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cyberslvts · 4 months

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PHONE | w. maximoff

summary: You call your wife and decided to show her just how much you miss her

warnings: 18+ MDNI phone sex, guided masterbation, fingering, only thing on my wishlist this year is nasty phone sex with wanda

word count: 3k

It had been about five days since your wife left for her business trip, and to say you missed her was an understatement.

The house held a heavy silence as you settled into bed for the night, pulling the comforters up to your waist, feeling a subtle emptiness creep up when you looked at the empty bed space next to you. Prompting restless tossing and turning until you ended up facing your nightstand, the soft glow of your digital clock highlighted a jumble of trinkets: a small bowl cradling Wanda's extensive collection of rings, and a few pairs of earrings, a forgotten mug of now-cold tea, a petite bottle of hand cream, and a book precariously hanging off the edge

Your eyes continued to run along the smooth wood until they landed on a framed photo of you and Wanda, Captured during last year's anniversary celebration, Wanda had taken you into the city your faces slightly pushed together, painted with toothy grins as you both bundled up in thick winter coats leaning into each other for warmth.

Your heart swelled as you looked at the photo. Wanda's bright grin and sparkling eyes, filled with so much love, only made the ache you felt for her at that moment worse. She truly was the best partner you could ever ask for, always so attentive and devoted to you, making you feel like the most important person in the world, and in her eyes you were.

She was so sweet to you, calling and texting you whenever she got the chance, in between meetings or as she was leaving the hotel. Always eager and enthusiastic just to hear your voice on the rare occasions your timings synced up. Given the distance, Wanda was behind by two hours, leaving your calls awkward to match up, always missing each other by a few minutes. When Wanda was just waking up you were stepping into the office, and when she was leaving work you were already asleep.

You supposed she was eating dinner right now, probably with her co-workers or indulging in takeout from the Italian place she had previously mentioned. You felt silly, missing her this much when she had only been gone for a few days.

As you continued to look at the photograph you felt something blossom inside you, shifting slightly, your foot began to run up and down the side of your leg as your thumb swiped over her face in the picture. It felt like it had been an eternity since she last touched you, which you knew wasn't true as she had made sure to give you an extra memorable morning before she left for her flight, fucking you into oblivion before giving your limp body a sweet kiss goodbye.

You returned the photograph to the nightstand and rolled over in the bed until you were pressed against Wanda's pillow, you shamelessly dug your nose into the fabric, the scent of her shampoo and perfume invaded your senses and made you feel like she was right there with you. Your body temperature increased and your clothes started to feel a little too tight around your body.

Before you could rile yourself up anymore, your phone lit up the room with a loud ring. You smiled when you saw Wanda's contact name appear on the screen,

“Hi honey” your tone comes out huskier than you expected, you hear the sound of a door shutting from the other side of the call,

“Hi sweetheart, I didn't wake you did I?” Wanda attentively asks, feeling an immediate warmth as your voice reaches across the distance.

“No, not at all” You answer, readjusting yourself so your back is propped up against your headboard “Did you just get back?”

“Yeah, we got out early today,” She tucks the phone between her neck and shoulders, and you can hear the sounds of ruffling clothes, as both her hands are occupied with unbuttoning her suit jacket.

You bite your lip, imagining Wanda coming home in her work clothes. her hair messy from the walk home, the collar of her white shirt undone, looking so sexily disheveled. You sat up straighter in your bed, not wanting to get too carried away.

As the minutes passed you fell into your usual routine, exchanging the details of your day, from the mundane to the extraordinary, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Wanda listened attentively, her genuine interest was evident in the thoughtful questions she posed and the occasional chuckle at your natural charm. In turn, you hung on every word as she recounted her workday. The familiar cadence of her voice brought comfort, making it feel as if she were right there in bed with you.

Eventually, she tossed her jacket over the back of her chair, flopping down onto the bed in exhaustion, letting out a breathy sigh that you didn't miss.

“You sound tired, are you sleeping okay?” you questioned, whilst massaging the divit of your palm against the top of your thighs, trying to dry the sweat that had formed.

“No,” she huffed out, rolling onto her back, and placing one hand over her stomach. “The bed is terrible, the sheets are so scratchy and the mattress is too hard, I'd much rather be back in our bed, with you.”

Her unfiltered honesty made you giggle and you smiled, knowing that Wanda had a tendency to not receive a good night's sleep if it wasn't spent wrapped up against your side.

“I wish you were here too, I miss you.”

"I miss you too," she replied honestly, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, picturing you doing the same. Your back is flat against the mattress, hair sprawled out along the pillows, your shirt slightly riding up your torso, exposing your skin. Her thoughts began to slip, and it was becoming harder to focus on the conversation. The sultry tone of your voice played in her mind, and she couldn't help but imagine the sensation of her fingertips tracing patterns on your skin.

“Yeah?” you purred, your voice smoothe against Wanda's ears. She didn't fail to recognize the familiar switch in your tone, and she felt a rush of excitement start to fill her.

“Yes baby, so much, I hate being away from you.” She rasped out, closing her eyes when she heard your breathing start to pick up. The atmosphere between you two shifted, becoming heavier and more intimate.

“What do you miss about me?” You pressed, wanting her to fall into the same lusted haze you were trapped in.

“Everything” She immediately responded, as if she had been waiting all week to answer this question. Wanda's fingers absentmindedly traced circles on the edge of the bedsheet as she continued, “I miss touching you, and feeling you against me, I can't stop thinking about it”

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, her imagination running wild with the vivid memories of you together.

“Tell me more” you bit your lip, pressing and rubbing your thighs together in anticipation. Your head felt fuzzy, and your arousal swelled, a throbbing pulse resonating from your core, working yourself up so much you felt as if you were going to explode, You weren't sure if it was because you haven't seen your wife in almost a week, the distance amplifying your neediness for her. Regardless, every word exchanged over the phone was igniting a spark in you that needed to be taken care of.

Wanda's voice dipped even lower, as she happily obliged to your request “I keep thinking about that morning before I left, how loud you were and how pretty you sounded”

“My strap couldn't even stay inside you, it kept slipping out because your pussy was so wet” she teased you, already knowing your cheeks were flushing a vibrant red in embarrassment. She ran a hand down her stomach, her skin felt ablaze, a heat coursing through her that made every inch of her body tingle. She slowly unbuttoned her dress shirt, the cloth splitting apart and falling down the opposite sides of her torso, until only a black bra remained covering her upper half. Her hand fell down her breasts, lightly squeezing them and letting out a moan right into your ear.

You sighed, listening to her husky voice, the vibrations from the phone tickling your jaw. You felt a familiar wetness start to pool and you sunk lower into the bed until you were flat against the sheets. Wanda hears you rustling around the bed and presses the phone harder into her ear.

“Fuck baby, I miss you so much” You let a moan escape your lips, your hands slipping under the blankets to begin stroking yourself over your underwear. “I've made myself cum twice since you left, just thinking about you”

A throaty moan escaped her lips involuntarily, immediately painting a vivid picture of you in her head. You, alone in your bed, your hand buried between your legs, moaning her name. The sound echoed in her ears, remembering nights when she made you sound just like that. Your voice, now a seductive whisper, only fueled her daydream, making her cheeks flush as she felt a wave of desire wash over her.

“God, you're really turning me on right now” You heard the metal clicks of Wanda fumbling with her belt, with an alarming speed, she shed the rest of her clothes throwing them across the room so they were out of her way. She pushes herself farther up the bed and slides under the covers, her hand immediately finding her wetness, where she starts rubbing gentle circles to her clit.

Your hand slides under your panties, running a finger through your pussy and spreading it all over your folds and clit. The whine that reverberates inside your bedroom encourages wanda to do the same. “What are you wearing right now?”

You don't even open your eyes, which were squeezed shut, already knowing exactly what you had on “Just my underwear. the red ones”

Her grip on the phone tightened and she let out a string of curses, she knew exactly what you were talking about. The pressure she has on her bud gets harder imagining you in her favorite pair of panties, how pretty and fuckable she knew you looked right now, and how she couldn't do anything about it.

You slowly push a finger into your slippery walls, and an immediate sense of disappointment washes over you. A frustrated whine escapes your lips as you miss the expertise of your wife's fingers, vivid memories playing in your mind of how Wanda's touch could make you scream and cum within minutes.

"I need you so bad, Wanda," you confess, the desperation evident in your voice. Tightening your hold on the phone, as if it were your only lifeline to her. "It doesn't feel as good when I do it.".

Wanda's heart beats faster, hearing your desperate little whines, trying to find any hint of pleasure to relieve the ache she wasn't there to take care of. Wanda promised her self as soon as she arrived home she would fuck you so good, long and hard, taking you in every position possible, just what you deserved for being her good, patient wife.

"I know, baby," she purrs, her words weaving a tapestry of lust. "Just close your eyes and imagine my touch, my fingers doing all the work." Wanda's explicit instructions and encouragement make you throb, and you start to squirm against the bed eagerly awaiting her next command.

"Go slow, baby," Wanda instructs, her voice a sultry whisper through the phone. "Add another finger and curl it, just like how I do it." You let out a low moan, attempting to replicate her movements. Though it's not quite the same, it's undeniably better than before. Sliding in another finger, you leave it there for a moment, feeling your walls squeeze and flutter around it.

Gently curling your fingers, flashes of Wanda flood your thoughts. Pushing them deeper, you can almost feel her presence, as if she's right there with you, guiding your every move. In your mind, Wanda is on top of you, deep inside your pussy, praising you as a good girl. The image is so clear you start to feel twirls of pleasure forming in your stomach.

“That's right, honey, just like that” Wanda's voice is shaky, listening to you wholeheartedly follow her commands.You were so obedient, her precious girl. “Now, arch your back”

You do exactly as she says, the tip of your head falls back against your pillow and your ass digs itself into the mattress. Your pleasure immediately deepens and you start to move your fingers faster,

Wanda mirrors her instructions, pumping two fingers in and out of herself, letting out deep groans right into the phone. As she listens to you on the other end, pleasure-laden sounds and breathy moans fill the air. She can hear your pussy making the dirtiest sounds, loudly squelching everytime you jut your fingers in. She wishes she were there to witness it in person. Frustration builds as she hears the most beautiful sounds escaping your lips, and the fact that she can't do a single thing about it heightens the tension.

"I can hear you, how wet you are," she moans out, beginning to lose herself in the pleasure. "Is that all for me?

“Yes, all for you,” you breathlessly respond, your hips bucking up to match the rhythm of your fingers, desperately chasing your high. “you're making me feel so good”

The once-pristinely ironed sheets are now a tangled, wrinkled mess as Wanda's whole body squirms and writhes against the bed. She uses her thumb to rub at her clit, her mouth falling open at the sensation. Her eyes lock shut, entirely focused on creating vivid mental images of you that bring her closer and closer to the edge.

She felt her pussy tighten around her fingers, thinking about all the times she had made you cum, your adorable face scrunching up into an expression exclusively reserved for her played vividly in her mind. The memory of your eyebrows sewing together, your thighs wrapping around her, and your desperate attempts to cling to any part of her body for comfort lingered in her thoughts. On those particularly heated nights, she would work you up to a point where deep red lines would be etched into the skin of her back. stinging and aching so deliciously the next day.

When she tells you to go faster, you feel your orgasm rapidly build and the room starts to feel hazy. Thick with heat and the sounds of your and wanda's moans. You pump your fingers faster, and you can see them glistening with your juices everytime they pull out, just to be greedily plunged back in.

"Fuck, say my name,” she commanded, her final plea as she felt her self getting so close, needing to hear you scream her name while you both came on your fingers

You meet her request immediately, "Louder," she insists, and you obediently start repeating her name over and over again, getting whiner everytime. Your head was emptied of all thoughts other than Wanda as your fingers repeatedly hit that spot inside you.

“Wanda, oh god wanda”

Your voice started getting higher and louder. Wanda could tell you were about to cum, she started fucking herself harder wanting to be right there with you when you fell apart. She felt the phone start to fall out of her grip and just before she was about to fall over the edge she switched on the speaker button and let the phone fall out of her hand and next to the side of her head.

“Is my messy girl gonna cum? just from my voice.”

You parted your lips to respond but your mouth fell open wider when your orgasm suddenly ripped through you. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as her name spilled off your lips in sharp moans and gasps. Your hips bucked up and down trying to prolong the sensation for as long as possible

Hearing all of this, Wanda fell into her orgasm with a matching intensity. Her thighs shook around her hand and she tossed her head to the side. One hand gripped the pillow to her face, muffling the loud moan of your name. Trying her best to keep quiet since the hotel walls were known for being thin.

Your breathing slowed, feeling your orgasm begin to subside, your back fell limp against the bed listening to wanda do the same.

“Well, that was certainly different” Wandas voice returned, although much deeper and huskier as she struggled to catch her breath, You could practically hear her smile as she relaxed into her post orgasmic bliss

“In a good or bad way” you questioned, sitting up on one elbow and throwing your frazzled hair over your shoulder.

“A good way, a very good way,” she assured, letting out a satisfied sigh. Her eyes grew heavy, and you could hear the rustling of the bed as she began pulling the comforters up past her shoulders, tucking herself in. She let out murmurs, whispering about how much she loved you and that she would be home soon.

You smiled knowing how tired she gets after sex, part of you dimming with the realization that you weren't there to hold her to sleep. Yet, you reassured yourself—she would be back home with you by the end of the week, just as she promised

Opting to stay on the call tonight, you recharged your phone and placed it on top of your pillow, close enough to hear Wanda's tired breathing, a comforting sound that soothed you to sleep. Just before you fell asleep, her voice broke the silence.

“Let's Facetime instead tomorrow”

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #fanfic #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff smut #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen

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vivwritesfics · 1 month

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Hooked On A Feeling

Aus Grand Prix Special

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE REST OF THE SERIES, READ AT OWN RISK

1.8K

Series Masterlist

AUS GP, 2025 (two years after the beginning of the story):

You don't you stress until you've tried to wrangle two hyperactive seven year olds into a car. "Liv, c'mon. We're going to see you dad."

For the fifth time, Olivia climbed out of the car. She ran back towards the house for something she definitely didn't need. "Muuuuum," Milo called from the back seat. "Can we go now?"

"One second, Milo," Y/N called as she put their things in the trunk of the car. As soon as she shut the door of the trunk she was back in the house, calling for Olivia. "Liv, let's go!" She called up the stairs.

"But I need my hat!"

When Y/N arrived at Olivia's bedroom she was searching through her drawers. "What hat, Livvy?" She asked as she searched through the top of her wardrobe, where Olivia couldn't reach.

"The one uncle Lando got me for Christmas," she said.

Y/N knew exactly what hat Olivia was looking for. It was custom made bucket hat, made to match Daniels helmet with a 3 on the top. Olivia had worn it for every race they had attended, had almost lost it in the wind at Bahrain.

Y/N knew exactly where the hat was. Olivia had taken it in for show and tell at school and it was still in her bag. She pulled it out of the flower decorated bag and handed it to Olivia. "Ready to go now?"

She nodded and followed her future step-mom down to the car. While Y/N locked the front door, Olivia climbed into the back of the car beside Milo. Y/N climbed into the drivers seat and the three of them set off.

The year before the four of them had travelled to the Grand Prix together. Daniel had driven, singing along to the music Y/N had put on. It was one of her favourite memories. This year he had driven up with Scotty James. She couldn't be mad, she had seen the videos of them having so much fun posted all over social media.

As they drove along, the music stopped and her phone started ringing through the hands free system in the car. Y/N used the button on her steering wheel to answer and Daniels voice came through. "Hi honey, are you guys on your way?" He asked.

"We're about half an hour away, Danny," she called. From the back of the car the kids let out a chorus of 'hi's'. "Are we meeting you at the Red Bull hospitality?"

"Yeah, hun. Max and I are waiting."

There was a quiet hi, from someone Y/N could only assume was Max. "Tell him we all say hello," she said to her fiancé, who quickly passed on the message.

"Baby, I've got to go," he said. "Love you guys!"

"Love you too!" The three of them replied before the call ended.

Just as she had said, they arrived at the hotel half an hour later. They could have stayed home and watched the live coverage, but they wanted to give Daniel as much support as they could, so Daniel got himself booked into a hotel room with enough space for all of them.

He had been there since Wednesday, due to media duties and such. Y/N stayed back to work and get the kids to and from school. But they had all taken the Friday off to watch the first of the practices from the Red Bull garage.

They checked themselves into the hotel room, getting the key Daniel had left by the front desk, and headed to the track. There was no point in driving, and it was close enough that they could walk.

Milo and Olivia led the way to the track. Y/N made sure they all stayed together as they walked. It was incredibly busy as they pushed their way through towards the paddock.

Actually, it was Scotty that spotted them. He waved Y/N over and she moved the kids through the crowd, towards him. With Scotty's help, they got into the paddock. "You have much traffic on the way up here?" Scotty asked as he led the three of them over to the Red Bull Garage.

She shook her head. "Not until this point," she said, keeping one eye on the kids as they led the way once again. They were just too excited, there was no point containing them. "How is he feeling?"

It was Daniel's second year back in the Red Bull, and everybody knew he was nervous. He had seen just how quickly Red Bull had tossed their other drivers to the side. He'd managed to secure a contract for another year, but that could all change with the snap of someone's fingers.

They got to the hospitality unit, where Daniel was waiting outside. He took pictures for fans and signed the things that were shoved in his face. Staff parted the fans like the red sea to allow Y/N, Scotty and the kids through.

Olivia immediately ran to her father. "Badger!" He called as he hugged her.

He held his other arm out for Milo, who joined the hug. "Hi dad," he said, grinning.

Milo didn't realise what he had said, not right away. And Daniel sure wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. It was Olivia who giggled at her future brother. "You just called him dad," she laughed, and Milo's face scrunched up in embarrassment.

"No I didn't," he insisted.

"Yes you did! Yes you did!"

But Milo went running to his mother. Olivia let go of her dad and went inside of the hospitality unit to find her Uncle Max. Daniel turned his attention to his bride to be. "My lady," he said as she stepped towards him.

"Danny." She was aware of the cameras on the two of them as she stepped towards him. Flashes went off, videos were recorded on fans phones as she pressed her lips against his and wrapped her arms around his neck.

The two of them never had much a chance at privacy. There very first kiss all those years ago was televised. They'd tried, to give her and the kids a normal life, but their attempts were futile. They'd given up.

With his hand on the small of her back, Daniel let her and Milo into the hospitality unit. "Are you hungry?" He asked, immediately going to fix her and Milo something to eat. He would have gotten Olivia something, but she was eating a muffin as she spoke to her uncle Max, no doubt about karting.

The family of four spent what time they could together before Daniel jumped in the number 3 Red Bull car for the first practice session. This one wasn't about speed, Y/N had come to learn. It was about testing different set ups, not about setting the fastest time.

FP2 that afternoon was about showing what you could do. And Danny did. Y/N, Olivia and Milo watched on as Daniel set the fastest time in FP2 over and over again. He and Max raced each other. Not in the literal sense, but it was a competition between the two of who could get the fastest lap.

After FP2 they were free to head back to the hotel. Daniel drove them back to the hotel. While Milo and Olivia took turns in showering and getting changed for dinner, Y/N and Daniel laid together. He sat on the bed and she laid against him, her hand against his racing heart. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?" She asked quietly.

Daniel sucked in a breath. The smile that played on his face wasn't a smile at all. It was more of a grimace as he looked up at the ceiling. "Nervous, definitely. But I'm glad you guys are gonna be there to support," he said and leaned down to kiss her.

They had a lovely dinner that night. It wasn't often that all four of them got to go out and do things like this, not with Daniels racing schedule. They had a wonderful time. The kids ordered whatever they wanted, which meant the biggest deserts in the place. Daniel was a lot stricter with what he was eating, considering it was a race weekend.

After their dinner, the four of them headed back to the hotel. Bellies full and incredibly happy, they quickly fell asleep. Daniel held Y/N through the night. He missed her on race weekends like this.

She woke up first. Bile rose in her throat and she struggled out of Daniels grip. As she had every morning since Wednesday, she got up and ran to the bathroom to throw up.

In the close quarters of the hotel room, everybody could hear what was happening in the bathroom. They all woke up to the sounds of Y/N throwing up into the toilet. Daniel was up and out of bed in an instant. He raced to her and immediately held her hair out of her face, rubbing her back soothingly as she heaved.

"Baby," Daniel said softly as she sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth. Tears touched her eyelashes, as they always did when she threw up.

Daniel opened his arms, but she didn't throw herself into them. Instead she washed her face and cleaned her teeth, just as she had every other morning. "C'mon, Y/N, speak to me," he said softly.

She shut her eyes, steadying herself against the sink. "I think I'm just sick," she said and turned to walked out of the bathroom.

But Daniel stopped her. He grabbed her arm softly and pulled her into his embrace, his hand moving up and down her back. "You'd tell me if... right?"

She nodded her head, letting herself rest against him.

They didn't see the two little heads peaking into the bathroom. "Mum?" Milo called, somewhat timidly. Daniel hadn't heard him speak like this in years.

Y/N and Daniel pulled away from each other. They looked at the kids as they walked into the bathroom. "Is everything okay?" Olivia asked, eyes holding concern.

Both she and Daniel nodded. "It's nothing to worry about, guys. I promise." she said.

They all stayed in the bathroom just a minute longer. Y/N was the first to leave. They all followed her out and crawled back into their beds.

But Y/N and Daniel didn't sleep. They laid there, waiting for the kids to fall asleep before Y/N turned towards him. "I think I should go and get a pregnancy test," she whispered, snuggling close to his chest.

Daniel couldn't hide the way his face lit up.

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#daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo fluff #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo x reader smut #daniel ricciardo x you #dr3 #dr3 imagine #dr3 x reader #f1 #formula one #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine

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the-s1lly-corner · 6 months

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hello hello I hope you're having a wonderful day/night! Request for TADC!!

Okay so jax x bunny y/n? what if y/n was like lola bunny?? I really don't know how to describe her personally so I would base it of like the one from space jam 1? Like the first movie?? (IF yk what I mean😭) And I imaged if y/n was called doll/toots/ect by jax or anyone (like how bugs bunny did to lola in that one sence) she would get the most heaviest thing near them and throw it at jax or like punch him or something!! 😭😭

THATS ALL I COULD IMAGE BUT HAVE FUN WITH THIS IDEA!!😌

Jax x Bunny!reader

Imma admit I'm mostly going off what I heard ab Lola's original personality as well as this ask; typically I would do a quick look over in a fandom wiki (not always reliable, I know) but my eyes feel like they're full of soup (it's getting late 😭😭)

Writing this on mobile! So typos and mistakes are likely to be more.. dudjdkf??

This one is more platonic/neutral since I wasnt entirely sure how to make this romantic! Sorry if that's what you wanted ^^;

This was originally gonna be longer but I'm eepy and tumblr (on mobile) wont let me save half answered asks in my drafts 😭😭

Honestly he LOOOOOVES teasing you and calling you those endearing names, even before you two foster a relationship, if at all (romantic or otherwise)

He thinks your reaction is funny and more often than not he can dodge whatever it is you toss his way (I mean, did you SEE how fast he ran in the pilot?)

Doesnt feel much in regards to you also being a bunny, since he knows it's not your guys' actual.. real bodies, so why would he feel anything about it...?

Actually... he might use that as ammo for teasing you...

"We're like a match made in heaven!" *side steps a flying book shelf*

He uses the names you mentioned in the request but I feel like he would also get very creative/sickeningly sweet with them to further annoy you

"Schnookums" "my pookie wookie bear" "my sweetheart with whipped cream and sztra sprinkles on top", progressively gets more obnoxious

Stuff like that !!

