to answer my questions but needs me to please her.”

“Fuck,” you let out, surprised at the dirty talk, but pleased nonetheless. “I just want you.”

“I know you do. Staring at me like a piece of meat in class. That’s all I am to you, hmm? Just a hot teacher to fuck. You tell your little friends about me?”

“No!” You whined when his hands went underneath your bra and pinched your nipple. “Ow! I’ve never told anyone.”

“Ah, I knew you were a good girl.”

You whined again and nuzzled your head in the crook of his shoulder, not wanting him to see how flustered he was making you.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured, unclasping your bra, watching your breasts fall out. “Beautiful girl . . . Can I suck?”

“Yes!” you said impatiently. You found it sexy that he kept asking for permission, but also annoying—he needed to get straight to the point, and stop teasing you.

He latched his lip onto your hard nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud, occasionally nipping on it. While his mouth was occupied, his hands were roaming your body, up to your face and down to as far as he could reach, which while you were sitting down, was all the way to your ankles.

He switched nipples and went to your other breast, making you release a sigh of satisfaction. He eventually let go and gave you another kiss, his tongue slipping inside.

You looked down. He was hard, subtly trying to grind himself between your legs. “Mmm,” he moaned against your lips.

His moan was wonderful. If not for your own pleasure, you wanted to continue this just so you could elicit another sound out of him.

In a bold move, you reached down and squeezed his crotch. He let out a sound, more strangled this time, and pulled away, a string of saliva connecting you both.

He placed his hand over the hand that was palming his cock, encouraging you to keep going, with eyes shut and nose scrunched up. He then moved it to lean on your shoulders.

“Do you like it rough or vanilla?” he asked. “I can do both.”

You tried to hide your grin. “Rough.”

He knew that by saying that you didn’t want it completely that way. The actions, yes, but you still wanted to hear him praise you, to caress you, to whisper sweet things in your ear.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He picked you — handsome and strong — and laid you down on the couch. It wasn’t that large, but at least it was more comfortable than his desk, and you didn’t want to wait any longer by going to his place or yours.

“I want to let you know,” he started seriously, “that this isn’t a, uh, one-night stand. I don’t want that, not from you.”

“I don’t want that either,” you said.

“And I don't do this often. Well, I don't do this at all. With other students, I mean. You’re the first. I don’t want you to think that I’m just, how do you say it? playing you?”

You giggled. He didn’t seem like the playboy type at all. In fact, when most men and women flirted with him, he usually got all uncomfortable and quiet, a fact that boosted your ego, as he never felt that way around you.

“This is serious for me, too. Let’s keep it a secret until this semester is over. And when I’m out of your class we can make it public, okay?”

He nodded, and leaned down to kiss you again, soft and delicate.

“Take off your shirt,” you demanded.

He smiled at your behavior. It took a minute, because he was wearing his suit, but he managed to get it off with your help. You didn’t want to damage his clothing, it was probably on the more expensive side, and he looked so exquisite in it.

You admired his chest. He was lean, but you could still see some faint muscles. After all, he had carried you to the couch. He was perfect. It was just what you had hoped for.

This moment didn’t feel real. How was it that you had gotten so lucky? You were here with the man of your dreams, in his arms, and you were about to make love.

“Get on your knees.”

You did as he asked. You had done this a couple times before, so you weren’t really worried. You could even take cock all the way in, but when you saw his size, you gulped.

He guided your face to it. You licked the tip to the base to the balls, wondering how you were going to make it fit. You reasoned with yourself that if you couldn’t you could just use your hands for the rest.

That was, until he slid his cock inside your mouth and pushed it as far as he could. You controlled your gag reflex and started bobbing your head up and down, the sensation causing your eyes to tear, but not in pain.

He wiped them away. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t say anything, not with your mouth filled. You showed your answer by sucking him, fondling his balls, looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes.

“Ohhh, you take it so well. So well.”

He pushed your head all the way down, keeping it there for a few seconds. You breathed in through your nose, trying to keep yourself under control whilst still making the experience pleasurable for him. He seemed to like it, with the way he was rolling his hips against your mouth, even though there was nothing left to fit inside.

Then, suddenly, you felt something rubbing your clit through your pants. You tried to pull off of Tom, concerned at what it might be, when you realized it was him. He was the one doing it, making you feel this way.

He kept your head in place, a pleased smile on his face. “Like that?”

You moaned. You couldn’t concentrate on him, not when your body was being pleasured so good. How much practice had he had with his abilities? How could he focus when you were going down on him? It was probably the age. He wasn’t that much older than you, but he was older, and surely that came with more practice.

He pulled you off of him after a few minutes of you squirming and gagging, placing you down on the couch. He made sure your head was in a comfortable position before taking off your pants and pulling out his cock. Your pussy was still being rubbed, by whatever invisible force he was using, and it was about to make you come.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he shushed, pressing his cock at your entrance.

“Let me make you—”

“No,” he growled. “I’m going to come inside of you. Don’t think, just let your professor handle it.”

You knew he wasn’t technically your professor. He was just the TA, but it was still sexy to hear him say that. It reminded you of your student-teacher relationship, the forbiddeness of it all.

You came just as his cock slid in. He sighed, feeling your pussy flutter and your cream leak out on him. He looked down, taking in the view, before pulling his cock out and slamming it back in, taking you off guard.

His pace was unrelenting. You didn’t know he could be so animalistic. He was panting and groaning in your ear, holding your body in place even though you weren’t going anywhere. He was still rubbing your clit — technically — but you didn't mind. You could take another orgasm. Besides, you weren’t sure if he would stop even if you asked. He looked so blissed out, like he was in another world, the only thing driving him his primal instinct.

“Gonna fill you up so good,” he said, increasing the intensity of his pace. The couch was now shuffling a little, moving forward a little bit each time, but Tom didn’t seem to notice. “You need it so bad. Just want me to take care of you, yeah?”

“Yes,” you cried out, rather pathetically. It was crazy to think how submissive this man could make you. You had never been like this with any of your other partners, but with him, you felt safe, like you trust him with anything.

“I can imagine — you in class, giving me one of those eyes you always do. Fuck — the other students don’t suspect a thing, but both you and I know that I’ll have you over my desk by evening.”

The thought alone made your mind whirl.

“I should fill your panties with my cum, make you walk around in it,” he said. That shouldn’t have aroused you as much as it did. He noticed your reaction. “Oh, you enjoy hearing me say those things? Those depraved, dirty things.”

He hit that spot in you, the one that made you go crazy, and you cried out, clutching his shoulders.

“There it is,” he said, mostly to himself, as he kept ramming that spot over and over again. The added sensations made you go limp in his arms. You could feel that familiar coil in your stomach, the one that told you you were going to orgasm again.

You threw your head back, looking up at the ceiling as you came, but your peace of mind didn’t last long. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look back at him, beating that same spot again, all while continuing the assault on your clit. “Look at me, I want to see your face.”

You looked right into his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, and you could tell an orgasm was coming for him, too.

You felt a little ashamed that in such a short time he had made you come twice, and you hadn’t at all — at least, not yet — but like he said before, he didn’t want you to think, so you didn’t, and let whatever thoughts you had left bouncing around in your head leave.

“You’re wonderful,” he praised, kissing you again. He couldn’t get enough of it. Your teeth clashed briefly, but neither of your cared. He just wanted to taste you. “I can’t wait to be with you.”

With that, he came inside, filling you up to the brim with his hot seed. He kept his cock in, holding your hips in place, until he was satisfied and pulled out.

He laid on top of you on the couch, caressing the side of your cheek as you both recovered and took your breath.

It was silent. Just the two of you, in his office. You had finally found the one. The one you were sure you were going to spend the rest of your life with, all happy and in love like a fairytale.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t think I’d ever find another,” you finally said.

“I didn’t either. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad it’s you I get to share this with.”

“Hey, what was with the cards? Were you just testing me?”

“Yeah.” He turned to face you. “I wasn’t sure if I was just seeing things. I mean, you get up so early and go to work, sometimes you just imagine a kid opening a door on its own or playing tricks with her assignments. I had to be sure.”

“So, you weren’t intending to tell my future?”

“You can’t actually do that,” he said.

“Yes you can.”

He blinked, surprised.

“I know you said the interpretation is very broad, but it still works.”

“You can actually tell the future?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t have to be with Tarot cards only. But whatever methods, I don’t do it often, I feel like it messes with things. But sometimes I just get these images in my head, and I can’t stop it.”

It hadnt occurred to you that even though you were both psychic, your powers, or at least, the direction you went with them, were different.

“If you weren’t reading my future, what were you doing?”

“I noticed that objects imbued with magic, especially artifacts, radiated energy—a feeling, one that only I could sense. If I gave the same impression on those cards, and you happened to pick them, it would either be a huge coincidence or it would mean you were drawn to them, albeit unknowingly. It was just something to give me more confidence.”

You weren’t aware that was something a person could do. You supposed there were plenty of things you didn’t know. You were looking forward to learning from him, and teaching him as well. You were both in uncharted waters, not knowing where this would lead you both. But it was okay, as long as you had him by your side.

You did worry a little that this intense connection you felt with him was only in an otherworldly sense, that you fell for him because of this magic, but you shook the thought away. That wasn’t true. You wouldn’t let it be true. You loved him and he loved you—and that was it. Nothing more.

“I can do another round,” he said suddenly. “You?”

You grinned and nodded. “Yeah. But this time, I want to ride you.”

He laughed and flipped you both over so that you were on top of him. “Show me how you get off, babygirl.”

Taglist:

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#pinguwrites #tom buckley #tom buckley x reader #tom buckley x y/n #tom buckley x you #cillian murphy #red lights #fanfiction

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

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All the books I reviewed in 2024

I reviewed 26 books this year: 15 novels, 5 nonfiction books, and 6 graphic novels. Even though I feel perennially behind on my reading (and objectively, I do have 10 linear feet of "to be read" books on the shelf), I think this is a pretty good haul.

Books are pretty much the ideal gift, if you ask me. Of course, I'm biased as a former bookseller and library worker, and as an author (of course) – I had three more books come out in 2024 (see the end of this post for details).

I started a lot more than 26 books this year. Long ago, I figured life was too short for books I wasn't enjoying, and I'm pretty ruthless about putting books down partway through if I think they're not going to reward finishing them. I probably start 10 books for every one I finish. However, I do review more than 90% of the books I get through. It's rare for me to keep reading a book all the way to the end if I'm not enjoying it enough to unconditionally recommend it. I rarely review books I don't like – there's not really any point in cataloging the list of books I think you won't enjoy reading, and most books I don't like very much are broken in ways that are too banal to comment upon.

The list below is pretty great, but if you're looking for more, here's the haul from 2023:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/01/bookmaker/#2023-in-review

NOVELS

I. Cahokia Jazz by Francis Spufford

A fucking banger: it's a taut, unguessable whuddunit, painted in ultrablack noir, set in an alternate Jazz Age in a world where indigenous people never ceded most the west to the USA. It's got gorgeously described jazz music, a richly realized modern indigenous society, and a spectacular romance. It's amazing.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/04/cahokia/#the-sun-and-the-moon

II. After World by Debbie Urbanski

An unflinching and relentlessly bleak tale of humanity's mass extinction, shot through with pathos and veined with seams of tragic tenderness and care. Sen Anon – the story's semi-protagonist – is 18 years old when the world learns that every person alive has been sterilized and so the human race is living out its last years.

The news triggers a manic insistence that this is a good thing – long overdue, in fact – and the perfect opportunity to scan every person alive for eventual reincarnation as virtual humans in an Edenic cloud metaverse called Gaia. That way, people can continue to live their lives without the haunting knowledge that everything they do makes the planet worse for every other living thing, and each other. Here, finally, is the resolution to the paradox of humanity: our desire to do good, and our inevitable failure on that score.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/18/storyworker-ad39-393a-7fbc/#digital-human-archive-project

III. Jonathan Abernathy You Are Kind by Molly McGhee

A dreamlike tale of a public-private partnership that hires the terminally endebted to invade the dreams of white-collar professionals and harvest the anxieties that prevent them from being fully productive members of the American corporate workforce.

We meet Jonathan as he is applying for a job that he was recruited for in a dream. As instructed in his dream, he presents himself at a shabby strip-mall office where an acerbic functionary behind scratched plexiglass takes his application and informs him that he is up for a gig run jointly by the US State Department and a consortium of large corporate employers. If he is accepted, all of his student debt repayments will be paused and he will no longer face wage garnishment. What's more, he'll be doing the job in his sleep, which means he'll be able to get a day job and pull a double income – what's not to like?

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/08/capitalist-surrealism/#productivity-hacks

IV. The Book of Love by Kelly Link

If you've read Link's short stories (which honestly, you must read), you know her signature move: a bone-dry witty delivery, used to spin tales of deceptive whimsy and quirkiness, disarming you with daffiness while she sets the hook and yanks. That's the unmistakeable, inimitable texture of a Kelly Link story: deft literary brushstrokes, painting a picture so charming and silly that you don't even notice when she cuts you without mercy.

Turns out that she can quite handily do this for hundreds of pages, and the effect only gets better when it's given space to unfold.

It's a long and twisting mystery about friendship, love, queerness, rock-and-roll, stardom, parenthood, loyalty, lust and duty.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/13/the-kissing-song/#wrack-and-roll

V. Lyorn by Steven Brust

The seventeenth book in Steven Brust's long-running Vlad Taltos series. For complicated reasons, Vlad has to hide out in a theater. Why a theater? They are shielded from sorcery, as proof against magical spying by rival theater companies, and Vlad is on the run from the Left Hand of the Jhereg – the crime syndicate's all-woman sorceress squad – and so he has to hide in the theater.

