#to give and to love without expecting anything in return

[astrolook]

💘Venus in Synastry - Are They Setting You Free or Setting You Up? 🔥

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home!

Their Venus in ur 1st - They want to "have" you before they know your name and also memorize your face like it's art. You walk around triggering their romantic fantasies without trying. Their taste shifts toward you like you're the new standard of hot, even if you don’t fit their “type.” They might stare at you for too long and pretend they didn't when you look at them. They might become desperate to "earn" your attention. You spark their inner romantic and inner pervert at the exact same time. They def would get jealous if you smile at others' jokes or give attention. In a relationship, they would go out of their way to let everyone know you're theirs. Can expect royalty treatment from them. If it’s one-sided, it feels like you’re being adored from a distance while they project a fantasy you never agreed to, or the other way around. After a breakup, their fixation can twist. Love turns bitter, and they might mock you for what they once worshipped.

Their Venus in ur 2nd - They def wanna know your fav food and anything fav of yours. You trigger their desire to invest their time and effort into you. Touch is currency now and you’re holding all the wealth. You trigger their inner sugar daddy, even if they’re broke. They want to feed you, spoil you, and then bite your shoulder a little. Your scent is burned into their memory. You make them want to show up, show out, and show off. They think about what your body would feel like under their hands. A lot. They like watching you do normal stuff like drink coffee, take your shoes off, comb your hair, exist. They prefer to be half-naked with you and prefer the same in return. If you’re not into it, they’ll still linger, hoping you’ll eventually “get it.” Breakups hit them in the wallet and the soul. They feel like they lost an investment.

Their Venus in ur 3rd - You start catching feelings after the fifth “lol” they send. Their voice does things to you that it shouldn’t. They text you just to hear your thoughts, not just your plans. You suddenly care what they think of your taste in music, food, etc. You talk for hours and somehow never get bored with them. They complement you in ways that make your brain short-circuit. You catch yourself laughing and blushing at the same time. They like the way you talk, even when you’re angry or crying. You become their favorite person to overshare with. It’s the “did you get home safe?” texts followed by a thirst trap. If it's one-sided, they leave you on read or ghost straight up. After a breakup, you’ll miss the way they spoke to you more than anything else.

Their Venus in ur 4th - They show up soft, comforting, then start touching your heart and your thighs. They want to know what breaks you and what blankets you. You suddenly feel like telling them secrets you haven’t even told your therapist or people close to you. Their affection feels like a warm bath, until you realize you’re drowning a little. They might like to talk or make out with you under dim lights. They’ll cook for you, then pull you onto their lap while it simmers. You start imagining a future with them in your house and hate how natural it feels. They def will like your bare face and messy hair. You start missing them before they leave for work. You feel like they see the version of you, you never know you had. Every time they touch you, it feels like they’re writing a love letter on your skin. On the flip side, they act cozy until things get too real, then vanish into emotional fog. You’ll start feeling like home to them, but they’ll treat you like a layover.

Their Venus in ur 5th - They make you feel hot and beautiful. They flirt like it’s a sport and you’re the trophy they plan to snatch. You catch yourself smiling when they walk in, even when you’re annoyed. They want you want them so bad. They gas you up and push your buttons like it’s foreplay. They would def complement you and praise you. You start craving their attention like sugar, then crash when they withhold it. Jealousy creeps in fast in some cases and suddenly you don’t like them laughing with anyone else. You light each other up, but it’s hard to tell if it’s love or just a spark fire. They might chase hard, then disappear when you stop clapping for them. If it's one-sided, you might feel like a background character in their love show.

Their Venus in ur 6th - You find them sexy when they’re focused, sweaty, or quietly solving everyday problems. They want you on your grind but also in their bed by 9PM, every night, no exceptions. They notice your health, your habits, your little flaws and want to be the one who helps fix them. Their affection is practical...until it turns filthy behind closed doors. They would take out the trash for you, run errands or pay bills. They want to earn your love with consistency and lowkey obsession. It’s not “I love you” every day but it’s “Did you eat?” “Text me when you’re home.” “I got you.” They might give and give, hoping you’ll notice and resent when you don’t reciprocate. They can micro-manage your day and tell you where to go and what to do or wear. They can become possessive over your time, space, and energy, quietly controlling. The relationship might feel more like an obligation than romance after a while. When it ends, you either miss them or feel relieved it's over, and thank god.

Their Venus in ur 7th - You look at them and think “yep, I could be seen in public with that.” You start fantasizing about joint accounts and matching rings after the third date. They trigger your romantic side, even if you thought it was dead. They fit your type in ways you didn’t even realize you had. Eye contact with them feels like vows you didn’t agree to yet. You might mirror each other’s moods, words, and even bad habits without noticing. Being with them makes you want to become a better person. The connection feels like it should be permanent, even when it’s fragile as hell. There’s a calm in their presence, until silence stretches too long and hits like a bruise. On the flip side, they might reflect what you want to see without ever really giving it. The silence between you starts to feel louder than any breakup. You’ll wait for a text that doesn’t come, because they know how to disappear quietly. Losing them feels like losing a version of yourself you almost believed in.

Their Venus in ur 8th - Fantasy overload! You want to know everything about them. Their touch feels like it unlocks a door you didn’t know you locked. You think about them in the shower, during arguments, when eating, mid-orgasm like nonstop. Jealousy or longing hits early and hard, even if you're not "together." Sex feels less like pleasure and more like a psychic ritual. You crave their secrets as much as you crave their skin. They know what turns you on and off and keep their finger right on the switch. You start to obsess over how much they know about you, how deep they’ve gotten, what they’ll do with it. They seduce you by showing you your own darkness and making it feel like love. On the flip side, you might get hooked while they keep it surface, leaving you craving a depth they never planned to give. One day, you feel seen, then invisible to them. If it ends, it can be violent or crazy.

Their Venus in ur 9th - They make your brain tingle and your pants/skirts tight/wet in the same sentence. Long talks turn into long stares, then long nights. It’s hot until they start drifting like a tourist who never unpacks. They light you up in ways that make you question what you thought love was. They make you feel like anything is possible and also that nothing is guaranteed. You crave their mind like a drug and keep going back for another hit. You don’t know if it’s love, lust, or a crash course in letting go but it’s a ride. If it ends, you realize too late that they came to teach you something, not to stay for the final chapter.

Their Venus in ur 10th - You wanna have their last name. They make you want to succeed and strip, often at the same time. You start imagining what you’d look like as their power couple aesthetic. You want them to respect you and ruin you in equal measure. You feel like the world notices when they look at you. Their attention makes you stand taller, talk smoother, and act like someone worth owning. They love seeing you in control, but they want to undo it slowly. They want to be seen with you, not just close, but claimed. They might put you on a pedestal and might believe everything you say. Can be a simp at times. If it's one-sided, you’ll feel like an accessory they show off but never truly hold. They might withhold affection if they feel it threatens their control or pride.

Their Venus in ur 11th - Their flirting is masked as inside jokes that go way too far. You start dressing hotter “by accident” when you know they’ll be around. Every group hang feels like a secret date only you two are in on. You feel freer with them than with anyone else, and somehow that’s what traps you. They make you feel known in that scary-good way....then ghost you for a week. They hype you up publicly and text you “you looked hot today” privately. You go from memes to sexts to emotional heart dumps in one night, lol. They show up like a best friend, but stay like an unresolved crush. Even if you’re not even together and one or both of you are already imagining a situationship playlist. On the flip side, they might give you mixed signals. You’ll be stuck between friendship and thirst with no map out. They might use connection to stay close, while keeping you at arm’s length. Emotional honesty gets dodged with sarcasm, distractions, or disappearing acts.

Their Venus in ur 12th - They feel familiar before you even know their last name, like déjà vu. Their presence lingers like perfume on skin hours after they leave. You can’t stop thinking about them, even when nothing has technically happened. You crave them in silence, and it somehow feels louder than screaming. Every interaction feels spiritually charged and low-key forbidden. Sex with them (or even imagining it) feels like a prayer you’re not sure you should say. They feel like the answer to a question you didn’t know your body was asking. Loving them feels like surrender, that's sweet, scary, and somehow sacred. If one-sided, you might obsess in silence while they sleep peacefully, unaware. This love can feel like waiting for something that never lands.

Some patterns I've noticed over the yrs:

Venus in 1st/5th/7th/9th/10th/11th/12th -> You love their mind, looks, presence, or life philosophy from afar. “We’d totally fall in love if we met…” Can have celeb-crush energy. Deep emotional obsession with someone who has no idea the other exists.

Venus in 3rd/5th/7th/8th/11th -> Can be one-sided. Friends with benefits situations, a hookup, one-night stand situations, short-term affairs, one person doing all the effort, to keep a score, etc can be seen here. Can be toxic too.

Quick Synastry Reality Check 💋

Synastry is about energy exchange between two people who actually know each other. That means: 🖤 You’ve met. 🖤 You’ve talked. 🖤 There’s been some kind of interaction or mutual vibe, even a little spark.

If you’ve never met them, never spoken, or it’s a one-way obsession (like a celebrity, athlete, Youtuber or influencer)…that’s not synastry, that’s projection.

No, that famous player or that YouTuber is not secretly in love with you because their Venus falls in your 8th or 5th house. Yes, synastry can feel intense, but it needs both people to be involved in some real way for it to work.

It’s energy. It’s chemistry. It’s connection. Not a crush on someone who doesn’t know you exist. I'm saying this here bcoz I got a few people in my DMs asking me, and I wanted to address it. Thank you for reading!

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.15.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 10,1 K (not sorry anymore)

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: domestic fluff through Reader’s lens, spanking, anal fingering during sex, the usual crying after sex, subspace/domspace, injection mentioned, oral sex, anal sex, angst.

author’s note: Reader’s POV on the weekend + what follows after Viktor’s visit to Young Vic. As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡ @doggrowth thank you so much for bearing with me and beta reading! A little extra info at the bottom.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

For two days, you exist in an indeterminate space between Viktor’s hands. Between his kind hands, spreading soap across your shoulders and chest, and his heavy hands, beating you clean of your sins. The I love you he expresses in both moments carries equal weight.

Washing Viktor is effortless. You know the lines of his body: collarbones, the stubborn muscle at his neck, old scars under your thumbs. Vetiver from here on becomes his scent. It lingers in his hair and armpits. You smooth the lather over his chest, across beauty marks and strokes of pearl, and there’s a comfort in it. He leans in, lets you work, sighs from somewhere deep in his belly. That sound alone should be illegal, but you don’t stop.

The second one on the list to be outlawed is the giggle. You barely word a remark when his ribs shy away from your fingers and he laughs outright, swatting you away with one hand. Thank God Viktor closes his eyes, because the look on your face is so awed you are almost ashamed of it.

It’s another thing to be washed in return. You feel seen, not just naked—naked is fine at this point—but bare in ways that have nothing to do with skin. Viktor’s hands work slow, patient, mapping the length of your arms and the dip of your waist, as if he’s memorising you for an exam no one else will ever take. When his fingers slide over your ribs, you shiver from the nerve of it: the audacity of being loved so ordinarily. You wonder if he notices the bite marks from last night, the old bruise near your hip, how uneven your breathing gets when he’s being gentle.

You help him out of the cabin without thinking, moving on muscle memory alone. The same way you reach for him when you’re first to leave bed. Instinct, as fundamental as breathing. Your brain keeps up its little war with your heart—logic stacking arguments, pros and cons, practical fears, as if any of them might protect you from how good this feels. Every time you surrender, let yourself lean into the warmth and the clumsy closeness, it feels better than anything your head could manufacture. The heart wins out in these tiny moments. They feel clean in a way nothing else does.

You ogle him secretly while brushing teeth. Eyes wander sideways over his arms, chest, and hips wrapped loosely with a towel. During the spit and rinse you sigh internally, and what you couldn’t word when he gave you his boyish giggle, you find the courage to say now.

Your fingers wrap around the towel and pull him close. Then, the towel drops, and Viktor stands in front of you naked. You can’t help but think how pretty he is in all forms. What you think, you tell him, and more, and for one moment you hope to maybe have found agency over what you are able and unable to say. But it’s shot for shot now, and Viktor—your beautiful in all the significant areas man—once again knocks you out with his reaction.

Suddenly, it’s back to being precarious. Because if this is Viktor’s reaction to something as basic as receiving a compliment—one that understates entirely what he is—then you have no idea how you are going to give him any justice. How you are going to face the expectation of being a girlfriend without letting him down horrendously. And for a fleeting second, it pisses you off that just loving someone doesn’t solve any of those issues.

You mull it over while giving in to the compulsion, scrolling through your inbox. Your thumb flicks through the avalanche of overnight messages—an old reflex, a quick hit of control. The plate Viktor slides in front of you goes untouched, steam curling up and dying. He notices, of course, and crushes you again by assuring you nothing will be taken without your permission. You know damn well whatever little you permit is not enough, and you sit there feeling stupid for being so desperate you can’t last twenty-four hours without checking if the theatre world has fallen apart without you.

As soon as he points you to the floor, gratitude floods your veins. The raw honesty of it, the longing of your flesh, leads you to splay yourself across his lap, trusting, obedient—where he can deliver his love in a series of stark slaps.

You are so grateful for it, you could cry. To be given something you understand—a simple choreography, something that has always made sense when nothing else does. The rules of cause and effect, your body reading his intentions before your mind can catch up. You feel yourself settle, safe, exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Then he peels your clothes away as if you were always meant to be naked. Calls you a slut, but it sounds so adoring you smile terribly while he inspects the drip between your thighs. How utterly depraved to lubricate from being bent over his knee and spanked. How blissful it feels—almost beyond words.

His mouth brushes the prominent vertebrae at the top of your spine as long arms come from behind to wrap around you. Viktor pulls you to sit on his lap and spreads your legs. Soon, with thighs shaking and the heat in your ass still raw where his hand left it, you are so grateful you actually do cry. Because, fuck, it feels fantastic to be so full of him. It feels fantastic to ride yourself back into tranquillity on his cock. Each drop of your weight drives him deeper and drives the burn home—pain and stretch folding over one another until they can’t be told apart.

When Viktor teases you with his thumb it’s all you can think about. More, all of it. One plea is all the encouragement he needs. He keeps that thumb buried where he pressed in, working small, torturous strokes just inside the tight heat of your ass—enough to keep you shaking, every descent forcing you to take both lengths at once. Your clit slaps the thick root of him on each grind, and the sting there flares, then dissolves into something hotter, wetter. The rhythm turns ruthless: down, crest, spark—again—until your breath hiccups and vision fuzzes at the edges.

You feel him throb, feel yourself clench, a matched set closing around the same pulse. The fullness is obscene and perfect; it pinches a sob right out of you—and God, you are being loud. Tears bead and run, from just sheer too-much. He holds onto your hip, lets you spend yourself on him. When you break, it’s sharp and bright, body meaning to lock and shiver, but Viktor commands you—no, begs you—not to stop. So you keep going, lure him after you with the world’s most effortless I love you ever spoken out loud.

It’s then when he bends, his chest meets your back, arms lock around you and teeth sink into your shoulder. Heat spills so deep the aftershocks roll through both of you, his cum a balm to your abused centre. You sag forward, tears streaking your cheeks, and can only whisper, thank you, thank you, thank you, into sex-slicked air, and it’s so quiet Viktor can’t hear you.

“Stay, stay, stay,” he mutters, reaching blindly for your face, finding dampness. It takes everything in you to empty yourself of him, but the reward evens out the loss. It’s Viktor’s neck against your nose, his stomach to yours, hands in your hair, his mouth on your forehead, your brow, below your eyes, and finally, finally on your mouth. It’s not even a kiss so much as a press, as if he’s giving you CPR through touch.

The deeper you go with Viktor, the finer the space he folds you into. Where it used to hit like falling through ice—shock, darkness, silence—it’s now a slow tilt, a gradient descent. Sensation narrows, breath softens; you feel the floor of yourself long before you touch it. And coming back is just as gentle: a hand on your shoulder, his voice saying your name, and the surface rises to meet you.

The result is still the same—noise stripped out, marrow quiet, the hard edges of thought filed smooth. Yet lying there afterward, chest fluttering against his, you wonder if there might be other ways to hush the maelstrom. Something less consuming than Viktor fucking you into being. You wonder, and you’re almost afraid of finding out.

From this, it takes a couple of breaths for you to return to yourself and register hunger. The regular human one. And he helps you dress. Ushers you to the bathroom, where you twist to admire your ass in the mirror.

Then, Viktor feeds you. Patient and kind, movements smooth, he prepares a new breakfast, and again, you can’t help but stare.