I just imagine you running after him, throwing things at him while he just has this smug look on his face

#tadc x you #the amazing digital circus x reader #digital circus x reader #jax x reader #jax x you #jax imagine

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

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Idée Fixe.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Some not SFW elements, yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation, depictions of general & social anxiety disorder, depictions of a panic attack, mentions of anxiety medication, Chrollo administers medications to Reader without her consent, and mentions of religion. Also Chrollo just really, really sucks. Word count: 12.3k.

You met a strange man at the arboretum today.

Perhaps you aren’t in a position to describe others as ‘strange’, considering your latest proclivity for expressing earnest thanks to any honey bees you happen across for their service. After much contemplation, however, it’s ultimately the word you arrive at. ‘Strange’ not in a disconcerting sense that inspires fear, but just being out of the ordinary enough to exude an undeniable allure. A raised panel on the floor you stumble over yet suffer no serious injury from.

Well-kept gardens might be the closest imitation to heaven on earth. That’s what brought you to this little oasis hidden in the desert that is urban life. It’s the type of day romanticists wax poetic about: baby blue skies, puffy clouds, and moderate temperatures with a light, forgiving breeze.

You situated yourself strategically, so you’d be beneath the shade of a magnolia tree whose pink petals kept fluttering down as if in greeting, and near a patch of daffodils that matched the shade of your gingham dress. Blades of grass tickle your legs, but not unpleasantly so, they scratch an itch found only in nature’s loving reprieve. There’s no thought of upcoming assignments, what to eat for dinner, or if buying that purse you thought was a steal at 30% off was a good idea or not.

It’s just you and your book.

Until it isn’t.

Every woman is connected in the experience that is trepidation whenever a man randomly approaches. There’s no telling his intentions, if he has any. You’re left to smile awkwardly and temporarily realign yourself with religion by praying to a higher deity for his hasty departure. You map out potential escape routes and recall the pepper spray situated in your impulse-bought purse. He gently calls out “Miss”, confirming that he hopes to speak with you.

At least he has the propriety to stop a few paces from where you sit, electing not to intrude on your personal space. This causes your shoulders to relax. In the few seconds you’ve been made aware of his existence, you recognize his appealing features. He has loose, dark hair, along with wide and seemingly unassuming eyes. His outfit of a dark gray turtleneck accompanied by a black jacket and pants somewhat strikes you as odd, considering spring is in full bloom. Two other details steal your attention away from this; those being the beige wrapping around his forehead and his spherical, turquoise-colored earrings. It’s like he was caught undecided between wanting and not wanting to attract attention.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins. You try not to think about how pleasant his voice sounds. “I’ve been trying to make sense of the directory, but I’ve never been the best with directions. Do you by any chance know how to get to the Starling House?”

You nod. It’s a quaint, centuries-old mansion, maintained by the non-profit that oversees the flora here. Getting over the initial apprehension from his approach, you try verbalizing the most efficient path to get there. This proves more difficult than you expected since the arboretum is vast and has few waypoints that can be used for reference. Still, throughout your explanation whose unhelpfulness you grow painfully aware of, he patiently nods and makes no attempts to rush you through.

This willingness to put up with your scattered description wins over your sympathy, pushing you past your sheepishness.

“I guess I’m not good at giving directions. I could just show you the way, if you’d like.”

“I’d hate to disturb your reading, but… if it isn’t a bother, I’d certainly appreciate it.”

You’re already setting your bookmark into place. “It’s no bother. This is my second time reading it, anyway. So don’t worry. I’m not being left off on a cliffhanger or anything.”

He smiles at that. When you’re preparing to stand, he extends his hand, a gesture that gives you a momentary pause. Well, you are wearing a dress. You suppose it’s the polite thing for him to do. You accept his unspoken offer and he hoists you up without the least bit of exertion on his part. His hand is warm and bigger than yours, slightly coarse too, surprisingly. His immaculate presentation gave you the impression of a trust fund kid or something in that vein. He’s tasteful in ensuring his touch doesn’t overstay its welcome.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

You catch a hint of his cologne. Sandalwood, amber, and leather blend together to form a delightfully woody fragrance. As amazing as he smells, you create a little distance, walking ahead motioning for him to follow. His longer legs have no trouble catching up, yet he never creeps too close.

The short journey that you expect to only be accompanied by the sounds of cardinals chirping and house finches singing is interrupted by the man speaking up again. Oddly enough, you don’t mind.

“Do you find your thoughts on Prince Myshkin’s initially endearing simple heartedness changed, knowing how the book ends?”

You pause, taking a moment to realize he must be familiar with the work. This revelation fills you with a tentative giddiness. It isn’t often you have a chance to delve into your literary thoughts to a willing audience. There’s plenty more you could say on the subject, but you try to exercise restraint nonetheless.

“I thought I might, but I found myself more critical of the other characters instead.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

He appears genuinely interested, otherwise, you would’ve kept it at that.

“Ah, well, maybe it’s that they serve as proof that innocence is never meant to last. Or if it does, it’ll inevitably be punished. There are moments where I feel frustrated with the Prince’s naivety… but then I stop and wonder why it’s so bad to want to see the best in people. Does that speak to a flaw in his character, or to a flaw in the character of others? Maybe it’s both. I can’t help but feel the Prince’s case is more sympathetic.”

His eyes never leave yours while you give your answer. Heat rises to your cheeks and you internally groan over the prospect of making a stranger listen to your ramblings. He was probably just looking to make casual conversation, not everyone wants an existential crisis on a Saturday afternoon.

“You must be someone who wants to see the best in people as well,” he surmises. There’s no hint of mockery in his tone — he’s oddly sincere. He says it with a hint of bittersweet nostalgia.

Before you can hazard a response, you come across a sign displaying information for an event at the Starling House. The building itself lies in waiting atop a hill less than a quarter of a mile ahead. He stops to read it, as do you, operating under the assumption he came here for the event. It seems that they’re displaying historic artifacts from around the area. You suppose this will be where you part ways. You’re about to wish him well when he sighs, the miffed noise stopping you.

“I got the time wrong,” he frowns, staring at his wristwatch.

The sign says the event begins at 6:00 p.m. and a quick tap of your phone reveals it’s 4:00.

“If you’re looking for a way to burn time, there’s a nice garden behind the House that’s always open to the public,” you explain. This piques his curiosity. “If the sage is in bloom, you might get lucky and see some hummingbirds.”

“That does sound lovely,” he says. Then, his lips quirk up, promising the start of a smile. “Would you care to join me, Miss…?”

You give him your name and he nods, as if deciding it fits you.

“[First]. I understand if my tour guide wants to get back to her reading, though.”

Bashfulness creeps up your back and threatens to sink its fangs into your neck. Your heart’s rhythm takes an erratic cadence. He’s posing the proposition in such a lighthearted way, offering an easy out if you want to take it. You internally weigh your options on a scale that’s worn from overuse. He’s being friendly, you tell yourself. That’s all it is.

“Well, I guess I’d be a shabby tour guide if I didn’t show you where the gardens are.”

On the brief walk to the gardens, the man introduces himself as Chrollo. You both situate yourselves on the same stone bench. You sit on the right, he sits on the left. Once again, he leaves you plenty of space, never testing boundaries. The scent of nascent sage wafts in the air. While you scan your surroundings for hummingbirds, he tells you that his work often necessitates travel, hence his unfamiliarity with the area.

“Does it ever get lonely?” You ask, not thinking much of it. He gives you a look you can’t quite place, so you elaborate. “Traveling all the time, I mean.”

He tilts his head, more inquisitive than offended. “What makes you think it’d be lonely?”

“I just think I’d get homesick after a while, always being in an unfamiliar place. I’d miss my family and friends.”

When he continues staring at you in silence with those unreadable eyes, you swear you want to slam your head repeatedly against a wall. Not everyone has a good relationship with their family or people to call their friends. The weight of your potential insensitivity comes crashing down on you like a tsunami.

You move your hands around wildly, rushing to correct your discourtesy. “Uh, I mean, that isn’t to say you need those things!”

“You don’t think I have any friends?”

Your face must be radiating more heat than a furnace. Still, the embarrassment doesn’t reach a point where you’re unable to notice his omission of the word family. “I didn’t—”

Contrary to the reaction you were expecting, Chrollo laughs. Not a little chuckle, but a genuine laugh, hearty in a way that stands in stark contrast to his otherwise reserved demeanor. The smile it imprints on his face somehow feels different than what he’s displayed before. Those were always so well timed, lasting as long as necessary and never a second more. It hits you then just how handsome this man is. Alabaster skin, soft and glossy hair, lips as rosy as the blush on his cheeks from his outburst of laughter.

It doesn’t last long, he’s quick to school himself. The speed he does so is almost unnatural. “I apologize, I’m only teasing. You’re very expressive, [First].”

You let out something between a huff and a sigh. “God, I felt so awful…”

“I can tell,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender when you send him a non-threatening glare. “To answer your question… I’ve never thought about it much. I suppose it is lonely at times.”

This revelation pours a bucket of ice-cold water over the embers of your indignation. Your face softens and a stinging pain shoots throughout your body. You can’t bring yourself to remain miffed when you’re the one who dredged this topic up. People use humor as a means to cope, that may be what Chrollo does.

“Enough about me, though. I’m far more interested in you.”

You shift in your seat. Did it always feel so warm out?

“Here, let me guess. You’re certainly a student. Hm… of the humanities, perhaps?”

“You got the student part right,” you agree. “I’m majoring in criminal psychology.”

There’s something like a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh? Is that so? You want to catch criminals, then?”

“Er… not exactly. It’s more that I want to help them.”

He blinks. “Help them?”

“Not, like, as an accomplice,” you earnestly reassure, to which he smiles, “How do I explain it… take the city around us, right? It’s considered one of the most dangerous in the United States of Saherta.”

As if on cue, a cacophony of police sirens begins blaring in the distance.

“In the 80s and 90s, there was a surge of incarceration, yet crime as a whole set higher records each year. The policy at the time was ‘build more prisons, give longer sentences’. Obviously, that didn’t work out very well for anyone… except for private prisons maybe… that’s a whole different beast. Anyway, you reap what you sow. Crime rate is going down, but communities were gutted by these policies. There’s still a lot of work to be done. I want to understand ‘deviant’ behavior so I can see what safety nets would benefit them the most.”

Chrollo is such an excellent listener that unlike before, you no longer feel the pressure to remain succinct and have little qualms completely delving into your passion. His body language suggests total engagement.

“Ah, so you view crime as a result of societal shortcomings.”

“It’s more nuanced than that,” you shake your head. “Hell, even when there were only four people on earth according to the Bible, Cain went ahead and committed murder anyway. That’s like… killing 25% of the population… how messed up. Wait. If there were only four people on earth, who did Cain go on to marry? How does that work…? Asexual reproduction…?”

“The Quran says Cain and Abel both had twin sisters,” Chrollo offers.

“Alright, that makes more sense than asexual reproduction. Okay! Enough about theology! Back to crime. There’s no totally eradicating it, but there is circumventing it. That’s what I want to help do.”

You’ve been so preoccupied with verbalizing your thoughts, you failed to notice he’s scooted slightly closer to you. There’s enough room for decorum yet you can’t help feeling slightly flustered. Why this cute guy is still hanging around despite the fact you casually mentioned asexual reproduction not once, but twice, is a phenomenon that transcends human reason.

This is so going to be one of those interactions that haunts you periodically at three in the morning for the rest of your life.

“It’s a noble pursuit,” Chrollo comments. Then, he places a hand to his chin. “Forgive me if this comes off as pessimistic, but… what if you put in all that work, only for nothing significant to change?”

You shrug. “I’ve considered that plenty, trust me. It’s fine if I don’t kickstart a utopia. So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.”

“One person, huh?”

It seems more like a rhetorical musing on his part, so you allow yourself to be momentarily distracted. In your peripherals, there’s a flash of colors, shades of green and red bleeding together. A low buzz accompanies the sporadic sight. The blur moves erratically, high to low, then low to high.

You cover your mouth to stifle a gasp, then whisper to your companion, “Chrollo! Look! A hummingbird!”

The thrum of nature is a wonder you’ll never tire of. It inspires awe that reflects in your eyes like a mirror, enchants without needing to cast a spell. You wrongly assume that Chrollo must be partaking in the same miracle that has stolen your attention. He’s fixated, yes, but not on the right subject matter. He’s still staring at you. This disruption of your expectations can only be explained away by the possibility he hasn’t spotted the creature yet. To remedy this, you slowly point in the hummingbird’s direction. Finally, he breaks his gaze from your form, acknowledging what it is you find so fascinating.

By then, it’s too late. Your newly made acquaintance departs as swiftly as it arrived.

“Aw, that’s a shame,” you lament. The disappointment you’d feel if you were in his shoes would be immeasurable. “You didn’t get to see it for very long.”

You have no concrete proof, but you swear every smile he wears is different than the one before it.

“It’s alright. I saw something far better.”

Curious, you glance to your right, searching for whatever it is. You must’ve misinterpreted whatever he was looking at before. “Something better than a hummingbird?”

“You could say that.”

The remainder of the time you spend together is relatively uneventful. Chrollo asks you a great deal about yourself, ranging from your hobbies to book recommendations. You try to return the favor — as is only polite, in your opinion — yet the conversation never lingers on him long before circling back to you. It isn’t until you say you feel vain talking about yourself so much that he offers some morsels of knowledge. Aside from traveling for his occupation, he’s something of an antiquarian, hence his interest in the Starling House’s event. He also reveals he has colleagues coming into town soon, the aforementioned ‘friends’ you questioned the existence of. The way he teases is so devoid of malice, you can’t bring yourself to be upset.

The hour flies by. Good looks aside, he’s a remarkable conversationalist. There’s never an awkward silence or social misstep. One could even call him perfection incarnate. His steady cadence, command of language, meticulously formed ideas… they’re reminiscent of cogs in an automaton turning together in complete harmony. Paradoxically, this immaculate image speaks to some underlying defect in his character he mustn’t want anyone to see. There is such a thing as being too perfect.

For whatever reason, this draws you in closer rather than repelling you.

Chrollo’s disappointment is palpable when he glances at his watch. It’s then you’re reminded that all good things must come to an end.

“I—”

“It—”

You both start and stop talking at the same time. When it’s made obvious you intend to stay silent until he speaks his piece, he motions to you with his hands, insisting you go first.

“It was very nice meeting you, Chrollo,” you say, your voice softening. It’s amazing how you can feel your previously discarded sheepishness returning in real-time. Amazing and annoying. “I, uh, hope you enjoy the event.”

“Please, I should be the one thanking you,” he insists. Then, for such a well-spoken man, he goes uncharacteristically quiet. Deliberating on some issue you’ll never be privy to. “You’ve already helped me a lot, but could I possibly ask for one more thing?”

You give a nod.

“May I have your phone number?”

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You continue staring at him.

He continues staring at you.

His request echoes through your head like it was spoken in a vast cavern. Phone number… phone number... you have one of those. He is asking for it. He wants to remain in touch. Indeed, that is what the statement normally means. Ah, it must be in a platonic sense! It’s nice to have someone to talk to, especially since you both share many interests. Not many of your friends are chomping at the bit to discuss if obtaining the philosopher’s stone was a literal practice or meant to be interpreted metaphorically.

Whoops, you left the poor guy waiting for a response.

“S-Sure!”

He hands you his phone without delay. You put in your contact info, then hold it up for him to take. His fingers brush over yours when he picks it back up and you shiver.

Well, that was certainly nice. You’re forming a blossoming friendship. You love making new friends. The word repeats in your head as if it were a broken record. Friends, friends, friends. Don’t look too into this. Put your magnifying glass down, brain. The stupid three pounds of gray matter delight in tormenting you with outrageous ideas and conclusions. There’s nothing flirtatious happening here.

“Also, I hope you don’t mind my saying so…” he trails off, weaving a web you willingly allow yourself to get trapped in, “But you are very beautiful, [First].”

…

Ohhhh, he’s been flirting with you this entire time, hasn’t he?

Going on a date is a harrowing experience.

For some unknown reason, your traitorous amygdala regards going to a café at noon with the same severity it would if a lion were actively chasing you down. Your flight or fight response raises the banners of war. The army it amasses digs its trenches, readies the cannons, its matches lit to fire off the artillery on standby. Who is the dreaded opponent, one may ask? No one. Absolutely no one. Incredibly enough, you can actively recognize this fact, and still, your physiological response claims it knows better.

Social anxiety is so stupid. You thought you and your body were supposed to be on the same team. Whatever inspired this mutiny, whether it be serotonin deficiency or some other science-y term you can’t pronounce, you most certainly don’t appreciate it.

To be fair, your parent’s reaction didn’t inspire much confidence. Your dad was asking for information on Chrollo you’re 90% sure could be used to conduct a background check, whereas your mom posited the idea he’s a human trafficker. You felt like a lawyer trying to plead your case for why it’s okay that an adult such as yourself may go on a date (sacrilegious, you know, premeditated murder would be more excusable). With some solid arguments and a few instances of stretching the truth (this sounds far nicer than the word lying), the tempest was dissipated. If Chrollo ever were to meet your parents, you’ll have to tell him he’s actually a sensitive, poetic soul that donates to orphanages and saves kittens from burning down buildings. He’s also celibate. More important than any of those things, though, he’s a political centrist.

Suddenly everything in your closet either felt prudish enough to befit a woman entering the convent, or raunchy enough you’d need to wear a trench coat to leave the house unobstructed. In the end, you find a skirt that’d pass your middle school fingertip test and a cute blouse that shouldn’t land you in purgatory.

Your hands are shaking when you go to do the winged eyeliner on your left eye. Then you sneeze while applying mascara, granting a raccoon appearance you could’ve done without. You feel wound up so tight there a mere poke could shatter you into millions of pieces. This is great. Millions of years of evolution led up to this. That selfish, inconsiderate fish should’ve never grown legs and stepped on land. Everything’s gone wrong since then. Fuck that fish.

Ultimately, you succumb and take one of your ‘stage fright’ medications. If it’s doing anything to help, you can’t tell yet.

You have to beg your dad to stop staring out the window with a pair of binoculars.

Eventually, a sleek black car pulls in front of your house.

Following the theme of the day, you almost trip over yourself walking out the front door. Your phone buzzes — no doubt it’s Chrollo telling you he’s here — but you decide to just go to the car rather than text him back. He must’ve spotted you, for he exits and gives you a wave. You’re grateful he did that while a considerable distance away. There was a time a guy waved at you and you thought he wanted a high five. Needless to say, that was a traumatic incident no amount of therapy could help alleviate.

“You look absolutely lovely,” he compliments. Your Broca’s area temporarily malfunctions at this bold declaration. Fortunately, you gather yourself fast enough to stop yourself from saying “you too”.

“Thank you,” the phrase comes out as smooth as butter. You silently congratulate yourself for your immaculate delivery of two words. “Wow… you have such a nice car. And here I thought you were a fellow member of the middle class. Am I allowed to touch this?”

Chrollo chuckles, having gotten used to the peculiar way you word things after all your electronic communication. No matter how you expressed yourself, he still texted you back, so you figured he must be okay with whatever it is you’re doing. He would’ve blocked you by now otherwise.

His reply comes as he holds the passenger side door open. “Ah, don’t worry. There was a bit of a mixup at the car rental place. I wasn’t expecting something of this quality either.”

You tuck this piece of knowledge away for later, should any sugar daddy-esque allegations be thrown your way. One can never be too prepared.

Sinking into the leather seat is a luxurious experience, although it's cold against the exposed area of your thighs. Chrollo slides into the driver’s seat not long after and sets the car into drive. You silently wonder if your neighbors think you’ve gotten into an Uber.

The short trip to the café soothes your electrically fried nerves. You’re once again reminded of how good he is at making you forget your anxiety, he could put SSRIs out of business. Or maybe the propranolol is finally working. Whichever it may be, by the time you both order your drinks, you feel more giddy than nervous. Is it a good idea to drink a caffeinated beverage when anxiety threatens to drag you into limbo at any second? Probably not. Does that mean you’re going to wisely choose a different beverage? Nope.

The sunlight is harsher in the afternoon, but you find this is offset by an occasional breeze. No one else is present in the outdoor dining area except for you and Chrollo. You choose the seat facing a row of bushes so you can observe the house finches and house sparrows fluttering about. One little fella is helping itself to a dirt bath in the freshly spread-out mulch. You coo at the adorable display, pointing it out to Chrollo who admits it is a precious sight. You’ve made it your raison d'être to convince him that every bird is equally fascinating, whether it be a rainbow lorikeet or a common pigeon.

He takes the first sip of the drink you recommended.

“Well? What do you think?”

“It’s good,” he decides with a smile. “I can see why you get it so often.”

“Right? I’ve thought about conducting an Ocean’s Eleven type heist to get the ingredients they use to make it.”

“Oh? Do you grant a moral exception to thievery?”

Despite how lightheartedly he phrases this, his eyes have a certain intensity to them. You mull over the question for this reason.

“Hm… it depends, I guess? Some people need to steal to survive. I probably wouldn’t care if a rich person or mega-corporation got stolen from either,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow at your last statement and you hastily add, “A-As long as no one gets hurt, of course.”

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “Your reasoning is very cute.”

You groan and shrink back into the garden chair. “I know, I know, that probably came off as terribly naive and self-contradictory… the issue is complex. Giving a one-size-fits-all type of consensus feels impossible. How about you? What do you think?”

“Coveting is mankind’s original sin,” Chrollo begins. He’s using a tone that tells you to prepare for an in-depth explanation. “It’s a theme that’s recurrent throughout history. David and Bathsheba, Hades and Persephone, Heathcliff and Catherine… we always want what we cannot have. This dilemma never leaves us entirely. We either ignore it, despair in it, or succumb to it. The desire to steal is as involuntary as the diaphragm contracting for us to breathe or the electric signals that cause our heart to beat.”

A house finch begins its soulful serenade in the background.

“Wouldn’t you say that calling it involuntary implies we can’t control it, though?” You query.

“The only way to exercise total control over it is to kill it.”

“Some parts of us are better off dead,” you decide. “Getting what you want doesn’t guarantee satisfaction. The examples you listed… maybe they were happy for a time, but ultimately, their transgressions caught up to them.”

“Is a moment of bliss not worth a lifetime of anguish?”

“Maybe, if I was a sensualist.”

He rests his chin on his fist, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Is that what you’re saying I am, darling?”

Your eyes widen and you almost choke on your drink at the unexpected pet name. Warmth floods your cheeks and you take a long second to recompose yourself. Your blatant display of embarrassment further fuels his amusement, he actually chuckles. You consider kicking him under the table, but decide that isn’t very ladylike. Then you remember it's the twenty-first century, and to honor your feminist ancestors, you scrunch up a napkin into a ball and fling it at him. Although the aerodynamics of your makeshift projectile are questionable, it almost hits him. Until he catches it with admittedly impressive reflexes.

“You have a good throwing arm.”

“And you should consider retiring from your white-collar job to join a baseball team,” you take a sip of your delicious drink. This is definitely the most memorable date you’ve been on. “But no, I don’t think you’re a sensualist. I honestly don’t know how I’d classify you. You’re jaded… almost misanthropic. You acknowledge the world for what it is, but it’s like you once thought it could be better. You don’t care to be proven right or wrong about it anymore, you want something else.”

“Ah… when put that way, I must seem pathetic,” he muses, his casual air hardly matching the severity of the words spoken.

“Not at all!” Your passionate outcry appears to momentarily take him aback. “If you’re still looking for something, that means deep down, you have hope you might eventually find it. To me, that’s admirable.”