The theater is mounting a production of a famous play that's about another famous play. The first famous play (the one the play is about – try and follow along, would you?) is about a famous massacre that took place thousands of years before. The play was mounted as a means of drumming up support for the whistleblower who reported on the massacre and was invited to a short-term berth in the Emperor's death row as a consequence.

The plot is a fantastic, fast-handed caper story that has a million moving parts, a beautiful prestige, and a coup de grace that'll have you cheering and punching the air.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/09/so-meta/#delightful-doggerel

VI. Till Human Voices Wake Us by Rebecca Roque

A teen murder mystery told in the most technorealist way. Cia's best friend Alice has been trying to find her missing boyfriend for months, and in her investigation, she's discovered their small town's dark secret – a string of disappearances, deaths and fires that are the hidden backdrop to the town's out-of-control addiction problem.

Alice has something to tell Cia, something about the fire that orphaned her and cost her one leg when she was only five years old, but Cia refuses to hear it. Instead, they have a blazing fight, and part ways. It's the last time Cia and Alice ever see each other: that night, Alice kills herself.

Or does she? Cia is convinced that Alice has been murdered, and that her murder is connected to the drug- and death-epidemic that's ravaging their town. As Cia and her friends seek to discover the town's secret – and the identity of Alice's killer – we're dragged into an intense, gripping murder mystery/conspiracy story that is full of surprises and reversals, each more fiendishly clever than the last.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/16/dead-air/#technorealism

VII. The Steerswoman by Rosemary Kirstein

Randall "XKCD" Munroe pitched me on this over dinner: "All these different people kept recommending them to me, and they kept telling me that I would love them, but they wouldn't tell me what they were about because there's this huge riddle in them that's super fun to figure out for yourself. "The books were published in the eighties by Del Rey, and the cover of the first one had a huge spoiler on it. But the author got the rights back and she's self-published it."

How could I resist a pitch like that? So I ordered a copy. Holy moly is this a good novel! And yeah, there's a super interesting puzzle in it that I won't even hint at, except to say that even the book's genre is a riddle that you'll have enormous great fun solving.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/04/the-wulf/#underground-fave

VIII. Moonbound by Robin Sloan

Moonbound's protagonist is a "chronicler," a symbiotic fungus engineered to nestle in a human's nervous system, where it serves as a kind of recording angel, storing up the memories, experiences and personalities of its host. When we meet the chronicler, it has just made a successful leap from its old host – a 10,000-years-dead warrior who had been preserved in an anaerobic crashpod ever since her ship was shot out of the sky – into the body of Ariel, a 12-year-old boy who had just invaded the long-lost tomb.

This is doing fiction in hard mode, and Sloan nails it. The unraveling strangeness of Ariel's world is counterpointed with the amazing tale of the world the chronicler hails from, even as the chonicler consults with the preserved personalities of the heroes and warriors it had previous resided in and recorded.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/11/penumbraverse/#middle-anth

IX. Fight Me by Austin Grossman

Aging ex-teen superheroes weigh the legacy of Generation X, in a work that enrobes its savage critique with sweet melancholia, all under a coating of delicious snark. The Newcomers – an amped-up ninja warrior, a supergenius whose future self keeps sending him encouragement and technical schematics backwards through time, and an exiled magical princess turned preppie supermodel – have spent more than a decade scattered to the winds. While some have fared better than others, none of them have lived up to their potential or realized the dreams that seemed so inevitable when they were world famous supers with an entourage of fellow powered teens who worshipped them as the planet's greatest heroes.

As they set out to solve the mystery of the wizard who gave the protagonist his powers, they are reunited and must take stock of who they are and how they got there (cue Talking Heads' "Once In a Lifetime").

The publisher's strapline for this book is "The Avengers Meets the Breakfast Club," which is clever, but extremely wrong. The real comp for this book isn't "The Breakfast Club," it's "The Big Chill."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/01/the-big-genx-chill/#im-super-thanks-for-asking

X. Glass Houses by Madeline Ashby

Kristen is the "Chief Emotional Manager" for Wuv, a hot startup that has defined the new field of "affective computing," which is when a computer tells you what everyone else around you is really feeling, based on the irrepressible tells emitted by their bodies, voices and gadgets.

Managing Sumter through Wuv's tumultuous launch is hard work for Kristen, but at last, it's paid off. The company has been acquired, making Kristen – and all her coworkers on the founding core team – into instant millionaires. They're flying to a lavish celebration in an autonomous plane that Sumter chartered when the action begins: the plane has a malfunction and crashes into a desert island, killing all but ten of the Wuvvies.

As the survivors explore the island, they discover only one sign of human habitation: a huge, brutalist, featureless black glass house, which initially rebuffs all their efforts to enter it. But once they gain entry, they discover that the house is even harder to leave.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/13/influencers/#affective-computing

XI. The Sapling Cage by Margaret Killjoy

A queer coming-of-age tale in the mode of epic fantasy. Lorel wants to be a witch, but that's the very last of the adventurous trades to be strictly gender-segregated. Boys and girls alike run away to be knights, brigands and sailors, but only girls can become a witch. Indeed, Lorel's best friend, Lane, is promised to the witches, having been born to a witch herself.

Lorel has signed up for witching just as the land is turning against witches, thanks to a political plot by a scheming duchess who has scapegoated the witches as part of a plan to annex all the surrounding duchies, re-establishing the long-disintegrated kingdom with herself on the throne. To make things worse (for the witches, if not the duchess), there's a plague of monsters on the land, and the forests are blighted with a magical curse that turns trees to unmelting ice. This all softens up the peasantfolk for anti-witch pogroms.

So Lorel has to learn witching, even as her coven is fighting both monsters and the duchess's knights and the vigilante yokels who've been stirred up with anti-witch xenophobia.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/24/daughters-of-the-empty-throne/#witchy

XII. Blackheart Man by Nalo Hopkinson

A story that will make you drunk on language, on worldbuilding, and on its roaring, relentless plot. The action is set on Chynchin, a fantastic Caribbean island (or maybe Caribbeanesque – it's never clear whether this is some magical, imaginary world, or some distant future of our own). Chynchin is a multiracial, creole land with a richly realized gift economy that Hopkinson deftly rounds out with a cuisine, languages, and familial arrangements.

Chynchin was founded through a slave rebellion, in which the press-ganged soldiers of the iron-fisted Ymisen empire were defeated by three witches who caused them to be engulfed in tar that they magicked into a liquid state just long enough to entomb them, then magicked back into solidity. For generations, the Ymisen have tolerated Chynchin's self-rule, but as the story opens, a Ymisen armada sails into Chynchin's port and a "trade envoy" announces that it's time for the Chynchin to "voluntarily" re-establish trade with the Ymisen.

The story that unfolds is a staple of sf and fantasy: the scrappy resistance mounted against the evil empire, and this familiar backdrop is a sturdy scaffold to support Hopkinson's dizzying, phantasmagoric tale of psychedelic magic, possessed children, military intrigue, musicianship and sexual entanglements.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/20/piche/#cynchin

XIII. Julia by Sandra Newman

Julia is the kind of fanfic that I love, in the tradition of both The Wind Done Gone and Rosencrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead, in which a follow-on author takes on the original author's throwaway world-building with deadly seriousness, elucidating the weird implications and buried subtexts of all the stuff and people moving around in the wings and background of the original.

For Newman, the starting point here is Julia, an enigmatic lover who comes to Winston with all kinds of rebellious secrets – tradecraft for planning and executing dirty little assignations and acquiring black market goods. Julia embodies a common contradiction in the depiction of young women (she is some twenty years younger than Winston): on the one hand, she is a "native" of the world, while Winston is a late arrival, carrying around all his "oldthink" baggage that leaves him perennially baffled, terrified and angry; on the other hand, she's a naive "girl," who "doesn't much care for reading," and lacks the intellectual curiosity that propels Winston through the text.

This contradiction is the cleavage line that Newman drives her chisel into, fracturing Orwell's world in useful, fascinating, engrossing ways. Through Julia's eyes, we experience Oceania as a paranoid autocracy, corrupt and twitchy. We witness the obvious corollary of a culture of denunciation and arrest: the ruling Party of such an institution must be riddled with internecine struggle and backstabbing, to the point of paralyzed dysfunction. The Orwellian trick of switching from being at war with Eastasia to Eurasia and back again is actually driven by real military setbacks – not just faked battles designed to stir up patriotic fervor. The Party doesn't merely claim to be under assault from internal and external enemies – it actually is.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/28/novel-writing-machines/#fanfic

XIV. The Wilding by Ian McDonald

McDonald's first horror novel, and it's fucking terrifying. It's set in a rural Irish peat bog that has been acquired by a conservation authority that is rewilding it after a century of industrial peat mining that stripped it back nearly to the bedrock. This rewilding process has been greatly accelerated by the covid lockdowns, which reduced the human footprint in the conservation area to nearly zero.

Lisa's last duty before she leaves the bog and goes home to Dublin is leading a school group on a wild campout in one of the bog's deep clearings. It's a routine assignment, and while it's not her favorite duty, it's also not a serious hardship.

But as the group hikes out to the campsite, one of her fellow guides is killed, without warning, by a mysterious beast that moves so quickly they can barely make out its monstrous form. Thus begins a tense, mysterious, spooky as hell story of survival in a haunted woods, written in the kind of poesy that has defined McDonald's career, and which – when deployed in service of terror – has the power to raise literal goosebumps.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/25/bogman/#erin-go-aaaaaaargh

XV. Polostan by Neal Stephenson

Not a spy novel, but a science fiction novel about spies in an historical setting. This isn't to say that Stephenson tramples on, or ignores spy tropes: this is absolutely a first-rate spy novel. Nor does Stephenson skimp on the lush, gorgeously realized and painstakingly researched detail you'd want from an historical novel.

Polostan raises the curtain on the story of Dawn Rae Bjornberg, AKA Aurora Maximovna Artemyeva, whose upbringing is split between the American West in the early 20th century and the Leningrad of revolutionary Russia (her parents are an American anarchist and a Ukrainian Communist who meet when her father travels to America as a Communist agitator). Aurora's parents' marriage does not survive their sojourn to the USSR, and eventually Aurora and her father end up back in the States, after her father is tasked with radicalizing the veterans of the Bonus Army that occupied DC, demanding the military benefits they'd been promised.

All of this culminates in her return sojourn to the Soviet Union, where she first falls under suspicion of being an American spy, and then her recruitment as a Soviet spy.

Also: she plays a lot of polo. Like, on a horse.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/04/bomb-light/#nukular

NONFICTION

I. A City on Mars by Kelly and Zach Weinersmith

Biologist Kelly Weinersmith and cartoonist Zach Weinersmith set out to investigate the governance challenges of the impending space settlements they were told were just over the horizon. Instead, they discovered that humans aren't going to be settling space for a very long time, and so they wrote a book about that instead.

The Weinersmiths make the (convincing) case that every aspect of space settlement is vastly beyond our current or reasonably foreseeable technical capability. What's more, every argument in favor of pursuing space settlement is errant nonsense. And finally: all the energy we are putting into space settlement actually holds back real space science, which offers numerous benefits to our species and planet (and is just darned cool).

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/09/astrobezzle/#send-robots-instead

II. Dark Wire by Joseph Cox

Cox spent years on the crimephone beat, tracking vendors who sold modded phones (first Blackberries, then Android phones) to criminal syndicates with the promise that they couldn't be wiretapped by law-enforcement.

He tells the story of the FBI's plan to build an incredibly secure, best-of-breed crimephone, one with every feature that a criminal would want to truly insulate themselves from law enforcement while still offering everything a criminal could need to plan and execute crimes.

This is really two incredible tales. The first is the story of the FBI and its partners as they scaled up Anom, their best-of-breed crimephone business. This is a (nearly) classic startup tale, full of all-nighters, heroic battles against the odds, and the terror and exhilaration of "hockey-stick" growth.

The other one is the crime startup, the one that the hapless criminal syndicates that sign up to distribute Anom devices find themselves in the middle of. They, too, are experiencing hockey-stick growth. They, too, have a fantastically lucrative tiger by the tail. And they, too, have a unique set of challenges that make this startup different from any other.

Cox has been on this story for a decade, and it shows. He has impeccable sourcing and encyclopedic access to the court records and other public details that allow him to reproduce many of the most dramatic scenes in the Anom caper verbatim.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/04/anom-nom-nom/#the-call-is-coming-from-inside-the-ndrangheta

III. The Hidden History of Walt Disney World by Foxx Nolte

No one writes about Disney theme parks like Foxx Nolte; no one rises above the trivia and goes beyond the mere sleuthing of historical facts, no one nails the essence of what makes these parks work – and fail.

The history of Walt Disney World is also a history of the American narrative from the 1960s to the turn of the millennium, especially once Epcot enters the picture and Disney sets out to market itself as a futuristic mirror to America and the world. There's a doomed plan to lead the nation in the provision of an airport for the largely hypothetical short runway aircraft that never materialized, the Disney company's love-hate affair with Florida's orange growers, and the geopolitics of installing a permanent World's Fair, just as World's Fairs were disappearing from the world stage.

In focusing on the conflicts between different corporate managers, outside suppliers, and the gloriously flamboyant weirdos of Florida, Nolte's history of Disney World transcends amusing anaecdotes and tittle-tattle – rather, it illustrates how the creative sparks thrown off by people smashing into each other sometimes created towering blazes of glory that burn to this day.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/15/disnefried/#dialectics

IV. Network Nation by Richard R John

An extremely important, brilliantly researched, deep history of America's love/hate affair with not just the telephone, but also the telegraph. It is unmistakably as history book, one that aims at a definitive takedown of various neat stories about the history of American telecommunications.