Because Viktor looks just breathtaking in his own space. It’s subtle—no swagger, no borrowed authority—just a quiet rightness that settles over him. His shoulders loosen, but he stands taller, as if the weight that usually drags him forward has redistributed into balance. The habitual hunch is barely there; his spine aligns in a long, sure line. The shallow crease between his brows smooths out, replaced by a soft intent focus. When he speaks, the words come measured, already arranged; you catch the sense he’s ten sentences ahead, mapping the conversation the way a conductor sees the whole score. Even the smallest gestures carry that certainty: the way he plates the food, folds a napkin, touches the back of your chair before you sit. It isn’t power in the usual sense—more an ease inside his own skin, as though every part of him has finally been given its precise job and is content to do it. Watching him, you feel the room settle too, like gravity has chosen a gentler pull.

He meets you exactly where you live. His steady current of assurance finds the hollow places in you and fills them, lets you finally unclench. In turn, your raw urgency sparks warmth in him, keeps his composure from tipping into distance. With him guiding and you giving way, every movement falls into place—an effortless rhythm neither of you could reach alone. In that shared space, breathing is easy, choices are simple, the rest of the world briefly irrelevant.

And this breakfast is so different. Now you want to eat from this man’s hand, lick his fingers when you’re done, detach those hands from his body and wear them as a tight collar. Have you been grateful before? No—now you are fucking grateful. Now the two of you are the best versions of yourselves, and you love those. And you love Viktor for giving you yourself back.

When the mood settles into calm, you play with fire by picking up something that will immediately reveal how much time you actually spend thinking about him. Your acting skills have never reached a level that could fool Viktor. Inevitably, your secret is out; no amount of tickling saves you. But instead of being painfully smug, he is only a little—what dominates his face is an expression of complete adoration as he offers to read with you.

So you stage The Memorandum, and the deeper you go, the more convinced you are that the universe is mocking you. Every page is a mirror you didn’t ask for. The invented language, the frantic translations, the circular memos that never reach a point—every bit of it feels like the way you talk around what matters, the way you bury need under schedules and jargon. Gross can’t get his message read; you can’t get a clean sentence of feeling out without choking on disclaimers. You laugh at the absurdity, but the laugh is thin; every correction Lear gives him might as well be one of your own deflections—clarifying, revising, stripping meaning until nothing true is left. By the time Viktor voices Gross’s final complaint, you realise you’re hearing your own: a terror of plain speech, and the quiet disaster that blooms whenever you try to keep everything perfectly managed, perfectly safe.

It flickers and quickly dies in your expression when Viktor licks your neck, clearly happy to be let in on something this close to your heart. You don’t take it away from him.

When he hands you the syringe with quiet trust, your face contorts between awe and hesitation. You smooth a gentle hand across his stomach, thumb brushing over faint bruises—yellow-green echoes of past injections. Viktor says nothing, his breathing slow and even, trusting you fully, and that quiet vulnerability lodges somewhere deep in you. You disinfect the spot carefully, his stomach twitching beneath the cool swipe of antiseptic, and he steadies himself, palm wrapped around yours. Needle piercing skin is a brief resistance, then smooth glide. Viktor's eyes drift shut, the lines on his forehead relaxing, gratitude softening his expression as you withdraw. Another part of him handed to you on an open palm.

In the morning, the first thing you reach for is your phone. The bed beside you is still warm, and Viktor announces himself by throwing a towel on the bed and leaning in to kiss your forehead. You take your turn in the shower, lingering in front of the mirror, fingers running across the painting he left on your skin as you check the blossom.

You know he thinks it’s pretty, but for you it’s something completely different. A reminder of a moment in which you transition between clutter and slip into focus. And a semi-permanent one, when every time you get dressed, sit, lean on it, you will think of him. Signature lasting only as long as it takes for your immune system to clean up the mess of dead cells, so the cycle can begin anew.

You stretch in the kitchen doorway, making all your major joints pop at once. Viktor doesn’t turn, only laughs and says, “There she is,” as he pours water in the press.

You slip your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, hoping the warmth will still the noise already gathering in your head. The phone in your hand thrums—work messages stacked like bricks, some frantic, some routine, each one a reminder the week is waiting to dismantle you. Behind your eyes, yesterday’s reading still bangs around: wrong words, crossed wires, the joke of clarity.

Viktor pauses, as if he can feel the doubt through fabric. He turns and kisses you—slow, sure, sealing off the noise for a moment. His hands find your hips and he walks you backward, gentle but unyielding, until the edge of the kitchen table presses the small of your back.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, lips ghosting yours.

“Not yet,” you breathe, phone forgotten on the counter.

“Good.” His lips tip into a crooked smile. “I am. Bend over the table for me, will you?”

Your mouth gets the question out even as your body is already folding. “What are we doing?” You’re in position before the words finish, hands flat to the wood, legs spreading on instinct. Viktor doesn’t need to ask; obedience rolls off you like water.

“I am having breakfast,” he says, dragging a chair behind him, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen. “And you are feeding me.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, peels them down, and exhales—half gasp, half growl. Your T-shirt he rolls up, bunching it into the dip of your spine, most likely to clear his view. He smooths both palms over the heat of your skin, thumb tracing the outline of his own fingerprints. “What’s the situation here?” he asks, tone curious, almost clinical.

“Good,” you hiss, the word trembling out as his touch spreads the ache. Good isn’t enough said. It hurts just right. It’s a dull, persistent ache that warms you up from the inside. Just like iron-stiff muscles after running a marathon are a trophy, this is your trophy for being a good girl.

Viktor chuckles, leans in, and drags his tongue flat across one cheek of your ass, slow as paint across canvas. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, thumb parting you, then his mouth dips lower, sealing over the seam of you—first a kiss, then an open-mouthed devotion that makes your elbows buckle against wood.

“F-fuck,” you breathe, knuckles whitening as you grip the edge of the table. A tremor runs through you when Viktor’s mouth finds its pace—slow at first, like he’s testing something, then deeper, each pass of his tongue coaxing your spine into a perfect arch.

He hums against you, a low vibration that sparks heat up your back. Fingers keep you open, gentle but insistent, as if he’s protecting every inch he’s worshipping. You push onto him without thinking, heels lifting, the need to meet each stroke urgent and immediate. Every time you rock back, his chuckle spills against your skin—a quick, pleased sound that tells you exactly how much he enjoys the way you can’t stay still.

When he finally lifts for breath, his voice is wrecked but playful. “Still with me?” He presses a kiss just above the bruised curve, hands resting, waiting. Another heartbeat, another pause. “Tell me how it feels.”

You try to shape an answer, but the words collapse—a sigh, a plea, nothing intelligible. Viktor lifts away, thumb still holding you open, breath warm. “I’m not sure I quite follow,” he says, voice light and dangerous. “What was that?”

“Good,” you manage, hips tilting up for contact that isn’t there. “It feels good.”

He’s grinning now, smug and patient, simply watching you strain. You crane your neck, searching for his eyes. “Viktor, please,” you breathe—the word splits at the middle, raw and exposed.

“Please what?” He rubs a slow circle just beside where you need him, nowhere near enough.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gathering your fleeting dignity. “Please give me your tongue,” you whisper, arching harder, spine a drawn bow.

The grin softens into something hungrier. “There’s my girl.” And he bends back to you, mouth sealing over everything he’d just denied, tongue sliding deep, relentless, until the plea turns into a broken, grateful sob. Viktor reads every twitch, alternates tempo: a long glide that has you melting, then a teasing, feather-light flick that makes you hiss and beg under your breath.

Between strokes he speaks in quiet praise—simple, wickedly kind things he knows will land: “Good.” “Beautiful like this.” “Give me more.” Each line punctuates the heat spiralling low and tight in your belly, until you lose track of which words he says and which your body invents.

You feel another laugh against you, a little thrill of sound before he dives back in. Every pulse of his mouth draws you higher; every pause drags a moan out of you. It’s a rhythm of worship and tease—just enough respite to make the next return unbearable.

Then, mouth seals onto you with no more breaks—tongue working tight, focused circles, the steady pressure that unravels thought. Your knuckles creak on the table edge; breath hitches, fractures. His free hand strokes up your spine, soothing while he devours, pace unwavering until your whole body coils. You press your forehead to the wood, trembling, and come hard against his mouth—sharp, flooding, vision white-edged.

You’re still shuddering when his hand slides lower in a final caress. So dazed you barely register him standing, only the new heat of his cock sliding slick between your cheeks as he rocks forward.

“How are you?” Viktor’s voice is husky, words pushed through quickened breathing.

You glance back: pupils blown, lips shining, the flush of want high on his cheeks. The sight knocks the rest of the air from your lungs. You manage a smile, soft and wrecked. “Good,” you whisper, and mean it.

Viktor groans and falls forward, hands braced on either side of your shoulders. He dips his head, voice strained. “I am so tempted to fuck your ass like this, you have no idea.”

And God, this excites you. Doubts fall away once more, as Viktor slowly elbows every unread email away from your brain. You close your eyes and rock back, offering. “Do it,” you whisper.

He sucks in a wet gasp, fingers threading into your hair. “Are you certain?”

You nod, slow, tilting toward his mouth as far as you can. “Yes. Fuck, yes,” you say, and then: “Use me.”

Viktor makes a sound that etches itself into your memory with intensity that borders violence. “Oh my dearest darling, you have no idea what you are doing to me,” he rasps. One hand settles at your throat, the other slips lower, gathering the slick he’s coaxed from you. He works it over the tight entrance, massaging small circles. His cock glides between your thighs as he rocks, coating himself in the heat of you.

You meet him half-way, as much as you can. Offer yourself through small wiggles and sighs. He presses a single fingertip in, slow enough that the burn blooms then settles. It’s good. It forces you to focus your breathing and dedicate your entire attention to his hands. “Colour?” he murmurs.

“Green.”

He waits—one breath, two—then begins to move, shallow, coaxing. When your muscles ease, he slides in a second finger. It starts all over—at first, it sets your tissues ablaze. You have to battle off the distraction of his cock nudging your clit each time his hips move. Through exhales and praise, you adjust, and Viktor checks in on you again: “Colour?”

“Green,” you manage, voice barely there. He opens you gently, gives you one adoring thing after another under his breath. When you soften around him, he adds a third finger, filling you, the stretch turning sharp-sweet. “Still green?”

You release air through mouth shaped like an o. “Green,” you whisper, shoulders trembling.

“You are doing so well, my good girl,” he coos, fingers thrusting and twisting; each pull drags heat through your gut, each push leaves you more pliant. The burn has thinned into a pulse, a wanting that feels astonishingly right—you press back, greedy to expand.

Only when you open for him completely does he withdraw. The slicked fingers leave you empty just long enough to sense the blunt crown of his cock nudging at your entrance. “Ready?” Viktor asks.

“Yes,” you say, heart hammering.

He drags himself through your slit first, gathering every shimmer of slick, then angles up and presses—slow, devastating. You tense at the breach; his hand moves to your hip, the other steady at your throat. “Breathe. And any time you want to stop, we stop.”

“Okay,” you mouth, voiceless. “Okay.”

The words leave on a ghost of breath, as the crown breaches. The shock is electric: a white flash behind the eyes, muscles shivering around the sudden, blunt heat. For a few heartbeats it stings—bright, foreign, impossibly full—then, as Viktor holds still and the pulse of his cock beats inside that first inch, something in you loosens. Breath spills out. The burn thaws into a deep, slow bloom; tremors give way to a liquid ache that feels wickedly right. Your back uncoils, each vertebra loosening a notch at a time, vision hazy at the edges, every nerve narrowed to that single point of pressure where you start—astonishingly—to open and want.

“Fuck, Viktor,” you breathe, sweat prickling at the well of your spine. “Please, I—” The pause is agonising; you need him to move, in or out, anything but stillness. “Please fuck me, I can’t—”

“God, you’re tight,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, laying his chest along your back. “Colour, colour—I need to know.”

“Fucking green,” you hiss and nearly buck your ass into him. He exhales, relief and hunger tangled. He takes another slow inch, hips rocking forward. There’s pain, for a moment. You tense and squeal, the sound raw enough that he stills at once.

“Does it hurt?” He’s already easing back, hand cupping your throat but lighter now.

“No. No—just a little. It’s good, Viktor. It’s good.” You cover his hand with yours, guiding his fingers to tighten, the pressure grounding you. “Please fuck me. Pleasepleaseplease fuck me,” you beg him, barely recognising your own voice.

Something in you—a need—yawns open. Something from the very depths of you howls at being fucked like this. Because he’s being so destructively patient, so gentle. And you can tell it costs him absolutely everything to not just bury himself inside you, and somehow this stupid sacrifice makes you feel seen and not alone. Because Viktor is not just fucking your ass for breakfast. He’s taking care of you—of your tired, tormented brain, of your rabbit heart, and he’s doing all of it because you are being a good girl.

He groans, obeys the invitation—shifting, pushing deeper by fractions. The stretch burns and blossoms; every time he pauses, you breathe into his grip, easing the muscles until they loosen around him. He whispers steady encouragement, words sliding against your ear: “That’s it… take me… still green?” Each check-in gets the same answer, voice shaking but sure.

When he’s seated—hips not flush to your backside, but close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him—the fullness is a living thing, thrumming where his cock settles and throbs. Viktor holds there, letting you feel the weight of him, letting himself feel you gripping every inch. Then—inch back, slow drive forward, a rhythm that starts careful and builds, your whimpers turning to low, ragged moans that echo in the quiet kitchen, until restraint blurs into raw, rolling pleasure and you finally lose track of where the pain ends and the wanting begins.

He fucks you like he loves you, you can feel it. It’s just another confession spoken through bodies, through skin. And this time it’s not scary, because this need you can understand exactly.

One palm slides between your belly and the table, find­ing your clit with unerring aim. He circles—slow, precise—nothing gentle in the intent. “Oh my fucking God,” you groan, head dropping, the words vibrating straight into his fingers at your throat. Instinct makes you push back, coaxing that grip to tighten, and the chain-reaction is instantaneous: his cock thrums deeper, thumb works harder, every nerve laced into a single, blinding current.

Ass filled so utterly you swear you can feel his pulse in your spine; slick heat blazing where his hand teases; throat cinched just enough to throw gasoline on every spark. Pleasure ripples outward in overlapping shock-waves, each one bigger than the last, until the world is stripped to three points of contact—cock, clit, throat—fused into a single, unbearable sweetness.

“My darling— Nemůžu, já—” Viktor’s whisper breaks apart against your ear, spilling raw and helpless an instant before his body does. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he hisses into your ear, drives in and freezes, a guttural groan punching out of him as he spills deep, cock jerking, knees shaking against the backs of your thighs.

The sudden flood tips you straight over the edge; you clamp down around him, violent and greedy, milking every last drop while your own climax howls through nerve and bone, white-hot and endless. “Viktor—oh, fuck—yes,” you babble, his name breaking apart on each wave as pleasure rips through you.

Bodies lock, lungs scrape for air. Then, his grip eases on your throat; his other hand coaxes trembling circles that turn aftershocks into shivers, until both of you sag, boneless, against the table—one heartbeat, two heartbeats, perfectly spent.

Viktor moves first and it nearly hurts to lose him. As soon as his cock slips free you can feel the cum pulsing out of you, dripping between your legs, and you could swear you hear him sniffle—or maybe just drag in a wet breath through his nose.

Then—mouth. Warm and tender, it comes to kiss your aching skin as Viktor murmurs, “Děvče moje.” He rubs his cheek over the bruised curve and adds, “Talk to me. How are you, my darling girl?”

And how are you? Beyond ruined. Nothing hurts and everything aches. Your ass burns inside and out with a sweet kind of fire that rolls through your body in waves, making your fingers feel fuzzy when you push yourself off the table. Every nerve hums like struck metal; vision swims into shapes and heat. Before you know it, you slot into Viktor’s lap, imprisoning him with your limbs, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Fuck, Viktor,” you breathe, the words shaky in his neck. And he tries to be the anchor, but the tremor in his muscles betrays him when he cups your face, and the tremor in his voice betrays him further as he checks he hasn’t ruined anything.

“You’re so good,” you tell him, blinking away tears.

He’s so good—hands on every place you need them, even though you can feel he needs to be held, too. The rest of language deserts you. Phonemes, consonants, diphthongs: all the usual furniture of speech feels alien, and you wonder how you’ve ever managed to set foot onstage. “Fuck, I can’t speak,” you murmur, curling back into him. Viktor chuckles, dares to tease.

“I think we should have breakfast in bed today,” he whispers against your shoulder, all honey-warm.

You tip your head, study his face, and dry-smile. “I bet you’d eat off my ass if I asked you to.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. Grist to the mill, his mouth drags along your jaw, hands slipping under your damp T-shirt. “I’d eat off it if you asked me not to, even.”