He regards you for a few moments, before closing his eyes, his countenance strangely content. “You’re a very interesting woman, [First].”

“Pfft, not really.”

“I’m afraid this a point I’ll have to insist on,” or so he says, but you both know he secretly relishes his contrarian ways. “I have to wonder, though. How is it you came to gather any of this about me?”

“Your opinion on books.”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“We interpret media through a lens that’s formed by our experiences, so… I dunno. You can just infer a lot from what a person gets caught up with in a story.”

In Chrollo’s case, what he doesn’t pay attention to is equally telling, although it took you a while to notice his unique display of apathy. He’d brush on certain themes while giving a rather surface-level commentary. Playing it safe, almost. He still had such an excellent way of weaving his words, that telling it came from another person's loom was difficult. It wasn’t until you hit on a subject he truly cared for that you could tell the difference. He’d give insights so particular to him that they must contain the true essence of his character.

Even if it is a mere glimmer.

He speaks your name.

“Hm?”

“About what I’m searching for…” he unwraps the napkin you unceremoniously threw his way earlier, smooths out the wrinkles, then returns it. “I think I may have found it.”

Everything has a way of escalating faster than you anticipated.

You’re about thirty minutes into the movie Perfect Blue. For some time now, you’ve been praising its merits to Chrollo, who recently said you should watch it together. This begged the question of where. In the months since you’ve begun dating, while your parents have taken a liking to him, you didn’t think the subject matter of the movie should be proudly displayed in your living room.

To remedy this, Chrollo suggested watching it in his hotel room.

You couldn’t fully explain your initial apprehension if you tried. You felt comfortable around him and have been alone together plenty. Yet for some reason, being alone with a man in a hotel room produced this mental image you weren’t sure you were ready for. He never pushed you or asked why you seemed hesitant to take things further than kissing and some light petting. His lack of questioning had the unintended side effect of birthing different doubts.

Does he not want anything else? Is he only acting like it doesn’t bother him? Will a day come when he tires of your squeamishness and simply moves on?

It’s this taunting mantra that haunted you in the lobby, the elevator, then the long, impersonal hallway to his room.

Your chest feels heavy enough that you wonder if lead has filled your lungs.

When he sat next to you on the couch, you barely registered his presence, much less his question if the temperature in the room felt agreeable. At some point, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Then his hand began to meander, although his attention never left the screen. He played with your hair. Gently stroked your forearm. His hand wandered down, down, down, to the hem of your skirt. He straightens the lightly bunched fabric out. Your heart pounds.

Chrollo’s fingers stay there, seemingly placated.

During the scene where Mima sees her reflection as her idol persona, his hand creeps onto the exposed skin of your thighs. He gives it a gentle, tentative squeeze. A soft gasp leaves you and your attention turns to him. Immediately, your eyes meet his in the dark. The side of his face is lightly illuminated by an array of cool tones. He uses his free hand to cup your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing your lower lip.

“Can I kiss you?”

He speaks the question with such rapture, low and quiet.

Your heart violently hits your ribcage like it’s trying to burst free.

Silently, you nod. He tilts his head to the side and slots his lips against yours. There’s a pleasant buzz that tries so hard to overpower the frantic adrenaline pumping through your veins. Your body is at war with itself; indulgence or indignance. It’s a conflict that’ll never have a winner. You want to enjoy it — and you are, you think — so why does your biological makeup hold you as a prisoner without ransom? He tastes nice, feels nice. He did everything right. You don’t want to tremble at what’s a normal aspect of a relationship as if it were death itself hanging over your head.

It’s this mounting frustration at your condition that spurs you into action.

While maintaining the languid kiss, you situate yourself on his lap, a gesture that causes him to inhale sharply. He may be as surprised at your boldness as you are. You snake your arms around his neck and intensify the kiss. Humming, he reciprocates your ardor. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips and you grant him entry. He tastes of dark chocolate and mint, a combination you wish you could get drunk on, if only to put your tense body at ease.

One hand squeezes and massages your thigh, the other cups your feverish face. In this position, you’re afforded no modesty. You can feel your skirt hiking up, exposing more of you. His fingers explore the new territory. They venture dangerously close to your panties, though he doesn’t go beyond there, as if respecting an invisible barrier. The cocktail of emotions this invokes is impossible to properly sort through.

Can he feel the heat emanating from your body? Your pulse which finds new highs every minute? You want to lose yourself, but you can’t, your anxiety always drags you back kicking and screaming. It is an unforgiving warden that thinks you’d be better off in a cell.

Chrollo admires you when you pull back, in desperate need of air. You’re starting to feel dizzy and you don’t know if it’s the right kind. There’s something hard forming beneath where you sit. His lust for you is apparent, and you want to please, want to be normal. It should be fun. Your friends regale you with stories of taking strangers home and never feeling more than butterflies in their stomach. That’s what you want. Not this contortion of the aforementioned organ that makes you think your insides are slowly liquifying.

You still haven’t fully caught your breath, each one growing more shallow, more panicked. He finds other ways to entertain himself, namely, by lavishing your clammy skin with kisses. Your jawline, neck, then collarbone. He’s so calm you think you might be envious. Finally, he works his way back up, teasing your earlobe with his teeth, his breath warm as it fans against you.

Thump, thump, thump.

“[First],” his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Garbled, distant. “Should we take this to the bedroom?”

You break into too many shards to fix.

You get up. Straighten your skirt. You think you mutter something about needing a moment. Your legs don’t feel right. They move anyway. The bathroom’s door knob is like ice. You grab a hand towel. Turn on the faucet. Soak the towel until it drips water down the sink basin. Sit on the floor. The tiles are almost as cold enough to help. You place the towel around your neck. Your ears are ringing and you wish they’d stop. You hug your legs to your chest. What is it you’re supposed to do? Breathe?

It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass.

It always does.

Just hold on a bit longer.

Feeling comes back in your hands first. It spreads throughout your body, though the antidote is far too late. Exhaustion is the next thing you register. The kind that seeps into your cells, makes your limbs feel like dead weight. Cognition returns as well. You remember where you are, who you’re with, what you’ve done.

It’s been a while since you’ve experienced one of these. Somehow, it’s worse than you remember. Infinitely worse.

A shiver runs down your spine. Has it always been so cold? You wonder what temperature your body was running at for you not to have noticed sooner.

How nice it is that your homeostasis decided to return. Is your sympathetic nervous system giving itself a pat on the back? Celebrating and popping champagne bottles at yet another job well done? We’ve done it successfully again, folks, you imagine it cheering. We’ve stopped her from doing something completely normal and harmless!

You’d laugh, but this time, you can’t bring yourself to.

As tempting as it is to stay here and pray for the tile floor to swallow you whole, you sincerely doubt that’ll happen, so you’re left with the far less appealing option of being an adult and facing the predicament you’re in. Getting back up, you’re treated to a glimpse of your reflection.

The change in your complexion would make any onlooker think you’ve seen a ghost.

Abruptly, you’re fourteen again, trying to get your mom’s attention so you can beg her to take you home because the social gathering of ten or so people is just too much. Next, you’re fifteen, talked into some weekend youth getaway because saying ‘no’ makes you feel guilty and the car ride has another two hours remaining. You feel sick, terribly sick, but you don’t want to get sick, because then your peers would think you’re strange, so you sit there and endure. Then you’re sixteen, locked in the stall of your high school bathroom, trying not to pass out because you think it’d be an inconvenience to anyone that happened upon you.

You thought you were over this. You’ve done the therapy, read the self-help books, and taken your medication every day like clockwork.

What’s left for you to do?

Why does it always come back?

Chrollo asks if everything’s alright when you walk back over to the couch. You say yes. He then asks if he can get you anything. A glass of water, please, is your reply.

You can tell he’s examining you when he hands the glass over. Your face warms — not in a fun way. The television screen is dark and yet you’re fixated on it like it’s the most intriguing thing in the world. Going from feeling as if you’re a stranger in your own body to being hyper-aware of everything never fails to give you whiplash. You can hear the low thrum of the air conditioning, footsteps coming from the hallway, the steady drip of the sink he filled your glass from. You think to rub your eyes then stop yourself; that’d smudge your mascara. It’d be nice if he could at least think you’re pretty as you struggle to hold yourself together.

“Was it something I did?” Chrollo questions. He almost sounds… curious, a concept you furiously scrub from your head. You’re exhausted and your brain is waving the white flag. Attributing false interpretations to his words is not going to help.

“N-No, not at all, I, um,” you have the words, you just don’t want to say them, so you opt for taking another drink instead. The glass runs out of water, your safe haven disappearing with it. “Just… a panic attack. It happens… sometimes.”

“Entirely unprompted?”

You gnaw on your lower lip. “Kind of…? It— nothing about it is exactly logical. I can know I’m fine, believe it too, and still, that doesn’t matter. It’ll happen anyway. I guess I have some reservations about that level of physical intimacy, but what my body decides to do is completely overkill.”

“You always minimize the role your anxiety plays in your life,” Chrollo points out. You’re grasping the glass tight enough that your knuckles hurt. “You can’t mention it to me without making light of it in some way. Is there a reason for that?”

Well, he’s got you there.

You’re about to joke and ask if he’s the one studying the behavioral sciences, when you realize that’d just be proving his point.

So uncharacteristic acrimony bubbles to the surface instead.

“A reason? I can give you more than one. It’s stupid, it’s annoying. The most simple things become like a fucking life or death experience for me and I can’t stand it,” you feel tears gather at your lower lashline but you’re too far gone to care. It’s a good thing your mascara is waterproof. “And then I… I think sex sounds nice, but when it actually gets to the moment, I feel so guilty and anxious and wrong that I leave my partner frustrated or thinking they’re some sort of monster.”

Usually, Chrollo's countenance is difficult to read, but there’s this raw emotion that makes itself known. Understanding? Relief? You don’t know for certain. It disappears without a trace, leaving you no way to confirm or deny your intuition. It’s probably too fried to be reliable, anyway.

“Hm… you must think all this would put me off, then. Make me want to move on to someone else.”

A knife stabbing you in the gut and twisting its blade until your viscera turned to mush would hurt less.

“Sweetheart, I was already aware that it was worse than what you let on,” his voice sounds so kind and near, you marvel at it, the gravitational pull drawing you in. You barely realize he’s brought you into an embrace. Your cheek is against his chest, right above his heart. His has a calm, steady rhythm, whereas yours is picking back up once more. “Your avoidance of talking on the phone, how soft your voice gets when interacting with strangers, the way you act like you’re an inconvenience by asking for the slightest assistance.”

The tears you tried holding in break free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

“I find these qualities of yours very endearing. You can go from passionately speaking about your interests over dinner to going shy the second the waiter walks over. You care so much, feel so much… it’s a wonder to me. You experience this life in the exact opposite manner I do.”

With the hand he isn’t using to keep you secure against him, he rubs your back up and down.

“Ah, my poor, sweet girl. What a tender heart you have,” he whispers. His grip on you tightens. That’s when you hear it — the undeniable sound of his heart beating a bit faster than it did before. “I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Not after all the effort I put into stealing it for myself. No, I’m almost hurt you entertained the thought. Have I ever treated you with anything less than the utmost care? Hm?”

Chrollo starts to pull you away from him, yet you refuse, clinging adamantly to his torso in an attempt to hide your face. He ignores the way you shake your head and by exerting the slightest force, achieves his original goal. His fingers find purchase on your chin, which he tilts upward, allowing himself an unobscured view of your puffy eyes and runny makeup. He smiles, wiping away your tears with such gentleness, he must think you’re made of porcelain.

Sniffling, you remember he asked you a question, and attempt cobbling together a coherent response. Such is the polite thing to do. “I guess not.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“... The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to conduct an in-depth case study for your future dissertation on GAD and SAD?”

His visage lands somewhere between mild bemusement and exacerbation. “I know you’re smarter than that. Try again.”

“My winning personality, once you wade through all the mental illness?”

“That certainly plays a role.”

“I know I’m cute, too. I suppose that helps. Otherwise, I’d be completely and utterly fucked.”

“Yes, yes — you are terribly cute.”

Sensing your hesitancy to land on a definitive answer, he decides to spell it out himself. “I’m fond of you, to a degree I previously thought myself incapable of. I have a… callous disposition, for lack of a better word. Yet for whatever reason, this doesn’t seem to bother you. I’ve never cared for subjective terms like ‘good’ or ‘evil’, but… if there is goodness in this world, it’d be found in you.”

Chrollo’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone as he speaks, seemingly bewitched by the glittering stream your tears left behind. Tangible proof of your emotions that tumult like a tempest, whereas his often remains an unmoving body of water.

You take his cheeks in your hands and glare at him. This time, when your lower lip trembles, it’s with righteous anger, not sorrow. “Why do you always talk about yourself like you’re the world’s biggest villain?”

His eyes slightly widen — you’ve never used a tone like this with him before, or anyone else, for that matter — though his composure doesn’t wane for long.

“So what if you don’t think everything is sunshine and rainbows? You aren’t heartless; you just know the dangers of putting your heart on display for everyone else to see. I can’t blame you for that, from what you’ve told me.”

He’s never been particularly forthcoming about sharing details from his past. What you do know is that he grew up in extreme poverty, without parents or a guardian, scraping by with some other children in a similar situation. You never pushed to learn more. There was this quiet melancholy that possessed him in the rare moments he shared glimpses of his childhood. The specters that haunted him could almost be felt lingering in the atmosphere, turning the air heavy and thick.

“You lost a precious friend in such a cruel way. That loss of innocence, it’s unforgivable, it’s completely unfair…!”

This time, your tears aren’t for you, they’re for a little boy you’ll never know and a girl that you couldn’t if you tried. “I don’t get why you’re so harsh on yourself. You act like you’ve done something unforgivable.”

He parts and closes his lips. Whatever he intended to say, he must’ve decided against it. Instead, he pulls you back against him, almost greedily. He presses kisses atop your head then murmurs a few words you can’t quite catch. Your body is deprived of energy, having flickered through almost every major emotion a human being can experience. If your parents wouldn’t have fussed over the act, you could’ve fallen asleep on him for the night.

The person who inadvertently caused your blistering anxiety is also the best balm for it.

It’s unexplainable, teetering on the edge of delusion, this sentiment that he could shield you from all harm. He’s always so sure of himself when you remain plagued by indecisiveness. He can talk you out of any irrational thought, anchor you when a stressful situation is beginning to be too much, and understand you almost eerily well. He’s able to piece together your chaotic thought processes with next to no context. He listens to you, remembers everything you say (and you mean everything), and genuinely values your input, even if he disagrees with your opinions.

This level of an intimate connection is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.

“No one’s ever cried for my sake before,” he thinks aloud. He’s stroking your back again, almost mindlessly. You swear there’s something magical about his touch.

“Do you think I’m weird?”

“There are a lot of words I’d use to describe you,” he decides. As always, he’s clever at avoiding questions he doesn’t wish to answer. “Currently, the one that stands out to me the most would be…”

You feel his lips curl into a smile against you.

“Warm.”

The arboretum is far different in autumn. Green leaves have transitioned into rich auburn and golden shades, hesitant buds nowhere to be seen. The grass beneath your feet is crunchier, the foliage dry and scattered, almost as if it were trying to form a protective sheath for the earth. No longer can you hear the melody of grasshoppers and buzzing from busy bees. The wind whistles when it blows, the underlying frostiness biting at your cheeks and ears.

“Ah, would you look at that, it’s a junco,” Chrollo points out. You cover your mouth to muffle a gasp. Thanks in part to your guidance, he’s gotten better at identifying different types of birds. While you’d like to think it’s because he appreciates them too, you’re convinced he finds your excited reaction far more interesting.

The little blob of black and white hops to and fro, using its feet to rummage for anything edible. You silently lament your lack of birdseed. You’ll have to settle for cheering the tiny friend on from afar.

Hand in hand, you both traverse the area of your original meeting. Sweet nostalgia swirls in your chest. You’ve always found it befuddling how a single chance encounter can permanently change the trajectory of your life. In the moment, you have no idea how your actions will go on to form ripples that influence the future. Whether this is chaos theory or some other fancy metaphysical-sounding concept, you haven’t the slightest clue.

What you do know is that meeting Chrollo was a catalyst for something greater.

A wave of chills cascades over you.

“Are you cold?” He inquires, his tone having this ‘I told you so’ quality to it that you don’t appreciate. You’re wearing a light beige, plaid fitted blazer, that while chic, doesn’t have much insulation. You waved off his initial concern by saying you’ll warm up once you both get to walking around. So much for that.

“Cold is a mindset,” the chattering of your teeth doesn’t do much to help your cause. He raises an eyebrow. “Mind over matter… mind over matter…”

Chrollo shrugs his coat off and drapes it over you. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick, dear.”

“You sound like my grandma.”

“The one who tried taking my head wrappings off, or the one who kicked me?”

“A combination of the two that coalesces their tendency to fuss over me.”

“You’re very easy to fuss over,” Chrollo chuckles at the face you make at him. “You’re absolutely precious. It’s a mystery to me how you make the smallest acts endearing.”

At this, you strike a dumb pose, winking at him all the while. “Aha, it’s no mystery. You have my irresistible charm to thank for that.”

He sighs wistfully. “Indeed I do.”

Although the sage gardens behind the Starling House are no longer in bloom, you decide to swing by anyway. The plans for the remainder of your day follow a similarly simple yet pleasant precedent. You’re going to go window shopping in a quaint commercial district, grab something to eat at a pub, then end the night off with a movie. Chrollo’s trying to convince you to watch some indie flick that’s in black and white and uses a 1.19:1 ratio. You want to watch Alien, a classic he’s never seen like the weirdo he is.

The walk isn’t long or monotonous. It’s so idyllic that you could believe you’re the only two people in the world.

However, that isn’t the case. Upon entering the garden, you’re quick to note the presence of another.

A young woman is kneeling down, murmuring under her breath. She’s acting as if she’s lost something and can’t find it. Frowning, you detach yourself from Chrollo, approaching her with the intent to offer your assistance. She doesn’t lift her head upon hearing the obvious sounds of your footfall. She just continues blindly grasping at the ground.

“Miss?” You ask, to which her entire body freezes. “Did you drop something? I could help you look for it.”

She mutters another incomprehensible jumble of words.

“Hm? What was that?”

You lean over in an attempt to hear her better.

Then, much to your confusion, she enunciates your full-given name. Even while doing this, she doesn’t spare you a single glance.

“Have to… have to…” she’s back to being difficult to make sense of, “I have to…”

A strange sensation possesses you.

Have you met this woman somewhere before? You do a quick mental scan of her disheveled appearance and come up with nothing definitive. Her hair is matted, her complexion sallow and her cheeks sunken in. Her disoriented state stirs concern within you. It’s a good sign that she’s still conscious and exhibiting motor functions, but the longer you examine her, the more you can tell she isn’t in a proper state of mind. You don’t want to leave her out here alone in such a vulnerable state. You try to push aside the uncanny feeling that came from her apparently recognizing you when you’re certain you’ve never met.

Chrollo speaks your name. Turning around, you face him just in time to catch a surreal expression forming on his countenance. His eyes widen slightly, his lips part, then he’s reaching out for you.

The passage of time grinds temporarily to a halt.

And then there is a visceral burst of energy.

It’s as if a blizzard manifests from the direction the woman is hunched over in. There’s this thick, harrowing tension that causes your legs to buckle at the knees. Swirls of negative emotions wrap around you in shadowy tendrils. Grief. Hysteria. Rage. Bitterness. Most notable, however, is the sickening yearning to inflict harm. How can a human being produce and project such raw feelings? It’s like hatred itself has been given a palpable form, submerging you in a swamp of mire.

You don’t understand what’s happening to you, but you do have this primal foreboding that the longer you’re exposed to it, the more endangered you’ll be.

In the millisecond it takes for you to blink, Chrollo is no longer in your line of sight.

It’s strange, you think. There are no knives, guns, explosives; or anything that could hurt you in the traditional sense. In a way you could understand and reliably assess the threat level of.

And still, despite this uncertainty, you have this unshakable premonition that death isn’t far away.

You wake up in a bed that is not your own.

Your body is drenched in sweat, your muscles sore, and your head feels as if it’s being clamped in a vice-like grip. Trying to get up proves to be a poor decision. Nausea and dizziness force you to lie back down. You take shallow, frantic breaths, wincing at yet another wave of throbbing coming from your temples. Your senses aren’t reliable either. The first few times you open your eyes, dark spots dot your vision. Then there’s your hearing, or lack of. There’s this distant ringing that while slowly fading, isn’t replaced by anything better. Your hearing grows so muffled you almost think earplugs have been jammed in your ear canal.

Groaning, you manage to lift yourself off the mattress with trembling arms. The dark spots fade away enough for you to make out your surroundings.

You’re in Chrollo’s hotel room, lying on his bed.

It’s nighttime. The digital clock sitting on the bedside table reads 3:40 a.m.

The next thing you do is feel around for your phone. It should be in the back pocket of your jeans, but it isn’t there.

The brisk air takes your breath away when you tug the comforter off. Your body groans with protest at all the movement, yet you ignore its request to lay back down, the situation at hand far too perplexing. Your outfit is the same as the one you put on this morning, aside from your boots, which sit together near the wall. You then assess your body for any physical injuries, finding nothing visible to explain your current malaise. Are you hungover? Frowning, you dismiss the idea. You know your tolerance well and never try pushing it.

Taking small steps and using the wall as leverage, you make your way over to the adjoined bathroom. You fill a dental cup with water and down it instantly. After satiating your thirst, you call out for Chrollo, your voice gravelly with sleep.

No response.

Sighing, you slink over to the closed bedroom door. Your equilibrium steadies itself enough that you only need to grab onto something every few steps. The handle doesn’t budge. You try again, exerting more force — still nothing. The subsequent attempts end in the same manner. There’s no denying it, it’s been locked. That begs the question of why. Safety, maybe? It’s possible Chrollo stepped out for whatever reason and wanted to ensure no one could get to you. Then again, that’s what the deadbolt on the door leading to the hotel hallway is for.

You don’t want to start rattling the door and making a scene when you’re certain there’s a solid explanation for this. He has to come back eventually, his stuff is still here. Although, you can’t help noticing how sparse his personal belongings are. The book he was reading no longer sits on the bedside table, the framed picture of the two of you gifted by your parents isn’t on the wardrobe either. Next, you check the closet, finding it in a similarly desolate state. You once pillaged a shirt of his when you grew tired of wearing a dress, so you know its usual presentation. The hangers remain on the rack yet everything else is gone.

Chrollo told you his job had placed him in this city indefinitely. Is he planning to move to another hotel?

Not knowing what else to do, you sit on the edge of the bed. The former pounding in your head has soothed into a far less egregious dull ache. You must’ve been asleep for a decent chunk of time, this initial grogginess is what you experience upon first waking up in the morning. You hope you weren’t unconscious for too long. It's an unsettling thought, being in that vulnerable state, totally shut off from the world.

A few minutes of absentmindedly admiring the twinkling lights that make up the city skyline’s pass.

Then you hear the door handle jingle.

Chrollo silently examines you. It’s almost as if he’s gauging your entire being, anticipating what is to come. His mouth is set in a straight line and he’s standing unnervingly still. There’s this intensity to him that has you breaking off eye contact. Your mouth goes dry and you temporarily forget how to form words. You had so many burning questions in his absence, why is it that they've been wiped clean from your head now that he’s here?

When you find the courage to look up at him again, there’s not a vestige of his former expression. The grave lines have smoothened out and you no longer believe you’re face to face with a stranger.

“How are you feeling?” He’s quick to close the distance. The mattress dips, adjusting to his presence by your side.