The monopolies that emerged in the telegraph and then the telephone weren't down to grand forces that made them inevitable, but rather, to the errors made by regulators and the successful gambits of the telecoms barons. At many junctures, things could have gone another way.

Most striking about this book were the parallels to contemporary fights over Big Tech trustbusting, in our new Gilded Age. Many of the apologies offered for Western Union or AT&T's monopoly could have been uttered by the Renfields who carry water for Facebook, Apple and Google. John's book is a powerful and engrossing reminder that variations on these fights have occurred in the not-so-distant past, and that there's much we can learn from them.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/18/the-bell-system/#were-the-phone-company-we-dont-have-to-care

V. A Natural History of Empty Lots by Christopher Brown

A frustratingly hard to summarize book, because it requires a lot of backstory and explanation, and one of the things that makes this book so! fucking! great! is how skillfully Brown weaves disparate elements – the unique house he built in Austin, the wildlife he encounters in the city's sacrifice zones, the politics that created them – into his telling.

This series of loosely connected essays that explains how everything fits together: colonial conquest, Brown's failed marriage, his experience as a lawyer learning property law, what he learned by mobilizing that learning to help his neighbors defend the pockets of wildness that refuse to budge.

It's filled with pastoral writing that summons Kim Stanley Robinson by way of Thoreau, and it sometimes frames its philosophical points the way a cyberpunk writer would.

The kind of book that challenges how you feel about the crossroads we're at, the place you live, and the place you want to be.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/17/cyberpunk-pastoralism/#time-to-mow-the-roof

GRAPHIC NOVELS

I. Death Strikes by David Maass and Patrick Lay

"The Emperor of Atlantis," is an opera written by two Nazi concentration camp inmates, the librettist Peter Kien and the composer Viktor Ullmann, while they were interned in Terezin, a show-camp in Czechoslovakia that housed numerous Jewish artists, who were encouraged to make and display their work as a sham to prove to the rest of the world that Nazi camps were humane places.

Death Strikes was adapted by my EFF colleague Dave Maass, an investigator and muckraker and brilliant writer, who teamed up with illustrator Patrick Lay and character designer Ezra Rose (who worked from Kien and Ullmann's original designs, which survived along with the score and libretto).

The Emperor's endless wars have already tried Death's patience. Death brings mercy, not vengeance, and the endless killing has dismayed him. The Emperor's co-option drives him past the brink, and Death declares a strike, breaking his sword and announcing that henceforth, no one will die.

Needless to say, this puts a crimp in the Emperor's all-out war plan. People get shot and stabbed and drowned and poisoned, but they don't die. They just hang around, embarrassingly alive (there's a great comic subplot of the inability of the Emperor's executioners to kill a captured assassin).

While this is clearly an adaptation, Kien and Ullmann's spirit of creativity, courage, and bittersweet creative ferment shines through. It's a beautiful book, snatched from death itself.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/23/peter-kien-viktor-ullmann/#terez

II. My Favorite Things Is Monsters Book Two by Emil Ferris

The long, long delayed sequel to the tale of Karen Reyes, a 10 year old, monster-obsessed queer girl in 1968 Chicago who lives with her working-class single mother and her older brother, Deeze, in an apartment house full of mysterious, haunted adults. There's the landlord – a gangster and his girlfriend – the one-eyed ventriloquist, and the beautiful Holocaust survivor and her jazz-drummer husband.

Ferris's storytelling style is dazzling, and it's matched and exceeded by her illustration style, which is grounded in the classic horror comics of the 1950s and 1960s. Characters in Karen's life – including Karen herself – are sometimes depicted in the EC horror style, and that same sinister darkness crowds around the edges of her depictions of real-world Chicago.

Book Two picks up from Book One's cliffhanger and then rockets forward. Everything brilliant about One is even better in Two – the illustrations more lush, the fine art analysis more pointed and brilliant, the storytelling more assured and propulsive, the shocks and violence more outrageous, the characters more lovable, complex and grotesque.

Everything about Two is more. The background radiation of the Vietnam War in One takes center stage with Deeze's machinations to beat the draft, and Deeze and Karen being ensnared in the Chicago Police Riots of '68. The allegories, analysis and reproductions of classical art get more pointed, grotesque and lavish. Annika's Nazi concentration camp horrors are more explicit and more explicitly connected to Karen's life. The queerness of the story takes center stage, both through Karen's first love and the introduction of a queer nightclub. The characters are more vivid, as is the racial injustice and the corruption of the adult world.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/01/the-druid/#

III. So Long Sad Love by Mirion Malle

Cleo is a French comics creator who's moved to Montreal, in part to be with Charles, a Quebecois creator who helps her find a place in the city's tight-knit artistic scene. The relationship feels like a good one, with the normal ups and downs, but then Cleo travels to a festival, where she meets Farah, a vivacious and talented fellow artist. They're getting along great…until Farah discovers who Cleo's boyfriend is. Though Farah doesn't say anything, she is visibly flustered and makes her excuses before hurriedly departing.

This kicks off Cleo's hunt for the truth about her boyfriend, a hunt that is complicated by the fact that she's so far from home, that her friends are largely his friends, that he flies off the handle every time she raises the matter, and by her love for him.

Malle handles this all so deftly, showing how Cleo and her friends all play archetypal roles in the recurrent missing stair dynamic. It's a beautifully told story, full of charm and character, but it's also a kind of forensic re-enactment of a disaster, told from an intermediate distance that's close enough to the action that we can see the looming crisis, but also understand why the people in its midst are steering straight into it.

Packed with subtlety and depth, romance and heartbreak, subtext that carries through the dialog (in marvelous translation from the original French by Aleshia Jensen) and the body language in Malle's striking artwork.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/25/missing-step/#the-fog-of-love

IV. Bea Wolf by Zach Wienersmith and Boulet

A ferociously amazingly great illustrated kids' graphic novel adaptation of the Old English epic poem, which inspired Tolkien, who helped bring it to popularity after it had languished in obscurity for centuries.

Weinersmith and Boulet set themselves the task of bringing a Germanic heroic saga from more than a thousand years ago to modern children, while preserving the meter and the linguistic and literary tropes of the original. And they did it!

There are some changes, of course. Grendel – the boss monster that both Beowulf and Bea Wulf must defeat – is no longer obsessed with decapitating his foes and stealing their heads. In Bea Wulf, Grendel is a monstrously grown up and boring adult who watches cable news and flosses twice per day, and when he defeats the kids whose destruction he is bent upon, he does so by turning them into boring adults, too.

The utter brilliance of Bea Wulf is as much due to the things it preserves from the original epic as it is to the updates and changes. Weinersmith has kept the Old English tradition of alliteration, right from the earliest passages, with celebrations of heroes like "Tanya, treat-taker, terror of Halloween, her costume-cache vast, sieging kin and neighbor, draining full candy-bins, fearing not the fate of her teeth. Ten thousand treats she took. That was a fine Tuesday."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/24/awesome-alliteration/#hellion-hallelujah

V. Youth Group by Bowen McCurdy and Jordan Morris

A charming tale of 1990s ennui, cringe Sunday School – and demon hunting.

Kay is a bitter, cynical teenager who's doing her best to help her mother cope with an ugly divorce that has seen her dad check out on his former family. Mom is going back to church, and she talks Kay into coming along with her to attend the church youth group.

But this is no ordinary youth group. Kay's ultra-boring suburban hometown is actually infested with demons who routinely possess the townspeople, and that baseline of demonic activity has suddenly gone critical, with a new wave of possessions. Suddenly, the possessed are everywhere – even Kay's shitty dad ends up with a demon inside of him.

That's when Kay discovers that the youth group and its corny pastor are also demon hunters par excellence. Their rec-rooms sport secret cubbies filled with holy weapons, and the words of exorcism come as readily to them as any embarrassing rewritten devotional pop song. Kay's discovery of this secret world convinces her that the youth group isn't so bad after all, and soon she is initiated into its mysteries, including the existence of rival demon-hunting kids from the local synagogue, Catholic church, and Wiccan coven.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/16/satanic-panic/#the-dream-of-the-nineties

VI. Justice Warriors: Vote Harder by Matt Bors and Ben Clarkson

Vote Harder sees Bubble City facing its first election in living memory, as the mayor – who inherited his position from his "powerful, strapping Papa" – loses a confidence vote by the city's trustees. They're upset with his plan to bankrupt the city in order to buy a laser powerful enough to carve his likeness into the sun as a viral stunt for the launch of his comeback album. The trustees are in no way mollified by the fact that he expects to make a lot of money selling special branded sunglasses that allow Bubble City (and the mutant hordes of the Uninhabited Zone) to safely look into the sun and see what their tax dollars bought.

So it's time for an election, and the two candidates are going hard: there's the incumbent Mayor Prince; there's his half-sister and ex-girlfriend, Stufina Vipix XII, and there's a dark-horse candidate Flauf Tanko, a mutant-tank cyborg that went rogue after a militant Home Owners Association disabled it and its owners abandoned it. Flauf-Tanko is determined to give the masses of the Uninhabited Zone the representation they've been denied for so long, despite the structural impediments to this (UZers need to complete a questionnaire, sub-forms, have three forms of ID, and present a rental contract, drivers license, work permit and breeding license. They also need to get their paperwork signed in person at a VERI-VOTE location, then wait 14 days to get their voter IDs by mail. Also, districts of 2 million or more mutants are allocated the equivalent of only 250,000 votes, but only if 51% of eligible voters show up to the polls; otherwise, their votes are parceled out to other candidates per the terms of the Undervoting and Apathy Allotment Act).

What unfolds is a funny, bitter, superb piece of political satire that could not be better timed.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/11/uninhabited-zone/#eremption-season

As I mentioned in the introduction to this roundup, I had three books out in 2024; a new hardcover, and the paperback editions of two books that came out in hardcover last year. There's more on the horizon – a new hardcover novel (PICKS AND SHOVELS) in Feb 2025, along with the paperback of my novel THE BEZZLE (also Feb 2025). I just turned in the manuscript for my next nonfiction book, ENSHITTIFICATION, which will also be adapted as a graphic novel. I'll also be shortly announcing the publication details for a YA graphic novel, a new essay collection and short story collection.

If you enjoy my work – the newsletter, the talks, the reviews – the best way to support me is to buy my books. I write for grownups, teens, middle-schoolers and little kids, so there's something for everyone!

I. The Lost Cause A solarpunk novel of hope in the climate emergency. "The first great YIMBY novel" -Bill McKibben. "Completely delightful…Neither utopian nor dystopian…I loved it" -Rebecca Solnit. A national bestseller!

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865946/thelostcause/

II. The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation A detailed disassembly manual for people who want to dismantle Big Tech. "A passionate case for 'relief from manipulation, high-handed moderation, surveillance, price-gouging, disgusting or misleading algorithmic suggestions. -Akash Kapur, New Yorker. Another national bestseller!

https://www.versobooks.com/products/3035-the-internet-con

III. The Bezzle. A seething rebuke of the privatized prison system that delves deeply into the arcane and baroque financial chicanery involved in the 2008 financial crash. "Righteously satisfying…A fascinating tale of financial skullduggery, long cons, and the delivery of ice-cold revenge." –Booklist. A third national bestseller!

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle/

#pluralistic #books #reviews #fiction #nonfiction #graphic novels #gift guide

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angelsworks · 2 years ago

Text

Yandere! Edward Cullen Headcannons

Summary: What Edward Cullen would be like as a yandere

Warnings: 18+ yandere themes, manipulative behaviour, brief mention of violence

When you moved to forks you didn’t expect much. Much about the town, much about the school or much about your future classmates.

During the summer (if you can even call it that with all the rain), you unpacked and tried to acclimatise to the dreary weather of the town before the start of the next school year.

The first day of school went as well as you’d expect. Everyone was welcoming and friendly, wanting to know about the new family in town.

During the day your arrival had been compared to the last family arrival in forks. The Cullens. A family that kept to themselves despite the curious number of students around them.

Despite the very obvious beauty an allure each of the Cullens had, you weren’t interested. You just wanted to keep your head down and get through your classes.

Your lack of interest came as a welcome surprise to the majority of the Cullens. At least one person didn’t stare at them like a science project.

But the one Cullen who didn’t enjoy it, the one person who wanted your attention more than anything, Edward.

Over the summer he’d watched you move into your home. A home Esme had helped decorate. When he left to hunt he’d check on you afterwards. He’d watch you in your room as you relaxed or slept.

Your thoughts were unlike the other minds he read. They weren’t clouded with him or his family. He found yours a much needed reprieve from the minds of his classmates.

He was waiting for the day when he could finally see you, meet you. Yet all he could feel was disappointment when you wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.

You shared some of the same classes, but sat next to him in none. You walked the same hallways, but never at the same time. You parked in the same parking lot, but never in a space near his.

A few weeks in he began to lose hope. His obsession was growing while a relationship with you was not.

Finally after the weeks of waiting a group project put the two of you together. Edward couldn’t be happier but he his his feelings of course. Not wanting you to question why the sombre cullen was now alight with joy.

You had a hard time working on the project with Edward. Whenever you set aside time to work together he’d keep you talking. Distracting you from the work at hand.

Having his attention wasn’t a bad thing by any means. In fact his gaze on you sent you blushing and filled you with butterflies. It was the project being incomplete that worried you.

The next time you had a meet up planned with Edward you cancelled. Telling him something had come up. He knew for certain nothing had. In fact you just needed to get your work done before the deadline.

If only you knew that he’d completed the project already. Both your share and his own. Just so you could keep talking.

After the project he’d made excuses to talk to you. Claiming you’d left a pencil or jacket at his house. You found it strange as you were sure you’d seen such items in your hamper earlier in the day.