“Freak,” you snort, soft and fond.

“I’d eat just your ass day and night, my beloved.” He seals the promise with a deep, clumsy, slow kiss—tongue flat, coaxing yours out, humming into your mouth. “I’d eat you whole.”

A sigh, long and deep, grounds you. “I’d eat you whole,” you echo, catching his bottom lip and kissing him back until words are pointless.

Once again, the slipstream inside your skull is quiet. Satiation settles over you like a heavy quilt—muscles lax, breath relieved, mind blessedly blank. Viktor pads around the kitchen in nothing but his underwear, making toast, scrambling eggs, fussing with the French press. You watch from the chair, shoulders slack, and the sight alone—bare calves, still-kissed neck, hair in soft damp tufts—manages to keep the hush intact.

You help carry everything back to the bedroom. He arranges the tray; you fold your legs under the duvet, leaning into the warm dent his body left. Between bites he slips into caretaker mode, telling you—gentle, practical—how to do maintenance after the kind of morning you’ve just had. You wince, cheeks burning, because somehow this feels more exposing than any position he’s bent you into.

Later you settle in the lounge. Viktor stretches out with a book; you curl beside him, head fitted to the crook of his shoulder. It’s good, it’s normal. But the phone beside your ankle won’t stop vibrating—a mosquito whine of notifications. You pretend to ignore it, yet your gaze flicks over each time the screen lights. With every buzz the calm thins, like steam peeling off a cooling kettle. Viktor’s thumb strokes your arm in absent patterns; you breathe in the scent at his throat and try to hold the moment steady. Another buzz, another glance, and you can feel the hush beginning to splinter.

The phone wins eventually. You pick it up, thumb already scrolling, and there it is—a message from Charlie, blinking with its polite urgency. A stomach bug; the entire lighting crew flattened, sending your next week's rehearsals into a tailspin unless replacements materialise, pronto. You huff out a sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, the comfort of Viktor’s warmth suddenly prickling with guilt.

First, you try from the couch, legs tucked beneath you, phone tilted as if holding it closer to your face might somehow solve the problem faster. Message after message trickles out, each response more useless than the last—half-hearted apologies, gentle brush-offs, lukewarm leads to other people who don’t reply at all. The endless scroll grates your nerves raw, and finally, after the sixth politely-worded rejection, you mutter a low, defeated, "Fuck."

Viktor shifts beside you, and his thumb pauses, mid-stroke, on your arm. You don’t have to look up to see his expression; it’s etched already behind your eyes, brows knitted, eyes gentle and questioning and trying so hard to pretend it’s all right.

“How upset will you be if I leave soon?” you start weakly, though it’s a laughably thin lie. His weak smile does all the work, stripping your resolve down to bone until you’re forced to offer him scraps of truth. “I just accumulated over a hundred emails and half of them I actually have to respond to before tomorrow.”

Viktor's nod is slow and knowing, a quiet resignation dimming the gold of his irises. You’ve broken a tiny bone between you; you can feel it snap. It hurts more than you'd like to admit.

“This week might be terrible, Viktor,” you whisper, the guilt blooming, heavy as a bruise, beneath your ribs. “I know it’s unfortunate timing—”

He shakes his head, not to stop you, just to push away your apologies. But when he finally looks up, his eyes betray him, open and wounded, quietly pleading, unable to conceal how badly he wants you to stay. You force yourself upright, already mourning the warmth of his side against yours.

He takes your offer of Thursday being a possibility like he has to force himself to believe it. It stings, because it mirrors your own hesitation. You both linger in the doorway, Viktor clinging to you as if you might change your mind at the last minute, until you have to plead for him to let you go. He milks it to the very end, the elevator doors the final thing that parts you.

You let yourself long for him through the whole descent and then the cab ride home, replaying his hands on you; now the burn in your skin whenever you sit without thinking is its own small comfort.

As soon as you get home, a bitter, throaty laugh escapes when you open your laptop. Hoping the week wouldn’t obliterate you? Naïve. It does that and more before Monday even arrives.

It finds you still awake in the grey edge of dawn, hunched over your desk, trying to put out the lighting-tech fire. By the time you cobble together a backup plan—an external crew on a fixed-term contract—pale fingers of morning slip through the curtains, and you realise there’s no point in chasing sleep now.

The week barrels forward like a stage-winch gone haywire: cue sheets lost, cue sheets rewritten; Charlie barking into headsets while you juggle three different crews, praying none of them wedge a Fresnel where a flood should be. Every hour some small disaster erupts—an actor with a late November flu, a dimmer pack that shorts, the stand-in electrician who can’t read the plot. You and Charlie stitch the mess together with gaffer tape and adrenaline, lurching from grid to wings to office until nights collapse into mornings.

In the brief, fluorescent pauses—plastic takeaway fork dangling from your mouth—you catch that yellow Post-it on the desk: call V, a little heart-shaped wound pulsing at the edge of vision. Texts cross like missed trains: your 02:17 “Still up, sorry,” answered at 05:04 when you’re buried in a production meeting prep. You fail Thursday spectacularly, trading the promise of his arms for a last-minute hire crew who agree to the job only if you sign before midnight. In the morning you type I miss you terribly and hit send before you can backspace it away.

Guilt rides shotgun through every cue-to-cue. This is what you wanted all along—work stacked high enough to keep the shadows out—yet now every solved crisis feels like a tax levied against something tender. You replay Viktor’s voice—I take only what you give—and find a strange, aching gratitude in his silence; no breach, no demand, just a space kept open for when you can breathe again.

Still, the absence scours. The memory of his hands on your hips flares each time you pass a mirror; the scent of his soap clings to your scarf like a stubborn line note. One week without him leaves you brittle and over-caffeinated, counting hours until the house lights rise on something gentler—hoping the next call won’t be another apology, but the long, clean exhale of going home.

When the following Monday makes it look even worse than the previous one, you nearly tear your hair out. Tuesday detonates before lunch. Charlie slips through your doorway, cheeks flushed, tie crooked, whispering the disaster straight into your ear: an entire rig of Fresnels—gone. Vanished between strike and call-time.

Theatre goes into lockdown. No one clocks out, everyone files in. A siege of clipboards and suspicion. You’re halfway through triaging the fallout—calling hire houses, drafting emergency budgets, wondering how many kidneys you can sell for tungsten—when Charlie reappears, knocking once and then ushering someone inside.

Someone tall, cane hooked over an elbow, two takeaway cups clutched like peace offerings.

Time folds. Coffee. Cane. Viktor.

Everything hits at once: flabbergast, because he’s here, really here, eyes already apologising for turning up unannounced. Then shame, because your grease-smeared sweatshirt, hair far from fresh, and lipstick eaten off by stress make you look like the love-child of insomnia and phosphorescent light. Guilt, mirroring his, at the ten days of missed calls and sorry texts ringing in your ears.

Then you’re threaded through with relief—real, physical, like air after surfacing—just the mere sight of him brings it. Yet fear cinches tight just behind it, the old reflex whispering: See? This is where the closeness tips. This is where the leaving starts. You try your very best to chase away the familiarity of this sight—your lover, face sad and longing, stood on your doorstep with I missed you poised on the tip of their tongue. You pray for him not to say it.

Viktor stops two paces in, as if gauging the blast radius. You register the smallest tell: shoulders rolled forward, guilt-furrow just beginning between his brows. He lifts the coffees an inch, a mute question—

Charlie, either saint or sadist, slaps a Post-it on your laptop—suspects—and retreats, closing the door with theatrical delicacy. The latch clicks; the silence blooms.

Before you know it, your hands are twitching, mouth mutters hollow apologies, excuses and questions, and your spine locks into a stiff pole. But Viktor is faster than any of this. Instead of answering, he kisses you, rolling ten days of absence between tongues. You are close to melting into it, into his coat smelling of wool and the street, but before your brain locks off hearing completely, it reaches you: “I missed you.”

The phrase that usually marks the beginning of an end in a scenario like this: you, overworked; the other side, disappointed. You push him away—gently—but your insides are churning. Saved by the bell, you pick up the ringing phone and can barely make yourself nod at the joyous update on the lights being found. In a brittle tone, you offer him Saturday and leave him hunched in your office.

You run through the corridors, bell ringing loudly between your ears. I missed you. You’ve heard it so many times. An argument past partners used for everything: for showing up when you can’t afford the loss of time. For calling Charlie or Mel when you wouldn’t pick up. For going through your phone, your emails. For asking dumb, accusatory questions about actors and producers. For turning your bedroom upside down looking for evidence. For leaving.

And Viktor is nowhere near venturing that far, still lingering on the weak bottom of that list. But what he’s done today—completely oblivious—is enter into the realm of people whose expectations you will never be able to fulfil.

Evening out your breath, you arrive where you are needed. And then, carry on. Through crisis after crisis, complaint after complaint, blisters upon blisters on your feet. You don’t get to wash your hair for the next two days, and spend the entire Wednesday at Young Vic, catching two hours of sleep drooling on your desk. Viktor doesn’t text first but sends you a smiley emoji that stares death at you from the screen when you confirm Saturday. It’s harrowing that you can’t bring yourself to tell him you miss him again. And you miss him and his heavy hands and his kind hands so fucking much your entire body aches.

Just as the shoemaker’s children go barefoot, you, the child of theatre, go without actually seeing the effects of your two weeks’ worth of extensive labour and skip the pre-premiere, opting instead on visiting Islington.

When you ring his doorbell, it’s with breath held tight in your throat. He lets you in after one buzz and doesn’t even bother to open the intercom line. In the elevator, you crack all your joints and scratch your neck furiously until the scraped epidermis feels uncomfortable under your fingernails.

His door is already open. And there, as usual, Viktor waits for you, head low, posture tentative. He blinks once, as if to steady the frame.

“Hi,” he says, soft, almost questioning. A beat—your bag slides off your shoulder, your mouth tips in the smallest smile.

Permission granted. He’s on you in a breath, arms winding tight, nose in your hair. The sound he makes isn’t a word, just that low ache of finally. You angle yourself to kiss him, and this time Viktor waits for your mouth to meet his first, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to go this far.

“Hi yourself,” you tell him, brushing hair off his forehead. “How are you?”

“Eh, tired,” he says with a shrug. His lips press to the crown of your head when he mutters, “But glad you made it.”

He takes you to the kitchen to make tea, and you briefly wonder if he’s disinfected the table, though you suspect he hasn’t. When he takes the opposite seat, you instinctively curl your palms into loose fists against the wood, but Viktor still manages to brush your knuckles.

“So, how was your week?” he asks.

You sigh with your eyes closed and decide to tell him. It will serve as a solid groundwork for what you are about to offer. You tell him of all the late hours, what was solved and what remained a mess just for you to be forced to accept it; you tell him how the lights theft was no theft but a misplacement by the new crew, and how it backtracked you a few hours, how you’ve slept in your office, and how Charlie’s mother fed you the last ten days. How all of this doesn’t matter because the spectacle is happening right now as you speak, and when you left, everything looked great.

Viktor’s face reacts to everything you say with smiles, chuckles, worried glances and nods corresponding to the story beats. When you are done, he uncurls your fingers from the fist and laces them with his. And you do not know how, but Viktor seems to know exactly where this is going.

“What are you really saying here?” he asks carefully, eyes fixed on your joined hands.

It strikes you how he’s already sounding disappointed. You feel like you’re being catalogued and found lacking. Teeth worrying your lower lip, you look down and speak quietly, distrustful of your voice. “I think we should maybe regroup?”

And Viktor frowns. He clears his throat and adjusts himself in the chair. “Could I ask you to be clearer?” he says, matching your volume.

You are already tormented. His fingers are lead-heavy between yours. You exhale a shaky breath and start your rehearsed line: “I think the last two weeks have proven that I am not in a space to commit to something that would be fair on both sides.”

Viktor breathes heavily through his nose, visibly forcing himself to remain calm. He retreats his hand and leans back in the chair, giving you a look of being utterly unimpressed. “Could you be any more impersonal?”

“Viktor,” you chide, daring him, trying to reason. “Admit it, it was terrible. And it’s not something that is temporary. This is what my life looks like.”

He chuckles, incredulous. Gets up and begins a slow three-legged walk up and down the kitchen. “So, help me understand something here,” he says, “You would rather nip it in the bud instead of talking to me first and searching for a solution or a compromise?”

“Unless you are able to extend the day beyond twenty-four hours, I don’t see how I could compromise,” you mutter dismissively.

Silence, for a beat. He’s walked past you and stopped somewhere behind you. Then, the steps resume until he pauses by your side. “Is this happening because I came to visit you at work?”

Yes, you think. “No,” you lie through your fucking teeth.

But Viktor is too smart for this. He plays no games, abandons the concept of treading carefully. He looks you square in the eye and asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

You frown, mouth pulling sideways. “Nothing.” It's defensive, brittle. You pause, softening your voice, eyes flicking to him pleadingly. “Will you stop that? I am not saying we need to drop it completely—”

“Oh? Aren’t I lucky?” Viktor interrupts sharply, a cold note underlying the mockery. He leans, planting one hand flat on the table as if bracing himself against anger. His voice is tight, biting. “Should I be proud of myself for being so great in bed that you’re willing to come back for that, but nothing else?”

“Don’t be cruel,” you say, throat closing around the words. He scoffs, pushing himself up and walking a few uneven steps, creating distance. You rise instinctively, reach out—but your hand freezes mid-air. Voice lowering, you let the words fall out fast, hugging yourself in an attempt at comfort. “Please, trust me. I know how this ends. I've seen it, I've lived through it. You coming to my work was just the beginning. It'll get worse, and you'll end up resenting me.” You tighten the hold around your shoulders, voice dropping even quieter, almost inaudible. “It was good before. Easier. We can just—”

But Viktor doesn’t fall for it. His posture stiffens, spine snapping straight. “If you want it easy, you have to look elsewhere,” he says, voice dangerously controlled. When he speaks your name, it cuts through the room, pinning you in place as effectively as a hand around your throat. “Is that truly what you want?”

He turns then, eyes finding yours. His voice is hoarse, wounded, cracking open down the middle—and for the first time, you see clearly that he's afraid too. It’s there in the cave of his shoulders, in the startled, pleading depth of his eyes. And it hits you fully: you’re not the only person in this room with gnawing fear. Worse still, unknowingly, you've struck directly into the very core of Viktor’s.

“N-no, I’m just—”

You stare at him helplessly, while the language fails you once more. Your hands knot together, knuckles white, your breathing reduced to shallow, unsteady gasps. Viktor’s limit is approximately ten seconds of silence before he breaks it.

“What?” he spits the word out, short and sharp. His whole body leans toward you on the cane, tense, as if ready to seize the truth from your mouth.

The dread of being confronted mixes with pure peril of him seeing through this strange contraption around your chest, successfully deflating you of air. “Of course not, Viktor, I—” There’s a gasp, a hitch of breath so audible it’s like nails on a blackboard. “I just don’t know how to navigate this yet,” you blurt out, voice strained.

He inhales unevenly, and you sink deeper between your shoulders. “Before we—by a common agreement—” he says, limping past you, “decided that there is no point in calling it casual anymore, how many times have you slept in my bed, in my arms, snoring and drooling like you live here?”

He stops behind you, twists the cane into the floor and tilts his head in your direction. “How many tears have I wiped off your face? Have I ever disposed of you right after?” His tone is clipped, voice shaken by frustration.,

“No.” You stay drilled into your spot right where you stand. “You haven’t.”

“What is different then? Why is this harder than before?”

He stares at you like he’s searching for a crack to pour himself into, exasperated and—just beneath it—oh God, heartbroken.

“I don’t know,” You clutch at straws, at razors to the drowning, hands wringing the fabric of your shirt. “There is more expectations, more responsibility?” More risk, a bigger wound, a potential loss much more devastating than it would be before. So many thoughts—vulnerable and honest—bounce off each other in your head, yet none makes it to live out its life as meaningful confession.

“Is it?” he whispers, a haunted sound. “How?”

And there it comes. An absolutely ugly, vile thing crawls out before you can swallow it down. “Well, you… did come to my work.” You say, eyes cast down, ashamed of voicing it.

He scoffs, appalled. “I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks,” Viktor says, taking a step toward you. “I came to say hello. To bring you a coffee. To give you a kiss, is that so unthinkable?”

“Viktor,” you try your best to sound kind, “we both know you wanted more than a kiss and—”

He winces. You hate it. You feel it in your teeth, in your stomach. “How dare you.”

“What?” You blink at him, flinching back at the chill in his tone, bewildered.