“Oh, uh, not the best, but… I don’t think it’s anything serious,” you say. Silvery moonlight shines into the room, illuminating him in an otherworldly veil. Goosebumps line your skin when he takes the side of your face into his hand. He’s cold. “I’m mostly just confused. Is— is everything okay? Why am I here?”

“How much do you remember?”

Remember, remember… that’s right, you hadn’t given that much thought. You pick through your hazy memories aloud. “Well, we were at the arboretum, just walking around. I remember heading to the gardens behind the Starling House. Then… um…”

You squint and furrow your eyebrows together. It’s as if your recollection was a film reel that had been trimmed after that point. You try piecing together a mental image of the garden. Hummingbirds? Sage? No, that isn’t right, you’re thinking of its spring appearance. The colors would be more muted, there’d be less shrubbery. The image grows sharper.

Then there’s a shadow.

Vaguely human-shaped, situated right in the middle of the mosaic you’re trying to form. Their outline isn’t solid, it’s splotchy, like water paint left to run on a canvas.

Finally, something clicks.

“That woman!” You exclaim. The corner of his lips twitch downward. “That’s right! Is she okay? She seemed so out of it.”

“I’m not sure.”

“How is that possible? You were—”

“Let’s focus on you for now,” he cuts you off. There’s a finality in his voice you can’t bring yourself to challenge. “Can you tell me what symptoms you’re experiencing?”

“Um, some disorientation and a headache.”

“I see. I’ll get you some painkillers, then.”

You grab his wrist to stop him when he starts getting up. “I’d really prefer you told me what happened first.”

When he doesn’t immediately acquiesce to your request, you quietly add, “Please.”

His eyes soften at your gentle, uncertain timbre. He intertwines his fingers with yours and gives your hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Earlier, when we arrived at the garden, you grew lightheaded and fainted.”

You take a moment to process the information. It seems plausible enough, yet the more you mull over it, the more little details start to catch your attention.

“Okay…” you trail off, pursing your lips. A vengeful throb from your head causes you to wince. He notices — frowns — then places a featherlight kiss against your forehead. The thoughtful gesture doesn’t invoke any pleasant warm fuzzy sensations. “So I fell unconscious for over ten hours and you didn’t… call an ambulance…?”

“That is correct.”

You shuffle in your seat, momentarily taken aback at how easygoing he’s acting about the entire ordeal. “Why?”

“I’ve been monitoring your vitals,” he reassures. Sensing your growing apprehension, he adds, “I can promise that you were never in serious danger. I would’ve acted accordingly if you were.”

The phrase ‘acted accordingly’ doesn’t tell you much either. What does he mean by that? Is there some threshold you needed to enter for him to have taken you to the hospital? Your various volunteer experiences with the city’s vulnerable communities taught you that if a person is unresponsive for over a minute, an ambulance should be called, just to be on the safe side. Besides, isn’t that just common sense? Chrollo is an intelligent man. You can’t fathom any line of reasoning that’d justify not erring on the side of caution.

You glance at the clock again. 4:03 a.m. glows in the dim light of the room. It’s late. You wonder what your parents—

Holy shit.

“Do my mom and dad know?” You glance around as if expecting to find them. There’s no way they wouldn’t have insisted on calling emergency services if you were unconscious for that long.

“I didn’t inform them, no.”

“What?” You make no attempts to tone down your incredulity. “Then— they must be out of their minds with worry! My phone, where’s my phone? I need to tell them I’m okay!”

You shoot up off the bed too fast and your body doesn’t take kindly to the rushed movement. Debilitating lightheadedness causes you to lose your balance. Chrollo steadies your swaying form and helps sit you back down. You scoot away from him as far as you can, your thoughts an absolute mess. Nothing here is making sense. It’s not even a puzzle that’s missing a few pieces, there’s almost nothing to work with at all.

He’s staring at you in that strange, anticipatory manner again. It makes your stomach churn.

“My phone, Chrollo,” you hold your hand out. “There’s no way you don’t have it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you,” he sounds apologetic too, which makes your subsequent temper flare up even worse.

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, exasperation winning out. You were trying to be reasonable, but that is over and done with. “You’re acting like— like there’s nothing weird happening! Can you please take this seriously? You’re really starting to freak me out.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. I knew this wouldn’t be easy for you, so I wanted to remain calm for your sake.”

Your tongue couldn’t properly form words if your life depended on it. Sure, remaining calm in a crisis is helpful, but he isn’t acting like this is a crisis. He’s treating it as if he was burdened with sitting you down to relay bad news that no one else had the heart to share.

You’re starting to think you don’t know the person you’re talking to.

“For my sake,” you repeat in a wry deadpan. “If that’s true, then tell me what’s actually going on, Chrollo. Because I know you’re bullshitting me.”

Not calling the ambulance or informing your parents, withholding your phone… then there’s the matter of how he got you here in the first place. Did he carry you through the lobby? No good samaritans thought it was unusual to see a man carrying an unconscious woman up to his room? Hotel staff these days are trained to have a vigilant eye for these situations too. Not one person thought it might be a good idea to ring up law enforcement over such a blatantly suspicious act?

Nothing is adding up.

“I’m being more forthcoming than you think,” Chrollo says, as if he’s doing you a favor. He tries reaching out for your hand again, only this time, you don’t allow him. “Everything I’ve said and intend to say is the truth, even if you don’t particularly like it.”

That’s a hell of a creative way of putting it!

“Who was that woman earlier? What did she do to me?”

“I have someone ironing out the details, but from what I’ve gathered, she was sent with the intention of killing you. I don’t believe she was aware of the fact herself until you entered her vicinity, triggering the necessary condition for the true culprit’s ability to activate. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed you to get so close.”

Someone was sent to kill you? You? A run-of-the-mill college student who has no enemies to speak of? It’s not like you’re a part of the fucking mob. That can’t be right, not to mention the bizarre jargon he’s using. There’d be no plausible motive. If he says she was sent, and you choose to believe he isn’t making this all up, that implies it was premeditated. Not a spur-of-the-moment decision. That’d almost make more sense.

That is, unless…

You stare at him, eyebrows knitting together.

“If you’re telling the truth — and right now, that’s a big fucking if — does this have something to do with you?”

“That’s my clever girl,” he praises, entirely devoid of condescension. The pure fondness in his voice makes you sick. It’s almost as if he’s delighting in watching you piece this nightmare together. “Yes, you haven’t deliberately done anything to earn the wrath of the wrong people. They simply know getting to me is near impossible, hence their decision to go for the next best thing instead. That’d be you, dear.”

“Oh my god,” you bury your head in your hands. “Why… why am I not freaking out more? I should be hysterical, or, or— I don’t know…”

“Beta blockers,” he reveals. You look at him like he’s speaking another language. “In anticipation of how… touchy this conversation was going to be, I thought it might be best for you to be in a good headspace while receiving this information for the first time.”

“You drugged me?”

“If that’s how you want to look at it.”

“Because that’s how it is!”

A lump forms in your throat and lodges itself there. Are you stuck in a hellacious dream? Or hallucinating, perhaps? Visual hallucinations aren’t supposed to be this cohesive or clear. There has to be another explanation. Something you’re missing that’d make this all go away. The beta blocker admission certainly holds weight. Your heart rate, while slightly elevated, isn’t anywhere near as chaotic as it should be. It’d explain the general malaise, fatigue, and lightheadedness too. That, and you doubt you’d be able to think this clearly if there wasn’t something heavy pumping through your system.

Your eyes hesitantly settle on Chrollo, who sits there perfectly still and almost relaxed. He’s observing you like a hawk.

“Listen,” you try using a mellower voice. He raises an eyebrow at your drastically different approach. “You had ample opportunity to hurt me and you didn’t. That must mean you have my best intentions at heart, right? Why don’t we try to work something out, because this isn’t sustainable. My absence isn’t going to go unnoticed.”

Chrollo sighs, heavy if not unsurprised. “Sweetheart, I’m not suffering a break from reality, although I’m sure you’d prefer to rationalize it that way. I assure you I’m lucid and everything I’ve done is intentional. You’ll come to accept it eventually.”

It isn’t going to help, yet you feel your remaining grains of patience slip through your fingers.

“What’s this talk about a ‘condition’ and ‘ability’, then?” You challenge.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d mention that,” he doesn’t sound like you landed on a reason that’d prove him wrong. “How to explain it… you once told me you think there are phenomena in this world that can’t be explained by empirical evidence. Consider this an example of that. I’m sure you must’ve felt it before you fainted. An intense, concentrated sensation that awoke your primordial fear. Bloodlust.”

You want to argue until you run out of breath, but this description does strike a chord. Reality itself feels as if it’s drifting further and further away. In an awfully cruel twist, Chrollo and his collected disposition is the most grounding factor you have to latch onto.

“I’m sure it’s a lot to take in,” he finally replaces that matter-of-fact tone with something resembling compassion, “But know this: you’re not in any danger. Neither are those you care about, so long as you act sensible.”

Shivering, you hug your arms around your chest. “How can you say that to me so easily? I thought… I thought you…”

He’s enveloping you from behind. You didn’t even see him move. Weakly, you struggle against his hold, but you’re not in any condition to put up a fight. In the event you were, it’s doubtful it’d make much of a difference. He’s strong. It goes beyond physical strength, into some esoteric realm you’ve become forcibly acquainted with. He’s exerting this slight pressure that makes your heart skip a beat, despite the medication. It isn’t comparable to what you experienced in the garden — there’s no malice — it feels more like a warning.

“You’re surprisingly sensitive to Nen,” he murmurs, humming contentedly when you go limp against him. His chin rests atop your head and his arms ensnare your midriff. “How interesting. No matter. Whatever your fascinating brain concocted is still true. You may think me merciless, but if you knew me, you’d find this to be my greatest act of mercy yet.”

“I thought I did know you,” is your weak reply. You don’t recognize the sound of your voice.

“The parts of me I wanted to show you, yes,” he moves your hair aside so he can press a kiss to the nape of your neck. “And a few glimpses you gleaned in your own way. Really, you are such a sweet girl. Willing to overlook discrepancies to see the ‘good’ in me.”

Heat rises and ignites on your cheeks. “I-I could scream, you know.”

“You could.”

That’s not the reaction you were expecting.

“You’re… not going to try and stop me?”

“No,” he responds. “I’ve always found experience to be the best teacher.”

“You really,” you heave a humorless laugh, uncertain of what else to do, “You really don’t see anything wrong with this?”

He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, marveling at how your pulse remains steady, thanks to his intervention.

“‘So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.’”

“What?”

“It’s what you said the first day I met you,” Chrollo explains, nostalgia evident. “I’ve thought about those words often. Your effulgence, your desire to do right by others. It made me wonder if there could ever be anyone more perfect for me than you. You, whose pretty neck I could snap before you’d ever realize what happened, stirred up a sentimentality in me I thought myself incapable of.”

Sandalwood, amber, and leather. His scent is the same as that day.

Are his intentions?

Is this a prophecy he himself ordained and always intended to see fulfilled?

“You stole my heart, and as recompense, I will steal you. Think whatever you want about me, dear. Just don’t think I’m selfless enough to ever change my mind.”

#chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #hxh x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #chrollo lucilfer #yandere hxh x reader #not sfw #my stuff

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ceesimz · 5 days

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Booked - Mapi x Ingrid

TW: Mentions of blood, Ingrid gets injured during a game but it's not too bad. Feliç Sant Jordi🫶🏼

For the most part, María Pilar León Cebrián thought of herself as a calm and level-headed person in almost all situations. She was only human, there were indeed a few cases where that wasn't the case and even if her friends would never deem her as a calm person overall, she was sure that when the time came she was the model person in emergency situations.

What those one off cases were, you're wondering?

Ingrid. Syrstad. Engen.

All sensibility and composure flew far out the window as soon as Ingrid was involved, and that's where she found herself today.

It was an easy game, some may call it a battering, and Mapi had been subbed out just before the 70 minute mark so that she had somewhat of a rest before the weekend for a Champion's League game. Her performance was good, if not a little boring and easy since the other team had barely stepped a foot in Barça's penalty box, and she had a big, cheesy smile on her face when she saw that Ingrid was being subbed on just as she was coming off. And if Ingrid was annoyed about the two light pats on her ass from Mapi later before the Norwegian sprinted onto the pitch, she would simply say it was just for luck.

However, luck didn't seem to be on Ingrid's side for her quick involvement in the game. All of a sudden, it seemed the scoreline of the match had gotten to the opposing team's heads and before any of the Barça girls could realise, the physicality of the game increased tenfold. There was brutal tackle after tackle, shirt tugs, arm pulls, and risky one-on-ones for headers that saw Ona land horrifyingly on her neck and the player at fault to receive only a yellow for what everyone knew was a malicious and purposeful act. Ona was fine, she stood up after taking a few minutes to come back to herself, before moving to defend another corner as Alexia and a few other players were shouting at the referee who had made countless questionable decisions already.

"We're lucky nobody has been stretchered off yet." Mapi exclaimed to Frido from her seat on the bench, arms tightly crossed across her chest over her puffer coat.

"It's not a surprise though, right." Frido sighed disapprovingly, referring to the situation everyone was frustrated at in terms of the Liga F referees.

"Es tonterías." The Spaniard grumbled, slumping back in her chair as the whistle blew for the corner to be taken.

Her sulk didn't last long, it couldn't, because perhaps the most frightful occurrence of her life carried out right in front of her eyes. The ball curled right into the box where Ingrid was marking the targeted player at the front post, and the Norwegian wasn't able get a clean jump as the player to her side stomped on her foot aggressively. But before she could fall to the ground as a result of the pain of studs being dug into the space just below her ankle, there was an agonising strike to her face.

An elbow smashed against the outward corner of her eye hard, a sharp and sudden pain that immediately caused her to feel sick to the pit of her stomach, overriding any pain in her foot. She fell to her knees with a loud, excruciating scream, one hand immediately coming up to her face as the other clutches desperately at the goalpost beside her that she slumped against. When her hand came into contact with her face, she let out another scream, this one somewhat quieter, as the pain increased due to a nasty gash that stretched up into her eyebrow which stung impossibly more when she touched it. That's when she realised her hand was covered in blood and the sight of it caused her body to weaken as she paled, absolutely not a fan of blood. Her hands fell out in front of her as she kneeled over, side still pressed against the post, and she tipped her head forward to prevent anymore from dripping down her face.

The opposition's counter attack had to be stopped by Jana before the referee eventually blew their whistle. Jana had been subbed on for Mapi earlier and was now fuelled with rage, leading to her delivering an outstanding slide tackle to the player rushing towards her on the halfway line. Everyone will give her her kudos after the game for such a perfect tackle, it really didn't get much better than that, but for now the focus was, rightfully so, on Ingrid.

Alexia, Salma, and a few others had called for the game to be stopped as they rushed over to Ingrid the second she went down, absolutely enraged that a player had suffered not only a possible concussion which should have stopped the game straight away, but also had a gushing cut which was even more reason, if at all needed, for the whistle to be blown. Lucy and Irene were already arguing with the referee as words were ushered to Ingrid, but they were lost on her due to the intense ringing in her ears.

Mapi watched every second of it from the bench. When she saw the initial stamp on Ingrid, she stood from her chair and clutched at the back of the one in front of her as she voiced her outrage at such a blatant act. However, that was nothing compared to the reaction she had when she saw the hit to her girlfriend's face, followed by the stream of red. It was almost the exact same scenario she had gone through a while back, but her fear was about a million times more intense this time around since it was Ingrid. Her Ingrid.

When Mapi went through the same injury, she had been relatively calm when it had happened, and it had stayed that way as the medics attended to her before she was able to go back out onto the pitch. This time? Her emotions ripped through her and swiftly took control of her mind.

Even as Frido tried to hold her back, Mapi raced out of the seating area and onto the sidelines. An endless amount of colourful expletives left her mouth, cussing out the referee and the other team and just about anyone she could think to blame for causing such an avoidable situation. Jona and a few of the other Barcelona staff tried to call her back and stop her from acting out, but it was futile. She needed an outlet for her worries and if disguising her anxiety with anger was the first alternative her panicked mind thought of, she was fine with that. Some rational part of her mind had prevented her from rushing onto the pitch towards Ingrid, but that's about as far as she got.

The match officials came over to her and gave her multiple warnings about her actions but that didn't stop her, nothing would stop her until she knew Ingrid was alright. By now, the medics had made it to Ingrid and were cleaning up her, but Mapi had tunnel vision that she only snapped out of when the referee showed her a yellow card. Not the player that had brutally stamped on Ingrid, not the player that elbowed her, neither of them, the referee chose Mapi instead. The Spaniard could only laugh, and she went to let loose on the figure in front of her again but was stopped by Alexia, who had noticed the situation playing out after she had stepped away from Ingrid.

"Hey! Hey! Step down, stop, Mapi!" Alexia pushed her back off the pitch by her shoulders, the shorter woman not even realising she had gone onto it. "I know you are upset but you will get suspended if you carry on. Cálmate, María, ahora."

"That puta, she h-"

"Oi! I know, I saw it. Ingrid is fine though, just a bit freaked out." Alexia squeezes her shoulders before letting go and pointing over to the Norwegian, who was now sat up with her head being held still by one of the medics whilst the other gently dabs at the wound on her face. "See? She is okay. You can speak to her when she comes off, but for now calm down. This is not something to get suspended over."

"She's okay?" Mapi mumbles quietly to her friend after a moment, a concerned frown on her face as her eyes don't drift from Ingrid's spot on the pitch.

"Yes. You can find out for yourself in a minute." Alexia tells her, hands on her hips as she stands beside her. Mapi nods solemnly, all the fight gone from her, watching on silently.

Ingrid stands up and is met with an applause as she does so, one of the medics carefully lifting the blood-soaked jersey over her head before guiding her to the sidelines. With one eye, she spots an antsy looking María waiting for her and it makes her smile, feeling significantly better than she did a few minutes ago. When she arrives in front of Mapi, the Spaniard hastily unzips her coat and takes it off before draping it over Ingrid's bare shoulders.

"Thank you." Ingrid mumbles to her, grateful for the act as she was a bit cold now that she wasn't running around anymore. Mapi can't get a word out so just nods vigorously at her, something that makes her laugh a little and it's a noise that fills Mapi with relief.

The staff urge Ingrid to sit down in a chair at the back of the dugout and the Norwegian pats the chair beside her for Mapi to sit in, to which the Spaniard does immediately.

"Are you okay?" Mapi asks her breathlessly. Before Ingrid can answer, the cut is shown to her when the medic moves the gauze away from her eyebrow. "Ouch!"

"Why are you saying that?" Ingrid laughs, wincing when the gash is cleaned again with an alcohol wipe.

"Sorry, princesa, it freaked me out." Mapi answers with another grimace, though she looks at the cut quite inquisitively for someone so 'freaked' out.

"What a kind thing to say to your injured girlfriend." Keira said from one of the chairs in front of her, Ingrid giggling as Mapi looked a bit sheepish.

"Eso es un poco repugnante." Vicky comments from beside Keira.

"Oi! That's my girlfriend, nena." Mapi scolds her before turning back to Ingrid and scoffing when the dark-haired woman rolls her eyes.

"Hush, María. You don't need to play the hero." Everyone around falls suspiciously silent around her when Ingrid says that. She squints her eyes at her friends as the medics begin to bandage her up, eyes flicking between each person. "What is going on?"

"Nada." Mapi shrugged, sending what she thought was a sneaky warning glance to her but Ingrid caught it of course. The Norwegian sends a stern look of her own to her teammates, a silent plea for them to tell her whatever she wasn't clued in on.

"Mapi got booked for running her mouth off to the ref when you went down." Keira reveals, Mapi gasping harshly and slapping her shoulder.

"Oi, chivato!" She shouts, before turning back to Ingrid with a grimaced smile. "Sorry?"

"María, why?" Ingrid fixes her with another stern look, but unfortunately for Mapi, ever the childish one, she can't really take her seriously when she's got a comical amount of bandages wrapped around her head, looking like Mr Bump from the Mr Men books. "That was silly, you didn't need to do that. You could have got suspended!"

"I was scared!" Mapi argues, shoulders stuck in a shrug as she held her hands up blamelessly. "I feel better now, now that you're..."

"I'm what?" Ingrid pushes her, knowing that the words about to come out of Mapi's mouth weren't anything along the lines of 'now that you're okay' or 'now that I'm with you'.

"Now that you look really cute with that big bandage." Mapi comments with a mischievous grin, hearing some of the girls and staff around her laugh as Ingrid makes an outraged noise.

"María! I didn't tease you when you had the same bandage!" Ingrid exclaims, nudging her arm.

"I'm kidding, princesa, I'm joking!" Mapi defends herself, placing a hand on her bare knee and the other on her forearm. "Sorry elskling, I am."

Ingrid can't stay annoyed at the older woman for too long, not when she looks equally as adorable when she's begging for forgiveness, not when she's calling her pet names in Norwegian, and not when Ingrid knows she's just trying to lighten the situation and make her feel better. It's why she loves her, after all.

"You are annoying." Ingrid murmurs lovingly, shrugging the coat off and handing it back to Mapi when she gets given a fresh jersey. "Am I good to go back on?"

The medics have cleared her for now and Jona gives her the nod, so she stands but is quickly pulled back by Mapi who grabs her hand.

"Be careful, princesa." Mapi tells her in a soft, pleading voice. Ingrid nods and smiles when Mapi kisses the back of her hand before giving her a shy wave and walking to the sidelines.

Thankfully, the rest of the game goes off without a hitch, no more nasty fouls and not quite so much fury running through the other team. At the end of the game, Mapi joins her team in going through all the post-match procedures like the huddle and handshakes and fan interactions, before following Ingrid to the physio room like a lost puppy.

Before they start to take the bandage off though, Mapi grabs her phone from her coat pocket and makes sure to take plenty of photos of Ingrid with her head wrapped up, something that the Norwegian complains about before swiping the phone out of her hand and sliding it underneath her back where she lay on one of the beds. Mapi pouts dramatically before moving to stand at the top of the bed so that she's out of the way of the medical team.

They go through the process of taking off the bandage before examining it more closely now that they're not stuck in a mid-game rush, deciding that it can be solved with some stitches. Surprisingly, it's not Ingrid whose face pales at that, it's Mapi. But she just gives Ingrid a weak smile when the Norwegian looks up at her, squeezing the taller woman's shoulder comfortingly. Then, Mapi further grimaces when one of the doctors gives Ingrid a tiny injection in her eyebrow to numb the area before they start stitching. The Spaniard has her eyes screwed shut at that point, hand still placed reasurringly on her girlfriend's shoulder, until the doctor says he's done.

He gives the couple space for a while to allow the injection to work, at which point Alexia decides to walk over from where she'd been watching the whole thing, mainly her long-time friend.

"Stitches, no?" Alexia says, wandering over still in her kit except she'd swapped her boots for a pair of sliders.

"Yeah, stitches." Ingrid frowns, not quite a fan of the idea of it.

"You scared?" Alexia wonders, quickly shooting a smug, knowing grin at Mapi.

"Mhm. Mapi wouldn't stop gagging when she was getting her stitches." Ingrid and Alexia share a laugh as Mapi pulls a face at them both.

"That's because Mapi is a gallina. You should have seen her face when they injected your eyebrow, I saw the whole thing." Alexia teases as she looks back at Mapi whose face was now quite red, Ingrid giggling and also gazing up at her embarrassed girlfriend.

"No es justo, Ale." Mapi murmurs, glaring at both women.

"Cheer up, cobarde." Alexia lightly pats Mapi's cheek twice before the doctor comes back in.