Any questions floated away with one of his dazzling smiles.

After enough chatting he’s finally built enough of a friendship with you to ask you out.

From there he slowly started to drop the perfect boyfriend facade. He would ask you were you were when you weren’t with him, who you were with, where you were going. It felt like he was a third parent to you. Albeit a overprotective, helicopter one.

He would text you, call you all hours of the day if you weren’t in class or asleep. Even when you were asleep he was at your house.

Whenever you started to think of his behaviour and how uncomfortable it made you, he would switch it back on. Switch on the perfect boyfriend routine. For a few weeks at least. Making you wonder if you were just imagining it.

He wouldn’t tell you about him being a vampire, not unless he had to.

If such a situation were to arise he would use it to control you. Claiming a vampire had set their sights on you and he needed to take you somewhere safe.

Why would you question him. He was your boyfriend after all. He’d never hurt you before.

If at any point you do think he’s lying he’s not above faking an attack on your family. The traumatic event sending you back into his arms. Making you dependent on him.

When he’s ready he’ll suggest turning you into a vampire. Making a show of how he loves you and how he only want to protect you.

You of course would agree, wanting to be with him for the rest of your life.

Even as a newborn he’ll keep you isolated. Suggesting that he take you somewhere for your first few months. An idea that the rest of the Cullens can’t agree with fast enough.

He teaches you to hunt and how to use your senses. All the while hiding the fact he can read your mind. So any thought of going exploring or for a run away from him is quickly squished.

You’re his and you have no way of devising an escape or realising what he’s doing while he’s got a window into your head.

#angelsworks post #dark #yandere twilight #twilight yandere #yandere edward cullen #yandere Edward Cullen x reader

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shadowkoo · 9 months ago

Text

disgraceful dreams - teaser

→ Summary: After two years of lustful pining and disgraceful dreams about someone far out of your reach, you decide the only way to move past your hopeless crush on Onyx Academy's star student is by taking part in the Lupercalia festival for the very first time.

↠ wooyoung x f.reader (feat. yeosang) | teaser wc: 491 (16.4k~ total) | 18+ ↠ genre: witch/warlock au, smut, virgin!reader, inspired by s2e3 of caos, slowburn

→ Full Fic Warnings: little bit of social class discrimination, cult-ish behavior (mentions of blood, Y/N uses a knife to cut her hand for binding/ritual purposes), being ‘hunted’ like prey, explicit sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, pet names, praise kink, biting, nipple play, breast play, begging, fingering, mutual masturbation, oral (female and male receiving), exhibitionism, voyeurism, partial agoraphilia & semi-public sex, dirty talk, heavy teasing, spanking, multiple orgasms, grinding, deep dicking, size kink (wooyoung is HUNGGG), magical sex, fucking up against a tree, slight age gap (y/n is 20 and wooyoung is 25), slight corruption, choking, possessive!wooyoung, woo is ravenous for you (you’re welcome)

→ Networks: tagged below

@ksmutsociety @k-vanity @pirateeznet @cromernet

@illusionnet @othersideoutlawsnetwork @cultofdionysusnet

→ Release Date: 10/31/24

↠ want to be notified when this is posted? join my taglist here!

Under the safety of your blankets, you move quietly, as if any sudden movement could betray your secret. One hand begins to massage your breasts through your thin tank top, the other sliding down toward your pink panties.

Taking a deep breath, you open your legs, allowing your fingers to slip beneath the dampening fabric. After spreading your juices around, you rub your clit before slowly dipping your first finger into your slick entrance. The sensation is unfamiliar—neither bad nor uncomfortable, just something you're not used to. The pain of the stretch lingers, leaving a strange warmth that you can't quite place.

You close your eyes and pretend that Wooyoung is there with you. Swiftly, you begin to curl your fingers, simultaneously bucking into your hand. You picture him hovering over you, but the image clouds over, shifting into a different scene that becomes sharper.

Wooyoung is also in bed, with his hand wrapped around his exposed, thick cock, lazily pumping it. There’s something unsettlingly vivid about this image, as if it’s not just a product of your imagination. It feels real—too real. Gasping, you realize that he’s in your head, projecting himself, revealing his presence in a way that makes your heart race.

Then, as if he can sense that you've finally caught on to his wicked scheme, a dark smile tugs at the corner of his lips, the kind that makes your body’s temperature spike. “Are you touching yourself, like I asked you to?”

You suck in a sharp breath and nod instinctively, even though you know he can’t physically see you. But somehow, you sense that he knows.

“I bet you are,” he hums, closing his eyes while running his thumb over his pink head. He tosses his head back as he strokes himself, “I bet that tight little virgin cunt of yours needs some good stretching before she’s ready for me.”

Feeling the heat rising to the tips of your ears, they’re red from the weight of his words, like they’re wrapping themselves around you, pulling you deeper into his influence. The knot in your lower belly grows as you match your little finger thrusts to the speed of his hand pumps.

“Add another finger, honey, I know you can,” Wooyoung groans, his hand moving a little faster. “Look at how my cock aches to be sunk inside your sweet folds.”

You do as he commands. You’re panting at this point; completely zeroed in on his throbbing length while you climb towards bliss. The silent room fills with a sinful pattern of squelches from each thrust into your lush heat, and a divine sensation washes over you.

“Goddess, I’m about to make a mess,” he whines, a sound that you’ll never be able to forget. He stills, letting out another beautiful noise while his seed shoots out across his abs, some even on his dark silk sheets.

“That’s just a preview,” he grins devilishly, “Sleep well, Y/N.”

→ Taglist: @gyupremacy @yoonguurt @starsrens (join my taglist here!)

#ksmutsociety #kvanity #pirateeznet #cromernet #illusionnet #other side outlaws network #cultofdionysusnet #jung wooyoung #wooyoung smut #wooyoung fanfic #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung oneshot #wooyoung x y/n #wooyoung slowburn #ateez oneshot #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #shadowkoo

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ultrakey · 2 months ago

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Trending Final Year Projects for 2025

Choose from the latest and most in-demand project topics across engineering and technology domains.

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sugusoneandonly · 1 year ago

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Quixotic - STSG - ch 1

satosugu x fem!reader . ft. model!gojo & designer!geto

!! do not repost/copy on any other platform !! if u do at least lmk where and give creds 😒 !! pls don’t tho <3

cw: power dynamics/imbalance?? ,, established!stsg (no cheating) ,, webtoon inspired & lwk self-indulgent 😞 ,, y/n may be unlikable idk ntm on her guys 🥰

exes to lovers (gojo) ,, one-sides enemies to lovers w geto ,, very feminine + slight meek reader??

a/n!! :: hi this is my first fic ,, have mercy <33

some prior info for now i will add more later (and clean it up)

- not much of an age gap, suguru is js very successful at a young age.

- takes place 2 years after their breakup (mc | satoru)

- y/n is currently a fashion major in her final year of college and fortunately lives near her college and the shadowing program.

- the general plot is y/n is shadowing (following around, studying, etc. not rlly working for him

- NOTTT really real life accurate 🥰

Had you known that coming across your biggest idol would come along with meeting your oh so beloved ex, you would’ve thrown away whatever dreams had clouded your ambitious mind. Yet lo and behold, in front of you stood one of the most renowned fashion designers in the industry with your ex-boyfriend hanging off of him as a price tag (a very expensive tag for that matter).

Suguru Geto stood with pride as his spine and extravagance as his feet, hair that could’ve been painted with the midnight sky half up while the rest cascaded down his back. With an arm on his shoulder, and hair that would make the moon had Suguru’s been the sky, stood Satoru Gojo, your beloved ex. Both men dressed to the nines, outfits that were worth your monthly rent each.

You had cursed the creak of the door that had announced your entrance when you saw them. Gojo however, remained unaware of the stress that climbed your body. Instead, his lifted his eyes to meet yours, blinking back yet letting a small grin tickle his face. “Y/N!” his voice had drawn Suguru’s eyes to follow his line of sight like a siren.

Now, you and Gojo hadn’t had a horrendous break-up (although it’s after affects on you weren’t quite so), in fact it was rather peaceful (while it lasted). Gojo had called your 2 years of love off when he decided that he wanted to pursue a bigger, grander, future, one that apparently hadn’t included you. While he had wanted to go out, meet new people, flitter about the industry, the strain of a relationship had left awkward stains on his work. Especially certain modeling gigs that made him some extra cash.

It was your final year out of college and as one of the top students in your major, you had been provided a shadowing opportunity with various fashion designers to mentor the new rising generation of fashion. However, the pairings were randomized and the last person you’d expect to be yours was one of the greatest and youngest designers, who was also rumored to be your exes lover. How romantic. You had come across Geto’s work originally in a magazine for your project, and had looked him up online. While doing your extended research, you had seen the bright face of Gojo on several of his posts wearing his designs. Immediately you fell in love with his success, ethic, and designs. Dresses so intricate and suits embellished, as if they had walked straight of the manhwas you read.

Geto’s brow had raised at the mention of your name, no doubt familiar with it and the story that may have came with it. His eyes pierced through you, a small hum and what appeared to be a shadow of discontent danced over his face before it went away. He had leaned closer into Gojo after a thorough inspection of you. the rumors hold true then

“Hi.” slipped through your lips at last, however, meek. You feel 12 again showcasing your painting to the old judges in an art contest. Not an ounce of professionalism. Perhaps it wasn’t to late to run out yet.

“Y/N? I heard lots about you” Suguru’s voice came out like silk drowned in a snakes hiss, anxiety bubbled in your blood. “Good things I hope..I look forward to working with you..?” His lack of facial response had you lost in which direction to move this conversation. Instead of a response he simply hummed at looked back at the paper in his hands. Gojo, just as awkward standing beside him.

I wanna go home

©sugusoneandonly 2024

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #geto suguru #jjk suguru #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #geto x gojo x reader #gojo x reader x geto #reader x geto #gojo x geto x reader #satosugu x reader #stsg x reader fluff #stsg x reader angst

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garnerpigeons · 3 months ago

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⋆˚꩜｡ Pair Up

content included: petty reader because i’m a petty writer, angst, small argument, nerdy shy dave, popular and kind of mean reader

summary: short fic about u and dave getting paired up for a science project and arguing, but you ultimately win

Sigh.

The hot and perfume-filled air clouds your nose as you refresh your respiratory system. The chair you’re sitting in rocks back and forth as your feet lightly raise off of the ground every couple of seconds, mindlessly moving around on the floor as your teacher talks about a project, which you’ll probably just review over the slides later.

You hear Mr. Mendoza call out your name, snapping you out of your daydreams. “Stop rocking back and forth on your chair like that,” the silver-haired man starts as he leans against his desk and appears to drift off into a memory, “did I ever tell you guys about the story of when a student fell off his chair and broke his collarbone?” The summary of the frequently heard story earns a chuckle from the class, including you as you give a small smile and sit back up in your chair.

He stands back up straight, clearing his throat and continuing to explain the project. “Well, we’re going to be working on reviews in preparation for the final exam. I’m going to pair you guys up-“, a loud collective groan cuts through Mr. Mendoza’s voice, making him pause for a moment and nodding in an ‘I get it’ way. “Look, it’s almost the end of the year, and half of you guys barely even know each other’s names,” he clarifies.

Mr. Mendoza starts to read out the names for the projects:

“Maisy Barnes and Lana Wilkins,”

“Livvy Banks and Tony Watson,”

“Aiden March and Casey Yang,”

His voice goes on and on as you zone off, watching the other girls at your table move off to find their partners.

As you start to put your things away for the end of class, you feel a light tap on your shoulder as you turn around. You expect to see a friend of yours, or maybe even Mr. Johnson, but to your surprise, it’s.. uh.. Daniel? Damien? Dave!

You analyze his face for a couple minutes, trying to figure out if you’ve had any past interactions with him that would warrant this sudden gesture, but you realize you’ve been staring for a bit too long before you start to talk.

“Oh! Oh, uh.. sorry, you’re…” You hesitate before you blurt out your guess, hoping from the bottom of your heart it’s right, “Dave..?” A slight nervous and meek voice emerges from your mouth as the boys name rolls off your tongue.

“Uhm.. I— Yeah.. I’m Dave..” The curly-haired boy says as he pushes up his glasses with the tip of his finger lightly. “We’re paired up.” Dave blurts out his response, hoping you don’t laugh in his face.

You had completely forgotten about the project, your mindless packing up and daydreaming from a couple moments ago catching up to you. You quickly shake your head lightly, performing a cartoonish gesture to signal you clearing your head.

“Oh! Of course..! Yeah.. I knew that.. Sorry, just a little zoned out..” A nervous smile grows on your face as a similarly-mannered laugh falls out of your mouth. Dave returns the chortle, nodding a bit as the conversation dies down.

“I-“ RING!! RING!! RING!!

“Okay, you guys have until this Friday!” Mr. Mendoza calls out to the last batch of students who haven’t already left.

“That’s the bell!” You say as you try to dodge your way out of a walk in-the-hallway with the nerd—not because you were embarrassed.. because.. well.. okay maybe you were a little embarrassed, but it wasn’t your fault! Dave knew almost.. five people? Plus.. you had.. classes to get to. As you start to walk past Dave, he stops you:

“Wait! Can.. we.. talk about the project at lunch?” He asks slowly, making sure to not say anything wrong and making his best effort to not blabber over his words.

You think for a bit.. you have friends you talk to and sit with at lunch everyday, but you also feel bad for Dave since you only see him sitting with his two other friends every day.

“… Sure,” You respond, nodding a bit before turning back towards the door and heading out, finishing the class with a small wave from Mr. Mendoza.