“How dare you call me out on something like this. Have I not stopped immediately? Have you no sense of romance and courtship?” His voice cracks again, half anger, half perplexed hurt.

“Viktor, I was at work,” you say, trying to steady your voice, but it comes out too quick, words tumbling over each other. “Completely not in the headspace for romance and courtship, running on empty, trying to navigate complete chaos—” You swallow, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. “And there you fucking pop in.” You hesitate, searching his face for any flicker of understanding. “It’s not romantic, it’s controlling.”

Even as it leaves you, heat blooms under your skin—shame prickling cheeks, voice trembling on the edge of something you can’t communicate properly, something enormous and heavy with fear.

His face is horrifying. He looks older. Mouth parted, eyes glassed over and reddening by degree. It wrenches your heart into a steel grip.

“Please tell me you are not being serious right now,” he whispers, sounding completely destroyed. His voice has the weight of a thousand silent disappointments, but he doesn’t look away.

And there is no way of explaining this anymore. You try, so desperately to be heard, but you miss each other by a glimpse of meaning. A small calamity. A gentle mistranslation of thought that wreaks disaster.

“Well, what is it if not a higher stake of expectations?” You slip out brittle, hands gripping the air as if you could wrestle sense into them.

Your name comes again—so pained it nearly slices you open. “I have told you,” he says, stepping closer, hand reaching for yours—determined to bridge the gap. “I am taking you as you are. I obviously made an awful mistake by coming to your work, but I promise it will not happen again. So what expectations are we talking here?” His thumb brushes your knuckles—there’s a tremor you’ve never felt before.

“I— Viktor,” you squeeze his palm, seeking anchor, “I’m just telling you… it is harder for me now. Before—it was… easier. God, I don’t know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, squinting up at the ceiling, fighting the urge to bolt.

He leans in. It’s quiet, barely there, his breath mingling with yours. “Are you having second thoughts?” The question is soft, not accusing—terrified.

“No!” you snap, eyes wide, the denial flaring out of you. “No. Viktor I told you. I told you… first.”

“No,” he says, voice small, with the gentlest shake of his head. “I told you first. In my mind, first. Four weeks in,” he admits, and it’s benevolent and kind and awful. “Then cowardly, when you were asleep. Then, even more cowardly in a language you can’t understand, and all that while drunk.” A hollow chuckle, then: “But I… knew what I was afraid of. Why are you so scared now after you’ve been so brave with me?” He holds your gaze. He’s being brave now.

“I just… oh, it was so much simpler before. We just met and it was just the two of us, and now—” You trail off, speech dissolving.

“Let me make this clear then.” He straightens and clears his throat, your hand abandoned. “So you would rather step back—back into an arrangement where I cannot, under any circumstances, disturb your life. In which we pretend we don’t know each other in front of our friends. In which you’d rather have a horrible fuck in a car, than invite me in, yes?” There’s no malice in it, only exhaustion.

“N-no, I—I don’t know,” you stammer, defensive, desperate to find your footing. As the first shock of it passes, anger prickles your cheeks. “Why are you bringing this up? If it was so horrible, why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because—I had no idea how to show you that I am no threat to your independence.” Viktor’s voice is quiet. Each word accentuated with a thud of his cane against the tiles. “That I will only take as much as you are willing to give. That I am not a man who will ever tell you there is something in this world you cannot have.” A beat, and he lets his hand fall, almost helpless. “Besides. Would you invite me in then, if I stopped you?”

You stare at him, throat collapsed, lungs burning from holding it all in.

“I thought so.” He looks away, bitter. “What is it that you want then? No commitment? Just sex? Or, nothing?” His mouth barely moves, his voice rough as sandpaper.

“N-no.” You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“What do you need from me?” he presses.

“I don’t know.” You feel yourself shutting down, fear overriding reason.

Viktor’s jaw works as if chewing, determined not to let this become silence. “Not good enough.”

“Viktor, I can’t—” You’re out of air, of courage, of anything that could pull this conversation back from its edge.

Once more, it’s him taking a leap of faith. “Talk to me,” he says. “What is this poisonous emotion?” A hand, cold, cups your face, and Viktor rests his forehead against yours. “Lásko, please, talk to me. For fuck’s sake, it’s me. Whatever you say, I will never think badly of you. Please, tell me what is happening.”

But for you, it’s game over. Thoughts blend with one another and there are too many. All of them swell in your head, painful, and your throat clenches, making it impossible to move anything through.

Viktor closes his eyes like he’s praying. “I really, really need you to talk to me. Tell me what is wrong, so I can fix it. Darling, I beg you.”

It’s survival instinct now—lizard brain kicks in. The only language you are fluent in emerges from the bottomless pit—the one where mouths don’t speak. Where tongues are used to beg. It’s a mad kiss—deep, pleading. And for a moment you think Viktor understands it for what it is. His lips part for you and there is even the faintest sigh coming from him, until—

“Stop,” he protests, grabbing your wrist. “…stop this. Why won’t you talk to me?”

Trapped in the sympathetic response, all you can do is stare at him. It’s something between fight and freeze, where you are caught in a loop of actions. You try again—cup his face, pull him close, thumbs digging into the hollows of his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut as you attempt to pour meaning into gesture. The meaning being: that you want him. That you are sorry. That you love him, but you are scared.

And it splits you in two that today, Viktor doesn’t speak your language.

“Stop,” he breathes, voice shredded and helpless. He says it even as he lets you kiss him—allows you to try, for one final moment, to make everything right through touch.

His voice breaks down further, trembling. “Red,” he whispers so quietly you don’t catch it at first. “Red.”

The second one lands like a gunshot in a wasteland.

You freeze, lips hovering above his cheek. “You can’t… you can’t say red now,” you mumble like an idiot. Stunned, disgusted with yourself, you scan his face for an answer.

Viktor lets out a low, haunted chuckle. “This is not how you react when someone says red,” he manages, the sadness in it sour and metallic. “Please, I need to think.” He turns away from you, spine hunched as if he’s shrinking into himself.

“Viktor,” you gasp, tears welling. You reach for him, clutch at his arm, trying to make him turn back to you, but he halts you—his palm coming down firm and warm on your hand.

He says your name, sound both steady and drained. “This is enough. Go home. Please.” His eyes stay locked on the floor, jaw set, refusing to look at you.

A stunned silence settles in the space between you, then: “No. No, Viktor, I beg you, don’t leave it like this,” you plead, clawing at his shirt. The sobs come raw and uncontained.

“This won’t work now,” he mutters, shoulders hulking sullen. “I said… red, I said red.” His voice cracks, rising and breaking, and he sounds so lost it makes your heart skewer. You see the tear slip down his cheek before he can wipe it away.

“Viktor, please. I love you, please,” you say, as if it could patch what’s come undone.

He pulls away, voice suddenly firmer—final. “Stop.” He turns to you then, and you see it all—the red of his eyes, the sag of his shoulders, how utterly crestfallen he is, how bereft. “This is not what I want. I don’t want you to tell me you love me because you are frightened. Don’t you think I deserve better?”

He takes a shuddering breath, holding your gaze for just a heartbeat longer before turning away. “Please, leave me. I will call you, I promise.”

“Why do you want me to go?” you whisper, almost too quietly for it to reach him.

“Because I’m… hurt,” he manages, ragged and thin.

“Viktor—” Your own voice fractures, pain lancing through you like a tumorous growth of a second spine.

“Please.” He sounds so tired. “Let this breathe. Go home.”

You stand there, for a moment, waiting for a reprieve—a miracle, a change of heart—but it never comes. Viktor just shakes his head, one hand gripping his cane like a lifeline, the other pressed to his mouth. Today is the day you thought would never come. The day in which stay has turned into go. As you pick up your shoes and shut the door behind you, you realise the sodden, pathetic stay was always brave. That his heart was always full of valour for the both of you. And now you are running home like a coward, cursing every time you rolled your eyes at his stay.

—

Gross’ final complaint is literally: “Goodness! So much fuss about three little words!” (Clasps fire extinguisher in his arms and leaves) – which to me is incredibly funny, because even though he is talking about Ptydepe, the “I love you,” is also just three little words with a lot of fuss around them :’)

[yappinglit]

overall i think it's very interesting characterization. he's not just a conservative and traditionalist like one would expect, rejecting all that is modern. it poses a question regarding tedesco's relationship with tradition and modernity. the fact that his traditional views so visibly contrast with one of his actions (choosing a vape pen instead of a cigarette and such) is a way to make him more intriguing without even saying anything ("showing", not "telling"). it can make the viewers wonder how those two aspects of him can make sense together, which makes for a more rounded character in a simple way. one can see hypocrisy in him benefiting from modernity while advocating for a return to tradition, even if lots of them are harmful to people and have even harmed himself. besides this external perspective as a viewer, i also wonder how he himself would make sense of it, and how his ideas could show themselves in other aspects of life.

i mean, i love that the movie knows how to work with the art that is subtlety and suggestion, and one single modern vape in the hands of a traditionalist can suggest a lot and is fertile ground for imagination. like i can see him having a very active twitter account to comment about the church and anything really, and using other "modern" elements to try to attract more people to the church and to get people to share his view for the church, maybe especially trying to establish a dialog with young people (not liberal young people, sure, but there's a big demographic of young conservatives that his view of catholicism, if "marketed" properly, would really appeal to). maybe like his goals and ideology are conservative and very much tied to tradition, but his methods don't exclude modernity, and modernity is welcome in practical, day to day life (especially technological advances i suppose), but morality and ideas should be conservative. lots of social media dudebros seem to think like this, but imo it's a slightly more unusual color on a cardinal, which is nice.

besides, the vape and how he moves around with it gives him unparalelled sass, iconic vibes, cause somehow him smoking a vape is much more annoying than smoking a normal cig

Just finished Conclave (the novel) and I gotta say, my favorite creative liberty the film took was putting a vape in Tedesco’s hand. There is not a whisper of smoking in the book, but somebody on that film said you know what? Lets put a pen in that ultra-conservatives hand. And I applaud them for it.

Also, like, its a really interesting visual representation of the hypocrasy of promoting a return to tradition while indulging in the pleasures of modernity blah blah blah you get the point

[goonforgeto]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 04

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (2.7k) not proofread

CONTENT — fluff, mentions of vomit once, time jump

a/n: i actually got really upset writing this chapter heh. next chapter is rly long and what happens during christmas, also we get so see some more of satoru's friendship w reader and suguru so get ready!

series m. list | m.list

December, 2005

It was one of those rare days where your mission and Suguru’s wrapped up at the exact same time — a little stroke of luck that meant your schedules actually lined up for once. Even better, Satoru and Shoko were both busy.

Sure, you usually found ways to sneak in time together — late-night walks, stolen moments between training — but most of it involved tiptoeing around curfews, since neither of them knew about you and Suguru. Yet.

Not that it was anything serious or dramatic, you just liked having something that was yours. Something that didn’t come with teasing or smirks or endless questions.

And today — with the afternoon wide open, the air crisp and cool — it felt nice to think you had time.

The both of you had returned to campus around the same time, tired but relieved, and quickly agreed: freshen up first, meet outside in half an hour.

And right on time, when you step out onto the path behind the dorms — coat buttoned, scarf a little crooked — you spot him leaning casually against one of the old stone railings.

Suguru’s hair is still damp from the shower, tucked loosely behind his ears. He’s in a dark sweater and coat, hands in his pockets, looking up at the overcast sky like he’s thinking about something far away.

When he hears your steps, his gaze flicks down and softens the moment he sees you.

“You look warm,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

You grin. “And you look like you forgot your gloves again.”

He shrugs, pushing off the railing. “You’ll keep me warm.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s already doing that quiet little skip it always does when it’s just the two of you.

You come to a stop in front of him. He watches you for a beat longer, then dips his head and presses a soft kiss to your mouth.

But the second it hits, you stiffen — the taste of something pungent, bitter, metallic underneath the softness of his lips — the lingering residue of the curse he’d exorcised earlier.

Without thinking, you pull back. “Ugh—”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly. “Shit — sorry,” he says quickly, already fishing in his pocket. He pops a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing fast. “Didn’t even think.”

You’re still catching your breath, rubbing at the back of your hand. “It’s fine— it’s just— gods, what was that?”

He grimaces a little, leaning closer. “Dunno. What’s it taste like to you?”

You blink. “Like… burnt, wet hair. And something metallic."

He makes a face. “Yeah, thought so. Usually tastes like a vomit rag to me.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey, you kissed me back,” he says, teasing, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You shake your head, the taste fading.

“Ready?” you ask.

“Always,” he says, falling into step beside you.

His hand finds your gloved one as you walk, fingers threading easily through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” you say, glancing up at him, “where are you taking me?”

He gives you a small, knowing smile. “To buy you dango.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Mm.” He squeezes your hand gently. “Since someone—” he tilts his head, a clear jab at Satoru, “ate your share last week.”

You groan. “I told him not to touch mine.”

“He never listens,” Suguru says with a faint laugh. “So. I figured you deserve a replacement.”

Your heart warms, simple and soft. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” he says, eyes flickering sideways at you. “But you can tell me again once you’ve got your dango.”

You tug your glove off with your teeth, pulling it free so you can reach up — fingers lightly toying with the ends of his hair. It’s a bit longer now than it was in the summer, the strands soft between your fingers. He’s taller too — an inch or two since the last time you really noticed.

“Sugu,” you say softly, brushing a damp strand behind his ear, “your hair’s wet. You’re going to get sick.”

He leans in slightly.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs, voice low. “You worry too much.”

You let your fingers slip away, brushing down the side of his neck. “And you don’t worry enough.”

His smile widens just a little. “That’s why we work.”

The two of you made your way down to the station, hands still twined as you followed the quiet slope toward the subway entrance. The city above was crisp and cold, breath puffing faint clouds in the air — but down here, it was warm, the scent of metal and sweat hanging in the tunnels.

You slipped through the turnstiles side by side, Suguru thumbing your fare through before you could argue.

“It’s my treat,” he said simply, steering you toward the platform. “I’m taking you out, remember.”

The train rumbled in not long after — a soft clatter through the tunnel. You caught one of the middle cars, leaning together against the side rail as the car swayed into motion.

Outside the window, Tokyo blurred past in streaks of grey and light. The station names rolling by felt familiar.

“Where are we going again?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“That little shopping district you like,” Suguru said. “The one with the stalls and the food carts.”

You smiled, heart warming at how easily he remembered.

“It’s not that far,” he added, fingers brushing against yours again, casual, easy.

The train swayed gently as it sped through the tunnels, a low hum filling the car. You stood close to Suguru, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him a welcome contrast to the cold air you’d left behind.

At one stop, the train jolted a little harder than usual, and you stumbled, hand catching his coat. He glanced down, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You alright?” he asked, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, cheeks a little warm. “Just clumsy.”

He huffed a soft laugh, not letting go. “It’s the train. Not you.”

You peeked up at him, still tucked close. “You’re just saying that because you like having an excuse to hold me.”

He leaned in, a small smile playing at his lips. “Maybe.”

You look away, face flushed, trying to calm your heart.

“So… are you going home for Christmas break?” you ask, trying for casual — though it comes out softer than you mean.

“Definitely,” he says, smiling. “I haven’t had my mom’s cooking in ages.”

“Jealous,” you admit. “I’ll probably be stuck here. My parents are out of the country again.”

Suguru hums, thoughtful. “Well… maybe I’ll bring you something.”

You glance up. “From your mom?”

He grins. “If you’re nice to me.”

You nudge him lightly with your elbow. “I’m always nice to you.”

“That’s debatable,” he teases, eyes bright, then adds, a little quieter, “Or… you could come with me.”

Your breath catches. “Really?”

He shrugs, smile turning softer. “I mean… Satoru’s coming too. But my mom’s been dying to meet you.”

The train slows as it nears your stop. 

“You… never mentioned that before,” you say, voice quieter.

Suguru chuckles under his breath. “Guess I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

You glance at him, pulse skipping. “You didn’t even ask.”

His eyes flick toward you. “I’m asking now.”

Before you can answer, the train comes to a smooth stop, the chime for your station echoing through the car.

He tugs gently on your hand, fingers still twined through yours. “C’mon,” he says, soft. “We’ll talk about it after we’ve had you fed.”

The two of you step out of the station and into the heart of the shopping district — a narrow street lined with stalls and twinkling lights strung between the buildings, already glowing faintly in the late afternoon.

The air is cold, but not biting. It’s crisp enough to see your breath, the kind of chill that makes the steam from food carts rise in soft white clouds. The smells of grilled mochi, chestnuts, and sweet soy sauce drift through the crowd.