"Ingrid, try to raise your eyebrow for me." All three people in the room standing over Ingrid watch amusedly as she tries so very hard to do as she was asked, but to no avail. "Perfect. Let's get started."

Alexia moves to grab a chair and sits on it backwards with her arms crossed over the top edge of it, smirking at the slight fear present in Mapi's eyes. The pair of them stay silent as they watch the doctor stitch up her eyebrow, and when he gets to the last few, Alexia grasps Mapi's hand that was gripping the edge of the bed so firmly her hands hurt.

"Come on, Mapi, you're doing so well, amiga. Nearly done, you're doing so well." Alexia reasurres her friend dramatically, Ingrid bursting out into laughter at the ridiculousness of it. Mapi grunts in frustration and slaps Alexia's hand away, lightly shoving her out of the chair and taking her seat.

The doctor quickly does a once over of his work before asking Ingrid a few questions where he decides she's all done for the night. With a quick thanks, he nods and smiles at the three, then leaves them to it.

"We will have matching scars, princesa." Mapi grins childishly at the thought, Alexia and Ingrid both rolling their eyes.

"Buena, I will leave you both. Make sure to look after her, yes Ingrid? She's a delicate little mariposa." Alexia pouts at Mapi like she's the injured one, pinching her cheek like a baby.

"Vete al diablo." Mapi slaps her thigh once more, then watches as Alexia squeezes Ingrid's hand quickly before bidding them both goodbye and leaving the room.

Mapi turns back to Ingrid who is already looking over at her, heads both at the same height now that Mapi was sat down, and Ingrid had a humoured but adorable look on her face.

"Not you too." Mapi grumbled.

"I did not know you were so squeamish, María. You can't even look at a tiny injection?" Ingrid grins at her, moving to sit up and swing her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet grazing Mapi's shins.

"I'm not so perfect after all, princesa, sorry I kept that a secret from you for so long." And just like that, her teasing nature was back.

"Ha ha, Mapi. Very funny." Ingrid rolls her eyes, now in a little bit of pain due to the dark bruising beginning to come out.

Mapi smiles a toothy grin up at her, leaning forward to rest her arms on Ingrid's thighs and rest her chin atop them. Ingrid huffs a breath of laughter and rests back on one hand, the other moving to tuck some of Mapi's hair behind her ear.

"How do you feel?" Mapi wonders, one of her fingers pushing Ingrid's shorts up ever so slightly so that she can stroke her thumb along the soft, tanned skin that's there.

"Tired. I have a bit of a headache." In Ingrid's terms, a bit of a headache meant quite an uncomfortable headache, that Mapi had learnt in the time they'd been together.

"Well, you do not have a concussion which is good. Good for me because then I don't have to tape my mouth shut like last time." They both laugh at the reminder, Mapi simply gazing up at Ingrid. "We will get you some medicine for your head and I will drive home. Are you showering before we go?"

"Mm, no. Can we have a bath at home?" Ingrid asks shyly, and Mapi swears she feels her heart double, triple in size at the sound of her voice.

"If you'd like. Anything for min kjære. Mi princesa."

Sure, maybe Mapi wasn't always a calm and collected woman, but who wouldn't panic when someone like Ingrid was in the face of danger? María Pilar León Cebrián would, that's for sure. She'd happily get booked every game she played if it was for defending Ingrid, even if it Alexia or Jona wouldn't exactly be too happy with that. Because when the sun is staring at you with such a beautiful face, it's hard not to get blinded by it.

#mapi leon #ingrid engen #mapi leon x ingrid engen #ingrid engen x mapi leon #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #mapi león #fcb femení #fcb femeni #alexia putellas

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axlerica · 7 months

Text

Priority~

-The one where Gavi prioritized something else over his own girlfriend-

Y/N had been feeling increasingly neglected in her relationship with Pablo Gavi. His football career seemed to take precedence over everything else, including her. One day, she found herself in a tough situation when her car broke down in Girona, and she had an important meeting to attend. Desperate, she decided to call Pablo, hoping he could come to her rescue.

As she dialed his number, Y/N anxiously tapped her foot on the pavement. The phone rang, and she waited, her frustration growing with each passing second. But Pablo was deep into his training session and didn't hear the call. After what felt like an eternity, he finally reached for his phone during a break and saw multiple missed calls from Y/N. Concerned, he immediately called her back.

"Hey amor, what's wrong?" Pablo asked as he leaned against his locker, his breath still heavy from the training.

Y/N's voice trembled with frustration. "Pablo, my car broke down in Girona, and I have this important meeting. Can you please pick me up?"

Pablo hesitated for a moment, glancing at his teammates who were heading towards the exit. He knew he had agreed to join them for a meal after training. "Amor, I really wish I could, but Xavi wants to talk to me about the match tomorrow. It's important," he lied.

Y/N's heart sank. She had hoped he would prioritize her just this once. "Pablo, please, I'm stuck here, and I don't know what to do. Can't you make an exception? I really need your help now…"

Pablo sighed, torn between his commitment to his girlfriend and his loyalty to his team. "I'm sorry bebe, but I have to go. Xavi is waiting. We'll talk later, okay? Te quiero muchísimo amor! "

Y/N's eyes welled up with tears. She felt abandoned and hurt. "Fine, go then." She hung up, her fingers trembling.

With no other choice, Y/N called a pickup truck and booked a taxi back to Barcelona. As she sat alone in the taxi, the distance between her and Pablo seemed greater than ever.

—————————————————————-

Y/N, feeling exhausted and hurt, arrived at Pablo’s house, hoping to find him there to explain why he hadn’t come to her rescue. She texted him, asking where he was, but her phone remained silent with no reply.

Then, she went upstairs for a refreshing shower. The warm water helped wash away the physical and emotional strains of the day. After her shower, she wrapped herself in a towel and lay down on Pablo’s bed, feeling utterly drained.

As she lay on his bed, she opened Instagram, then saw Pedri’s Instagram stories, tagging Pablo and their other teammates at a restaurant. Her heart sank as she checked the timestamp - it was 3 PM, the exact time when she had desperately called Pablo for help in Girona. She realized that Pablo had deliberately chosen to prioritize his time with friends over helping her in her time of need.

—————��———————————————-

Then, Pablo came home and walked into the living room and tried to break the ice, saying, "Amorrr, I'm home." However, Y/N remained visibly upset and ignored him, her eyes focused on the Netflix screen.

Not one to give up easily, Pablo made another attempt to bridge the gap, gently asking, "Hey preciosa, how was your day?" Y/N responded with one word, "Tiring."

Pablo couldn't bear to see Y/N upset, so he affectionately said, "Awww, my poor baby," and leaned in to give her a kiss. But Y/N turned her head slightly, causing him to land the kiss on her cheek instead of her lips.

Confused and concerned, Pablo asked, "¿Qué pasa, amor?" Y/N sighed, replying, "Nada. I'm just tired."

Pablo, sensing that something was seriously wrong, decided to give her some space and said, "Okay, I'm gonna take a shower. I'll join you after this, okay?"

After his shower, Pablo couldn't stand the weight of the silence between them any longer. He walked downstairs and found Y/N on the couch, still not speaking to him. He laid his head on her chest and, with those familiar, sad, doe-like eyes, said, "Amor, why are you ignoring me?"

Pablo always had a way to make Y/N fold with his cute brown doe eyes but this time she was determined not to give in easily.

He couldn't bear to see her like this, so he gave it one more try, softly asking, "Please talk to me, bebe?"

Y/N's voice held a hint of frustration as she replied, "Why should I? You didn't even try to help me when I needed help"

Pablo felt a growing sense of desperation. He attempted to explain himself, "Bebe, please, understand. I was at training, and you know how busy it gets. I told you, right?"

But Y/N wasn't ready to let him off the hook. She said firmly, "Stop lying, Gavi. You were finished with your training when I called you."

Pablo stuttered, his excuses faltering, "Uh... well, I still had something to do after that."

Y/N seized the moment to confront him, "Like going out with your friends instead of helping your girlfriend who clearly needed help? I bet if your friend’s car broke down, you would immediately ditch training and rush to help them."

Pablo attempted to explain himself, saying, "Well, I can't just cancel on them, bebe. We made reservations, and I didn't want to just ditch them like that. You understand, right?"

Y/N's disappointment was palpable as she responded, "No? If you were in trouble, I would ditch anything or anyone just to help you because why? You're my priority, and I put you first. But sadly, I figured I'm not your priority now. Thanks for that."

Pablo, feeling defensive, argued, “Well, I can’t just bail on my friends, amor. What will they say? ‘Pablo is ditching us for his girlfriend.’ You know them.”

Y/N’s was extremely disappointed with his answer and replied, “So, you were worried about what they would say more than helping me, your girlfriend, who was stranded in another city and in trouble? Wow, okay.”

With a heavy heart, she got up and went to the bedroom, holding back her tears because she didn’t want Pablo to think she was too emotional or a crybaby.

That night, Pablo and Y/N both went to bed, but they couldn't sleep well. They were upset and didn't talk to each other. Y/N slept by turning her back from Pablo. He tried to hug her from the back because he loves spooning her but Y/N pushed his grip and he understood that she’s still mad at him.

It was 330 AM, both of them lay in bed, their backs turned to each other. Y/N closed her eyes, attempting to sleep, but it seemed impossible.

Every so often, she heard Pablo sighing loudly and felt him tugging at the blanket, leaving her with less and less of it to cover herself.

Y/N finally broke the silence, frustration in her voice. "Would you stop hogging the blanket, Pablo? I'm trying to sleep here."

Pablo sighed and replied, "Sorry, amor, it's just... I can't sleep knowing you're mad at me. I really want to hug you right now, and it's hard for me to sleep because i can’t stop thinking about us. I hate it when we’re not okay like this.”

Y/N sighed, still annoyed. But Pablo's request made her heart softened a bit as she was also dying to hug him. Truth was, she also couldn’t sleep and she knew hugging him would make her fall asleep in a second. Pablo then said, "Please amor? Can I please hug you? I know you're mad at me but you can continue being mad at me tomorrow..”

Y/N didn't respond with words, but she moved closer to Pablo, still not turning her back to face him. For Pablo, this gesture was a silent confirmation that Y/N allowed him to spoon and cuddle her.

Pablo immediately hugged Y/N tightly and said, "Thank you, amor." Y/N couldn't help but smile at how cute Pablo was being. However, she was still upset with him, so she didn't reply. She tried her best to hide her smile because she didn't want Pablo to know that she was actually smiling. She then held his hand, and soon they both fell asleep.

The next morning, Y/N's position shifted, as she lay her head on Pablo's chest while he had his arm around her waist. When Y/N woke up, she tried to gently move Pablo's hand because she needed to get up and take a shower to prepare for work.

Pablo grumbled sleepily, saying, "Urhhmm, no, stay with me."

Y/N replied, "I need to shower now, Pablo. I have to go to work, and don't forget, I'm still mad at you."

Pablo, not willing to let her go, held onto her tightly and said, "But……amor….. I want cuddles…..”

Y/N still trying to move Pablo’s hand, saying, "Your time is up now, and you have training in 1 hour. You should get up too."

Pablo couldn’t resist and asked, "Well…can I join you in the shower?"

Y/N, still upset with him, replied, "No, I'm mad at you."

Pablo clung to her even tighter and said, "Then I'm not letting you go."

Y/N winced slightly and relented, saying, "Ouch, Pablo. Vale, fineee, let's both get up and take a shower."

Pablo grinned and said, "Together?"

Y/N sighed and replied, "Yeah, whatever." as she rolled her eyes but then Pablo went and kissed her cheek making her giggle.

——————————————————————-

As they finished showering, Y/N went to the kitchen to make breakfast, and Pablo still in the bedroom fixing his hair. Later, he came downstairs and found Y/N preparing a yogurt bowl. He hugged her from behind and kissed her cheek, but Y/N was busy and told him, "Pablo, please, I'm busy right now." So, he sat down at the table, playing with his phone.

Once Y/N was done making breakfast, she handed it to him, and he said, "Thank you, preciosa." They both sat at the table, eating while on their phones. After a while, Pablo broke the silence, saying, "Amor, I'm really sorry for yesterday. I was a jerk, and I should've helped you, but I didn't. I'm truly sorry, amor."

Y/N, still focused on her yogurt, finally looked up and said, “I appreciate your apology, Pablo, but what happened yesterday really upset me.”

Pablo then gently held Y/N's chin and looked at her eyes with a deep sincerity and said, "I love you so much, amor, and it hurts to see you being so cold towards me. I miss my clingy baby, I miss your kisses. Please understand that even though I focus on my career sometimes, I love you no matter what. My career is important, but so are you, amor. I'm truly sorry for what happened yesterday, and I regret it deeply."

Y/N sighed and relented, saying, “Okay…fine, I forgive you. But you have to promise me that the next time I call for your help, you won’t bail on me like that.”

Pablo nodded earnestly and replied, “I promise, amor. If I ever bail on you, you can kick me or punish me however you want.”

Y/N chuckled and said, "Well, I'm going to make your friends kick you too!" They both shared a laugh.

Pablo then said, “Yes, bebé, I don’t mind because I probably deserve it.” He then reached out and gently held her hand and kissing it, continuing, “I’m truly sorry, okay, amor? I love you so much, cariño.”

Y/N replied, "Hmmm okay, you're forgiven.. I love you too, Pablito."

#fc barcelona #imagine footballer #pablo gavi #gavi x yn #gavi x reader #gavi angst #gavi fluff #gavi x you #gavi #fc barça #pablito #pablitogavi

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kamotecue · 2 months

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a spooky nightmare ★ k. mccabe

pairing: katie mccabe x fem!reader

summary: you had a spooky nightmare, so you get comforted by your lover.

the shared bedroom was quiet, you would occasionally hear the soft sounds of the pages of a book being flipped, but you weren't really awake - in fact, the recent training had exhausted you. you swiftly walked to the room, collapsing into the bed not minding the soft yet wide smile that was seen on your lover's face. it's been a year since you've been dating the irish captain, the love story began on the football pitch - you with your precise passes and strategtic moves made you a force to be reckoned with - something that caught her eye, as she met her fair share of talented, world class players.

jessie fleming, your national teammate had teased you, as you fumbled over your words - since you had freshly graduated from ucla, jessie was the one to take you under her wing, despite being the shyest player on the team. but that was when everyone who knew you, knew that things would change - together, you both formed a dynamic duo, not just on the pitch but also in your hearts.

the connection was instant in a way, a spark that ignited a love that transcended borders and time zones, you played for a different league - the spanish league was definitely a challenge, having to join real madrid. yet despite the distance between the two lovers, katie and you had found ways to nurture the relationship, often traveling thousands of miles just to be in each other's arms or sacrificing your sleep schedule just to have a simple yet comforting call.

yet one night, as you laid sleeping in your shared bed, katie who sat by your side, engrossed in a book (that was yours) - what was it that fans called you? a booktok girl, someone who'd definitely is a fan of books, the books in this apartment were nothing compared to your mini library in your madrid apartment. the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the room, casting a warm light on your peaceful face.

katie took a long glance at you, admiring your beauty, the feeling that never faded no matter how many times she looked at you - looking at you was definitely one of her favorite things, but she loved being with you the most. yet her eyes were brought away from the book, as your peaceful slumber was interrupted by a sharp gasp. sitting up abruptly, you placed a hand on your chest - it was heaving as if you had been running for miles. katie immediately placed her (your) book aside and reached out to you, concern etched on her face.

"what's wrong, puddin?" your lover's voice was as soft as ever, despite being known to get carded during a match - katie mccard, the arsenal fans would tease. her voice was laced with worry, as your breathing was ragged as you tried to calm yourself.

"i had this silly nightmare" you managed to say, your voice trembling a little bit.

"do you want to talk about it?" katie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you closer to her as you placed your head on her chest - listening to her heartbeat, trying to calm yourself down.

you nodded, as your voice barely above a whisper. you recounted the dream, a terrifying vision of being trapped in a dark, suffocating space, with no way out. in your dream, youwas back on the field, but this time, every move you made was met with failure and disappointment.

"it was so real, love," you said, your voice filled with fear. "i felt like i was drowning, like i couldn't breathe."

katie hummed, listened intently, her heart breaking for her beloved. she knew how much football meant to you (as she also played), how deeply it was ingrained in your identity. to have such a nightmare was truly unsettling.

"shh, it's okay, puddin," katie murmured, gently stroking your hair. "you're safe now. it was just a dream."

together, they sat in the silence of the night, katie providing comfort and reassurance to you. as the first light of dawn began to filter through the curtains, you felt a sense of relief wash over her, knowing that katie was there to chase away the shadows of your nightmares.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #woso one shot #arsenal wfc imagine #katie mccabe x reader #katie mccabe imagine

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coffee-n-converse · 3 months

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**PJO Episode Seven Spoilers ahead!!**

I expected the moment they realized they only had three pearls to hurt. I expected the moment Percy had to leave his mom behind to hurt.

I absolutely did NOT expect to have whole ass TEARS running down my face for the entirety of that scene with Sally and Poseidon!!

And yet, the moment the rain started outside the window and you could just SEE the relief in Sally’s shoulders, the world breaking gratitude that he had heard her and he was there…. And she had that same look on her face from episode one when she’s on the balcony and feels like he’s there with her because of the rain.

Here’s the thing. I don’t think, up until that moment, they’ve occupied the same space since the day he had to leave her before Percy was born. I can’t explain it, but something about the way Sally hesitated before dropping the match in… this was a last ditch act. An act of sheer desperation. She’s been doing this alone for SO LONG and she finally broke. She finally thought “I can’t anymore” because she felt like all she was doing was hurting Percy over and over again. And she was terrified she was going to keep hurting him. And I don’t think she burnt the sundae to try to talk to the god Poseidon; I think she burnt it to feel close to the man Poseidon that she loved. She didn’t want to feel alone in that gut wrenching moment, she wanted to come as close as she could to having the man she loved holding her in his arms.

And the he SHOWS UP. My gods, the only time this woman has burnt an offering to him, and he is THERE without hesitation. He knew she was a badass and could handle the world and was doing an incredible job of raising her son, so when she burns a sundae to him he knows she’s at her breaking point and he is THERE.

But then… gah their whole conversation had me crying. Not for what they were saying (though him saying she was doing an incredible job hit me hard) but because they never once actually looked at each other. They had this whole beautiful conversation and for once Sally doesn’t feel completely alone in this (and you can see it in her shoulders and on her face) and she is so grateful to not have to do this moment alone, and he clearly still loves her and believes in her and trusts her to raise Percy right and even gives her a safe space to vent about HIS family and come to her own decision, but they never look at each other. And I cannot explain why that GUTTED me. Like I know why he didn’t look at Percy, but it gutted me that him and Sally didn’t look at each other. It worked and it was beautiful and it made me cry.

While we’re on that convo, can we just talk about how Poseidon lets Sally make the call about school or camp?? Like, he’s a literal god and technically this is his son we’re talking about, but he never once gives her his opinion on the situation. He doesn’t try to parent, doesn’t try to make the call. She literally summoned him with a match in a sundae and still he doesn’t take over and call the shots. This man has so much faith in Sally Jackson’s ability to raise Percy when he can’t be there to help at all and I just…. Aaaahhhhhh

To be honest I never super shipped Sally and Poseidon in the books. For me they were a pretty summer love story that was nice for a few months and then eh. It’s over. But this?? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want them to get back together, but their dynamic as two beings heavily invested in primarily Percy, but also each other, in this adaptation is *chef’s kiss*.

I loved this episode, but I am legitimately FERAL for this scene.

#pjo spoilers #pjotv spoilers #percy jackson #pjo #pjo series #pjotv #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo tv show #sally jackson #poseidon

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ambers-archive · 3 months

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what if all i need is you?

2 times the universe conspires against Spencer and the 1 time it doesn't. no use of y/n

"I think we’re lost," Spencer mumbled, stealing a glance at you, you’re in his passenger seat and you look like a dream he thinks.

He hates driving, usually avoids it, but watching you smile next to him and hearing you sing along to his favorite songs makes him think it’s not all bad.

"You think?" You laugh, meeting his eye.

He had the date perfectly planned in his head – a tour around the city since you just moved here. Showcasing his favorite bookstore, two tickets to his favorite museum's exhibit, the whole thing.

However, things were not going as planned. He found himself driving in circles, twists and turns multiplying at every corner.

The universe was taunting him.

"I swear, these street signs are conspiring against me," he muttered.

“In the meantime, we should enjoy this,” you suggested, pointing to a barely visible café on the corner, proposing an impromptu coffee stop.

With a slight smile tugging his lips, Spencer nodded.

“You’re in Med school?

Spencer asked, trying to hide his amazement.

It all makes sense now, he thinks. Rarely does he find someone who matches him intellectually, even rarer for him to enjoy conversations with them.

“I am! I know it’s a cliché saying, but I just want to help people, I want to make a difference in the world.”

“It’s not cliché at all, that’s really noble.” Spencer replied, a genuine smile forming on his face. The passion in your voice is like a breath of fresh air for him.

You blushed at the compliment, warmth spreading across your cheeks. "Thank you. It's not easy, but it's worth it if I can make a positive impact, even in a small way."

As if you took the words right out of Spencer’s mouth, hearing you made him realize the reason he started the BAU.

And oh how beautiful it is to have that passion.

For so long, his work had only consisted of repetition; the work that had brought him happiness was now draining him of it all. His thoughts are audible emanating from your lips.

To make a difference, and just for a little while, listening to you happily describe your passion, the horrors of his job, which once clutched his heart so deeply, slowly started to fade.

“Where to next, Doctor?”

“I hope you like museums, I was able to get us tickets to one of my favorite exhibits.”

“Lead the way.”

“I agree; the universe is not happy with you right now,” you laughed, both stranded in the middle of nowhere as his car broke down under the afternoon sun.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he sighed, opening your car door. Taking his hand you led him towards the field, there were worse places to be stranded in you thought.

“If we call for a cab right now, we can reach the museum in an hour, depending on traffic. We’ll miss the first half hour or so, but—”

“Spencer, look! The sun is setting.” You walked off into the distance, taking a seat near a tree.

“We’re going to miss the show.” He said disappointed. You looked up at him and the orange glow casted a beautiful hue over your face. Just when he thought you couldn't get prettier.

“No matter how much you try in life, you’re bound to miss something. Just take in the moment right now.” You say, patting the seat on the grass next to you.

To his own surprise, he obliges.

He doesn’t mean to profile you, but it’s a reflex, a defense mechanism. Being around serial killers and rapists, he needs to know their every move. But right now, being in your apartment as you give him a tour, he lets go.

Realizing he doesn’t have to know everything about you right away; he can take his time.

He expected your room to be something like a catalog magazine, but books, plants, and paintings you've made surrounded you.

Messy maximalist, you called it.

Spencer learns you hate minimalism, you hate gray white empty spaces that don't feel like home.

He is almost envious of how carefree you are, willing to wear your heart out on your sleeve. Your guard has been down the whole time, a luxury Spencer can’t afford.

“Can I offer you some tea? I recently perfected my mom’s recipe for chai,” You asked, already boiling the water and getting your tea bags together.

“Tea sounds amazing.”

He looks around, forming a profile in his brain.

You’re messy, but you somehow find beauty in it. It doesn’t bother you; it makes sense, he thinks.

Artistic people are commonly messy.

“What books do you like?” Spencer asks, watching you get two mismatched cups out.

“I love classic literature, Persuasion is one of my favorites. I love Jane Austen and the way she captures love in its most pure form."

“How would you define love?” It’s a question that has been nagging him, he wants to pick apart your brain and know every thought.

He can tell you’re a hopeless romantic, and he now wishes he had accepted Garcia’s movie night invitation to watch Jane Austen movies.