ꨄ︎

You head to the cafeteria, phone in hand and walking with one of your friends as you guys talk about a stupid phone rule one of the teacher’s enforced. You hear a small voice call your name from behind, to which you turn to and see none other than Dave Ligw—Dave Liseu— Dave Lizew…ski..? Dave Lizewski!

“Oh.. Hey Dave,” You say as he walks beside you, hands on his backpack straps as he gives a quick nod to your friend.

“Can we discuss the project.. please?” You laugh a bit at his nervous request as you shake your head yes. “Yeah. We can.”

ꨄ︎

“So.. What topic do you want to do..?” Dave asks as he sets his backpack down in front of his friends, Todd and Marty.

“Oh.. this is where we’re sitting?” You ask, disregarding his question as you give a.. look—particularly a mean one— to his friends.

“I– I mean.. Do you want to sit somewhere else..?” Dave asks a little frantically, his gaze switching from between his friends and you. His friends seem to be also a little confused, maybe even offended??

You scoff a little as you sit down across from them, “it’s fine,” you speak as Dave follows your action, sitting down next to you.

As you both start to work on the project, Dave starts to get frustrated at you and your constant makeup addiction:

“Can you not stare in the mirror for two seconds?” Dave questions, the words coming from his mouth red and heated as he tries to not lash out.

You take a small break from your lip liner as you glance at him. “What’s the fucking problem? It’s the first day of the project, we can work on it at home,” you start, gesturing with your hand to add emphasis.

“I can’t work on it at home! Can you just please do it now?” Dave starts, his tone getting a little irritated. He puts his pen down to face you better, trying his best to get his point across.

“I’ll work on it then, damn,” You say, expecting it to be the end of the conversation, going back to your lip liner in the mirror.

Dave rubs his forehead for a second, not wanting to yell in a cafeteria, let alone at you. “If you do it, I think we would fail!” He says, earning a small laugh from his friends, but a glare from you.

“Okay, first of all, no we wouldn’t. Second of all, that’s so fucking disrespectful to say, are you actually serious?” You say, zipping your little makeup bag up as you shove it in your bag.

“You know what, you can do the project yourself. And tell your friends to stop staring at me!” Throwing your backpack over your shoulder, you talk with an annoyed and lightly infuriated voice, motioning to Todd and Marty before storming off and back to your own table with your own friends.

Dave’s friends look at him before bursting out in laughter and girly giggles. Dave, however, does not have a similar reaction. at all. “God.. fuck,” He lets out a sigh before shoving his things into his bag, preparing for the end of lunch.

ꨄ︎

As the end of the school-week rolls around, you’re sitting in your first period class, chatting with your friends as you wait for everybody to get to class and settle down. As you’re talking, you see your friends keep looking behind you, so you follow suit, raising an eyebrow at the curly-haired boy behind you.

“Hey.. Sorry about Monday, I asked Mrs. Cole for your first period..” He starts as he lays the project on the table. “Here’s what I did, does it look fine?” You glance over the project before nodding.

“Yeah, looks good,” you say as you nod lightly, not giving a reaction to his apology as you shrug him off.

Dave realizes you probably don’t want to talk to him, so he just gives you a small smile, taking the project in his hands again and leaving your class.

As your teacher starts going over notes, your friends comment on the interaction.

“Give him a chance, he’s nice!”

“Why did you just brush him off like that?”

“He’s lame, don’t talk to him!”

So many comments that you roll your eyes at, except for one.. “He did that whole project himself?”

In that moment, you realize that you were so occupied in yourself that you hadn’t even helped at all, and when he did help, you were just petty and didn’t even thank him?

You start to feel a little bad, so you plan to say sorry once you see him in class.

ꨄ︎

“Hey Dave..” You say as you sit down next to him, a little closed off as you prepare your apology.

He responds with a small “hi”, not wanting to say the wrong thing again. Mr. Mendoza explains how you guys will present the projects, then allows everybody to have a couple last minutes to work on their projects.

“We’re already finished, so you can.. do something..” Dave says, not making eye contact with you as he tries to not seem so miserable.

“Okay.. Thanks.. Can— Can I just say something?” You ask, and without waiting for a response, you continue:

“I’m sorry for being like that on Monday. And I’m also sorry for not helping you with the project. It’s my fault, and honestly, the project is great, I.. probably wouldn’t have done that good..” Dave listens as you speak your mind, a little surprised but more grateful than anything.

“I mean.. I— It’s okay, I should also be sorry.. for the things I said,” he speaks as you plan out your response, not wanting to seem stuck-up.

“You’re okay! You’re fine, don’t even worry about…” You take a small pause, debating whether you should try to be light hearted in the next sentence or not.

“I mean, it’s fair now, right?” You ask with a small laugh, to which Dave nods and exchanges the chuckle, “Yeah.. Guess so..”

He stops talking, seeming to be in thought before asking:

“Hey.. can we go out sometime? I’ll make it up to you.”

ꨄ︎

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ masterlist ..

hi guyss im sorry if this was short or uncoherent its actually my first fic so im sorryyyy but i hope you guys like it im going to try and either make a part two or start another fic <333

#garnerpigeons #raysblog<3 #dave lizewski #atj #aaron taylor johnson #fanfic #x reader #fanfiction #kick-ass

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flowerandblood · 2 years ago

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Glass Cuts Deepest (3)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, trauma, mention of sexual harassment, violence, swearing, self-destructive behavior ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

What she had done echoed hugely throughout the university. Some looked at her in awe, some in horror wondering why she had done it, whether she really thought he was so good to put up with his awful behaviour.

"What if he keeps humiliating you? Or if he hits you?" Lysa asked as they walked together to their joint Renaissance art history class. She shrugged her shoulders, feeling light and happy.

"I'm only there for a trial, for a month. If I find I don't like it there, I'll go to another workshop. And if he does something to me, I'll report it to the police straight away." She replied briefly, taking it for granted.

If he violated her personal space in such a way she wasn't going to stand idly by, but for some reason she felt that if she respected his boundaries he wouldn't do anything to her.

She hopped up on her bed with joy when she saw an email on her inbox from Cregan informing her of a task for everyone to complete, covered by the competition Professor Targaryen had mentioned at their first meeting.

Good morning, congratulations to you once again and I am sending below the details of the project you need to complete. The first overview sketches are to be made at a scale of 1:5, only the one selected will be made at a scale of 1:1. The project includes 3 windows, each with 8 rectangular quarters. The dimension of the entire window is 10x2 m, the gaps between the quarters are 10 cm on each side. The Bishop would like these three quarters to include a representation of the Mother of God with the Child with a white dove above her, surrounded by the Twelve Aspotols. If you have any questions, I remain at your disposal Cregan

She immediately got to work, calculating the size of each of the quarters on A3 sheets of paper, thinking about how she would like to arrange it, how to show it.

She first thought of a baroque representation, with figures in motion, Our Lady in the centre, the apostles surrounding her as if they were floating towards the sky in clouds together with her.

When she had refined this design sufficiently she decided to take the opportunity that her professor was working on the other side of the room, standing, as always, with his back to her.

She approached him, stopping at an appropriate distance, and grunted quietly, wanting to let him know of her presence.

He glanced at her coolly out of the corner of his eye without ceasing his work, cutting a piece of glass in a confident, fluid motion with the loud swish of a diamond blade.

He picked it up and tapped the back of the handle with the special rounded end against the part of the glass he didn't need, and it broke at the point of cut to form exactly the shape he wanted.

"Lay it down here." He said indifferently, pointing with his chin to an empty spot on the illuminated table next to the glass he was working on.

She placed the piece of paper in front of him and stepped back, waiting anxiously for his opinion, feeling her heart pounding fast as she saw her year mate glance in their direction.

Professor Targaryen cast a quick look at what she had been preparing for the past two days, his face expressing absolutely nothing.

"Overdone and tacky. This is not a competition for the most pompous baroque stained glass. Don't show me things like that again." He said briefly, turning back to his work, and she nodded, tightening her lips and returned to her table, trying to swallow his words and not cry.

She looked at her project again and thought with regret that he was probably right.

It was contrived, as if she wanted to prove to everyone that she could create the most surprising and complicated design.

And after all, it was supposed to be simply the best.

She started to look through more classical stained glass representations from France, Germany, Spain and the UK at home. She noticed with interest that static figures depicted with just the right cuts of glass were suddenly gaining a lot of expression and she thought this was the way out.

She took inspiration for her pose of the Mother of God with the Child from Raphael's Sistine Madonna, but gave her face and hands a softer, more slender expression, her robes arranged in a Gothic manner, with strong creases and folds.

Our Lady stood in the rays of the colour of the setting sun, as if emerging from among the clouds, from the left, through the bottom of the composition, to the right the apostles emerged from behind the window frames, looking at her in silent awe, the whole thing seemed to her calm and solemn, warm.

She made another attempt to approach him. She settled on the opposite side of his table, looking at him expectantly, and he lifted his impatient gaze to her, his lips tightening.

"Are you sure you want to show me this?" He asked warningly, as if he wanted to make sure that if he saw something similar to what he had seen last time again, he would lose patience with her.

She nodded, swallowing quietly.

She really liked this project.

She laid it in front of him − the lead outline and the linear layer were painted with a pen using black ink, the colours of the glass painted with watercolours.

He stopped in mid-motion, looking at what she had drawn − she could see that he was thinking strenuously, his gaze roaming over the entire composition.

"Were you inspired by someone?" He asked coolly, and she nodded quickly.

"Yes, Raphael's Sistine Madonna." She said quickly, and he hummed under his breath, his hand involuntarily escaping to his mouth and chin, looking intensely at her drawing.

"On the left and right the composition is too filled in. You need to leave those four apostles lower, give more space to the background. Let them form an arc under the figure of Our Lady, not half a circle." He began to speak quickly, pointing his finger at the areas of the work he had in mind, and she nodded, visualising his changes, recognising with joy that, indeed, with his corrections it would look much better.

"Yes. You're right, Professor, I will." She said excitedly, looking at him with her eyes wide open, she had the feeling that happiness was literally beaming from her.

He liked it.

He looked at her for a moment, biting his bottom lip, and then lowered his gaze, returning to his work.

"That's all." He said dryly, and she nodded quickly, took her sheet of paper and applied all the corrections he had mentioned, painting and drawing the whole thing again.

Thus approved and prepared, she handed her design to Cregan, who smiled warmly at her.

"Congratulations." He said calmly, and she reciprocated his smile.

Seeing the impatient gaze of their professor looking at them from across the table she moved away from him, picked up her things and left, saying a polite goodbye, wanting to go get something to eat.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she changed into her usual clothes in the toilet − it was getting warmer outside and she was sitting in her workshop in a black t-shirt tucked into long black trousers and dying of heat.

Being already in her summer dress and trainers, she left putting her backpack on her back, heading to the canteen to buy something warm to eat and go to her wall painting class in a completely different building.

She stopped in mid-step and started to take a step back when she saw her professor standing by the coffee machine right in front of her, but she didn't make it − he took his coffee cup and bumped into her, his gaze quickly going from her top to bottom, as if he didn't recognise her for a moment.

She swallowed loudly, lowering her gaze, wanting to disappear, to hide, though she didn't actually know why.

There was something awkward about the situation, as if he had caught her in the act.

He merely hummed under his breath, taking a sip from his cup, and walked past her without a word. She looked back over her shoulder at him, swallowing loudly, wondering if he was frustrated by what he had seen, or if he would be more judgmental and unpleasant to her than usual.

He, however, remained just as indifferent to her presence, acting exactly the same as before. She figured he wasn't cruel enough to expect her to dress that way all the time in case she ran into him.

When it was time for the results of the competition to be announced, everyone gathered in the room he read out the attendance list for the first time. She took her seat at the very end, just as she had done then, waiting impatiently to hear what their professor would say.

"I presented the bishop with the projects which, in my opinion, were the best of those you gave me. He made his choice, announcing that he wanted our workshop to prepare Miss Wright's design for him. I made no objection to that decision." He said dryly, standing in front of them with his hands folded behind him, looking to the side, his voice expressing some kind of weariness, as did his gaze.

They were all silent for a moment and then her colleagues began to congratulate her loudly, Royce sitting next to her embraced her and said that she deserved it.

She looked into her professor's eyes and somehow saw a kind of discomfort and frustration at the sight of such familiarity, so she pulled away politely, covering her mouth in disbelief, unable to believe that he hadn't objected, that he had allowed her to win.

She heard him grunt loudly, shifting from foot to foot, everyone turned their gazes towards him again.

"As I mentioned, the whole workshop will split the work on this big project. Myself and Cregan will take care of the faces and hands, the third year and fourth year students will take care of the robes. The second year students will take care of the backgrounds." He said coolly and she felt a squeeze in her heart, even the other students looked at him surprised, though no one dared to speak up.

Despite the fact that her project had won, she was only supposed to deal with the background?

She lowered her gaze, feeling a squeeze in her throat, Cregan moved restlessly.

"I think if Miss Wright won, let her stay more involved and help cut the robes." He said lightly, intending to sound casual, but Professor Targaryen did not even look at him.

"No. Everyone will perform the work according to their skills. Miss Wright will prepare a 1:1 design in colour and line within a week, numbering each of the templates, and then cut them out herself. That's all, get back to work." He said lowly and left, leaving them alone.

Although she tried to keep a smile, she felt tear after tear run down her face, wiping them away quickly with her hands as her colleagues approached her, trying to comfort her.

"Don't worry. The fact that the professor wants to paint faces for your project means that he really likes it. He doesn't get involved in work that doesn't interest him." Said one of the fourth year boys.

"It's true, be happy that you won and will have an input. It will be our collective success, of the whole workshop, but remember it's your composition and your idea." Said Ned, her yearmate, and she smiled with gratitude.