Suguru’s fingers slip back through yours as you walk, weaving easily through the bustling street. It’s busier than usual — families out shopping, students laughing over hot drinks, the hum of the city wrapping around you in a way that feels alive, familiar.

You glance up at him, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Lead the way,” you say softly.

He squeezes your hand, giving you that quiet smile of his. “You sure you trust me to pick the stall?”

“As long as it’s not the one Satoru always drags us to.”

He laughs — a soft, easy sound — and steers you down a smaller side street, where the line of dango carts stretches beneath colorful banners.

“There,” he says. “Your favorites.”

You walk up to the cart together — the familiar scent of toasted rice flour and sweet soy sauce filling the air. Suguru orders without asking, already knowing exactly which kind you like.

You smile as the vendor hands over the skewers, warm and fresh from the grill.

Suguru passes you one, keeping two for himself. “Fair, right?” he says, tilting his head innocently.

You eye him. “That depends. Are you planning to share?”

“Depends how nice you are to me.”

You huff a laugh, but as you take a bite, the smile pulls across your face before you can stop it.

He watches you, fond. “Good?”

“Mmh,” you hum, mouth full. “Worth the trip.”

He leans in a little, voice quieter now, eyes warm. “Told you.”

You reach over, and steal a bite from one of his skewers.

“Hey,” he laughs, mock scandalized.

“You said sharing depends on how nice I am,” you grin. “That was very nice.”

Suguru shakes his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

And before you can think twice, he dips his head, brushing a soft, quick kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Warm, simple. Enough to send your heart fluttering.

You blink, surprised — cheeks going pink — but he just grins wider, unbothered.

“Sticky,” he teases, thumb brushing lightly at the edge of your lip. “Messy eater.”

You look away, flushed, but you can’t stop smiling.

Suguru just watches you for a second, the faintest flicker of something warmer in his eyes.

You busy yourself with another bite of dango, hoping it’ll settle the way your heart’s racing.

Beside you, he shifts a little closer, shoulder brushing yours lightly as the crowd hums past.

For a while, you walk like that — side by side, quiet, comfortable — the soft winter light catching on the shop signs, the air thick with warmth and scent.

Suguru glances down at you again after a moment. “So…”

You look up. “Hm?”

“That question from earlier.” His voice stays easy, but there’s a hint of something softer beneath. “About Christmas.”

Your breath catches a little, but you cover it with a small smile. “You’re really serious about bringing me home?”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Mom keeps asking who this mystery girl is that’s got me sneaking out all the time.”

Your heart stumbles again — that quiet ache blooming warm in your chest.

You shake your head lightly, teasing. “Mystery girl, huh?”

He smiles — slower now, gaze steady. “Not much of a mystery to me.”

You shift on your feet, glancing down at the half-eaten skewer in your hand, and then back up at him.

“...Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He nudges your shoulder lightly with his. “Guess I’ll tell Mom to set an extra place.”

You laugh, heart light now, the earlier nerves fading into something sweeter.

The two of you wander through the stalls after that — past rows of trinkets, candles, little charms and scarves. The air smells of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts, chatter rising from the crowd as the sun starts to dip lower.

You stop at one stall, all tiny hand-made charms and keychains lined up neatly on velvet cloth. Suguru’s already moved ahead a few steps, distracted by a stall selling old books, but something here catches your eye.

A pair of simple matching keychains — small wooden ones, carved with little protective sigils and tiny painted flowers. Subtle, but sweet.

Without overthinking it, you buy them — slipping the pair into your coat pocket.

When you catch up to him, you tug on his sleeve.

“What’s that?” he asks, amused, as you hold one out to him.

“For your bag,” you say simply, cheeks warming again. “So you can’t lose it.”

He watches you for a beat — then smiles, soft and bright. “You’re dangerous when you’re cute, you know that?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart flutters as he crouches slightly to let you clip the keychain onto the strap of his bag.

“Now you have to keep it on there,” you say, teasing, stepping back.

He straightens, giving the little charm a glance — then you. “I will.” His voice is soft, but certain. “I’ll keep it.”

You keep wandering a while longer, Suguru’s hand finding yours again as the crowd starts to thin with the setting sun. The lights strung across the street glow a little brighter now, soft against the early dusk.

You catch sight of a little photobooth tucked between two larger shops — a narrow thing with faded pink curtains and a bright sign above.

You tug on Suguru’s sleeve. “We should do that.”

He follows your gaze. “The booth?”

You grin. “Yeah. Come on — you owe me for letting you steal my dango.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You stole mine, remember?”

“Details,” you say, already pulling him toward it.

He doesn’t resist — just lets you lead him inside, the two of you ducking beneath the curtain. The space is small, the bench barely fitting both of you, but you slide in close without thinking.

Suguru leans in, shoulder pressed to yours. “You know these always come out ridiculous, right?”

“That’s the point.”

The machine beeps and you barely have time to grab his arm before the first flash goes off.

The next few seconds are a blur of laughing and leaning into each other, you sticking your tongue out on one shot, him grinning too wide on another. The last one — right before the final beep — you turn on impulse and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

The flash catches the exact moment his eyes go wide, surprised, the faintest blush creeping up his neck.

You’re still giggling when you step back out into the cool air, waiting for the little strip of photos to print.

When it does, Suguru takes it first — holding it up with a soft smile.

“I’m keeping this one,” he says, fingers brushing over the image of you kissing his cheek.

You grin, cheeks warm. “Fair. But I want a copy.”

The two of you linger a little longer — enough to wander past the last few stalls, the air now cooler against your skin.

Suguru glances up at the sky, “We should head back,” he says gently. “Before curfew.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He adjusts the strap on his bag, giving the new keychain a quick glance, and then falls into step beside you, fingers brushing yours again. You tuck your hands in your coat pockets, but stay close, shoulders almost touching as you walk.

The train ride back is quieter this time. You lean lightly against him as the car sways, the soft rumble of the tracks almost lulling you to sleep. Suguru says nothing, just lets you rest there.

By the time you reach campus, the air’s colder. The lights in the dorm windows glow soft against the dark.

At the path where your buildings split — his dorm to the left, yours to the right — you both stop.

Suguru turns to face you, hands deep in his coat pockets. “Thanks for today.”

You smile, heart still warm. “I should be thanking you.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer, the air between you soft and a little heavier than before.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

For a second, it almost feels like he might lean in — but instead, he lifts one hand, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek.

“Goodnight, pretty,” he says, voice low.

“Goodnight,” you echo, cheeks warm again.

And then, he turns, heading down the path toward his dorm.

You watch him go for a moment, heart still fluttering. Then turn toward your own, the cold air nipping at your cheeks.

<< prev | next >>

taglist: @twilightsumu @mik4kn0x @bubblegumcat229 @poopooindamouf @se-phi-roth @twinkling-moonlillie @11thlife02 @perqbeth @love-me-satoru @pillkits @not-a-glad-gladiator @xarnesss @irwinchester @myabae @linaaeatsfamilies @nanamisbbygirl @timedisappears @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @chewiebee @por0u @ppejmurde @ssetsuka @deathicus-sling @acowboykisser @kyungjunnies @pipteo0428 @juliarchiv3s @not-aya @laceymerolling

taglist is still open, comment on series masterlist to be added

[ceyanabbiolo]

PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [10]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming?

Warnings: kissing. slight angst.

wc: 5404

Chapter 10: Lilies Aren't Supposed to be Heavy

The lights were already on set when I arrived, the usual controlled chaos of a fashion shoot humming in the air—stylists brushing out fabrics, assistants checking gear, producers on their phones. I gave a polite nod to a few familiar faces as I walked in, camera bag slung across my shoulder and nerves buzzing beneath my skin.

This was my job. I could do this. I had to do this.

I spotted Matt almost immediately—how could I not? He stood near the backdrop in the clothes he was wearing, mid-conversation with the stylist, composed as ever. There was a drink in his hand, probably water, and his jaw was tight like it always was when he was trying to focus. 

He hadn’t seen me yet. Good.

I’d spent the past three days feeling like absolute shit. I knew better than to expect anything from him. Noah was right—no matter how kind Matt seemed, he was still a player. He doesn’t commit.

I just hated that I cried over it, like we’d broken up after five years together or something.

Not that he’d ever know. He’d never see how much it actually hurt.

I kept my head down and made my way to the photography setup. No stalling, no small talk—I loaded the camera, checked my lighting notes, and double-checked the memory card. I focused on the details like they’d keep me from remembering the night before. His voice. His hand reached for mine. 

“Daphne.”

His voice came from behind me. My spine stiffened automatically.

I turned, slow and steady. “Matt.”

He looked at me like he wanted to say a thousand things, but couldn’t say even one. I didn’t give him a chance to.

“I have the layout for the first series of shots,” I said, holding out the clipboard to him like a shield. “We’ll start studio, then go outside.”

He nodded, eyes scanning my face instead of the paper. “You look tired.”

I didn’t answer. I just turned away.

The shoot began, and I did what I always did—directed, adjusted, captured. I told him where to look, how to angle, and where to move. I praised the shots when they were right. I didn’t make eye contact if I could help it.

He was trying, though. I saw it in the way he lingered too long after each frame, like he wanted to say something. Like he thought this would be the moment I softened again, but I didn’t. 

Not this time.

An hour passed. Then another.

“Break in ten,” someone called out.

Matt walked toward me before I could escape.

“Daphne, wait.”

I exhaled through my nose and kept my voice neutral. “You need something for the next set?”

“No. I need to talk.”

“We're working.”

“I know.” His voice dropped lower. “But I miss you.”

My chest ached, but I didn’t let it show. Not yet. Not here. I could feel him behind me again.

“No,” I said quietly without turning, already knowing what he was about to say.

There was a long pause. Then his voice, quieter this time, was more resigned. “Alright.”

He let it go.

I didn’t watch him walk away, though a part of me wanted to. Instead, I reached for my camera again and threw myself back into work. I reviewed test shots, adjusted lighting with the team, and positioned the reflector for the next setup. The set buzzed around me, but my mind was sharp, zeroed in on the technical details—the aperture, the shadows, the framing.

Still, the atmosphere had shifted. The space between Matt and me felt tight. Unspoken words floated there, heavy and raw.

He stood in front of the backdrop again, a different jacket now, collar slightly turned up from changing. His hair was just a little off. Messier than usual. I knew the stylist had already walked off, probably assuming he’d keep it neat on his own.

I hesitated—then walked toward him, silently. He didn’t say anything as I stopped in front of him.

Gently, I lifted my hand and brushed a piece of hair back into place. Smoothed it down near his temple with quiet precision. His eyes didn’t leave my face. He didn’t flinch or lean in, just stood there like he didn’t want to breathe wrong.

I turned before he could speak and walked back to my camera.

Trying to stay professional, but my heart was pounding like I’d just kissed him.

The last shot had been taken, the lighting crew was already wheeling equipment off set, and the wardrobe team was gathering the scattered designer pieces that Matt had cycled through. I stayed behind, quietly organizing my things—carefully wrapping up cords, slipping memory cards into my case, and wiping down my lenses like muscle memory.

I could still feel his presence behind me. He hadn’t said much after that moment, after I fixed his hair.

Good. That’s how I needed it to be.

Still, I felt watched. Not in an uncomfortable way, just… in that way where you knew someone was waiting for you to say something you weren’t going to say.

I zipped up my gear bag and hoisted it over my shoulder, trying to keep my face blank, steady. The way I always did when I had to push my emotions down and leave them behind for the sake of getting through something.

I walked down the long hallway of the studio, the fluorescent lights humming faintly above me. My boots echoed against the floor, faster than usual. I just wanted to get out. Get fresh air. Clear my head.

The hallway outside the studio was quiet—just the faint hum of lights and the echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the concrete floors. My fingers gripped the strap of my camera bag a little tighter. I just needed to get out, breathe, and reset.

But then—A hand closed around my arm.

It wasn’t rough, but it was sudden, firm enough to stop me. My breath caught, and before I could even think, my body reacted.

I flinched. Hard. My shoulder yanked back as I spun around defensively, a choked gasp rising in my throat.

“Woah—sweetheart. Hey. It’s me. It’s just me.”

Matt.

His eyes were wide, shocked, hands already half-raised in surrender, like he realized too late what that moment had just done to me. I was frozen, my chest rising and falling too fast, my back pressed against the cool wall of the hallway.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly, carefully. “I—I just wanted to talk. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

I swallowed, blinking away the fog of panic as I tried to slow my breathing. My skin was prickling, my nerves on edge.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my voice barely a whisper. “That was just…don’t do that, please. Ever.”

His face dropped. “Fuck. Okay. I’m sorry. I won’t.”

He stepped back immediately, giving me space. Real space. His face looked stricken, like he’d just seen something he hadn’t expected—and I realized he probably had.

I tightened my grip on my bag, not trusting myself to say more. My body was still buzzing with leftover fear. I hadn’t been startled like that in a long time. Not since—

No. Not now. 

“I just…” he started again, quieter, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he spoke too loud. “I didn’t want to leave things like this.”

I exhaled sharply, hugging my arms around myself. “It’s fine, Matt. Honestly… it was stupid. All of it. The kiss… whatever it was. It never should’ve happened.”

His brows knit together as he stepped forward, but I didn’t stop.

“It was unprofessional,” I added, my voice more strained now. “And I shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place. I don’t expect anything from you, Matt. I swear, I don’t.”

“Daphne…” he murmured, his voice suddenly gentler.

But I kept going, as if I stopped now, I’d fall apart. “I get it. It didn’t mean anything. You don’t owe me an explanation, or feelings, or… whatever. We’re not anything. We never were.”

“That’s not true.”

I finally looked at him, and his jaw was tight now, frustration creeping in.

“That’s not true,” he repeated, stepping closer. “You think it didn’t mean anything to me?”

I stayed silent.

“You think I kissed you like that for fun? Like you were just someone I found in a bar?”

“I don’t know what to think, Matt,” I said quietly. ��You showed up and started being all flirty with me when…when you were just with someone else.”

He paused. “I didn’t plan that—”

“But it still happened,” I cut in. “And then you came here and looked at me like nothing had changed.”

Matt ran a hand through his hair, pacing once in the small space between us.

“You think I don’t think about it? About you?” he said, more to himself now. “About how I messed it up?”

I blinked. My heart thudded. 

He turned to face me again. “I don’t want to go back to pretending like we’re just coworkers.” 

"That’s the problem, Matt. I work for you…We agreed, and now everything’s messy. I just— I think it’s best if we stop talking. Or at least stop seeing each other outside of work.”

Matt’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue right away. He looked at me like he wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t figure out where to start.

“Daphne,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost careful. “You really want to pretend like none of it happened?”

I hesitated, but forced a nod. “Yeah. I think it’s best.”

His eyes flickered with something—disappointment maybe, or regret. “Even if I don’t want to?”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “You don’t get to say that now, Matt. Not after everything. You made your choice. And I’m just… cleaning up the pieces.”

He stepped closer, but I took a small step back.

“I’m not mad at you,” I added, softer now. “I just can’t do this. It’s too confusing. For me.”

He didn’t respond right away, just stood there, his hands clenched at his sides like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I just… either way, we’d never work,” I said quietly, forcing the words out before I could take them back.

Matt’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

I looked at him, heart pounding. “Because we’re too different, Matt. You know that.”

A pause.

“You think we wouldn’t work just because I’m known?” he asked, almost like the thought offended him. “Because people know who I am?”

I hesitated. “It’s not just that. It’s your lifestyle, your world—it’s loud. You’re everywhere, and I’ve always kind of been… nowhere. You’d never want someone like me long term.”

His jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t speak right away.

“And I’m not blaming you,” I continued, softer this time. “You’re used to a different kind of life. A different kind of girl.”

He stepped forward slightly, eyes locked on mine. “You really don’t think I’d want someone like you?”

I swallowed, unsure how to answer—because deep down, I wanted to believe he could. But everything in me was trying to protect my heart.

“I mean… you’re way more experienced than me,” I admitted, feeling the weight of my own words. “You’ve been through so much—relationships, everything. I haven’t, and that… it scares me sometimes. Not just that, but I’ve got a lot going on.”

Matt’s eyes softened, but a flicker of confusion crossed his face. “What do you mean, a lot going on?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s not like something crazy, but…It’s hard to explain.”

He nodded slowly, clearly wanting to understand but careful not to push too hard.

Then, I quickly shifted the conversation, trying to protect myself from opening up too much. “Besides, you’re Noah’s best friend. He’s my brother. He’d hate the idea of us together.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Noah would care that much?”

I nodded. “Yeah, Matt…you know him.  He’s annoyingly protective. Maybe too protective sometimes, but he’s always been the one looking out for me…so I respect him.”