He already has a sense, knowing you love classic period pieces, but he just wants to hear your explanation for it.

“In Med school they teach us that love is a complex emotion, a bunch of hormones: dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin in the brain. I can’t say much about hormones but love is life, and it's just peaceful like the slow water going down a stream. But an immediate phenomenon, much like life itself. It fills and empties you all at once, swirling like a river's water after a storm. Your hands, heart, stomach, and skin are just a few places on your body where you can feel it. And it overtakes you so intensely. You don’t even realize it until you’re in it. You can’t exist without it, love is like breathing.” You sigh, a shy smile overtaking your lips “Sorry i tend to rant a lot.”

Spencer meets your smile. It feels nice to be on the receiving end of someone rambling. “I don’t mind one bit. I knew you were an artist but I didn’t peg you for a writer.”

“Have you been profiling me, Doctor Reid?” you ask, he smiles avoiding your gaze.

“Most writers are artistic people; that is, they are imaginative, creative, and productive when working in an environment that promotes self-expression. Not to mention you mentioned journalism being your minor, also I saw you had a typewriter.”

“You're amazing, Spencer,” you say, taking the kettle off the stove, pouring two cups of chai.

Spencer whispers your name, and you look over, your name falls so easily through his lips. This is what was missing from your life, you think.

“I think you’re one of the most unique people I’ve ever met.”

He says, taking your hand, interlocking your fingers.

You graze your thumb over his knuckles squeezing his hand, meeting his brown eyes. And as if the universe was on his side for once you lean forward, your lips meeting his. Lips meddling into each other as if it was made just for you.

The morning sun is beating down on his small car, and there you are sitting in his passenger seat laughing at his horrible jokes.

Your favorite songs playing in the background. You smile at him, and Spencer is lost again, but not because of the street signs. He's just lost in your smile.

This is what was missing from his life Spencer thinks.

#criminal minds #writing #my writing #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader

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literary-illuminati · 4 months

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Book Review 68 - Babel by R. F. Kuang

Overview

I came to Babel with extremely little knowledge about the actual contents of the book but a deep sense of all the vibes swirling around its reception – that it was robbed of a Hugo nomination (if the author didn’t outright refuse it), that it’s probably the single buzziest and most Important sf/f release of 2022, that it was stridently political, and plenty more besides. I also went in having mostly enjoyed The Poppy War series and being absolutely enamoured by the elevator pitch of an alternate history Industrial Revolution where translation is literally magic. And, well-

It is wrong to say I hated this book, but only because keeping track of my complaints and starting organize this review in my head was entertaining enough to keep me invested in the reading experience.

The story is set in an alternate 1830s, where the rise of the British Empire relies upon the dominance of its translators, as it is the mixture of translation and silverworking, the inscription of match-pairs in different languages on bars of worked silver and the leveraging of the ambiguity and loss of meaning between them that fuels the world’s magic. The protagonist is pluckted from his childhood home in Canton after his family dies in a cholera outbreak and whisked away to the estate of Professor Lowell, an Oxford translator he quickly realized is his unacknowledged father. He’s made to choose an English name (Robin Swift) and raised and tutored as a future translator in service to the Empire.

The meat of the story is focused on Robin’s education in Oxford, his relationship with the rest of his cohort, and his growing radicalization and entanglement with the revolutionary Hermes Society. Things come to a head when in his fourth year the cohort is sent back to Canton to, well, help provoke the first Opium War, though none of them aware of that. The final act follows the fallout of that, by which I mean it lives up to the full title of “Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution”.

To be clear, this was technically a very accomplished book. The writing never dragged and the prose was, if not exactly lyrical, always clear and often evocative. Despite the breadth of space and time the story covers, I never had any complaints about the pacing – and honestly, the ending was, dramatically speaking, one of the more natural and well-executed ones I’ve read recently. It’s very well-constructed.

All that being said – allow me to apologize for how the rest of this is mostly just going to be a litany of complaints. But the book clearly believes itself to be an important and meaningful work of political art, which means I don’t feel particularly bad about holding it to high standards.

Narrative Voice

To start with, just, dear god the tone. This is a book with absolutely zero faith in its audience’s ability to reach their own conclusions, or even follow the symbolism and implication it lays down. Every important point is stated outright, repeated, and all but bolded and underlined. In this book set in 1830s England there are footnotes fact-checking the imperialists talking heads to, I guess, make sure we don’t accidentally become convinced by their apologia for the slave trade? Everything is just relentlessly didactic, in a way that ended up feeling rather insulting even when I agreed with the points Kuang was making.

More than that, and this is perhaps a more subjective complaint but – for an ostensible period piece, the narrative voice and perspective just felt intensely modern? This was theoretically an omniscient third person book, with the narrative voice being pretty distinct from any of the actual characters – with the result that the implicit narrator was instead the sort of person of spends six hours a day getting into arguments on twitter and for this effort calls themselves a progressive activist. The identities of all the characters – as delivered by the objective narration – were all very neat and legible from the perspective of someone at a 2022 HR department listing how diverse their team was, which was somewhere between a tragic lost opportunity to show how messy and historical racial/ethnic/national identities are and outright anachronistic, depending. (This was honestly one of the bigger disappointments, coming from Kuang’s earlier work. Say what you will of The Poppy War series, the narration is with Rin all the way down, and it trusts the reader enough not to blink.) More than that it was just distracting – the narration ended up feeling like an annoying obstacle between me and the story, and not in any fun postmodern way either.

Characters

Speaking of the cast – they simply do not sound or feel like they actually grew up in the 19th century. Now, some modernization of speech patterns and vocabulary and moral commensense is just the price of doing business with mass market period pieces, granted, but still – no 19th century Anglo-Indian revolutionary is going use the phrase ‘Narco-military state’ (if for no other reason than we’re something like a century early for ‘narco-state’ to be coined as a term at all). An even beyond feeling out of time most of the characters feel kind of thinly sketched?

Or no, it’s not that the characters are thinly sketched so much as their relationships are. We’re repeatedly, insistently told that these four students are fast friends and closer than family and would happily die for each other, but we’re very rarely actually shown it. This is partly just a causality of trying to skim over a four-year university education in the middle third of one book, I think, but still – the good times and happy moments are almost always sort of skimmed over, summarized in the course of a paragraph or two that usually talk in terms of memories and consequences more than the relationships themselves. The points of friction and the arguments, meanwhile, are usually played out entirely on the page, or at least described in much more detail. In the end you kind of have to just take it as read that any of these people actually love each other, given that at least two of them seem to be feuding at any given point for the entire time they know each other.

Letty deserves some special attention. She’s the only white member of Robin’s cohort at Babel and she honestly feels like less of acharacter and more a collection of tropes about white women in progressive spaces? Even more than the rest, it’s hard to believe the rest of the class views her as beloved ride-or-die found family when essentially every time she’s on screen it’s so she can do a microagression or a white fragility or something. Also, just – you know how relatively common it is to see just, blatantly misogynistic memes repackaged as anti-racist because it specifies ‘white women’? There’s a line in this that almost literally says ‘Letty wasn’t doing anything to disprove the stereotype of woman as uselessly emotional and hysteric’.

Also, she’s the one who ends up betraying the other three and trying to turn them in when they turn revolutionary. Which is probably inevitable given the book’s politics, but as it happened felt like less of the shocking betrayal that it was supposed to be and more just, checking off a box for a dramatic reverse. Of course she turned on them, none of them ever really seemed to even like each other.

As a Period Piece

So, the book is set in the 1830s, in the midst of the industrial revolution and its social fallout, and the leadup to the First Opium War (which is, through the magic of, well, magic ,but also mercantilist economics, make into a synecdoche for British global dominion more broadly). On the one hand, the setting is impeccably researched, recent and relevant historical events are referenced whenever they would come up, and the footnotes are full to bursting with quotes and explanations of texts or cultural ephemera that’s brought up in the narration.

On the other, the setting doesn’t feel authentic in the slightest, the portrayal of the British Empire is bizarrely inconsistent, and all that richly researched historical grounding ends up feeling less like a living world and more like a particularly well-down set for a Doctor Who episode.

The story is incredibly focused around Oxford as a city and a university. There’s a whole author’s note about the research and slight changes made into its geography and I absolutely believe its portrayal as a physical location and the laws about how women were treated and how the different colleges were organized and all that is exactly as accurate as Kuang wanted them to be. The issue is really the people. With the exception of a few cartoonish villains who barely get more than a couple pages apiece, no one feels, sounds like, or acts like they actually belong in the 19th century. The racism the protagonists struggle with all feels much more 21st century than Victorian, and the frame of mind everyone inhabits still comes across more as ‘unusually blatantly racist Englishman’ than 19th century scholars and polymaths.

This is especially blatant as far as religion goes. It’s occasionally mentioned, sure enough, but to the extent anyone actually believes in Christianity it’s of a very modern and disenchanted sort – this is a society that sends out missionaries as a conscious tool of colonial expansion, not because of anything as silly or absurd as actually wanting to spread their gospel. Also like, it’s Oxford, in the nineteenth century. For all the racism the protagonists have to deal with, they should be getting so much more shit from ‘well-meaning’ locals and students trying to save their (one Muslim, one atheist, one probably Christian but black and protective of Haitian Vodou on a cultural level which would be more than enough) souls.

Or, and this is more minor, it is a central conceit of the whole finale that if a few (like, two) determined revolutionaries can infiltrate Babel they’ll be able to take the entire place hostage with barely any trouble. This is because the students and professors there are, basically, whimpy bookworms who’ll faint at the sight of blood and have no stomach for the sort of violence their work actually supports and drives. Which – look, I really don’t want to defend the ruling class of Victorian Britain here, but I’m not sure physical cowardice is really one of their failings, as a group? I mean, there’s an entire system of institutionalized child abuse in the boarding schools they went to to get them used to taking and dealing out violence and abuse. Basically every upper-class sport is thinly disguised military drill or ritual combat (okay, or rowing). Half of them would graduate to immediately running off and invading places for the glory of the queen. I’m not sure two sleep-deprived nerds with knives would actually have been able to cow the crowd here, is what I’m saying. (This would stick out less if the text wasn’t so dripping with contempt for them on precisely these grounds.)

Much less minor are our heroic revolutionaries themselves. And okay, this is more a matter of taste than anything but like – the Hermes Society is an illegal conspiracy of renegade current and former Babel scholars dedicated to using their knowledge of magic and access to university resources to oppose and undermine the British Empire in general and the work of the school in particular. Think Metternich’s worse nightmare, but in Oxford instead of Paris and focused on colonial liberation (continental Europe barely exists for the purposes of the book, Britain is Empire.) So! A secret society of professional revolutionaries in the heydey of just that, with a name that just has to be Hermetic symbolism, who concern themselves with both high politics and metaphysics.

They are just so very, very boring. This is the age of the Conspiracy of the Equals, the Carbonari, the Seasons! The literal Illumanti are still within living memory! Where’s the pageantry, the ritual, the grandiosity? The elaborate initiation rituals and oaths of undying loyalty? They’re so pragmatic, so humble, so (and I know I keep coming back to this) modern. It’s just such an utter wasted opportunity. Even beyond the level of aesthetics, these are revolutionaries with remarkably little positive ideology – the oppose colonialism and racism for reasons they take as self-evident and so don’t feel the need to theorize about it (and talk about them with the vocabulary of a modern activist, because of course they do), but they’re pretty much consciously agnostic as to what world should look like instead. They vaguely end up supporting a sort of petty-bourgeois socialism (in the Marxist sense), but the alliance with Luddites is essentially political convenience – they really don’t seem to have any vision of the future at all, either in England or the various places they claim as homelands.

On Empire and Industrialization

The story is set during the early nineteenth century, so of course the Industrial Revolution is a pretty core part of the background. The Silver Industrial Revolution, technically, since the Babellers translation magic is in this world a key and load-bearing part of it. Despite the addition of miracle-working enhancers and supports to its fundamental technology, the industrial revolution plays out pretty identically to history – right down to the same cities becoming hubs of industry, despite steam engines using enchanted silver instead of coal and thus, presumably, the entire economic and logistical system that brought this particular cities to prominence being totally unrecognizable. This is not a book that’s in any way actually about tracing how something would change history – which isn’t a complaint, to be clear, that’s a perfectly valid creative choice.

It does, however, make it rather galling that the single actually significant difference to history is that the introduction of magic turns the industrial revolution into a Legend of Zelda boss with a giant glowing weak point you can hit to destroy the whole enterprise.

On a narrative level, I get it – it simplifies things and allows for a far happier and more dramatic ending if destroying Babel is not just a symbolic act but also literally sends London Bridge falling down and scuttles the entire royal navy and every mill and factory in Britain. It’s just that I think that by doing so it trades away any chance for actually making interesting commentary on anti-colonial and -capitalist resistance. A world where a single act of spectacular terrorism really can destroy a modern empire is frankly so detached from our world that it ceases to be able to really materially comment upon it.

Like, the principle reason to not take the Luddites as your role models is not that they were morally vicious but that they were doomed – capitalism’s ability to repair damage to infrastructure and fixed goods is legitimately very impressive! Trying to force an entire ruling class not to adopt a technology that makes whoever commits to it tremendous amounts of money (thus, power) is a herculean task even when you have a state apparatus and standing army – adding an ‘off’ button to the lot of it just trades all sense of relevance for a satisfyingly cathartic ending.

(This is leaving untouched how the book just takes it as a given that the industrial revolution was a strictly immiserating force that did nothing but redistribute money from artisans to capitalists. Which certainly tracks as something people at the time would have thought but given how resolutely modern all the other politics in the work are rings really weirdly.)

All of which is only my second biggest issue with how the book presents its successful resistance movement. It all pales in comparison to making the Empire a squeamish paper tiger.

Like, the book hates colonialism in general and the British Empire in particular, the narrative and footnotes are filled with little asides about various atrocities and injustices and just ways it was racist or complicit in some particular atrocity. But more than that it is contemptuous of it, it views the empire as (as the cliche goes) a perpetually rotting edifice that just needs one good kick; that it persists only through the myth of its own invincibility, and has no stomach for violent resistance from within. Which is absolutely absurd, and the book does seem to know it on occasion when it off-handedly mentions e.g. the Peterloo Massacre – but a character whose supposed to be the grizzled cynical pragmatic revolutionary still spouts off about how slave rebellions succeed because their masters aren’t willing to massacre their own property. Which is just so spectacularly wrong on every axis its actually almost offensive.

More importantly, the entire final act of the story relies upon the fact that the British Empire would allow a handful of foreign students seize control of a vital piece of infrastructure for weeks on end and do nothing but try to wait them out as the national physically falls apart around them. Like, c’mon, there would be siege artillery set up and taking shots by the end of week two. As with the Oxford students, the Victorian elite had all manner of flaws – take your pick, really – but squeamishness wasn’t really one of them.

On Magic

So the magical system underlying the whole story is – you know how Machinaries of Empire makes imperial ideology and metaphysics literally magical, giving expert technicians the ability to create superweapons and destroy worlds provided that the Hexarchate’s subjects observe the imperial calendar of rites and celebrate its triumphs/participate in rituals glorying in the torture of its ‘heretics’? It’s not exactly a subtle metaphor, but it works.

Babel does something similar, except the foundational atrocity fueling the engine of empire on a metaphysical level is, like, cultural appropriation. As an organizing metaphor, I find this less compelling.

Leaving that aside, the story makes translation literally capable of miracle-working – which of necessity requires making ‘languages’ distinct natural categories with observable metaphysical boundaries. It then sets the story in the 19th century – the era of newborn nation states and education systems and national literatures, where the concept of the national-linguistic community was the obsession of the entire European intelligentsia. Now this is not a book concerned with how the presence of magic would actually have changed history, in the slightest, but like – given how fascinated it is by translation and linguistics you’d think the whole ‘a language is a dialect with a navy’ cliché would at least get a light mention (but then the book doesn’t really treat language as any more inherent or natural than it does any other modern identity category, I suppose.)

As an Allegory

Okay, so having now spent an embarrassing number of words establishing to my own satisfaction that the book really doesn’t work at all as a period piece, let us consider; what if it wasn’t trying to be?

A great many things about the book just fit much better if you take it as a commentary on the modern university with Victorian window-dressing. Certainly the driving resentment of Oxford as an institution that sustains itself and grows rich off the exploitation of international students it considers second-class seems far more apt applied to contemporary elite western schools than 19th century ones. Likewise the racism the heroes face all seems like the kind you’d expect in a modern English town rather than a Victorian one. I’m not well-versed enough on the economics of the city to know for sure, but I would wager that the gleeful characterization of Oxford as a city that literally starts falling to ruin without the university to support it was also less accurate in the 1830s than it is today.

Read like this, everything coheres much better – but the most striking thing becomes the incredible vanity of the book. This is a morality tale where the natural revolutionary vanguard with the power to bring global hegemony to its knees through nothing but witholding their labour are..students at elite western universities (not, I must say, a class I’d consider in dire need of having their egos boosted). The emotions underlying everything make much more sense, but the plot itself becomes positively myopic.

Beyond that – if this is a story about international students at elite universities, it does a terrible job of actually portraying them. Or, properly, it only shows a certain type; just about every foreign-born student or professor we meet is some level of revolutionary, deeply opposed in principle to the empire they work within. No one is actually convinced by the carrot of a life as an exploited but exceedingly comfortable and well-compensated technician in the imperial core, and there’s not really acknowledgement at all of just how much of the apparatus of international institutions and governments in the global south – including positions with quite a bit of real power – end up being staffed by exactly that demographic who just sincerely agree with the various ideological projects employing them. Kuang makes it far too easy on herself by making just about every person of colour in the books one of the good guys, and totally undersells how convincing hegemonic ideology can be, basically.

The Necessity of Violence

This is a pet peeve and it’s a very minor thing that I really wouldn’t bring it up if that wasn’t literally part of the title. But it is, so – it’s a plot point that’s given a decent amount of attention that Griffin (Robin’s secret older brother, grizzled professional revolutionary, his introduction to anti-colonialism) is blamed for murdering one of his classmates who had the bad luck to be studying while he was sneaking in to steal some silver – a student that was quite well-loved by the faculty and her very successful classmates, who have never forgiven him. Later on, it’s revealed that this is an utter rewriting of history, and she’d been a double agent pretending to let herself be recruited into the Hermes Society who’d been luring Griffin into an ambush when he killed her and escaped.

This is – well, the most predictable not-even-a-twist imaginable, for one, but also – just rank cowardice. You titled the book ‘the necessity of violence’, the least you can do is actually own it and show that violent resistance means people (with faces, and names, not just abstractions only ever talked about in general terms) who are essentially personally innocent are going to end up collateral damage, and people are going to hold grudges about it. Have some courage in your convictions!

Translation

Okay, all of that said, this isn’t a book that’s wholly bad, or anything. In particular, you can really tell how much of a passion Kuang has for the art and science of translation. The depth of knowledge and eagerness to share just about overflows from the page whenever the book finds an excuse to talk about it at length, and it’s really very endearing. The philosophizing about translation was also as a rule much more interesting and nuanced then whenever the book tried to opine about high politics or revolutionary tactics.

Anyways, I really can’t recommend the book in any real way, but it did stick in my head for long enough that I’ve now written 4,000 words about it. So at the very least it’s the interesting sort of bad book, y’know?

#book review #babel #r. f. kuang #sff #lesbian space atrocities #-ish #hatermode

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vivwritesfics · 1 month

Text

In Bloom

Chapter One

Max wasn't like other Hogwarts students. He was having to live with the terrible things his father had done. Everybody expected him to turn out like his father, but he was the furthest thing from. He just needed two people to see that

Lestappen X Reader

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Okay so this follows the basic plot of the Harry potter books (from memory), with some major differences to fit our drivers. A list of which Harry potter each driver relates to can be found HERE

Series Masterlist

Max Verstappen could still remember the dread he felt as he stepped up to the sorting hat at just eleven years old. Everybody avoided him on the train, and he'd waited at the back of the queue to be sorted.

Not Slytherin, he thought as he climbed those stairs. Anything but Slytherin.

It came as no surprise that he was sorted into Slytherin. His entire family had been, and he was no different. 'There wasn't a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin,' he'd heard somebody say before the sorting.

But even Slytherin didn't want him. He went to sit down and everybody shuffled away from him, giving him plenty of space. Even in his newfound house, even with the people that were supposed to be like his family, as professor Vettel had said, he felt alone.

Unable to look past his own dread, Max had failed to notice something. He failed to notice the boy with his hair covering his forehead and eyes, definitely impairing his vision. Even when the boys name was called, Max didn't notice.

He shouldn't have been surprised to hear the name 'Leclerc Charles' called. He was the boy that had defeated his father, after all. The whispers began as soon as his name was called. Gryffindor, his new house, cheered as he ran to join them. The same thing happened for Max just moments later, but without the cheering. They were like mythical creatures to the other students in the hall. Well, Charles was. Max was more like a circus freak.

First year for Max Verstappen was incredibly lonely. All anybody wanted to talk to him about was his father. They were all questions he couldn't answer because he didn't know his father. He had been destroyed when Max was only a year old.

Flying lessons were Max's favourite. He'd grown up watching Quidditch with his mother, even playing it sometimes. She'd played it for her entire life, up until she met Jos. It was in Max's blood. Max was determined to show Professor Button just what he could do to be put on the Slytherin team. No first year had ever made it onto the team before, he was determined to be the first.

Max tried to act shocked when Professor Button went to Professor Alonso, the head of Slytherin house, and begged him to put Max on the Qudditch team. "He's the best thing this schools ever seen!" Professor Button insisted.

Professor Alonso gave him a trial period. One match to prove he could keep up with the older kids on the team. For Max Verstappen, it was the easiest thing in the world.

This was the stuff of legend in Hogwarts. But it was overshadowed by Charles Leclerc and his idiot friends.

Max didn't know what happened to Charles, Esteban and Pierre under the school. It was all speculation and rumours. Nobody know whether they fought a dragon or found the legendary philosophers stone. Only Professor Schumacher knew that. Professor Schumacher and Charles.

Max heard all of the rumours. He ignored them as best he could. But there was one rumour that he couldn't shake. "Someone said that it was your dad Charles was fighting under the school," said Nikita, a fellow Sytherin and a massive dickhead. "Said he killed him, again."

Max couldn't stop his reaction. He leapt out of his seat in the common room and swung his fist at Nikita, hitting him square in the jaw. Nikita stumbled back, holding his jaw. Shock played on his face, but it soon turned into a smile. "You're going to regret," he started. "Didn't you know my father is close, personal friends with the minister?"

"I didn't ask, Nikita," Max spat as he walked away, leaving the common room all together.

First year wasn't all bad for Max. No, he made history on the Quidditch team and he made a few friends. Lando and Daniel, two Hufflepuffs with the widest smiles and hearts of gold.

He met Daniel first. He was maybe the first person Max had ever properly gotten along with. He found a kindred spirit in Daniel. He was maybe the funniest person Max had ever met.

Daniel had introduced Max to Lando halfway through their first year. Max had never had that connection with anybody. He finally knew what it was like to have friends, and it felt amazing. For the first time since arriving at the school, Max was himself. He was happy, funny, bubbly. Every joke Max cracked had Daniel folded at the waist, hands on his knees as he laughed.

Their friendship continued into Max and Lando's second year. Daniel was just that little bit older, going into his fourth year.

Second year was the first proper run in that Max had with Charles Leclerc. It had been a shit day for Max, Nikita was being an ass and his potions test scores were less than perfect. He was pissed at himself. His escape was the quidditch pitch. It was supposed to be empty. He could fly around, weaving in and out of the stands and goal hoops as much as he liked.