Despite how their professor behaved, her colleagues showed her great support and understanding, for which she was grateful.

She decided to go along with her professor's decision and spent the next week creating a huge design, cutting a template for each piece of glass with special double-blade scissors that reduced the volume of the card by the thickness of the lead surrounds into which the glass would be embedded.

One day they were even visited by Professor Lannister himself, and hearing of her success and taking advantage of the fact that she was alone in the room, he approached her, smiling in a way she didn't know what to think of.

He was a tall man, with light hair pulled back and an elegantly trimmed beard in a pressed light-coloured shirt and smart trousers − he looked at her large project hanging on the wall behind her with a form of admiration, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know what you did to Professor Targaryen, but apparently it works. You certainly must have made a great effort." He said and looked at her curiously − she blinked, swallowing loudly, feeling subconsciously uncomfortable at the thought that he was trying to imply something.

"Please don't measure everyone by your standards, Professor." She said lightly so that for a moment he didn't understand what she meant. He glanced at her frowning his eyebrows as soon as the meaning of her words reached him, outraged.

"Are you insinuating something?" He asked roughly and she glared at him, cutting out the template with two intense, firm cuts of her scissors.

"And you, Professor?" She asked, raising her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders, seeing that he swallowed loudly, embarrassed.

She looked away and saw her professor standing in the entrance, measuring Lannister with an anxious, watchful gaze. When the man saw him he became tense, as if caught in the act, and grunted.

"In any case, congratulations again and I wish you well in your future work." He said, forcing a smile, and she reciprocated his gesture, beaming with satisfaction and contentment.

When Professor Lannister left she immediately returned to her work.

She looked up surprised when she saw that for the first time her professor had approached her of his own free will, standing on the opposite side of her table, looking at the templates she had cut so far.

"What did he want?" He asked drily, and she sighed quietly, cutting open the next sheets of paper, numbering them one by one.

"To learn the secret of my success." She replied softly and glanced up at him, his intense gaze fixed on her. She swallowed loudly, feeling shivers from the way he looked at her.

"What did you tell him?" He asked expectantly, coolly, menacingly, clasping his hands on the edge of the table.

She grabbed another piece of paper, unimpressed.

"That he shouldn't measure everyone by his standards. His attitude towards his female students was one of the reasons I didn't want him to teach me." She said quietly, truthfully, wondering if she was crossing the line by saying such things about one professor to another.

She felt that he was still looking at her, although he had always avoided any eye contact, now she felt that his gaze was burning her.

"And you came to ask for a place with a professor who hit his student?" He asked seriously, lowly, and she lifted her gaze to him, feeling her heart pounding hard, sensing that this was her chance to find out what had happened.

"And did you hit her, Professor?" She asked in a trembling voice, feeling that her hands were shaking and she had to concentrate very hard to cut straight.

He was silent for a long moment.

"Yes." He said emotionlessly, indifferently, with a kind of weariness.

She pressed her lips together and swallowed loudly, for some reason afraid to look at him.

"Why did you do that?" She asked quietly, and he chuckled under his breath.

"Does it matter?" He asked, as if the answer was obvious.

"It matters if you did it for no reason or if you were trying to defend yourself against her, sir." She replied wearily, still not looking at him, feeling the atmosphere between them becoming increasingly tense. She heard him snort at her words, surprised.

"In what way could she harm me? Hit me?" He asked mockingly, but there was something in his voice that troubled her, some kind of frustration through which she knew she had hit the target, that something more had really happened there.

"Women can hurt men in all sorts of ways. It's just that they are hardly believed." She whispered and heard him swallow loudly, his chest rising and falling in anxious breaths. She looked at him uncertainly, his healthy eye was wide open.

He was silent for a long moment, she could feel that something was happening to him, his lower lip trembling slightly.

"You prefer to defend the abuser instead of the victim?" He asked in disbelief at last, the corner of his mouth twitching in what she might have called a smile if not for the look in his eyes.

"No. I just know her version of events. I wanted to hear yours before I decided what I thought of you, Professor. I thought it was only fair." She said in a trembling voice, feeling that at that moment she was truly afraid of him.

He did not answer anything for a while, looking at her with a clenched jaw and licked his lips.

"There is no excuse for me. But I don't regret what I did. What do you think about it, Miss Wright?" He asked tauntingly and she looked at him in pain, tightening her lips.

"That I feel sorry for you, Professor. Just like I feel sorry for that girl. I hope you find the decency to apologise to her one day. Excuse me, but I would like to focus on my work." She said quietly, swallowing loudly, feeling regret and disappointment.

She wanted to believe that he wasn't such a bad person, that something had happened that would give him a reason to behave like that.

However, she now knew that she could only count on him in artistic matters, and that in others he could be no authority for her.

She lowered her gaze, returning to her cutting, her hands trembling, feeling that he was still standing in the same place, that he was looking at her, she could hear his accelerated breathing.

After a moment he was gone, she heard him take his leather jacket from the back of his chair and just leave.

From then on it was she who didn't look at him and avoided him even though she saw that he glanced at her occasionally. She knew he was working on detailed sketches for the figure's faces; he was sitting at one of the desks with a sketchbook and pencil, absorbed in his thoughts.

Their gazes met suddenly and she turned away quickly, swallowing loudly.

She knew there was only one day left until the end of the month, after which he was to decide what to do next, whether he would let her stay or kick her out.

She had lost any remnants of a good opinion of him privately, however, he organised their work well and was very dedicated to it − she felt that with him and her colleagues she had learnt more about the subject of stained glass in these few weeks than she had in her entire life so far.

When the day came, however, he was sitting locked in the second room, reserved for him to paint his already-cut glass. This required a lot of concentration and it was easy to make a mistake, so no one disturbed him.

She reasoned that if he had wanted to tell her he was throwing her out, he would have done so immediately.

On her way out of class and walking down the corridor, she saw that the door to the room he was working in was ajar and she looked inside uncertainly. Whatever she thought of him, he was an outstanding painter and she was dying of curiosity as to how he depicted her figures.

Noticing that he had to leave for a moment and that the room was empty, she walked slowly inside, leaning over the illuminated table on which lay the cut, painted and patinated faces of various saints.

Looking at the faces of the apostles, she involuntarily marvelled, noticing the incredible accuracy in the proportions and the lightness with which he had given their faces expression; they seemed both emotional and calm, their faces showing excited anticipation.

Around the glasses were sketches made with pencil that he had prepared beforehand, which accurately represented what he wanted to portray.

She moved on to the face of the Virgin Mary and froze, feeling her heart pounding hard. She looked at the sketch next to it to be sure and swallowed loudly.

Mother of God had her facial features.

Then, when their gazes met, he didn't glance at her casually.

He was portraying her.

She didn't know what to make of it, at once horrified, excited, concerned, shocked. She shuddered when she heard someone's voice behind her.

"Get out." He said lowly, coldly, his gaze menacing, dark, warning. He stood in the entrance with his hands clenched into fists and she wondered how long he had been watching her.

"I'm sorry. I −"

"Get. Out." He repeated in a tone that suggested he wasn't going to say it a third time.

She lowered her head, swallowing loudly, and moved to leave on trembling legs, he, however, caught her firmly by her shoulder as she passed him and stopped her without looking at her.

"Don't ever come in here again without permission. Your painting room is next door. This is my private studio. Do you understand?" He asked in a razor-sharp tone, and she nodded quickly, unable to get anything out.

He let her go and she almost ran out, only drawing in a loud breath in the corridor, she felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest.

His Virgin Mary, the central figure of the whole composition, would have her face.

_____

Taglist 1

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aplainmeresimp · 5 months ago

Text

In the Blue Hours of the Morning: Chapter 2 - The Pendulum Swings

Full Fanfic Summary in Chapter 1

Story tags/warnings: pre-season 1, no use of y/n or real world language, strangers to friends to lovers, fluffy, acts of service as viktors love language, academic weapon reader, viktor pov chapters, eventual sky pov chapter, eventual nsfw. unrequited love towards sky :( random oc created for the sole purpose of being a side character. not a song fic, chapters names are just inspired by song lyrics. the only thing viktors insecure about is him being an assistant, he knows he’s fine.

Chapter 2 Word Count: 5.3k

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A nine out of ten.

That's what Professor Penmark gave you on the final. Why, you may ask?

“A smudge on the last page,” he said as he wrote your grade in his class list. Afterwards, he circled the smudge and handed it back to you. You flipped to the last page and it shocked you.

It was miniscule. Barely traceable. A nine would be a blessing for other classes, but to get a nine out of ten over a smudge? Ludicrous. Ridiculous. Fuming with rage, you gave him a smile and said, “thank you for the class, Professor.”

You calmly walked out of his office with your graded project. As soon as you turned the corner, you found the nearest trash can, took your project out of its folder, and dumped it into the trash.

Who’s even named Penmark? It's a noun and a noun. Or a noun and a verb. Might as well be named Professor Asswipe. Same difference with that attitude.

Storming to your dorm, students passed you with a twinge of fear. It seemed like a dark cloud loomed over you. The sun had fully set, giving its final remnants of light as the day came to its end.

How could he lower your grade by ten percent over a smudge? That was a new low for him. You would’ve taken a nine point five, even. It wasn't personal, though. You knew as much. He treated every student equally. Equally as bad. Someone probably had the misfortune of failing. That meant no graduation for them.

Perhaps it was time to count your blessings.

Perhaps not. You thought. I deserved that full score.

Growing closer to your dorm filled you with mixed feelings. Mostly since you didn’t interact as much with your roommates. Your routine was always class, work at the library, work in one of the gardens till late at night, and finally go to your dorm to sleep. You didn’t want to pull your late-night studies with two people sleeping.

It's not like you never interacted, it just became less and less as the semesters went on. Still, they saw you when you went there to take a bath or swap into a different set of your uniform. They understood, but it still stung not being around. You were one of the few people that liked your roommates.

Sky, a bioengineering major, was kind and a little shy. She usually worked in the dorm at her neat desk against the wall stacked with plenty of bullet journals she wrote in. Your first interaction with her was about two years ago during the yearly dorm switch.

She said you could have the first pick when you arrived. That was sweet of her. In return, you picked the worst section in return. The bunk bed with no space to sit in and the communal closet under it with a sad excuse for a desk beside it. It was the least you could do after she made such a generous offer.

Cirsche was the opposite. A bold and extroverted architecture major. Her parts of the dorm gave a pop of color to the whole room. Colorful coasters and floor plans were always scattered across her desk and sometimes yours too. It didn’t bother you, seeing as you were rarely in your room. There were always rags stained with alcohol markers soaking in the small bathroom you all shared.

You clenched the doorknob and swept into the dorm. As usual, Sky sat at her desk in the room, bending over a book and a notebook. She looked up, then at you. “It's a miracle that you’re here.” She did a double take of your face, “Woah, are you okay?”

“No.” The light sound of the shower running contrasted the ruckus your shoes made when you kicked them off.

She got up from her chair, took the folder from your hands, and set it on the table. “Do you… Want to talk about it?”

“If I had seen it I would have fixed it.” Your hands flew up in disbelief, “In fact, I would have remade the entire page!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sky pulled out the chair from the small desk in the center of the room and asserted, “Sit. Breathe.” She sat on the desk and waited for you.

You closed your eyes, inhaled and huffed, “The teacher gave me a nine. Over a smudge on the project.”

For a moment she seemed shocked, then her face turned calm. It was like she knew what you needed to hear. “But you passed? And was it your last project? Classes are done, right?”

“Yes and yes. No classes left to go to either.” Your anger dissipated little by little.

“Okay, that’s all that matters. Now you just need to focus on the final.”

“I know. I know.” You bit the inside of your lip. It wasn’t anger anymore, it was disappointment. Or at least something like it.

You needed to be great. Not just good enough. Being from somewhere different meant you always had to prove yourself. Set the standard. Undercity people weren’t viewed the same. Over the years, you’d overhear people say things like ‘criminals’, ‘uncivilized’, and ‘them’. It was useful to hide the information of your origins and only reveal it to some people, seeing as not everyone took it well.

Even if you were to keep it discrete, sometimes… Just sometimes, you thought people could sense you weren’t originally from Piltover. Was it overthinking? Maybe. However, deep down, you knew that going to school and practically growing up there meant nothing to the wrong people.

“I understand. You know I do.” Her arms crossed and her head tilted, looking for your attention. “But you already proved yourself. There’s nothing left for you to prove. Do you understand?”

You nodded. It was nice to hear it every now and then.

“Good. Let’s change the subject. I don’t want to see you sad all day.” She got up from the table and went to her desk, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Well…” You unbuttoned your vest. “I wanted to go ask an ex-alumni about the final exam. To get an idea of what it’s going to be like.”

She smacked her forehead, “Ugh, you’re right! I should do that too.”

“Wanna come?” You turned on the room’s light, the night becoming darker by the minute, “I’m starting kind of early tomorrow.”

“I would but the bioengineering final is different.” Sky rolled back in her chair, “I’ll start doing that next week.”

The night grew darker, and your nighttime routines started. Cirsche came out of the shower, you went in and changed into loose clothes to go to bed, and Sky put her notebooks away and cleaned her desk. At a certain point, Cirsche left to get dinner and came back with bowls of rice for everyone. Being with them on the floor, trying not to laugh to not wake the neighbors, and sharing food was as close as you had to a family.

It was an extra special bond. When other people left for the vacation period, you three, along with a few others, chose to stay. Everyone with their reasons. Sky remained to have a place away from the undercity, independence. It was easier for her to stay put and go back to see her relatives. Cirsche just liked living at the university. You couldn’t blame her. It had great access to most transportation, shops, and everything in between.