Matt sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “So, I’m the bad guy if I want to be with you?”

I shook my head quickly. “No, it’s not that. It’s just complicated. Noah’s protective, and honestly, I don’t want to cause drama between you two. It’s already messy enough.” 

Matt shook his head, a calm but firm edge to his voice. “I don’t care about all that, Daphne. Noah’s my best friend, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to just walk away because he disapproves. I want you. That’s the truth.”

My heart skipped a beat, fluttering wildly, yet I kept a small part of myself guarded, careful not to get swept away too fast. I’d liked Matt for so long before — back when I was just a kid crushing from afar, when none of this was possible. But now? Hearing him say those words to me, openly, made my mind spin.

He was really standing here, saying he wanted me? Me?

The old feelings bubbled up, warmth mixing with caution. I fought to steady myself, to not get lost in what might never have been before but now felt so close.

Matt stepped closer, his hand lifting slowly to cup my face, the warmth of his palm sending a gentle heat through my skin. His thumb traced a soft, reassuring circle on my cheek as his eyes locked onto mine—steady, serious, and full of something I hadn’t dared hope for before: sincerity.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. “I never want you to feel like you’re just some complication... or like I’m just playing around. I’m not interested in anyone else. Not the way I feel about you.”

His words felt heavy and real, like they pressed into the space between us and settled there. My heart fluttered in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. I’d liked him for so long, but this was something different. The vulnerability in his eyes was new, and I found myself holding my breath, caught between disbelief and a cautious hope.

Part of me wanted to believe him completely, to reach out and close the small distance between us. But the other part—guarded and wary—reminded me of the walls I’d built up over the years, the ones he’d started to chip away at.

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “You mean that?”

Matt nodded, brushing his thumb once more along my cheek before letting his hand fall away reluctantly. “I do. You’re the only one I want right now, and I’ll prove that.”

For a moment, everything else faded—the noise, the doubts, the past. It was just him and me standing there, raw and real.

Matt leaned in slowly, giving me a moment to meet him halfway. His lips brushed gently against mine—a soft, chaste kiss that sent a flutter through my chest without overwhelming me. It was careful, respectful, and full of unspoken promises.

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes with that same earnestness. “I should get you home,” he said quietly. “Don’t want you out too late.”

I nodded, still a little breathless. “Okay.”

He offered me his hand, and I took it, feeling the steady warmth as we walked toward the door together.

I just hoped I wasn’t forgiving too fast.

MATTHEW

A week had flown by, and now we were back in LA. I had to be here again—two full weeks of meetings, shoots, business proposals, and people to see. Business never really stopped.

Daphne sat beside me in the car, her eyes fixed out the window, watching the city blur past. The late afternoon sun cast a soft glow over her face, and I couldn’t help but steal glances her way.

She didn’t say much, but I could tell her mind was racing, probably the same as mine. Two weeks here felt long, but with her by my side—even if just for the ride—it felt a little less lonely.

The past week felt...normal again. We went on late-night drives, took the bike out just because the weather was nice, grabbed food from our favorite spots, held hands, kissed, hung out for hours at my place, and even attempted cooking again.

We pulled up outside a sleek, modern building downtown. Daphne looked over at me, confusion flickering in her eyes.

“Is this the hotel?” she asked.

I shook my head with a small smile. “No, this is my LA apartment.”

She blinked, clearly surprised. “Am I staying here?”

“Yeah,” I said, unlocking the door. “I didn’t want you living in a hotel for two weeks. Everyone else on the trip has their places, so I figured you’d be more comfortable here.”

She hesitated, still unsure, but I could see the relief start to settle in.

“I even set up a nice room for you,” I added, stepping inside.

Her lips twitched into a tentative smile as she followed me in. “Well…thanks, Matt.”

We stepped into the elevator, the silence between us not uncomfortable, just quiet. The kind of quiet that settled when both people were tired but content. When we reached the penthouse, I unlocked the door and let her step in first.

Daphne’s eyes immediately wandered, taking in the soft lighting, the open floor plan, and the polished details of the space. “Wow,” she breathed. “I like it.”

I smirked, leaning against the door as I shut it behind us. “Boston or LA?”

She turned to me, confused. “What?”

“Which apartment of mine do you think is nicer?”

Her head tilted slightly as she thought. “Hmm… lowkey, the Boston one.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Really? Why?”

She gave a small shrug and walked further inside, setting her bag down. “It just feels more… homey. Lived-in, you know? This place is gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but Boston feels like you actually spend time there. Like it has warmth.”

I glanced around at the LA apartment, suddenly noticing how clean and perfect it looked. Sleek but cold. “That’s fair,” I said. “I guess Boston does have more…me.”

She turned back to me with a small smile. “Exactly.”

“Come on, I’ll show you your room,” I said, nodding for her to follow me down the short hallway off the main living space.

She trailed behind, her footsteps soft against the hardwood. I opened the last door on the right and stepped aside so she could go in first.

It was the nicest guest room I had—spacious, with soft lighting, neutral tones, and a huge window overlooking the city. I had someone come in earlier this week to set it up, just for her. Fresh sheets, new candles on the nightstand, and even stocked the bathroom with products I remembered she used. I didn’t want her to feel like she was staying in some temporary space—I wanted it to feel like hers. 

“This is…nice,” she said softly, walking in slowly. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bed, the duvet still perfectly folded. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

I leaned against the doorway, watching her take it in. “I wanted you to be comfortable. Two weeks in a hotel isn’t exactly ideal.”

She turned around to look at me, her brows still slightly pinched like she couldn’t quite believe it. “Matt…this is really thoughtful.”

I shrugged, trying not to overthink the warmth that bloomed in my chest at her reaction. “It’s just a room, Daphne.”

But it wasn’t. Not really.

She smiled gently. “Still…thank you.”

I nodded, meeting her eyes. “Make yourself at home.”

We sat on the balcony, plates balanced on our laps—takeout from one of my favorite Thai spots. The air was warm, a breeze tugging gently at Daphne’s hair as the low hum of traffic echoed in the distance.

A movie played quietly from my laptop, propped up on the small outdoor table between us. She had pulled a throw blanket over her legs and was nursing a bottle of water, eyes flickering between the screen and the view beyond the railing.

I leaned back in my chair, stretching a little, glancing sideways at her.

“So…this week’s gonna be busy,” I said, my voice cutting through the calm.

She turned toward me slightly, her plate still in hand. “Yeah…I saw your schedule.”

I watched her for a moment, her face lit softly by the glow of the laptop screen. She looked content, at ease in a way I didn’t always get to see. Her shoulders were relaxed, eyes drifting between the skyline and the quiet movie playing.

“You like the job so far?” I asked, tone casual, but the question wasn’t.

She turned her head slowly, meeting my eyes with a soft smile. “I do,” she said, nodding. “I actually feel… useful.”

That word stuck with me—useful. Not “fun,” not “cool,” not even “exciting.” Useful.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, watching her carefully. “You didn’t feel that before?”

She looked down, fiddling with the edge of the blanket on her lap. “This feels like I’m part of something. Like people actually care about what I have to say.”

My chest tightened a little. I didn’t like that it surprised her to be valued.

“I care what you have to say,” I said, voice low.

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine again. Something passed between us—unspoken, but full. Her lips parted slightly, like she was going to say something back, but then she just smiled and looked away.

I let the moment breathe.

“You’re not just useful, Daphne,” I added. “You’re… important. To the team.”

She gave a soft, quiet laugh, almost like she didn’t know how to accept the compliment.

“I mean it,” I said. “Just look how quickly everyone on set started just going with your opinions..”

That made her glance over again. This time, she didn’t look away. Her cheeks were faintly flushed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said honestly. “Not just in LA. Just… here.”

She gave me the kind of look that made the noise of the city below fade away. Then she whispered, “Me too.”

leaned back in the chair, stretching my legs out as I glanced at her again, still curled up under the blanket, hair tousled from the breeze. Something about how natural she looked here made the apartment feel warmer.

“You should explore the city a bit,” I said after a pause.

She looked over, surprised. “By myself?”

I nodded. “Yeah. When I’m out handling meetings or shoots, don’t feel like you have to just stay inside all day. LA’s big… you’ll like parts of it, I think.”

She tilted her head. “You sure?”

“Of course,” I said. “There’s a car here you can use, or I can get you a driver if that makes you more comfortable.”

“I’m okay with the car,” she said slowly, as if still unsure.

I gave her a small smile. “Think of it like a little working vacation. You do the shoots, but the rest of the time… go out. Take your camera. ” 

She nodded slowly, her eyes tracing the skyline in the distance before flicking back to me. “Have you talked to Noah?”

I paused for a second, then nodded. “Just messages here and there. He’s been busy again as soon as he got back. Said he had a couple of case submissions and work stacked up.”

She hummed, almost to herself. “He’ll probably be back for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning forward, resting my arms on the railing. “I figured. He always makes it home for Christmas. No matter what.”

She nodded again, a small smile on her lips. “It’s his favorite holiday.”

I rolled my eyes playfully, “Tell me about it, I know.” 

I looked over at her again.

The soft city glow bounced off her face, catching in her eyes — those deep brown eyes that always looked like they were holding a thousand quiet thoughts behind them. Her lashes curled just right, long and natural, and her gaze kept flicking between the sky and the buildings like she was taking in every detail.

I didn’t even realize I was staring until she turned toward me, her brows pulling together just slightly.

“What?” she asked, a little self-conscious.

I leaned back slightly, lips twitching at the corners. “You have really pretty eyes.”

Her face softened with surprise. “What?”

I nodded. “Like… doll eyes. Big, kind of glassy. Intense, but soft.”

A shy smile tugged at her lips, and she looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “Thanks.”

I didn’t add anything else. I didn’t need to. 

I reached out, gently brushing my fingers against her arm—just a small touch, absentminded almost, like I’d done a dozen times before. However, the second my skin met hers, she flinched. A slight body jolt.

My hand froze.

“Whoa,” I said softly, pulling back. “You’re jumpy.”

She looked at me quickly, eyes wide like she hadn’t meant to react that strongly. “Sorry,” she muttered. 

I studied her face. The way she tried to smooth it over, swallow whatever just surfaced. She was holding something back.

“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “do I scare you?”

She shook her head quickly, almost too quickly. “No, it’s just—I wasn’t expecting it. It caught me off guard.”

I frowned slightly. “You’ve been flinching whenever I touch you.”

She looked away for a moment, then mumbled, “I guess I just… drift off sometimes.”

I didn’t believe that. Not fully. But I also knew not to press. Not yet. Whatever it was, she wasn’t ready to talk about it, and pushing her would only make her shut down more.

I exhaled slowly. “Okay,” I said gently. “But you should know—I would never hurt you. Not ever.”

Finally, she met my eyes again. This time, she reached out and took my hand, their fingers intertwining with mine.

“I know,” she whispered.

I didn’t push any further.

Still, the way she reacted sometimes was becoming harder and harder to overlook.

I exhaled slowly. “Okay,” I said gently. “But you should know—I would never hurt you. Not ever.”

Finally, she met my eyes again. This time, she reached out and took my hand, their fingers intertwining with mine.

“I know,” she whispered.

I didn’t push any further.

Still, the way she reacted sometimes was becoming harder and harder to overlook.

I squeezed her hand lightly, hoping to give her some quiet reassurance. The night air around us was cool, but something about the stillness between us felt heavy, like there was more she wanted to say but couldn’t quite find the words for.

Daphne was still holding my hand, her thumb brushing lightly across mine. I glanced at her, and something about the way she looked back—soft, open, trusting—made my heart clench.

I shifted a little closer. “Can I kiss you?”

She didn’t answer with words—just nodded, barely, and I moved in slowly, giving her every second to change her mind.

Our lips met softly, tentative at first. I felt her exhale against me, like she’d been holding her breath. I didn’t push. I let her come to me.

And she did.

Her hands moved to the back of my neck, fingers curling in my hair as she deepened the kiss. I could feel her relax into it, melting slowly, like she was letting herself feel safe.

I kept one hand resting on her cheek, the other on her waist. Nothing rushed. Nothing demanding. Just her, and me, and the quiet night around us.

Her breathing hitched when we pulled back, our foreheads still resting together.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice low.

She nodded, lips barely parted. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

I kissed her again.

This time, a little longer. A little deeper.

Her hands slid up my chest, resting over my heart like she was steadying herself. I kept my palm gently cradling the back of her neck, my thumb brushing just beneath her ear. I felt her body lean into mine, her trust in every movement—soft, unspoken, and real.

She smelled like lilies. Subtle and clean, the scent clung to her like a second skin, and for a moment, it was all I could breathe in. It was intoxicating.

My other hand moved slowly—to her back, then up to her shoulder, trailing along the curve of her arm. I wasn’t rushing, just mapping out the feeling of her through careful, thoughtful touch. I could feel the slight tremble in her chest and pulled her in just a bit more, wanting her to know she was safe. 

Her breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t pull away.

I broke the kiss for a moment, just long enough to whisper, “You’re okay.”

She nodded, and I kissed her again—slower this time.

Everything about her—her warmth, her softness, the quiet way she held onto me—made it impossible to think about anything else.

This wasn’t just physical.

It never was. Not with her. I wasn’t going to let myself forget that.

My fingers brushed the hem of her shirt, then slid down, gently finding the soft waistband of her pajama pants. I wasn’t thinking—just lost in the moment, lost in her.

However, the second I tugged on it, just slightly, she pulled back.

Not harshly. Not with fear, but with a suddenness that spoke volumes.

She smiled quickly, like she was trying to cover the shift in her energy, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“I-I should probably get some sleep,” she said lightly, not meeting my eyes. “We have a long week.”

I studied her for a second.

The hesitation was there—quiet, unspoken, but real. Though she didn’t say it out loud, I knew I’d crossed some invisible line, however gently. 

“Yeah,” I said softly, backing up a bit. “Of course.”

I didn’t want to make her feel like she owed me anything. Especially not her comfort.

She turned to fluff the pillows on the couch, her movements casual, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah… night, sweetheart.”

She gave a small wave before slipping away toward the guest room. The door clicked softly behind her.

I leaned my head back, and I was certain. 

She was holding something in. I could see it in her eyes, even when she smiled. No matter how normal she acted, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering her. 

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: I can't believe 10 chapters are already out? like helloo?? Anyway, the rocky road is starting *winks* like and reblog! mwah] –ceyana

Tags: @oopsiedaisydeer @ribbonlovergirl @mattsfrenchtoast @lm-a-mirrorball @urlocallera @kingofeverythingmb @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @malox12 @sturnslux3 @carrielovesmatt @vanillakissesxx @sagesturns @enviedparty101 @kiarasmaybank @mattscore @fmg05 @mattsdiva @kenah-sturniolo @tropicfessed @courta13 @meatballlover10 @ellssturn @idkwhatthisis2009 @mattspillowprincess @chrissturniolodailysluts @babyt0matoes @angelxsturns @mattsbabyangel

(Comment "taglist" on this post to be added to list!)

[crimsoncandy04]

I had another vision yesterday from my other self. Another wholesome encounter but it still felt cute so I had to share.

It basically went like this.

Wanderer leads you to some secluded place in the outskirts of Fontaine. Insisting that

"You wanted to go out more. I'm just doing as asked. If you had something in mind, you should have been more specific. Now stop asking questions. You're lucky I'm even doing this for you in the first place."

As you two come to a pause in the middle of some old ruins overlooking the sea, suddenly Wanderer turns and faces you for a second. He then pulls out something from his pocket and holds it out for you. Quickly looking away from you as you marvel at it.

"Here. Just something I had lying around. You can have it."

You accept his gift. It's a hand woven bracelet made of black rope. It has a bunch of intricate little patterns in it that you just know took a long time to weave into place so you know what he says next is a lie.

"This means nothing. So don't tell anyone I made it for you or anything. It's simply a means of repayment. I got what I wanted. And now you have something to show for it."

You slip the bracelet on and smile warmly at Wanderer who scoffs in return. Lowering his gaze and making his hat obscure his face from your observation.

"Oh my god... Wanderer I love this! It's so pretty! Thank you!"

"Tch. Yeah right. Just don't go getting any ideas. I'm no lover boy. You should know that by now."

"I don't expect you to be anything you don't feel comfortable with. Besides I like you how you are now. You may not believe me. But it's true. I care about you a lot."

"You shouldn't say things like that for no reason you know? Not unless you plan to back your words up. Otherwise don't even bother. I see no point in such meaningless professions."

"Then I will prove it to you. I'm still here aren't I? Well for your information I don't plan on leaving either. And you can't make me. So don't bother trying."