But he wasn't alone. No, somebody else was opening the box of quidditch supplies. Max hung back, watching to see what Charles did. He watched as Charles tucked the quaffle under his arm and mounted his broom.

He wasn't even on the quidditch team for his house. What was he doing there? But, the more Max watched, the more he understood. He watched as Charles flew around with skill. He did what Max was going to do, weaving around the stands and through the goal hoops, all with the quaffle tucked under his arm. It was no easy accomplishment. Max was thoroughly impressed.

He gave Charles a nod as he mounted his broom and flew around. They stayed away from each other that time, practiced without disturbing one another.

As soon as Max was done, he rushed to Professor Buttons office. He was still in his quidditch robes, his fingers a little frozen as he held his broom. "Professor," he called as he knocked on the door. "Can I talk to you?"

Max would never tell Charles Leclerc that he was the reason he was on the quidditch team. They hadn't spoken two words to each other yet, Max couldn't imagine a time where they'd be that friendly.

In his second year of Quidditch Max proved himself to be better than anyone expected. But, with the addition of Charles to the Gryffindor team, Slytherin finally had some real competition.

But the year wasn't all sparkles and rainbows. Not when the attacks started. Muggleborns being petrified, it was terrifying.

When the chamber of secrets was opened, everybody turned to Max. His father had opened it last time, hadn't he? So it only made sense that he opened it this time.

Those were the first words Charles Leclerc spoke to him. "Did you open the chamber of secrets?"

Mac couldn't hide the shock on his face. "Are you kidding me? Why would I want to attack muggleborns?" One of his best friends was muggleborn, for goodness sake.

But still, Charles wouldn't leave it alone. Things only got worse when Esteban was petrified. Charles cornered Max, demanded he fixed what he had done. All Max could do was express condolences and walk away.

But then Daniel was petrified. "Fuck," Max choked out when Lando told him. He followed him to the hospital wing and rushed straight to Daniels side. He wouldn't leave, not until his best friend was up and moving. The nurses were too afraid of him to pull him away.

Golden boy Charles saved the day. He found out who had been opening the chamber, a little first year who had no control over her actions. A cure for the petrifications was made using Mandrakes and Esteban and Daniel were on their feet just before the end of the year.

Max had been avoiding Charles. Ever seen his confronted him over Esteban, he wanted nothing to do with him. He and everyone else would always see him as the villain. It was so sad to learn that at just twelve years old.

But Charles found him. He cornered him once again, but this time, his expression was soft. "I'm sorry," he said.

Max looked at the floor, his jaw tight.

"It was wrong of me to assume that you're the one who opened the chamber. I realise that now," he continued.

Max let out something of a snort. "Just because my dad is a monster, it doesn't mean I am," was all he said. He pushed past him, trying to get away, trying to get to the end of year feast. But, before he could get too far, he stopped and turned back towards Charles. "If you want any chance of beating us in Quidditch next year, you should get a haircut, stop it from going in your eyes."

Just before the start of their third year, mass murderer Nico Rosberg escaped from Azkaban. Max remembered reading it in the paper. He read the headline out loud and his mother let the plate she was holding slip from her grasp. "Nico got out?" She asked as she rushed over.

Max nodded his head and showed her the paper. "I wanna know how he got past the dementors," he said with curiosity. He then turned to his mother. "Did you know him?"

It wasn't often she spoke about her time with Jos. From the little bits Max knew, it was awful and Max was the only good thing to come from it.

She shook her head. "He started Hogwarts just as I was finishing. I remember hearing his name a lot. He was always causing some sort of trouble with his best friend."

Max dropped the topic. The news article had said that Nico had been a supporter of his father. If he was out, maybe he was going to try and finish the job on Charles.

At the first feast of the year, a new teacher was introduced. Professor Hamilton, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for the year. But that wasn't all. Max watched from the Slytherin table as Lando walked into the hall, his arm around a pretty girl. He knew Lando had other friends, had seen him with this girl a few times. But he didn't know her, not at all.

It was indescribable how pretty she was. Max's eyes followed as she sat herself down between Lando and his other Hufflepuff friend, Max (Fewtrell).

Max tried really hard not to stare, but it was damn near impossible. She was his very first crush, and he didn't even know her name.

For the few classes he shared with Hufflepuff, Max tried to get Lando to tell him her name. Maybe it was because Lando wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, but he just wasn't getting it. Max was being as obvious as he could be, without saying anything at all.

The day he learnt her name was the same day that he watched her run up to Chatles Leclerc and plant a kiss on his cheek. Maxs face fell. She was his first crush, and she was with somebody else. That was just his luck.

She was with Charles, that was clear. Max saw the way he placed his arm over her shoulders while they talked with Lando. So, why the hell was Lando introducing her to Max in the middle of charms?

She held her hand out to him, a lovely smile on her face. "I can't believe you two haven't met before," Lando said as he sat on the table.

Max couldn't quite believe he was shaking her hand. He had no clue what to say to her and, in a desperate bid to make a good first impression, he made a terrible one

But it didn't matter. The next time Max saw her was care of magical creatures with professor Brown. As with every lesson, Nikita made an ass of himself. Max couldn't help but shut him down, and that seemed to impress her.

But Nikita didn't know when to quit. It was his fault the beast struck him. It was his fault he'd sustained such an injury to his arm.

It was all he could talk about for the next few weeks. Max didn't know what would happen to the beast that had 'attacked' Nikita. Nikita boasted about a trial, about the beast being put to death. Of course, Max didn't believe it, not until he saw her crying about it.

She was too pretty to cry, Max thought as he watched her across the hall. She sat at the Gryffindor table, leaning against Charles as he rubbed her back. That should have been him, Max couldn't help but selfishly think.

On the day of the beasts execution, Max followed her and Charles down to Professor Brown's hut. He stayed behind them, watching as she swung her fist towards Nikita. Good, he thought. It was what that prick deserved.

She and Charles didn't notice him as they stepped into Professor Brown's hut. But Professor Brown did. "Come on in, Max," he said, stepping aside to let her and Charles see him.

Charles didn't scowl, like Max had expected. He gave him a sad smile as she stepped towards him, holding him. "It's awful, Max," she sobbed against his shirt. "They're going to kill him because Nikita is an asshole."

Max stood there, looked at Charles over the top of the head. There was a minute before he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed slightly.

"I found something of yours," said Professor Brown as he guided her away from Max. He grabbed a shoe box and opened it up, revealing her pet rat.

She didn't show up to Hogwarts with an owl, cat, rat or toad. This rat she had found at the station and, in a bid of desperation, she picked him up. He was so tame, she figured he had to be a magical rat.

Before they knew it, they were being ushered out of the hut by Professor Brown. They hid behind shrubbery as Professor Schumacher, the head master, brought Bernie Ecclestone, the minister, and the executioner, down to the hut.

As soon as the three of them had their backs to the students, Max and Charles got her back to the castle. They got halfway there before the sound of the axe hitting something stopped them.

Her gasp rang in the boys ears and she turned towards Charles, burying her face in his chest as she cried. "It's okay, chérie. I've got you."

But, suddenly, he didn't have her. Suddenly she was on the floor, screaming as a vicious, hairy beast dragged her towards the womping willow, its jaws clamped around her leg. Charles screamed her name as he ran after her, but the tree fought back.

Fuck, Max thought as he ran after Charles. The tree attacked them however it could, keeping them away from the tunnel the beast had dragged her down.

Charles dodged those he could, but one smacked him in the chest and he went flying back, the air knocked from his lungs when he landed. Max had gotten closer to the tunnel entrance. He jumped over the trees limbs when they came towards him, getting to the tunnel entrance in minutes.

But he couldn't leave Charles behind. The tree didn't fight him as he ran back towards him. "Come on," Max grunted, grabbing Charles's hand and pulling him to his feet.

The tree once again tried to stop them. Max kept a hold of Charles's hand, pulling him around the attacking limbs. They ducked and dodged and jumped. But one limb managed to knock them both over. Max immediately grabbed the limb and Charles grabbed a hold of him.

They were lifted into the air, the tree trying to throw them off. But it was doing do in a pattern, one Max easily deciphered. "Hold on!" He shouted to Charles, who just squeezed him tighter.

At the right moment Max let go of the branch, falling into the tunnel entrance. Charles was right behind him, landing on top of him. "Sorry," Charles said, taking his hand and helping him up. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and held it out in front of him. "Lumos," he whispered and the tunnel lit up.

Holding his wand out in front of them, Charles led the way through the tunnel. They followed paw prints until they weren't paw prints anymore, but feet, the soles of battered shoes against the dirt.

When they got to a set of old and unstable steps, Max and Charles looked at each other. She was up there, she had to be.

"Nox," Charles whispered. The first step creaked under his foot and he nervously looked to Max. But they climbed the stairs anyway. The closer they got to the top of the stairs, they more they could hear her pained gasps. The two of them hurried.

Charles couldn't stop himself from kicking the door open. "Charles, Max, no!" She cried, grasping her bloody leg. "It's a trap, he's an animagus!"

As the door swung shut behind them, Max and Charles turned around. There he was, his striped jumpsuit tattered and dirty. The smile he wore was grim and his blonde hair was long and disgusting.

Immediately, Max and Charles put their bodies between her and Rosberg. The escaped convict's smile only grew as he took a step forward. "Move aside." His eyes were focused on Max. "It's not you that I want."

But Max stood in front of them protectively. "If you want to get to either of them, you have to go through me."

Rosberg laughed. "Stupid boy," he said through his laugh. "I don't want either of them, I want him," he said, pointing at her.

Her body tembled as she held her mangled leg. The rat in her pocket was squeaking uncontrollably. "I-I'm a girl!" She cried.

But Rosberg let out an exasperated sigh. He lifted his wand.

"Expelliarmus!"

Professor Hamilton, that years defence against the dark arts teacher, stood in the door way. It wasn't a surprise that none of them heard him coming up the stairs, not with the way adrenaline was running through them.

Professor Hamilton looked at the kids and then at Rosberg. And then he dropped his wand and stepped forwards, pulling him into his embrace. "Good to see you, old friend," he said, clapping him on the back.

"What the fuck?" Max couldn't help himself. He held his wand out in front of him. "I trusted you, and this entire time you've been working with him? You've been on my dad's side, too?"

"Max, you don't understand," Hamilton replied, holding his hand up. "This entire time I thought that Nico did all of those terrible things. But then Charles came to me and said he saw someone on the map that I believed to be dead. Sergio Perez."

"Well, the map was wrong, then!" Charles called. He had migrated over to her, crouching by her side. She wasn't okay and there was nothing he could do.

Hamilton shook his head. "The map never lies," he said. "It could only mean one thing, Charles. That Checo was alive and he was the reason your parents are dead."

Slowly, Charles stood up. He pulled his wand from his pocket as he walked forward. "That's not true," he said. "It couldn't have been him because he died. Rosberg killed him and all they could find was-"

"A finger! Chopped it off and escaped into the sewers, he did," Rosberg finished.

Hamilton looked past them as Charles tried to process everything in his mind. "Your rat, please," said Hamilton as he looked at her.

"What? No! What do you want with him?" She cried as she pulled him from her pocket and held him close to her chest. But Professor Hamilton was still advancing, reaching for the rat.

It was Charles that stopped him. He held his hand up, asking Professor Hamilton to just give him a moment, before crouching down to her height. "Please, chérie. I need you to trust me," he said, reaching for the rat.

For just a moment, she stared at Charles. He thought he was going to have to pry the rat from her hands and lose her trust forever. But she willingly gave the rat to Charles, who handed it to Professor Hamilton.

"We do this together," said Rosberg as he grabbed his wand from the floor.

"Expelliarmus!"

Once again, Rosbergs wand went flying out of his hands. Hamilton kept ahold of the rat as they wheeled around to find the head of Slytherin house.

"I told Schumacher," Alonso began as he walked into the room. "I said from the minute you arrived that you were trouble. And here you are, helping your old friend into the castle. Well, Lewis, you can have Nico's old cell once the dementors give him that kiss. I've heard they're looking forward to it. Got a cell in the tower waiting for you."

"Oh, piss off, little Nando no mates," Nico spat, but suddenly Fernando had his wand against his neck. Instantly, Nico stilled.

Fernando turned his attention to the kids. "You three, get back to the castle."

But they weren't going anywhere. Max knew it, Charles knew it, and she couldn't move.

Fernando quickly turned his attention back to Lewis and Nico. Before he could begin talking, Charles had raised his wand. "Expelliarmus!"

It was just meant to disarm Alonso, not send him flying back into the wall, knocking him out cold. "Shit, Charles," Max said through something of a grin. "You attacked a teacher."

But Charles didn't care about that. "Show me Perez," he demanded.

Hamilton and Rosberg were only too happy to oblige. Hamilton placed the rat onto the floor. He and Rosberg pointed their wands at the rat, sending silent spells in his direction.

The rat kept going, seemingly dodging the magic. But then, he wasn’t a rat at all. It wasn't clear which one cast the incantation, but a small-ish man in tattered clothing stood in the place of the rat. The most damning piece of evidence? His missing finger.

Charles couldn't quite believe his eyes. So Rosberg hadn't been the cause of his parents death. It had been Perez all along. Rosberg was an innocent nan, wrongfully imprisoned for all of those years.

"We do this together," said Rosberg. Hamilton nodded and, together, they pointed their wands at Perez.

"No, no, no!" He cried, scurrying across the floor. He quickly moved past Charles,towards her. "Girl, sweet girl," he said as she attempted to shuffle away from him. But, with her leg, she couldn't get far enough. "You won't let them hurt me, will you?"

Max pushed Perez away from her. "Leave her alone," he said through something of a snarl.

"Don't kill him," Charles said as he looked to Hamilton and Rosberg. "Take him to the castle. The dementors can have him and you could go free," he said, eying Rosberg.

Rosberg couldn't quite believe it. He cast a spell that bound Perez and lifted Alonso into the air.

"Oh, chérie," Charles whispered. He leaned forward to kiss her forehead before lifting her into his arms. She let out a small cry as Charles adjusted her, her injured leg brushing against his arm. But she locked her arms around his neck.

Max led the way. His wand was out, light coming from it as tye group of seven made their way back through the tunnel towards the school. Periodically Max turned around, looking at Charles as he carried her. That should have been him, he thought again.

Max climbed out of the tunnel first. He turned taking her body from Charles. One by one they climbed out of the tunnel. She stood on her uninjured leg as Alonso's still unconscious body was placed on the ground. Rosberg and Hamilton wandered a little way away from the group,the two of them looking up at the castle.

"How're you feeling, chérie?" Charles asked. He hardly called her by any other name. She gave a weak, pained smile. That was all Charles needed before he was pulling her body into his own, letting her rest against him.

Suddenly, Hamilton made a noise. A low, guttural noise, something inhuman. He looked away from the castle, his jaw slack and his eyes distant as he stared at the moon. The full moon.

"Shit," Rosberg hissed. Max stood to attention, placing himself between the changing werewolf and his friends. "Lewis, not now!" Nico cried wrapping his arms around him, as if trying to hold him together. "Any time but now!"

But Hamilton was still changing. His limbs were elongating, a thin layer of hair covering his skin. His clothes were shredded from his skin as his snout formed and hid ears sharpened.

Realising that he could do nothing, Nico let go out Lewis. He transformed into his animagus form, putting himself between the werewolf and the students.

At first, Hamilton barely moved. His breathing was heavy as he took just a moment to recover from the transformation.

As best as she could, she hopped forwards. "Chérie," Charles hissed in warning, trying to keep a hold of her.

She couldn't push him away, couldn't stand on her own as she looked at the werewolf. "Professor?" She called. "Professor Hamilton?"

The beast raised its head. The howl it let out echoed around the castle grounds. It was enough to rouse Professor Alonso from his temporary time out. "You!" He cried, pointing an accusing finger at Charles. Charles, who didn't much care, Charles, who was more concerned with getting her as close to him as possible.

When Alonso turned and around saw the beast, he threw his arms protectively around the three of them, keeping them behind him. There wasn't much else he could do but watch, his body shielding them, as Nico jumped at the beast.

The werewolf immediately threw him off, but Nico came back, this time doing damage. But again, the werewolf tossed him to one side. This time, Nico didn't get back up.

With his threat neutralised, the werewolf turned his attention back to the four of them. He got down onto all fours and slowly stalked forward. His slow pace only seemed to indicate that he was toying with them, that, no matter what they did, they were his prey.

Suddenly, from way in the distance, there was a howl. Hamilton turned towards it. He howled once more himself before he took off, running in the direction the howl had come from and completely ignoring his once prey.

As soon as Hamilton was gone, Charles passed her to Max. "Get her to the hospital wing!" He shouted as he took off running.

"Leclerc!" Alonso bellowed, but he made no move to go after him. "Get back here!"

But Charles was gone, disappearing off to wherever Nico was.

Her arms locked around Max's neck as he picked her up. Suddenly he was thinking quidditch for the useful muscles it had given him. "I'm sorry to put you through all of this," she whispered as her head fell against his shoulder.

He shook his head. "You didn't put me through anything," he replied. He so desperately wanted to kiss her head like he had seen Charles do. "Besides, if I wasn't here Professor Alonso would be carrying you. Do you really want that?" He asked and she let out a little giggle.

A small amount of pride blossomed in his chest.

At the hospital wing Max was asked to leave. But he refused. There was no way in hell he was just going to leave her. It was the only time he threw his name around to get his way.

At some point in the night Charles was brought into the hospital wing. He looked awful, like he had tried to drive a race car after suffering from appendicitis. But the nurse had confirmed that he was alive.

Max didn't sleep much that night. He stayed up, watching over his friends, recounting the events. It wasn't Nico Rosberg who had killed all of those people in the name of his father. It was Sergio Perez. Perez had gotten away in the commotion of their teacher being a fucking werewolf. It was crazy, but Max didn't know how he hadn't spotted it soon. Lupin took a few days a month off, Max just didn't notice that they were around the time of a full moon.

But Perez had gotten away, his father's loyal dog had gotten away, and Max would never forgive himsed.

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep. But, when he woke up, Pierre and Esteban sat around Charles. "I can't believe you went with him instead of us," Pierre muttered as he gestured to Max. Max simply sat up straighter, scowling in return.

"He saved her," was all Charles said as he nodded towards the girl sleeping beside Max.

The three of them continued to talk, and Max tried his best not to listen in. But it was harder than it looked when he constantly heard his name being dropped. They could fucking talk about him, he didn't care. By this point, he just didn't care.

When the doors flew open and Professor Schumacher strode in, Esteban and Pierre stood up. "Esteban, Pierre," the professor said. They said goodbye to Charles and walked past their head teacher. But, before they could get too far, Professor Schumacher grabbed a hold of Pierre. What he said to Pierre was too hushed for anybody else to hear, but it had him pulling something from beneath his shirt and striding towards the boys.

"Max, Charles," he said and Max left his chair, coming to stand beside Charles. Wordlessly, Professor Schumacher placed something over their heads.

Max picked up the necklace. "A time turner?"

"What's a time turner?" Asked Charles.

But Professor Schumacher didn't answer his question. "Two turns should do it," he said. "And you should be able to set everything right. Remember, don't let anybody see you," he said and strode out of the hospital wing.

Max turned the time turner. "How on earth did Pierre get one of these?" He asked as he spun it twice, and the room around them moved backwards. Professor Alonso carried Charles out of the hospital wing and Max took her back outside. Other students came and left, time still turning around them.

When it, at last, stilled, Max pulled the time turner from around their necks and placed it in his pocket. "Come on," he said as he grabbed Charles's hand.

As he pulled him out of the hospital wing, Max checked the time on his watch. "It's 5PM, where were we at five?"

Charles took a moment to think. "Ugh, I know I was taking her down to see Zac," he answered. "She punched Nikita."

Knowing exactly where to go, Max pulled Charles along. He pulled him through the halls, towards where they already were. But, suddenly, Max stopped. "Wha-" Charles began, but Max put his hand over his mouth, silencing him as he pulled him into an alcove.

The Max from before, the one that had been following Charles and her, turned for just a second. But, when she swung at Nikita, it distracted him long enough for the Max from the future to pull Charles outside.

"Max, what the hell?" Charles hissed as they watched Nikita and his friends run away. Charles from the past had his hand on the small of her back as he moved her along, heading to Zacs, Professor Brown's, hut. Max from the past followed. "That's us!"

"You're incredibly observant," Max quipped as he grabbed his hand once more. "I suppose you can see now you've cut your hair."

Charles let out a scoff, but Max was pulling him along once again, into the woods just opposite Zac's hut.

Nobody saw them, nobody but Rocky, the hippogriff. He raised his head and snorted, but quickly went back to sleep. "We can save him, too," Charles realised. "Him and Nico."

He strode forward and sent to grab the chain that kept Rocky tethered to the garden, but Max stopped him. "Professor Schumacher and the minister need to see him first, or you'll get Fred arrested," he whispered. Charles clenched his fists at his sides, but he nodded.

They watched as Fred pulled the rat from the box and handed it to her. There he was, Sergio Perez. Max and Charles looked at each other, their thoughts much the same. But they held back, and not just because the headmaster and the minister were coming.

They watched as the three of them left the hut. As the minister and Schumacher conversed with Fred, Charles and Max ran into the vegetable garden and grabbed a hold of Rocky's chain. "Come on, Rocky," Charles hissed, but the creature insisted on sleeping. It was only when Max bribed him with food that he followed them into the woods.

A sliver of satisfaction ran through them when the execution brought his axe down onto a bit of wood in anger. Rocky was safe, and all they had to do was wait.

It was surreal, watching everything that had happened. They watched as Nico, the dog, grabbed her leg and dragged her beneath the tree. They watched as they struggled to follow her.

"Can I ask you something?" Max enquired as he sat on the ground beside him. Rocky was behind them, playing in the trees. When Charles nodded his head, he continued. "Last year, you asked me if I opened the chamber. Do you really think I'm that much of a monster? Do you really think I'm that much like my dad?"

Charles let out an audible sigh. "I feel awful for that," he said as he lent back against the tree behind him. "All I know about your dad is that he's the reason my parents are dead. I'd met him in first year and, well, I still have nightmares about it. Of I had known you last year like I do now, I wouldn't have dreamed of blaming you."

They talked, actually talked, until Professor Hamilton came to the tree. "Did you have any idea he was a werewolf?" Max asked and Charles shook his head.

He pulled the time turner from his pocket. "Do you know why Pierre would have that?" Charles asked as he reached out to touch it.

Max shrugged his shoulders. "It makes sense, though. Pierre has been in so many classes this year, more than he should have had time for. This must be how he's being going to them all."

Next, Professor Alonso came by, and then, minutes later, they were all making their way out of the tree. "Thanks for looking after her," said Charles as he watched himself hand her to Max.

Max waved him off.

But it wasn't long before Professor Hamilton started his transformation. "Fuck," Max whispered as he watched Nico try and fail to protect them. What happened when they were up there? Something had howled, but no howl was coming. "Shit, get ready to run," he said to Charles before cupping his hands around his mouth and letting out a mighty howl.

The werewolf looked, but he didn't immediately begin running towards them. So, Max did it again.

The beast howled back and suddenly it was running towards them. "We're going to die out here," said Charles.

"Yep," Max agreed and the two boys took off running. But they didn't get very far, not before the werewolf caught up to them.

Their hearts were beating, blood so loud in their ears that they were sure the werewolf could hear them. Max squeezed his eyes shut, unable to keep them opened. He was incredibly grateful when Charles pulled him further around the tree they were hiding behind.