A few others like you had nowhere else to go. No family or primary home to go to. Your whole life was at school. Morning and night. Semesters and vacation time alike.

You were definitely an anomaly. Rarely did people ask to stay with the same roommates, but the three of you just fit right. The first year cemented your friendship enough to ride it out until the end of university. It wasn’t bad having to share around the clock when your friends turned into your family.

The clock struck ten and it was time for bed.

“How’s the job going?” Cirsche asked you in the darkness from the bottom bunk across the room.

“Not bad. Could be worse.” You replied, already in bed, with the cool breeze from the window inciting you to cover up.

Weirdly enough, it was the whole truth. On the weekends you’d go to a few restaurants and sweep their sidewalks and entryways for a good amount of coins. It was tiring work after ten shops or so, but you needed to afford to eat. The university only gave you a place to stay. Everything else like food, uniforms, school supplies, and transportation was your responsibility. It was fairly nice. Some of the shopkeepers knew you and threw in a baked bun, a hairclip, or a fancy pencil along with your payment.

“Now imagine your next job! Engineer slash scientist!” Sky’s hands spread, showing you her vision.

“I know. I’ll miss it a little though.” You’d miss the people, the reason to get some fresh air. What you wouldn’t miss was having to work as a student.

They said something else you couldn’t pick up. Their words became fuzzy, incoherent. You felt like you forgot to do something as you were trying to reply. Then you stopped thinking and replying altogether. Sweet rest invited you in and you were gone.

The morning came slow and fresh with a spirited breeze, the norm for Piltover. Your ears picked up the sound from the window coming from the courtyard a few stories below. Students yelling and laughing, having enjoyed the morning more than you already. Not long after, your eyes creaked open to an empty dorm. No Sky or Cirsche to be found. There was, however, a note on the side of your bunk.

It read, ‘We tried to wake you for breakfast, but you didn’t wake up. Be back later!’. With a little smiley face on the bottom.

Wake me for breakfast? Isn’t it still early–

You looked at the clock that hung over the door frame.

Eleven thirty in the morning.

Shit.

The day was escaping you already. On weekends you could wake up naturally, no alarm clock needed. It was a skill acquired or rather, a curse acquired from years of academic pressure. Yet, the day you wanted to start early, you forgot to set an alarm and your body decided it wanted to rest more. Nice.

You mentally slapped yourself, knowing that was what you forgot to do. Not wanting to punish yourself any further, you got out of bed and got dressed in your uniform. You took your brown school bag and made your way out.

There was a mental list of the people you knew from last year that could help you.

Emmeline, Theodore, Dorian, and Itsel. All recent graduates from engineering and with jobs even before they graduated, which they were still at. They were all nice enough when you spoke to them a few times during orientation week. You hoped they could give you some pointers at least. But first, you had to get into town.

You took a group carriage to town to save some time. The inner parts of the city always exuded a faint glow, it seemed. Streets, buildings, and even people were lined with the best metals. Gold, iron, you name it. Even something as simple as a fence was perfectly crafted, symmetrical, and welded to fit together as one.

As soon as you got off the carriage, the walking began. The trip was exhausting. All on foot. The paved streets made it bearable, but the inclination upwards to certain places didn’t help.

You arrived at their workplaces one by one, and each time, you chatted with them for a bit and then mentioned what you needed:

“I need help tomorrow or in two days or so for the final assessment coming up. It would be a huge help to me if you could even though I know they change the test every year. It would be nice to know how broad the topics get. I’ll buy you lunch for it if you can!”

Sadly, their answers were kind but not exactly what you hoped to hear.

Emmeline said, “Sorry, I would but I have work and then I have to get home and wait for the plumber.”

Then came Theodore, “I can, just not tomorrow. Does next week work?”

Dorian responded, “I’m busy for five days or so in the evening, I have to babysit.”

And finally, Itsel, “Oh goodness! I’m so sorry! I’m leaving town today for a work trip.”

It was time to cut your losses. You thought you could wait for Theodore next week. Then again, you would either lose time by not studying.

I’ll just start studying now. Might as well. Something is better than nothing. You thought.

It was better to start now with no guidance than to not start at all.

However, there was a whole major to review. Every day counted. But studying everything would be too much content for a month of studying or less. That’s why you needed someone to help you narrow it down.

Whatever. I’ll start studying and if Theodore’s free still by next week he can help.

By the time you made it back to the academy, it was already three o'clock. Bad timing for sure. Students were getting out of class and rushing to the library to snag the tables and chairs. It’s not like you could grab a book and leave. Every single year during that month, without fail, everything was scarce. Chairs, seats, books, encyclopedias, even floor space.

So you ran.

Entering the building was chaotic. The main hallway on the first floor was packed with students and teachers. If you were to get there first, you had to find a shortcut. You looked to your left to the staircase and sprinted. A step or two were skipped in the process, but with a generous amount of stairs present, it was necessary. Winded from the run you walked through the third floor. Thankfully, it was almost free of students.

You whispered to yourself as you picked up the pace again, “Okay. I need a mathematical fundamentals book first. I hope the first semesters don’t take them all.”

You checked your bag for everything you needed for a long study session. Notebooks to write in, money for a snack or two, erasers, a ruler, and–

Oh, Janna.

There were no pens or pencils anywhere in your bag. You kept looking for one in denial. Hell, even a stubby one. Anything! Going back to your dorm for some would set you back ten valuable minutes at least, if you were to go fast. Although, you were going fast.

You just didn’t notice how fast you were going.

There has to be one in here–

“Careful!”

WHAM!

Your perfect quick pace was interrupted by a slam onto your abdomen. A rain of metal clangs sounded through the corridor as you fell backward. In between the pain, you noticed the person's shoes.

Another student.

“Oh. It’s you again.”

You looked up, wincing. It was the professor's assistant going into his lab.

What was his name again? Vincent? Viktor! Right.

“Yep. It’s me. Hi.” You grunted as you stood up. He offered his hand but you didn’t take it, putting your hand up, “I got it. Thanks.” You dusted yourself off and started picking up the tools that flew everywhere. “Sorry about that.”

“Be careful next time, otherwise I think you’ll walk off a balcony by accident one day.” Viktor slowly kneeled, holding onto the cart to pick up one of the wrenches on the ground. You handed him the rest of the tools and he set them with the others. It wasn’t exactly organized. Well, it probably was before you rammed into it.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

He started pushing the long metal cart into the lab once more, “Good to see you again.”

“You too.” You answered, rubbing your stomach in pain and walking away.

Sheesh. What a hit… Wait–

In an instant, your mind stacked a thought. An idea. A potential.

“Hey!” You turned on your heel. “Wait!”

The large door was about to close and then it stopped. A brief moment passed and Viktor peeked from the entry.

You sighed in relief. “Could I ask for a huge favor? If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

He looked confused, then motioned you into the lab that mesmerized you the day before. You skipped towards the lab and he closed the door behind you. The place was lightly organized but still maintained Heimerdinger's charm with its pinch of chaos. Viktor sat down at the tall table in the middle and started transferring his tools to it.

“About the favor…” His voice was calm. “Would the favor include not crashing into the equipment?”

Man, you felt like he was rubbing it in. You smiled awkwardly. “Now it will.”

“Ask, then.”

You stayed near the door, only seeing him slightly from the side. “I’m having my final assessment soon.”

His head nodded once, and he said, “Your equation results went well, I assume?”

“Well…” You cringed. It wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t what you expected.

He turned back to you, eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide. “Was there something wrong with it?”

“Not at all. I got a nine out of ten.”

“What? Why a nine?” His eyes shifted, looking for a reason. Viktor turned back to the tools with his hand on his chin. “It was efficient. Near perfect even.”

You huffed and mumbled, “Penmark said there was a smudge.”

“A smudge? Where?” He turned back again, with even more energy this time. This was a completely different person from the one you met the day before. He was entirely expressive. His expression was a mix of offended and flabbergasted.

“That’s what I thought. It’s barely noticeable.” At least you knew you weren’t going insane. That teacher was being overly strict.

“Is the favor getting him fired?” Viktor’s eyes narrowed.

Your eyes widened. “I didn’t say that… I don’t want to deal with him anymore, so it’s fine. He probably has a family. I wouldn’t want to get someone fired over nothing personal.”

His eyes returned to normal, and an almost untraceable smile was present when he returned to his task. “So then, what’s the favor?”

“Like I said, my final assessment is soon. I need help from someone who has already graduated to give me an idea of what to expect or how it goes.” Your mind wandered, remembering your failed attempts, “I went to every single upperclassman I knew, and they were all busy. Then I ran into you, and here we are.”

Viktor looked at you. “So you assume I’m not busy.” No emotion was on his face. Nothing. Not even a blink. He looked away.

Fuck.

Your hands waved frantically, and your words fell out in rapid succession, “No! I meant that I exhausted my options and I happened to run into you. More like crashing– Anyway, that's not the point–”

Any words you had planned to say halted. You saw Viktor’s head slightly tilted towards you. A small, barely traceable smirk was present on his face.

He wasn’t serious.

“You’re messing with me, right?”

He snorted.

First, a wave of relief washed over you. You were glad you didn’t offend him. Then came astonishment. He barely knew you, and he had the gall to make you socially panic?

“You had me there for a second.” You crossed your arms.

“I did, yes.” In his voice, you could hear a smile still present on his face.

“I was also planning on buying whoever said yes some lunch. I’ll be in the library today. Please let me know if you can.” You made your way to the door. “I know you are busy, but if you could please help me, I’d be extremely thankful.”

“Eh… I’ll make time.”

You looked back in shock, “So you’ll help me?” Was this it? You found someone willing to help? Who would have guessed that crashing into someone would become something good?

“Yes. Coffee would be nice. It could be at the Academy if you prefer.”

The university's coffee wasn’t bad, but not great. And very overpriced for its taste. You opted for something else, “Do you know a place outside of the university?”

He turned in his chair and searched for a memory with his eyes. “There’s a small coffee shop around Midtown I’ve been to before. How about there?”

“Sure, I can meet you there.”

“I’m available tomorrow after three o’clock. We could meet there at four.” Viktor scanned his eyes across the table until they landed on a pen. With a soft click of its end, he prepared it for writing, “It’s called ‘Cogs of Coffee.’ Brown brick with a gear behind the sign.” He tore one of the corners of a sheet of paper, wrote it down, and handed it to you, “Hard to miss.”

You walked a few steps toward him and took the paper. His writing was fancy and slanted, with some letters connecting, bordering on cursive.

“Cogs of Coffee…” You read and nodded, “Yeah, I know where it is. See you there at four then?”

“Four it is.”

The walk back to your dorm was relieving. Finally, someone who could help. You were definitely going to buy him coffee in the best mood possible. The library could wait. You were already out of luck for a spot anyway. For now, you could rest without guilt. Hell, you even had a smile on your face as you pranced to your dorm.

Sky was cleaning her desk when you came in. She raised an eyebrow with a smile, “Someone looks happy. And rested.”

“Yes, very.” You were practically beaming. Even putting your things away felt fun and light.

“Were any of the upperclassmen available to help, then?”

“Something like that.”

After having some security, the day flew by in a blink. As did the night.

You knew you could pass the final, but you didn’t want to risk it. You had an even bigger chance to make it. Thanks to the kindness of an upperclassman you barely knew. Among your thoughts, you hoped to live up to the potential your parents knew you had. You hoped to have a stable job, and contribute something to the world. It all felt so close.

The next morning was pleasant. You didn’t know if it was the weather or your mood. Honestly, you couldn't care any less. You were solely focused on getting to Midtown for lunch. With your bag packed with the same notebooks from yesterday, but now accompanied by pens, you headed out.

Midtown was always full no matter the season or the hour. The area always bustled and sang with hundreds of people roaming through its endless shops and vendors. Everything was always on sale. Whatever you were looking for, they had it. Books, pens, tools, pets, clothes, you name it. The most remarkable thing about it was the food. Heavens, the food.

You hadn’t ever gotten around to trying everything because of the sheer amount of food that was available. There were shops, tents, and carts ready to offer you the very best of the best. All the cooks seemed to be masters of their craft. The best thing ever had been mashed potatoes and gravy from a cook from Bilgewater. Holy smokes. It was the right consistency, the perfect amount of spices.

Now it was time to try a new coffee place. You’d been to a few before, but never the one Viktor suggested. In between the crowds of people, you looked for the shop. Gear behind the name. Brown brick.

After a block or two, there it was on a corner. Cogs of Coffee. It had a golden sign, as they usually were in Piltover, with large arched windows on its sides. Its quaint white door waited for you in the center. A light bell rang as you walked in, being greeted by a sweet smell mixed in with the strong coffee scent. The floors were dark polished wood and its walls dark green and plastered in framed newspaper headlines, insect mounts, and flower presses.

Not many people were in it, to your surprise. The ten tables were only a third of the way filled, and the booths were empty. All but one.

A voice calling your name came from the booths on the left side of the shop. Viktor sat with his hand up giving half a wave. You waved as you shuffled to the booth and scooted in, “Have you been waiting long?”

Viktor rolled up the sleeves of his uniform, “Eh, just a few minutes. The waitress already brought a menu.” He slid it towards you, “If you want to look it over.”

“Thanks, I will.” You took off your bookbag and skimmed through it.

The menu was simple, albeit pretty extensive. Some of the options were:

Honeyfruit Tea (Cold Brew)

Kiwa infused coffee

Regular coffee (Custom preparation)

Chocolate biscuits

Sweetmilk muffins

Non-Poro Poro Snax

Milkshakes (Chocolate, Vanilla, Berry)

“I recommend the sweetmilk muffins. The regular coffee is great too,” Viktor interrupted.

You tilted your head at the menu. “They sound good. We can order them.”