You smirk at the man before you and for a second you both share a rare but brief second of eye contact. His gaze spoke a thousand things his lips refused to utter aloud and yours only a relentless understanding and affection. He knew you were being honest and for some reason this both comforted and irritated him.

But he'd never in a million years even consider pushing you away now.

No.

You had been closer to him than any other human. In ways that he'd never speak of in front of outside ears. And to him that was what made you and your bond with him something worth holding onto. Even if it was foreign to him and he often relied on you to give him subtle guidance and patience while learning to navigate the unfamiliar seas of emotion.

"Stubborn woman. Well, if you insist on being a thorn in my side for the foreseeable future, then I suppose I should expect to see you more often."

He starts walking again after that and you happily scurry after him. He slows a little for you but rolls his eyes anyway.

"Keep up. I'm not stopping for you again. If you fall this time, I'm leaving you on the side of the road."

"I'll grab your leg and drag you down with me. Then we'll both be stuck in the mud." You giggle playfully as he lets you intertwine your hand in his without complaint. Silently letting you know that he'd carry you again even if you weren't tired.

He gives you a smirk then as you both head back to your house.

"I'd like to see you try."

"You're on!"

You chuckle a little then as the stars twinkle above you. You loved your little walks together and were sad to see him go once he dropped you off at your house. But you trusted Wanderer enough to know that he'd always be back for you.

And he'd never forsake you.

[surferboypizza]

a note on 'need'

i saw a post the other day about addiction: when an interest decreases the range of things that make you happy, it's not a healthy interest.

i think the way that el needs mike – the kind of interest in him she shows – is just like that, not just with happiness but with self-worth and normalcy, too:

el relies on mike and only mike to give her validation, to make her feel happy, valued, loved, normal. (that is, expect for that brief time in s3 where she hung out with max and dumped his ass and we all cheered, plus the latter part of s4.) and it comes from things like her superpowers, her saving the world, and her appearance as a 'normal girl' – all things that don't really have to do with el's inherent value as a person.

el's arc is about detaching herself from that need, as OP said. it's like they say: give a man a fish and he'll be fed for a day, but teach a man to fish and he'll be fed for a lifetime. she's teaching herself to fish, finding validation within herself, thus opening herself up to greater joys and a higher, more sustainable self-worth.

the way that mike needs el is the exact same: he sees her as his sole source of normalcy, his only avenue to being seen as a respectable person, and relies on her to fulfil that role. and while she loves him and kisses him and writes him letters, she never really shows him why she values him as a person, why he couldn't easily be replaced by any old teenage boy. he expresses this insecurity in the van: he worries he's not good enough for her, because she never expresses valuing him as anything more deep than 'boyfriend'. (i obviously don't think they ACTUALLY don’t value each other as people, and i think el and mike really love each other, but not as a boyfriend/girlfriend, that's my point here)

now, the way that mike and will need each other is different: will is a perfectly healthy, functional person without mike's validation (supernatural trauma notwithstanding). he doesn't need mike like el does; but he is made happier by him, not in a way that cuts off his ability to derive happiness from other things but in a way that makes him feel better about himself. mike makes him feel like he's not a mistake and like he's better for being different; he makes will's internal sense of worth grow rather than binding will's worth to himself as the only source, like he did (unintentionally ofc) with el.

will does the same thing for mike in making him feel like a hero, letting him know that he's a good person who can do great things – again, it's a case of increasing his range of happiness rather than decreasing it by showing that his worth is an inherent part of himself.

because true happiness comes from within.

in this sense, will teaches mike to fish, so to speak, and vice versa – while el and mike are one another's go-to fishmongers. and they've got a membership with them now so it really doesn't make sense not to shop there, right? even though the fish isn't very high-quality. even though they only sell just enough so that the other doesn't starve. even though they're running out of money to offer in return.

El's Arc - "Pretty" to "Bitchin'"

tagging @gayofthefae and @hawkinsschoolcounselor bc their posts really help me with my analyses and i wouldn't be making posts without them xoxo

As I said in my post earlier, I have been rewatching seasons 1 and 2 and I've kind of pieced together some separate scenes of El to gather into this really interesting arc about her self-discovery and her self-image after leaving the lab. My guess is that the majority of this arc spans S1 and 2 and perfectly carries on into S3 and 4 where she really has her self-discovery arcs. Also keep in mind there are many many facets to her full character arc, and this is probably just one of many. I'm not an El expert per se, I've never analysed her this much in depth before, but I'll try my best :))

Also, this is not a pro-mileven post, in case you were wondering.

Basically, I've noticed that there are certain repeated words referring to El, and things that she keeps repeating in S1 and S2. From the beginning of S1 and sometimes in S2, she refers to things as "pretty". Later on, she stops referring to things as pretty and instead repeats the words "bitchin'" instead.

Basically, my guess is that pretty symbolically refers to her wishing she could be a normal girl, have a normal, non-lab childhood. Bitchin' refers to her embracing her powers and who she is as a person. At least by the end of S2 and in S3. By S4, she's using Bitchin' to impress Mike again, because she wants her powers back for him to love her again.

This arc is also tied to her wanting Mike to validate her as what she wants to be - a normal girl with a normal life. However, by the end of the arc in S2, she starts to become her own person.

Let's actually begin:

Here is the first mention of the word pretty.

She's referring to Nancy here, looking at the pictures on the mantle of Mike's family who live in the classic, nuclear family, normal lifestyle. She sees the good-girl daughter Nancy Wheeler, and calls her pretty. She isn't just simply calling her pretty though, to me, she's encapsulating everything she sees in this image.

A regular girl, with long neat hair, good clothes etc. El does not see herself as this in the slightest.

Mike's response is to say "I guess" - which makes sense because it's his sister and he's kind of annoyed by everything she does at the beginning of this season. Mike notes that El called her pretty.

The next, arguably the most important, scene is of El looking around Nancy's room. This scene has no other purpose other than to perpetuate this particular arc that she wants to be like Nancy, that she wants to have a normal childhood.

So far, the scenes of her looking around Mike's house have been her finding things that trigger a flashback to her childhood in the lab. This scene in Nancy's room is the last one where she's looking around the Wheeler house alone. The previous scenes which trigger her lab memories are showing her real childhood.

The Nancy's room scene shows the childhood she wishes she had.

The camera pans around Nancy's room, from El's perspective, who is looking at it in wonderment. So far, she's only seen Mike's room. This is a girl's room and she's a girl, so she's seeing what she wanted as a kid.

Here, she's getting emotional over a music box tune. Music box tunes often elicit themes of early childhood and infancy, also calmness and peace. Her getting emotional over it portrays that she's trying to remember something from her own infancy, but her infancy has never been as calming as a music box.

The music that plays in the background of this scene also has notes very similar to a music box. These musical motifs are often associated with "childhood, nostalgia or gentle, whimsical feelings".

The next thing that is extremely important for this arc, is the fact that El gets very emotional over looking over pictures that Nancy has up in her room of her childhood. There are pictures of little Nancy looking happy, doing normal things, hanging with her best friend Barb, looking like the classic young girl with a happy childhood. El is clearly yearning for that in this scene after remembering so many awful things from her childhood.

This scene is the scene where she basically gains the desire to become Nancy - which is portrayed using the word pretty.

Also keep in mind that El probably knows how she looks - not like the typical girl. So when the boys suggest taking her to the middle school and Lucas says that they can't do that because....

....of her appearance, this reinforces her idea of needing to look "pretty" in order to feel like a normal girl with a normal life.

So she gets a make over by the boys - who are the ones to decide what they think makes a normal looking girl. Keep in mind that the make up and the dress and the wig were not her choices.

So after all this pining over Nancy's childhood and looking like Nancy - when Mike, the person who has taken care of her from the beginning of the season, the person who she's definitely attached to by now, calls her pretty - she must feel pretty gratified. She's achieved looking like a normal girl, even if it's just a costume. This isn't just about her looking like a girl that Mike finds pretty either, this is about her looking like Nancy. Who is his sister. Huh okay definitely romantic asf....

Eventually, Mike covers it up by saying pretty good, which El then decides to repeat into the mirror. She looks extremely emotional in this scene where she's looking at herself - and it's important that Mike is also seen in the mirror because, as we see later on, he becomes part of her desire to have a normal life. Part of her normal image.

After all, he's the one to give her a "normal" name: El. The first thing that gives her identity.

The most important thing to note here is that she is literally wearing Nancy's dress. The first interaction that El and Nancy have is about the fact that El is dressing up as her, which makes perfect sense.

Another strange thing to do with Mike kind of inadvertently referring to El as her family, which further gratifies El's desire to be a part of the normal Wheeler family, is the fact he calls her his cousin:

The next biggest turning point of her arc in S1 is when she uses her powers to harm somebody again - Lucas. This brings her mind back to the lab and her very abnormal childhood, especially when Mike says "What's wrong with you!" - basically showing that her using her powers for bad and not being the perfect normal girl is not what he wants. (Although this isn't actually why he says this, this is just how it looks to El). This is very clearly tied to her arc surrounding opening the UD gate, and feeling like she's a monster for doing this.

When she runs away, she roughens up her clothing and her wig. When she looks into a "mirror", the lake, and sees her true appearance and how wrong the wig looks now, she gets extremely angry at herself.

This encapsulates her arc perfectly because it shows the anger at herself for using her powers incorrectly, and shows the anger at herself for not actually looking or acting like a normal girl would - since the dress and the wig were always going to just be costume pieces. She's aware that she doesn't look like a regular girl, maybe she's even aware that she looks like a boy.

This idea keeps being perpetuated by many characters in the first season.

Which I'm sure just makes her feel more like a freak.

When El arrives back at home, again without the wig and with the dress all messed up and dirty, she looks again to Mike for that reassurance that she is still normal even without the costuming.

To me, this is not romantic, and none of the times that he calls her pretty or her wanting him to call her that are. This is her wanting reassurance that she is just a normal girl still, due to her trauma, even though Mike has surely reassured her that she's not a monster. So when he says, albeit weirdly, that she's still pretty (because he wants her to be happy, as you can tell by his tone), she looks back at the mirror, emotional and smiling. This greatly contrasts to her looking in the lake and screaming at her reflection.

She needs Mike to feel normal - just like he needs her to feel normal oh! Twinning <3

Basically, we've established that she believes she wants to be a part of the Wheeler family to feel normal and like she has a normal childhood. Mike is very much part of that picture. This is reinforced when he paints a picture of her perfect ideal scenario of living a normal life when all the upside down stuff is over:

Mike: "My mom, she's a pretty awesome cook. She can make you whatever you like... Well, yeah, Eggos but real food too." *Sighs* "See, I was thinking, once all of this is over and Will's back and you're not a secret anymore, my parents can get you an actual bed for the basement... My point is, they'll take care of you. They'll be like your new parents, and Nancy will be like your new sister."

El:

She doesn't know her feelings. If she knows what romantic feelings are anyways, she clearly doesn't feel any here, otherwise she would make a disgusted face rather than a curious one. After Mike refuses this idea, that's when she seems legitimately disappointed, because he's taking away her chance at what she wants:

No matter what you say about Mike's behaviour in this scene, this is not romantic at all. oh my god - she literally doesn't think that there's a possibility for romance here. She's being presented as this naive "born sexy yesterday trope" nonsense, I hate it when people think this scene is super cute. I mean yeah, it might be innocent, but innocent in this icky way i cant even-

She ends up pressing him for an answer, and this is where she gets a new idea of a normal girl life: being taken to the Snow Ball by Mike. Being taken to a dance at a school seems like a very normal girl, normal childhood thing to do. She just wants a life where she's not this lab creature she thinks she is, and Mike is providing her with that.

This is how Mike Wheeler explains that incest is wrong guys

Also El keeps pressing and says "No? You can't?" and it's like she keeps wanting to be his sister and getting confused whenever he takes that away from her 😭

When El then asks Mike what he means, he says that you don't even go with a friend, but he never actually says that he likes her, and just decides to kiss her - which he expects her to understand as a romantic gesture I guess. She doesn't know. All she knows is that Mike thinks she's special, Mike is going to help her feel normal and have a normal life.

He is the image of a normal life.

So when she almost gets captured again by the abusive father figure that made her feel like a monster, the one who raised her in a lab where she feels like a fucking experiment, of course she is going to reach for Mike, who is her chance at a normal life. Reaching away from one familial figure to the next.

^^ This bit isn't simply her reaching for someone she trusts or loves, it's about her desperately trying to claw her way back to her only chance at safety.

Then we have the scene that basically confirms this whole thing 100 times over:

Mike: "The bad man's gone. We'll be home soon and my mom...she'll get you your own bed. You can eat as many Eggos as you want....... And we can go to the Snow Ball."

She wants this life. This isn't just about her wanting to be romantic with Mike - the writers didn't just have Mike say about the Snow Ball. They had him promise all the other desirable, familial things that El wants too. She wants him to promise that he will give her a normal life, and he does.

Could go on a complete tangent about how "Promises" are presented as something that can never ever be broken by Mike - meaning Mike gets trapped in this loop over and over of knowing that he's promised El a normal life. Even if his own feelings change, he has promised to provide her normalcy. Oof.

Onto Season 2. This theme of familial love and found family is very much carried on into Season 2, but not in the same way. El has sacrificed herself at the end of Season 1, and has tried to return to the Wheeler household, only to find that she is not welcome.

El is then trapped by Hopper. She shows a desire not just to leave to see Mike, but she shows a desire to leave to go trick or treating, aka the most normal childhood thing to do on Halloween. She just wants to be a kid like everyone else. Meaning, whenever she wants to leave to see Mike, she's trying to leave to have a normal life.

(Also, she only learns how to have a romantic relationship through Romcoms and dramatic romances on TV. Not through her own desires. Her relationship with Mike isn't part of her self-discovery journey, it's an obstacle)

For me, this desire for normalcy is basically proven in the fact that when she finds out there is ANOTHER chance at having a normal life (through finding her mother) she completely abandons the Mike thing and decides to go through that route instead. This is also likely because she keeps trying to contact Mike, but he never sees her, and when she goes to the school, she believes he's moved on without her. So she gives up and takes another route to normalcy.

Now for the moment that inspired this whole post. I just really needed to get out my thoughts about this:

El looks around what was supposed to be her childhood bedroom. Paralleling the scene in S1 where she looks around Nancy's room, yearning for a normal childhood.

PRETTY.

This is definitive proof that the word "pretty" has nothing to do with her wanting to be called beautiful by Mike or something. She's not just calling a teddy bear pretty. She's reminiscing on her old desires to be like Nancy. She reminiscing on her old desires for a normal childhood. She's thinking about the possibility of if she was never taken to the lab, she would have been in this bedroom.

The way she says it too, it's with this sad tone. Like she's kind of resigning herself to actually not having a normal life - seeing as she's arrived to her one chance at it and seeing that her mother is unresponsive.

"Bitchin'"

This season is where we fully see El embrace her powers. We all love to hate on Episode 7 of Season 2, but it's actually really really important to her character. We see her be scared that Brenner is back and ready to take her home to her abnormal childhood. We see her channeling her anger. We see her come to embrace what makes her different.

When she comes back, she looks completely different. But not in a "normal" way. She looks......

No longer pretty - aka normal. She's embracing her powers and her true self. Hopper also backs this up - it's important that he is the first person to embrace this because earlier in the season, he was the one to stifle her true self.

This word is then further associated with her finding herself in Season 3, which is where she kind of regresses back into not knowing who she is at the start of the season. She defines herself as Mike's girlfriend, and he's basically the only person she sees. The reason for this? He's the only one that makes her feel normal and happy. If someone out there calls this super romantic and not signs of an insecure attachment I'll throw my psychology degree hands okay

After she hangs out with Max, she no longer thinks she needs Mike. Max is now the one that makes her feel good - she's the one that doesn't just make her feel normal, but makes her feel free.

When El tarts becoming her own person, and in this season she really really embraces her powers, she calls herself this word again:

In some ways, I think this is just fan service to the line in Season 2 LMAO because S3 was ripe with fan service but I can really see this as just being her looking for validation for her new self from Mike again. Her being a "badass' superhero is what he puts on a pedestal. Her powers are important to her sense of self, and when someone that you are attached to puts you on that pedestal because of your powers..... well.....

When those powers are taken away, you feel the need to create a new version of yourself.

And Season 4 is where El reinvents herself and regresses backwards in her arc. She's, yet again, trying to create the normal girl, normal life. She knows that Mike had put her on a pedestal for having super powers, and she's afraid that if her powers aren't good enough for him, and if she shows flaws when she has no powers, then he'll view her as a monster.

This all stems back to her original storyline in Season 1. See, it all comes full circle.

Now, back to this word. Pretty is no longer used. But bitchin' takes on a new meaning. It is the new "pretty".