All they could hear was their werewolf Professor sniffing around behind them. It was the only indication that they were somewhat safe. But then, the sniffing stopped and the growls began. The two turned, almost paralysed with fear as the werewolf stood to its full height. "Professor," Charles began, but he was no longer human.

He moved towards them and they tried to back up. He raised a large, clawed hand, but he didn't get a chance to bring it down, to strike them. Not before Rocky jumped in front of them, using his large talons to fend off the beast.

Whimpering, the werewolf ran off. "Go Rocky!" Charles called as the hippogriff pranced in front of him.

Max checked the time on his watch. "Come on," he said, once again reaching for Charles's hand. Over the course of the evening he'd noticed just how much he'd enjoyed that, enjoyed holding Charles's hand. "We've got to get back to the castle."

But Charles ripped his hand away from Max. "We need to go and save Nico!" He called before he took off running. "Someone was there, Max! Someone cast a patronus and fended off the dementors! I need to know who it is!"

But, when they got to the lake, nobody was there. Just Charles from the past cradling Nico's body as dementors fed off of them. "Charles!" Max called.

"They're coming to help! I know they are!"

But Charles from the past and Nico looked terrible, close to the end. "Charles, you're dying. And nobody's coming," he said softly.

Charles bit his lip as he looked at Max. He sucked in one steady breath and ran over to the edge of the lake. He raised his wand, drew in a deep breath and bellowed, "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

It was an incredible sight. Max knew Charles was capable of some serious magic, he just didn't realise it was this serious. All of the dementors left the scene just in time for Professor Alonso to lift the unconscious Charles and Nico away from the scene.

Nico, they could still save Nico. "Come on!" Charles shouted as he climbed onto Rocky's back. Taking Max's hand, he pulled him onto Rocky's back and he secured his arms around him.

Rocky flew them out of the woods. "Where would Alonso put Nico?" Max shouted over the sounds of the wind.

"When we were in the shack, he said something about the tower," Charles called back.

That was exactly where Rocky took them. As he landed them outside of the cell, Max slipped from Rocky's back and cast a spell to open the door.

Immediately, Nico ran out to them. "Thank you," he said to them. "Both of you. If it wasn't for your bravery, I would have lost my life."

"Quick, take Rocky and go, before the dementors come," Charles said. He helped Nico onto the Hippogriff's back. Immediately they took off, and Charles and Max began running, heading back to the hospital wing.

When they got there, Professor Schumacher was pulling the doors shut behind him. "We did it," said Charles, his hands on his knees. "We saved both of them."

Professor Schumacher looked at the both of them. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said and took his leave, leaving the boys standing there.

Charles released a breath. "I can't believe we actually did it," he said, grinning at Max. "Should we go and tell her all about it?"

Max nodded his head and Charles pushed his way into the hospital wing. He watched, frozen in place as he strode across the room, over to her. Suddenly, Max didn't feel so jealous as he watched Charles run his fingers through her hair.

That was when he realised, he liked boys, too.

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bingwriterxo · 10 months

Text

the shakespeare exhibit - part 7

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which tara accompanies you to a family party

warnings: homophobia/biphobia

word count: 4100+

author's note: longest thing i've ever posted. also, had to look up so many specific quotes for this one...

previous part | next part

"So, how many people did you say will be at this party?” Tara asked, looking out the window as you drove down another dirt road. Ever since the two of you had passed the city and made it off the highway, it had been all cornfields, farms, and forests. Tara knew one thing for sure: she would never live in the countryside of New York, even if you wanted to.

You shrugged behind the wheel, reaching out to lower the music a bit. One of Tara’s more ‘pop-y’ songs was on, and the bass was loud. “I’m not really sure,” you said, sparing her a glance before refocusing on the road ahead of you. “My parents know a lot of people, but I’m sure it won’t be more than…two hundred?”

Two hundred people?! Tara thought, her eyes widening. I have to meet two. hundred. people?!

“Don’t worry, though,” you continued quickly. “Only about fifty of that is family; the rest are family friends or work acquaintances, so you won’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

Thank fucking god. “And can you give me a run down on the more immediate family again?”

“Well, there’s mom and dad, obviously.” You took a left, not bothering with your blinker because there was no one else around. However, rather than more dirt road, your tires were finally rolling against pavement. “Nathaniel and Edmund--but, you can’t call him ‘Edmund’; you have to say ‘Eddie’, or he’ll get upset.”

“And they’re identical, right?”

Trees were lining the pavement, perfectly spaced apart and shaped, and Tara readied herself to be met with your house. Except…it never came. You just kept driving and driving, and it seemed like there was no end in sight.

You nodded. “Yup--identical. You’ll be able to tell them apart, though. It’s easy.” You hummed as you thought. “Oh, baby Cordelia, of course, but only my father calls her by her full name.”

Your baby sister, Cordelia, or Lia, as she was called by most, was turning a year old that day, which was why you and Tara had made the drive up to your parents’ house. They were throwing a party for her, and an extravagant one at that.

“And then my father’s parents: Grandma Jane and Grandpa Thomas. They live in the house with everyone, but odds are you won’t meet them today. They like to spend their time in the wine cellar when we have guests.” You leaned toward her just slightly, like you were about to tell her a secret. “Grandpa Thomas has never been the biggest fan of…people. He’s a book guy, you know?”

Mom, dad, Nate, Eddie, Lia, Jane, Thomas. Tara nodded to herself as she made the mental note, determined not to get anyone’s name wrong. “Okay, and--”

Finally, your house started to show in the distance, and Tara’s jaw literally dropped. Even from where the two of you were, it was huge, and not just rich-person-huge but old-money-huge.

It was a large, shapely building made of blue brick; two large, white pillars stood near the front entrance and extended all the way up to the roof; windows upon windows were lined in white to match the rest of the house; vines flowed down from the roof, though they were neat and calculated, giving the house an old-vibe rather than a messy one.

Holy. Fucking. Shit, Tara thought as your house--if it could even be called a house--drew closer and closer. She stared in awe as you drove the two of you around the circular driveway, centered around a gorgeous fountain, and to the parking area, which was already overflowing with cars.

Once you parked, you turned to her, glancing down sheepishly. “I know it’s a lot,” you said, your voice soft. “The house, the party, the meeting everyone.” You inhaled deeply. “If you feel uncomfortable about anything at any time, just let me know and we can hide in my bedroom, okay? Or, if you need a moment alone, it’s up the stairs, to the right, fourth door on your left.”

She’s just too perfect. Tara grinned, that type of grin she only ever had when she was with you, and leaned across the center console, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’m sure it’ll be great, baby.”

You flushed, the way you always did whenever she kissed you, even though she had kissed you a million times at that point; she never tired of the way the red painted your cheeks, or how you’d smile subconsciously.

“Okay.” You nodded and kissed her again for good measure. “Then let’s do this.”

You climbed out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened the door for Tara to step out. Always so chivalrous, she thought, grabbing the present that she had brought for your sister from the floor of your car. It was just a small toy, and she suddenly started to second-guess it as you led her toward the entrance.

As soon as she stepped into the house, marble flooring beneath her feet, she gulped. There were at least a hundred people there already, all having traveled to celebrate your baby sister, and they were scattered around, talking and laughing and drinking champagne. She was glad she had worn her nicest dress for the occasion, but even that didn’t seem nice enough.

I do not belong here, her mind whispered.

Before she could even utter a single word to you, all eyes turned, smiles and grins and furrowed eyebrows and tilted heads watching your every move. This is like a creepy cult movie. She glanced at you, somewhat surprised that you were relaxed as you waved.

“Hi, everybody!” you said, and there was a chorus of greetings in response.

Then, suddenly, there was pounding coming from upstairs, and two heads peeked over the banister, gleaming grins on each of their faces and identical in every way--except for their hair, Tara noticed quickly; one had his hair sticking out every which way while the other’s was combed down neatly.

“Y/N’s home!” the messy-haired one shouted. All eyes turned to them, fond smiles on everyone’s face as they stared up at the boys.

“‘A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers!’” the other yelled. Okay, well, that one’s Nate, Tara thought, and she watched as they bounded down opposite stairs, their legs carrying them quickly so they could be the first to truly greet you.

They rammed into your waist, making you stumble back as you held them close. “Hi, boys,” you giggled, and everyone--everyone--laughed at the joy that was radiated from the three of you before going back to their conversations.

You hugged your brothers tightly before pushing them away slightly. You took Tara’s hand in your own, and her heart fluttered at the feeling of your warmth against her skin. “Nate, Eddie, this is Tar--”

“The girlfriend!” Eddie cheered.

Nate followed up with, “She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed!”

Does this kid only speak in Shakespeare? Tara wondered. Is that even possible?

“Hi, guys,” Tara said, smiling. “Nice to meet you.”

“To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods,” Nate replied.

“What this dork means,” Eddie started, elbowing his brother, “is that we can’t wait for you to become our sister-in-law!”

Sister-in-law?! She glanced at you, and you cleared your throat, unraveling your hand from hers and placing it on the small of her back. “Eddie, Nate, go find Nana and Pops.” You leaned down and whispered something to them, and both boys nodded fervently before rushing away.

“So, you talk about me to your brothers?” Tara teased, grinning at you.

You rolled your eyes lightly, carefully guiding her further into the house. “Don’t listen to a word they say. They’re--well, you met them.” A handful? she thought. Yes.

You passed by people, sparing short greetings or simple waves, until you stood with Tara in the kitchen. “And don’t mind Nate’s speech,” you said, chuckling. “He’s been in Shakespeare-mode ever since he got that part in the play. He only talks in quotes now, no matter what play they’re from.”

She hummed. “Reminds me of someone I know,” she said, leaning up to kiss you.

Just as you began to lean down, there was an excited squeal, and you pulled back quickly, eyes wide and landing on whoever had interrupted you.

“Mom!” you rushed out, blushing. Tara spun around, a nervous smile on her lips as she stared at your mother, who grinned right back.

“You must be Tara, sweetheart!” your mom said, pulling Tara into a hug. Okay! I guess this is a hugging family! She placed her hands on Tara’s shoulders, looking at her. “You’re even prettier than Y/N said!”

“Hi, ma’am--”

Your mother waved her off. “Oh, please. Just call me ‘mom’.” She grinned, and Tara realized that you had her smile. “I’m sure you’ll be in this family soon enough.” Tara felt herself pink at the words. I sure hope so.

“Mom!” you groaned from behind.

Your mom hummed. “Yes, well, I was just coming to grab another apple for your father. You know him,” she said. “Eats like he’s a horse,” she whispered to Tara.

You perked up at the mention of your dad. “Oh, Tara! Let’s go see him. I’m sure he has Lia, right, mom?”

“Yes, yes.” She was digging around the fridge. “I was so sure I bought more,” she muttered to herself.

You sidled up beside Tara and took her hand, leading her toward a different area of the house. There were even more people there, standing around one object and cooing. You squeezed past them all, offering ‘hello’s’ and ‘nice to see you’s’ as you did.

“Dad!” you exclaimed when your father came into view, Lia in his arms.

“Ah, the prodigal daughter returns,” your dad hummed. He wrapped an arm around you in a hug before handing you your sister. “Watch your hair,” he warned. “She’s in her pulling phase.”

As if on cue, Lia reached up and tugged at your ear, giggling when you groaned. “Lia! No pulling,” you mumbled. Tara grinned, butterflies stirring in her stomach at the sight. Talk about baby fever.

“And you’re Tara,” your father said, looking at her. He wasn’t an intimidating man at all, but Tara had heard how highly you spoke of him, and, needless to say, she was nervous.

Oh boy, she thought. Here we go.

“Hello, sir,” she said, sticking her hand out. I hope I’m not sweating. Please don’t be sweating.

He inspected her outstretched arm for a moment before laughing loudly and clapping a hand on her shoulder. “No handshakes for family, Tara!” He pulled her into a hug, just like your mother had. I have to become a part of this family. It’s a must. “And, gosh, don’t call me ‘sir’! That’s so formal! Just call me ‘dad’.” His voice was joyous, excited, and Tara understood immediately where you got your personality from.

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “...Dad…” It was weird, feeling the word slip from between her lips, but the man lit up upon hearing it.

“Tar, come here,” you called gently. She took a few steps until she was at your side, and grinned down at the baby in your arms. “Wanna hold her?”

“Oh!” Baby. Can’t drop it. That thing’s alive. “Sure.” It was a careful handoff as Lia settled into Tara’s arms, smiling up at her. She had the same eyes as you, who had the same eyes as your father, and Tara was immediately smitten. “Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing!”

And then, Lia was pulling at the ends of her hair, and Tara thought, Yeah. Maybe I don’t want a kid just yet.

“I’ll take her off your hands,” your father said, holding his arms out. Tara handed Lia back to him, watching as he stuck his tongue out, to which Lia laughed. “My little Cordelia,” your father sighed.

“She’s the favorite child now,” you whispered to Tara. “Come, let’s get something to drink.”

You took her not to the kitchen but to the bar, and Tara marveled the whole way as she caught sight of old paintings, framed poems, antiques that littered the walls. It wasn’t crowded in any way; it was all beautiful and exactly how she expected your house to look.

You ordered the two of you champagne, and the bartender didn’t say a word as he poured your drinks, handing them to you with a soft smile.

“So, that’s everyone. Like I said, my grandparents are probably hiding away in the wine cellar,” you said, taking a sip from your glass. “What’d you think?”

You’re the perfect mixture of your parents, she thought. Everything makes sense now. “They’re all lovely.”

You grinned. “I’m glad you like them. I can already tell they love you. Well, I could tell that from the moment I told them about you, but--”

Someone interrupted you.

“Y/N.” The voice was masculine, strong, stern, and Tara could sense a bit of pretentious asshole in his tone.

She spun around when you did and watched as your eyes landed on the man; you immediately straightened up, your shoulders tensing and your smiling fading into a tight-lipped greeting. She straightened up, too. I bet he’s a dick, she thought, eyeing him and internally scoffing at his stupid face.

“Connor,” you gritted out like it pained you.

Tara reached to take your hand, knowing that you sought touch in moments of stress, but, just barely, you moved away from her grasp. She felt her heart drop into her stomach. Who is this douche and why is he making her so…rigid?

You held your head a little higher and clenched your jaw. “Why are you here?”

He smiled, though Tara thought it looked more like a snarl. “Well, our parents are friends, so why wouldn’t we have been invited to Lia’s birthday party?”

That’s it, Tara promptly decided. I’m going to punch him by the end of the night.

“Right, of course.” You held your champagne glass a little tighter. “And how are you finding everything?”

“Oh, your parents throw lovely parties. Although, it’s not like I’m any stranger to them.” He took a sip of his wine and smacked his lips together. “I was surprised to find you here, actually.”

“It’s my baby sister’s birthday. Why wouldn’t I be here?” you asked.

He waved you off. “Your mother mentioned something about you having been busy--working a minimum wage job and whatnot.” The condescending nature of his words made Tara ball her hands into fists. If he doesn’t walk away in five seconds, I can’t be held responsible for what happens to his perfectly-straight, stupidly-white teeth. He turned to her, an eyebrow raised. “And this is…?”

Your worst fucking nightmare, douchebag, Tara thought, but she offered him the smallest of smiles instead, not yet knowing if she was allowed to make an enemy of him.

You startled, like you had just remembered that she was standing beside you, and slid your arm around her waist. Tara watched as Connor clenched his jaw at the action. Yeah, fuck you!

“Connor, this is Tara. My girlfriend.” He scoffed, loudly, and your hold on her tightened, your fingers digging into her hip. “Tara, this is Connor. He’s…a family friend.”

He hummed. “If that’s what you’d like to call us, then sure, Y/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue too comfortably for Tara’s liking, especially for how stand-offish you became around him. “So, still in your little…exploratory phase, then?” he asked in such a way that made your grip turn almost bruising and caused Tara’s stomach to turn unpleasantly.

“No, Connor,” you said. “I’m bisexual. There is no exploring.”

“Sure.” He chuckled like he didn’t believe you. “Perhaps the men at Blackmore are just less than satisfactory.”

“Okay, why don’t you--” Tara began, only to be cut off by you pulling her into you.

“Or perhaps Tara can just satisfy me more than you ever did,” you snapped.

Tara froze. What? Is he…did they date?

Connor furrowed his eyebrows in anger, his eyes turning dark as they set themselves on her. “Does she even come from money?” There was venom in his voice, the disgust in his expression not bothering to hide itself.

A shiver ran down Tara’s back, and she glanced at the floor, her skin suddenly feeling too small for her, the air seeming too thick to breathe in. From the moment she had stepped into your home, she had felt a little out of place, and now Connor was simply confirming that thought.

“Does that matter?” you seethed.

“Of course it does. When you come from families like ours, everything matters. I mean, if you’re serious about this whole…bisexual…thing, how could you know she’s not just using you?” His words were coming out fast, spit flying as he spoke, his cheeks flushing with rage. “At least with me, you knew there were no ill intentions.”

Using her? Tara thought, feeling herself shrink slightly. Ill intentions?

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Connor.” Your voice was sharp and threatening, holding a warning behind it.

“I take it, then, that she doesn’t come from a family of the arts.” His eyes flickered down before glancing back up again. “Or any family that matters.”

There was a beat of silence, a pause in which Tara could feel anger radiating from you and shame filling her every vein, and it was strange. She pulled herself from your grasp, mumbled out, “I have to use the bathroom,” and rushed away with teary eyes. Away from him, away from the party, away from you.

Faintly, she could hear you calling her name, and then a few angry shouts, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was focused on squeezing past people and slipping upstairs to your bedroom, her hand fumbling around in her purse for her inhaler.

Fuck, where is my inhaler? she thought as she tripped up the last step and stumbled down the hall, counting one, two, three, doors on her left until she found the fourth—your bedroom. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, rummaging through her purse in a panic as she tried to blink back her tears.

When she finally caught hold of her inhaler, she took two puffs and threw her head back, groaning. Stupid. Thinking I could fit in here. Thinking this was all normal. Stupid.

There was a knock on the other side of the door; then, a voice, soft and careful. “Tara?” She could hear some shuffling out in the hall. “Tara, dear?”

Tara straightened. Is that her mom? she wondered. What is her mom doing here right now?

“Could you let me in, Tara?”

Tara wiped beneath her eyes and, with a heaving sigh, turned around and opened the door, her shoulders slumping slightly at the sight of your mother’s worried face.

“I saw you run off, dear,” your mom started, taking a hesitant step forward, “and Y/N was nowhere in sight, so I thought I’d come check on you.”

This whole family is just too good. “I’m alright,” she lied through her teeth.

Your mother hummed and ventured further into the room, sitting on the edge of your bed with her legs crossed over one another. “I saw you and Y/N speaking to Connor Harris.” Her face soured as she spoke his name, and Tara smiled softly at that. “I’ve never liked that boy, but Y/N’s father and his father have been friends since childhood.”

Tara swallowed. I need to know. I need to ask. “Were Y/N and Connor…were they together at some point?” she asked.

Your mom’s eyebrows furrowed and a frown pulled at her lips. “Dear, they were engaged. Has she not told you?”

It was like the world stopped for a moment. Engaged? Tara wanted to throw up. Her vision blurred immediately; a pit in her stomach formed; she could feel herself shaking. Engaged?! She was engaged?! To him?!

Your mother stood and, before Tara could say a word, wrapped her arms around her, holding her trembling body close. “Tara, honey. It is just a part of Y/N’s past, but she’s with you now, and that’s what matters.”

Oh my god, I’m being comforted by her mom right now, Tara thought. This is so embarrassing. She pulled away and sniffled, holding her head up. “Thank you, truly. I’m just…shocked that she never mentioned an engagement before.” How did she never tell me?

“Yes, well--”

“Tar?” your voice called from near the door. “You in here, bab--” You appeared in the doorway, stopping short at the sight of your mother and Tara in your bedroom together, with clear signs of Tara having cried. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” your mom said, squeezing your shoulder briefly as she exited.

You walked into the room, shut the door behind you, and stepped up to Tara, taking her cheeks in your hand. Your thumb rubbed beneath her eyes, wiping away any remnants of her tears. “What’s going on, sweetheart?” you asked, your voice gentle.

She clenched her jaw, her eyes flitting to the floor. “Your mom told me about…about you and Connor.”

You paled, your hands dropping slightly and your eyes widening. “Oh,” you muttered.

“You didn’t tell me you were engaged before,” she whispered. She took a step away, and you swallowed as your arms fell to your sides. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not a big deal,” you said, biting your lip.

“Not a big deal?!” Her eyebrows furrowed. How could she think this isn’t a big deal? “You were engaged--set to spend the rest of your life with someone.” She waved her hand. “Set to spend the rest of your life with him! And you think that’s not a big deal, or something that you shouldn’t tell your girlfriend?”

“Tar, let me explain,” you pleaded. “Just, let me explain, please.”

She inhaled sharply. “Fine.”

You sighed in relief, blinked hard, and began. “He proposed to me at our high school graduation, up on the stage, in front of everyone. I--I didn’t want to embarrass him, or our families, so I said yes, and, technically, yes, we were engaged.” You shook your head, slumping onto your bed and holding your face in your hands. “I should’ve never said yes. We went home that night, and I told him I didn’t actually want to get married. Obviously, he didn’t like that, so he broke up with me.”

Tara’s face softened, her anger simmering. “You were engaged for…what…only a few hours?”

You nodded, glancing at her. “Yeah. That’s why I didn’t tell you, because it really isn’t a big deal. I mean, honestly? I hardly liked Connor anyway. I was with him because I thought my parents wanted that, but they don’t care.” You shrugged. “They just want me to be happy.” You stood, crossed the room, and took Tara’s hands in your own. “And you make me happy.”

Tara grinned, then glanced away sheepishly. “I’m sorry I kind of overreacted.”

You shook your head and pulled her into you, your arms wrapping around her shoulders. “No, I should’ve told you. And I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

“It’s okay,” she mumbled into your chest, sliding her own arms around your waist and hugging you tightly. You kissed the top of her head, and she hummed before another thought popped into her head. “Do you think you should be with someone who…has a family like this?” She pulled back and gestured to your room. “Who could afford all of this?”

“Tara,” you said softly, frowning. “I don’t care that your family isn’t in the high arts, or that your parents aren’t business magnates, or that you didn’t grow up the way I did. I love you.” You leaned down and kissed her. “Don’t let what Connor said get to you, okay? He’s a pompous dirtbag.”

Tara chuckled. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes. The biggest pompous dirtbag I know.”

She grinned. “I love you, too, by the way.”

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you--is not that strange?” you quoted, smiling.

She rolled her eyes. Always such a dork, she thought. My dork, though. “Are you sure you don’t love Shakespeare more than me?”

You hummed, tilting your head like you were weighing your options, and she scoffed lightly. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. I’ll always love you more than I love Shakespeare, baby.”

“Good.” Tara bit back her smile. “Does that mean you’ll get a statue bust of me?”

“...I’ll think about it.”

bonus: “so, when you and our sister get married, will you take her last name?” eddie asked, swinging his feet from where he sat at the table in the ballroom.

“eddie--” tara began, only to be interrupted by nate, who sat on the other side of her.

“get thee a wife, get thee a wife!” he exclaimed.

“we’re only 19, guys,” she tried.

“okay, and?” eddie asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

“do you not love my sister?” nate asked, and tara was thankful that, for once, his shakespeare quote sounded normal.

she glanced around, looking for you, but you were talking to one of your aunts on the other side of the room. she leaned down and gestured for both boys to come closer. “i’ll tell you guys a little secret. when we do get married, i plan to take her last name.”

they grinned at each other across tara.

“knew it!” eddie cheered.

#tara carpenter x reader #tara x reader #tara carpenter #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna x reader #museum tara #scream 5 #scream 6

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