One of the waitresses came to your table with a smile and her blonde hair in a messy bun. “Good afternoon, I’ll be your server for today! Are you two ready to order?” Her hand waited on her paper pad.

Viktor went first, “Yes, thank you. I’ll have the, uh, regular coffee, with the sugars and glasses of milk on the side so we can mix it here.”

“Sounds good.” She wrote in her notepad and turned to you with a practiced smile. "And you?”

“I’ll have the same.” You looked at the menu one last time, turned to her, and said, “and an order of sweetmilk muffins. Please.”

“Alright! So, two coffees and the muffins.” She tapped the edge of her notepad as she went through the short order. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she held her hand out for the menu. “If there’s anything else, let me know!”

The light conversation and clinks from cups filled the brief silence as the waitress left. Viktor rested his hands on the wooden table and asked, “did you bring a pen and paper?” His voice pulled you out of the hum coming from the mixture of noises.

You scrambled for the items. “Oh, yeah.”

Viktor spent the time elaborating on how much time the test would last, the rules, and the sections of the test. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t heard before from teachers, but hearing it from another student in more casual words made a world of difference. There would be three sections that never changed: Language, theoretical mathematics, and applied engineering. Applied engineering was what worried you. He said it was more about logic rather than calculating, which made it very subjective.

By the time your order came, he had gotten to the interesting bit: The potential subjects.

He thanked the waitress and continued. “Don’t stress about the minor subjects in topics. Focus on the main part of a topic.” Starting to pour some beige milk into his coffee, he explained, “for example, you have topic one, right? And the topic has sections, with each section elaborating more as you go on. Stick to the first two sections, which are the most important. I noticed that when I took it.”

“So… I should just study the general part of every topic?” You took a bite of the golden muffins. By Janna, they were amazing. Creamy and fluffy all at once. Surprise was plastered all over your face.

“If I’m honest,” he stirred his coffee, if you could even call it that, since it was ninety percent milk. “I don't think you need to study as much. Heimerdinger says you're bright enough.” Viktor raised his eyebrows at you and took a drink.

He did?

What a compliment. The founder of the city thinking you were competent wasn’t something you expected.

“He said that? When?”

He sighed from the taste of his drink. “I asked him to leave earlier today to come here with you. He mentioned you were one of the best in class.”

“Wow.”

“He also added that even if that was the case, it was good you looked for extra help.” Viktor looked up, trying to remember. “Eh, something like... A stitch in time saves nine.”

You smiled and replied, “the professor and his metaphors.”

“Still, don't overwork yourself. You have enough time. Worry when you have none left.”

You wrote down all of his advice, and at the bottom of the page, you wrote: You’re smart, relax.

At a point in the afternoon, you began talking about mundane things. You learned Viktor was a work-study student in the master’s program, working on his invention as his thesis. He couldn’t say what it was because of confidentiality, but that when it was done, it would be on display if you were interested.

Amidst the conversation, a little question rang in the back of your mind.

Is his name with a ‘C’ or with a ‘K’?

You decided to ask. “By the way–”

He looked attentive until the waitress came by with a smile and stopped you both. “Are you two doing good? Would you like the check? Or not yet?”

Viktor looked at you, asking the same question in silence. You nodded with a shrug.

“Yes, please. The check is fine,” he said, handing the waitress his empty mug and yours. “Thank you.”

You hadn’t even realized you had finished your drink.

“I have to get back soon.” Lifting his sleeve, he checked the time on a thin brown watch. “I need to pick up some ball joints for the project I told you about.”

“Yeah. It's getting late. I have to run too.”

The waitress walked to your booth as you looked around for your wallet. Just when you found it, you looked up, and Viktor had placed the amount with some tip in the folder for the waitress. She took it, told you to have a nice day, and left.

You were speechless. The whole point was for you to pay as a thank you, and he didn’t let you do that. “Wasn’t I supposed to buy you the coffee?”

He looked puzzled. Then he understood. “I wasn’t doing this for coffee.” Viktor stood up and took his cane. “I just wanted to help.”

“Thank you, really. For the help, the coffee, and muffins. Good recommendation, by the way.”

You both walked out of the coffee shop and were greeted by the same busy street as before, only less sunny.

Viktor took his cane from his right hand to his left and extended his hand toward you. “If you ever need anything else, you know where to find me.”

You shook his hand and chuckled. “Thanks. I promise I won’t crash into you if I come looking for you.”

“I’d appreciate it.” He smiled.

Viktor waved down a carriage going in the opposite direction of the university.

Before he could leave, you interjected. “Oh. One last thing.”

He looked back at you. “Hm?”

“Are you any good at explaining math?” you asked.

“I tutor in the evenings for the Academy twelfth graders and the university's first-year students. So you tell me.”

“Oh, so you tutor, too? So… no fourth-year students?” You didn’t want to be too forward by saying you wanted to go.

Thankfully, he caught on to what you meant to say. “You can come, if that's what you’re asking. I see various topics. It’ll jog your memory. If you have something specific you want to cover, I can do that too.”

The open carriage came to a stop for him, and he gave a silver coin to the driver. He opened the door and stepped onto it.

“That would be great.” Amazing, actually. You didn't necessarily need the tutoring, but the extra practice was always useful.

He sat down, and the carriage started to move. “Room fifteen in Wing Five. Seven o’clock in the evening.”

You raised your voice to confirm. “Got it. Fifteen, Wing Five.”

#extra long chapter because i made you wait :( i was getting engaged and i quit my job and im moving LMAO #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane #league of legends #in the blue hours of the morning #ao3 author curse #thank you for all the amazing comments here and on ao3 #they meant so much to me <3

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fluentmoviequoter · 3 months ago

Text

Muse

Pairing: Victor Vale x fem!artist!reader

Summary: You find your muse at Lockland, but know he'll never be more than that. A decade later, you're approached by the man whose picture filled your sketchpad.

Warnings: brief angst, r becomes an EO, fluff

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Image from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Victor Vale Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Isn’t Professor Ballard the best?!”

You scowl, your eyes locked on the blank sketch pad balanced precariously on your knees. Most art students would probably agree with the over-eager, overdressed blonde girl bouncing down the sidewalk with her clique. Professor Ballard gave you complete control over your final project. The only catch was she said you have to find a muse. You’ve been drawing for your entire life, experimenting with other media forms for as long as you can remember, and your skills and knowledge have undoubtedly improved during your time at Lockland. Yet, you haven’t found the one thing that sparks your creativity every time… no muse.

“Maybe my muse is silence,” you murmur. “Haven’t encountered that in a while.”

Sighing, you pull your sketch pad into your lap and look away. It’s overcast, and the dark clouds above you make Lockland even more gothic and dangerous. In the gray stillness, you wonder if you could make it your muse somehow. There isn’t much inspiration in the expensive façade of the university around you, though.

“Wait,” someone exclaims sharply. They grab the arm of the person walking beside them and lower their voice to hiss, “Not that way. Don’t you know who that is?”

You follow their gaze. Victor Vale, you realize. Murderer. Monster. Other students on this campus would have looked away already, but something about Victor draws you in. He’s intense, dark… perfect. His sharp edges and icy eyes consume you. You spin your pencil in your fingers, then begin drawing short, light lines on your paper. Without looking at the page, you truly see Victor Vale. He might be innocent, he might be just as malicious as people say, but you see something else. His eyes are hard and pensive, but there’s something just behind them. A weariness, a sense of guilelessness clinging to the person he used to be. You’ve never met Victor, but as his likeness fills your sketchpad, you feel like you know him better than anyone else ever has or will.

Victor Vale, you think, murderer, monster. Muse.

Your face softens as you look down at the image on your sketchpad. You’ve found your muse, but he’s untouchable, inapproachable, and worst-case scenario, a murderer.

Tapping your pencil against the metal spirals of your sketchpad, you wait outside the main science building. Victor Vale is hard to miss, yet you scan every face that comes or goes, looking for the man you’ve grown to crave. There’s a deep beauty in his form and how he conducts himself, and you can’t get enough of it. Being separated from your muse gives you an artistic hunger you can’t replicate, so you leave the mystery and the space between you. As you draw his expressions, movements, and appearance from a distance, you realize that your taste has developed not only for his effect on your art but for him. As you work on your final, using a model who has no idea he’s filling your mind, dreams, and sketchpad, you slowly become attached to him. But he will never know.

With a smile, you exit your final class. Your final project was a completed drawing of Victor Vale standing in a cherry blossom orchard. His face is obscured by the blooms, but the sense of weariness, fleeting beauty, and renewal were communicated – according to Professor Ballard, at least. The original drawing is back at your dorm, safe and preserved for your enjoyment.

Blackness invades your vision, and as you fall, the only thing on your mind is that you may never see your muse again.

Merit, 10 Years Later

“It will work,” Victor insists.

“Because Eli is crazy,” Mitch deadpans.

“Simplification. But yes. He can’t walk away from this, not without knowing.”

Mitch shakes his head as he opens his laptop, and Victor lets his eyes wander around the small coffee shop. Sydney is back at the hotel with Dol, expecting the largest cup of hot cocoa Victor can find, and he trusts Mitch differently than her, so he leans back in his seat and observes.

Victor’s eyes move smoothly around the room, gliding past faces as if searching for a target. He’s a predator, and despite his intense gaze, the discomfort he sends out ensures people don’t notice his presence. In the back corner of the café, Victor stops. His pale brows raise slightly, and he looks back to the table he previously looked past.

The woman in the far seat, with her back to the wall, is sketching quietly. There’s a forgotten mug beside her, and her pencil moves across the page with effortless grace. She raises her eyes toward Victor several times, never quite meeting his eyes.

Victor’s mind should be racing, thinking of how this woman could be working for Eli or Serena or any of the other enemies he’s made in the last decade. He should be planning to rid himself of this new threat. Instead, he notices her and takes her in.

“I’ll be back,” Victor murmurs to Mitch, who raises one finger in acknowledgement.

Victor walks silently to her table, turning the dial in his mind up slightly. He wants her comfortable enough to answer a few questions but would prefer she push this encounter out of her mind and forget it.

Standing directly across the small wooden table from her, Victor observes her eyes, posture, and body language. That pain he uses is an instrument to her. She embraces it and channels it into the pencil between her fingers. Whatever she’s putting on the pad between her stomach and the table is telling the story of heartbreak and sorrow the pain coursing through her tells. Based on how her tongue peeks out from beneath her teeth, she adds the triumph she hopes comes after. Victor should have known better than to give her something to use, he thinks as he clears his throat.

“You were at Lockland,” he says.

“Victor,” Mitch calls, his voice tight and concerned.

You feel the mild discomfort from before worsen but it doesn’t stop you from drawing. You’ve been trying to reclaim the artistic magic of your muse for a decade, and the man in the black trench coat sitting across the room from you is a promising inspiration. When he stands, you focus on your paper.

The moment Victor speaks, your hand seems to move on its own accord, attempting to capture the essence of his voice, of who he was and is, and will always be. You can’t bring yourself to look up, to see him again, because both everything and nothing has changed. Victor was never yours; he was an unknown and likely unwilling model. To you, he was everything. He was your dream and desire, something you desperately craved but knew you’d never have. As Victor walks back to his table, you look at the back of his head, his silhouette like a lighthouse after a decade of being lost and rocked mercilessly in the pitch-black sea. But he’s walking away, and there’s no promise of a next time.

Victor fights the urge to look back at you as he walks to Mitch’s side. There’s an image pulled up on the laptop, but it’s not just any picture. It’s yours, and beside it, your obituary. He looks up, scanning your face for any sign that you look like the girl he saw but never approached at Lockland but aren't really her. Victor and Mitch know better than most that they may be looking at you a decade after you died, but there must be more to the story.

“Get up,” Victor demands as he returns to your table.

Your pencil slows but doesn’t stop.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises – though you didn’t think he would. “I just want to talk… somewhere a little quieter.”

You nod, stow your pencil in your bag, close your worn sketchpad, and stand. Following Victor outside, you don’t miss his large friend standing behind you, a sentinel, a bodyguard, maybe even a friend. Victor stops in an empty alley and turns toward you, his coat billowing gracefully.

“What’s your name?” he and his friend ask together.

“Call me Muse,” you reply lightly.

“What can you do?” Victor inquires.

You look at him, truly see him for the first time. His sharp edges remain, his eyes have lost the last trace of innocence you saw at Lockland, and the desperation has morphed into a fierce determination. This Victor Vale is who you knew and somehow completely different, yet you remain inexplicably drawn to him. Your artistic hunger becomes more.

“I can draw things I’ve never seen,” you answer. “I had a brain aneurysm that affected my vision, died on the operating table. Somehow, I woke up in the morgue and could see much more than before. It’s hard to communicate these… visions, whatever you want to call them. Drawing them is easy.”

“Is it random?”

You smile and say, “I can draw where Eli is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why would he be asking that?” Mitch interjects.

“Because only one of them wore a mask, and I’ve got a talent for capturing masks and the people beneath them.”

“You don’t have to help,” Victor offers.

After passing your sketchpad, you watch him flip through pictures of him, interspersed with unexplained visions you’ve had over the years. Victor considers it answer enough until he reaches the back cover and narrows his eyes.

“Lockland,” you say softly. “Final project.”

“Why didn’t you just ask for a model?” he counters.

As he returns the book, you whisper, “Maybe I will now.”

“Mitch, we need to get Muse a new sketchpad.”

“Reduced to an errand boy,” Mitch grumbles as he exits the alley.

“So,” Victor begins, “Where we do start?”

#victor vale x reader #victor vale fluff #victor vale oneshot #victor vale #vicious ve schwab #vicious #villains duology #villains series #mitch turner #fem!reader #hanna writes✯

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