El seeks validation from Mike again, wanting to seem like she has a normal life, a cool life that he desires and something that he'll show love for. She needs him to like this idealised version of her without flaws, with friends and good grades and someone who goes to fun parties at a roller rink:

Then we see El go through her Season 4 arc which I just cannot begin to summarise, but I'll try to show what it means for this metaphor of her needing Mike to validate her:

Mike finds out about her lies, but she hides from him and refuses his initial comfort. She then acts violently and very out of the line from her idealised version she created.

The way he reacts reminds her of her old, abusive father figure who made her feel like an experiment. (again links to the old S1 arc)

Mike then refuses to talk to her, making her believe that he views her as a monster. She already thinks that he doesn't love her anymore because of the no powers thing.

He calls her a 'superhero' despite her really not feeling like one.

She throws the words back at Mike in a note later. Basically telling him that she no longer needs him to tell her that she's a superhero for her to feel like one.

In the lab, she figures out that she was never the monster. This is extremely important because she does this without needing Mike to tell her that he loves her.

When Mike does tell her that he loves her, it is no longer satisfying because she doesn't need this anymore. He also continues to call her a superhero.

Mike makes El feel normal - he gives her that stability that she was craving since she was extremely young. She just wants a normal childhood. After embracing her powers, she realises that in order for Mike to love her, she needs to have badass powers like a superhero, meaning when she loses them, she reinvents herself as a normal girl again. When she shows flaws, her powers no longer "make up" for them, so she thinks Mike views her as a monster. She wants him to tell her he loves her for her to stop feeling like one. She figures out she was never the monster by herself in S4. Mike continues to put her on a pedestal and overexaggerates her powers in the love monologue, which is no longer needed because she has figured out she...

DOESN'T NEED MIKE

but yknow who does??? will... okay bye guys this took me for ever

[seriouslycalamitous]

The chapter today was phenomenal. I had to stop multiple times to tweak out bc of the tension 😭 i was scared for how the avoidance would go but I’m really happy with the way you wrote it out! Didnt expect drunk Grian to be unknowingly charismatic- at least to Scar lmao

Bro was freaking out all chapter 😭

Lowkey me too…

I was also just wondering, you don’t have to answer if it gives anything away, but I was wondering how Gem’s power worked? I know it’s different from the original series because otherwise it would be too powerful, but what is she able to do?

ANYWAYS I LOVE YOUR FIC SO MUCHHH! I had to get bloodwork today but knowing i could go home and read your fic made me feel better

I'd be happy to answer! Gem's power, Radar, is a wave of detection that she can send out once every few minutes. It can pass through thin walls and obstacles around a certain proximity to her body, and works like a sonar scan to create a map within her head that shows her wear every high point of heat is located.

It's helpful in hostage situations, while tracking down hiding enemies, and if used tactically, can help predict where an attack will come from during a fight. It's hard to surprise her or hide from her, with the singular exception being when she's used her power recently. The only downside is that it renders her immobile for several seconds while her consciousness washes over her surroundings and then returns to her mind to give her the report.

It's supposed to be similar but not the same as her Wild Life power, since becoming a literal ghost is kind of impossible to work with inside the rules of a story without making her a major major problem lol

[livelaughlovesubs]

To be an otherworldly being, another species, someone who goes against all laws of nature, how wonderful that’d be

Humans fear you if you show your true self, they run and wish to get rid of you

Yet here is this one particular human who doesn’t seem to mind

He, who loves you unrequited, unconditionally:

Who trusts you with ever Fieber of his soul and body

Who allows you to carry out your instincts on him

Who doesn’t mind being your prey for all of enternity

Who is jealous when you carry out your carnal needs on other humans

Who turns a blind eye to all the disasters that comes with being with you

Who gasps in awe when you show him your abilities

Who smiles when you turn to him for solace, showing all these vulnerabilities you never dared to act upon

Who makes you wish you could tear your heart out and gift it to him

Who is helpless with you yet strong at the same time

Who feels safe in your embrace

In the embrace of a monster

[the-cookie-of-doom]

The alpha greets Kinn with Kim at his side, a possessive hand on the back of his neck forcing Kim to keep his head bowed. He gnashes his teeth against the radiating command of submit, submit, submit. He refuses to look at his brother, even when he hears Kinn’s sharp inhale. 

Oh, Kim is certain he makes quite a shocking sight. His alpha has been kind enough to allow him pants for this meeting, a pair of filthy days-old sweats that still stink of his heat. The rest of his body is left bare. Every last mark on his body—the bruises sucked and beaten into his flesh, the scratches raked into his skin—is on display. And the crowning jewel—the still-healing bite in Kim’s neck, too high to even think of hiding it, barely scabbed over and flushed an angry red. 

“Kim—” 

The alpha digs his claws into Kim’s nape and he snarls, jerking in the unforgiving grip. He’s half-feral with fury and doesn’t care at all about the sticky warmth now dripping down his spine. 

“Thank you for the gift,” the alpha says smoothly, dragging Kim into his side. He fights it, digging his own claws into his palms. He will not submit. “Not as docile as an omega should be, but it was a pleasure to break him in nonetheless.” 

Kinn, forever wearing his heart on his sleeve, stands there struck dumb. Kim wants to yell at him, to demand he do something, say something, anything other than stand there, his silence an admission of his weakness. But Kim, trembling beneath the force of fury and fear and that fucking command, pulsing through their bond, can’t force the words to come. 

“I believe we have business to discuss,” Kinn finally manages, a small relief, even if his voice is tight with barely restrained horror and hatred. 

“Yes. Let’s find somewhere more comfortable. Come along, darling.”

As if Kim has a choice. He’s led by neck as the alpha turns on his heel and begins walking down the hall. Is it a deliberate choice to pass the room where Kim was forced to spend his heat, the thick, cloying scent of it still wafting out as they pass? It must be. Kim feels the charge in the air, Kinn’s hackles rising. 

Kinn wants to kill him. The alpha that has taken what does not belong to him. He wants to protect his pack. Kim wants to tell him it’s too late for that. Years too late. Their father ensured a long time ago that there was nothing left to protect Kim from, no torment he’s been spared. Nothing he hasn’t learned to endure, just as he will continue to endure this. 

Kim catches Kinn’s eyes only long enough to shake his head. Slowly, so that his brother will understand. 

What’s done is done, he wills his brother to understand. Kim has already sacrificed himself to his brother’s cause. If Kinn ruins it all now in the name of hollow vengeance—it will have all been for nothing. The violation, the mutilation, a bite mark in his flesh that will scar into an unbreakable bond, forever tying him to this thing that is less than a man. Kim needs his sacrifice to be worth it. 

This alpha will get what’s coming to him someday. Kim will make sure of it. But when that day comes, it will be his hand that delivers the killing blow. It’s the least of what he’s owed.

[subaru-meteorlight]

💫.

[cartoonghosts]

how to make more people like my friends. How to make people be nicer to my friends (no killing). How to conjure people who are nice to my friends. How to kill people

[yume-no-miya]

look i love making sae be the one who's so in love and showering hajun with so much love and affection but it's much more fun to think that HE fell harder than her

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

Other Parts: Housewardens; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Trey Clover

The argument wasn’t a loud one—no shouting, no slamming doors—just tense words exchanged with too much weight behind them. Trey’s voice had been steady, but his usual patience was stretched thin.

You, equally frustrated, had decided that the best course of action was to remove yourself before either of you said something you’d regret.

So, with a sigh, you grabbed a blanket and made your way to the couch, settling in with your back turned toward the bedroom.

Trey let out a heavy exhale behind you, but he didn’t stop you.

You shifted, adjusting the blanket, willing yourself to fall asleep. It didn’t work. The room was too quiet, too heavy with the remnants of unspoken words. You half-expected Trey to leave you there and go to bed, but then—soft footsteps. A rustle of fabric.

Kneeling beside the couch, Trey placed a hand on the cushion near your arm. His voice was quiet, steady in a way that made something in your chest ache.

“Come back to bed.”

You closed your eyes. “Not yet.”

A pause. Then, a soft sigh. Trey stood. For a moment, you thought he was giving up, finally going to bed without you. The thought left an unexpected hollowness in your chest.

But then, after a few minutes, he returned. You smelled the milk before you saw it—the faint scent of vanilla and honey curling through the air. When you cracked an eye open, there he was, sitting on the floor near the couch, a mug in his hands. He held it out to you.

“Here,” he said. “I know you have trouble sleeping when you’re upset.”

You blinked at him, heart squeezing against your ribs. “Trey…”

He didn’t push, didn’t insist. He just waited, his eyes gentle, patient in the way only he could be.

And just like that, your frustration melted. You took the mug, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. Trey didn’t move, just watched you with that quiet steadiness. Then, softly, he asked again,

“Come back to bed?”

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You set the mug aside and sat up, only for Trey to immediately wrap his arms around you. His hold was firm, grounding. He buried his face in your shoulder and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him just as tightly. “I’m sorry too.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment, staying there in the quiet. Eventually, Trey pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low, warm. “Let’s go to sleep.”

And this time, when he led you back to bed, you followed without hesitation.

Ruggie Bucchi

The couch wasn’t comfortable. You knew it, and Ruggie knew it. But right now, your stubbornness outweighed your need for a good night’s sleep. You yanked the blanket over yourself, muttering under your breath as you tried to arrange the cushions into something remotely acceptable.

Across the room, Ruggie watched you with wide, calculating eyes. He hadn’t said anything since you stormed off, but you could feel him thinking. And then—

“You remember when you ate my last donut?” he started, voice small.

You froze, narrowing your eyes. “…What?”

“My last donut. You ate it, and you said—” He changed his voice in a mocking impression of you. “‘I owe you one, Ruggie, I swear. Anything you want.’”

You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Oh my —”

“But it’s fine,” he continued, so dramatically forlorn you almost threw the pillow at him. “I guess I’ll just be all alone in that big, cold bed. No warmth. No love. Just me. Shivering.”

You lifted your head, ready to tell him off, but then—oh, no.

He hit you with the look.

Ears drooping. Tail flicking. Wide, guilt-inducing eyes that shimmered just enough to make your resolve crack.

You exhaled sharply, dropping your head back down. “You’re the worst.”

He didn’t respond. Just fidgeted. Shuffled his feet like he was actually nervous you’d say no.

And that? That got you.

With a groan of defeat, you sighed and opened your arms. That was all he needed. Ruggie practically launched himself onto the couch, slotting himself beside you in a space absolutely not designed for two people. His weight pressed against you, his tail flicking lazily as he tucked his head under your chin.

“…Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your shirt.

“Shut up.”

His arms tightened around you. A quiet beat passed, then—

“Sorry.”

Your hand found its way into his hair, carding through the strands. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

Ruggie hummed, content. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, sleep found you too.

Jade Leech

The couch was lumpy. Or maybe you were just too angry to get comfortable. Either way, you buried your face into the pillow, inhaling deeply through your nose to keep yourself from snapping again. You just needed some space. Needed to not be in the same room as Jade and his infuriating, calmly amused expression.

“I can’t be around you right now,” you had told him before marching off, voice tight with frustration. And for once, he didn’t push. Didn’t smirk or throw another veiled comment your way. He simply inclined his head, watching as you all but collapsed onto the couch.

Now, wrapped in a too-thin blanket, you willed yourself to sleep. You were almost there—drifting, fading—when fingers ghosted over your hair.

Your breath caught, but you kept still.

Soft strokes. Careful, reverent, as if he thought you might break. It was so unlike him, so gentle, that you almost cracked your eyes open to confirm it was really happening. Then—

“…I’m so sorry.”

The whisper was barely there. But it wasn’t the words that made your heart lurch—it was the way his voice shook.

Jade Leech, ever unflappable, sounded unsteady.

He pulled back, and you knew he was about to leave. That should have been fine. You should have let him go.

But your bleeding heart had other plans.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist before he could slip away.

He barely had time to react before you yanked him back—maybe a little too hard, because the next thing you knew, he was crashing onto the couch with you. A rare, wide-eyed look of surprise flashed across his face, so fleeting you almost thought you imagined it.

And then you pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Jade froze.

“I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “We can talk in the morning.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slow and deliberate, he dipped down and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“…Very well,” he whispered.

His weight settled beside you, and this time, when you drifted off, it was to the sound of his steady breathing, warm and close beside you.

The couch standoff had been going on for way too long.

“I’m sleeping here,” you declared, arms crossed as you planted yourself firmly onto the cushions.

“No, you’re not,” Jamil shot back, equally stubborn. “I am.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not taking the bed while you sleep out here.”

“And I’m not letting you sleep out here while I take the bed.” His arms were crossed now too, mirroring your posture, his sharp gaze unwavering.

For a moment, the tension held. Then, something about the sheer ridiculousness of it all hit you—both of you too annoyed to back down but too caring to let the other suffer the discomfort of the couch.

A laugh bubbled up in your chest before you could stop it. You covered your mouth, but the moment you let out even the smallest chuckle, Jamil’s eyes flickered with reluctant amusement. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

“This is stupid,” you admitted between giggles.

He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Yeah. It is.”

You grinned. “Bed?”

Jamil didn’t hesitate. “Bed.”

The moment you both settled under the blankets, the last traces of tension melted away. His arms instinctively curled around you, pulling you close, and you let yourself relax into his warmth.

“Sorry,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.

His grip tightened, lips brushing against your hair. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything else. You didn’t need to. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the way he held you just a little closer said enough.

Rook arguing with you was already unexpected. That he let you march off to the couch without a poetic declaration or dramatic plea? Unheard of.

You cocooned yourself in the blanket, stubbornly facing the back of the couch. The silence felt unnatural—too quiet for someone like Rook. A part of you expected him to suddenly recite a Shakespearean sonnet about lovers quarreling.

Instead, something even more ridiculous happened.

You shifted slightly, just enough to glance toward the floor—and there he was.

Laying down right beside the couch on a thin blanket, arms crossed behind his head as though he had chosen the most luxurious sleeping arrangement in the world. His golden hair fanned out on the hardwood floor, and despite the clear insanity of the situation, he looked perfectly content.

You stared. Blinked. “Rook.”

“Oui, mon amour?”

“You’re on the floor.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re going to get sick.”

“Then I shall suffer beautifully, just as you do now, exiled from the comfort of our bed.” His eyes twinkled, completely unrepentant. “If my beloved must endure the cruel fate of sleeping alone, then I shall share in their hardship.”

You pressed your fingers to your temples. “Rook, go to bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“No, you’re on the floor, being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Ah, ma chérie, I am simply a devoted man.”

You groaned, throwing your arm over your face, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. It was impossible to stay mad when he was like this. Ridiculous. Completely, helplessly devoted.

Sighing, you reached out and flicked his forehead. He gasped theatrically, touching the spot as though you had struck him with Cupid’s arrow. Before he could say something absurd, you leaned down and kissed the spot gently.

“Come to bed, you idiot.”

His eyes widened slightly before his lips stretched into a dazzling smile. Without hesitation, he stood—and then immediately scooped you into his arms.

“Rook—?!?”

“Ah, mon amour, such sweet mercy! Allow me to carry you away from this exile!” He spun dramatically, pressing an exaggerated kiss to your forehead before striding toward the bedroom.

You should have expected nothing less.

You sighed against his shoulder, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you adore me.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

Lilia Vanrouge

You had firmly decided that you weren’t going to sleep in the same bed as Lilia tonight.

You needed space. You needed time to cool off. You needed—

Blink.

One second, you were wrapped in your blanket on the couch. The next? You were in bed.

You shot up, heart pounding. Lilia stood at the bedside, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Lilia.” Your voice was dangerously even.

“Yes, my dear?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you teleport me?”

A smug smile. “Would you rather I carried you?”

Oh, you were about to start another argument—

But then you noticed something. In his hands: a pillow and his own blanket.

You frowned. “What are you doing?”

Lilia hummed, casual as anything. “If my beloved insists on sleeping elsewhere, then I shall take the couch in their place. I have endured far worse in my lifetime—” his eyes twinkled mischievously “—but I’d hate for you to wake up with an aching back.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. “That’s so unfair.”

“To be this thoughtful and charming? I know.”

You shot him a look, but he simply smiled. You hated how sweet he could be even when you were still irritated.

With an exasperated sigh, you sat up and grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward you. He followed easily, his blanket forgotten as he slipped into bed. Without hesitation, he wrapped himself around you, chin resting atop your head.

His voice softened. “I’m sorry, dear.”

You exhaled, tension leaving your body as you relaxed into his hold. “…I’m sorry too.”

His lips brushed against your temple, and with that, the night’s quarrel was put to rest.

Masterlist

[ang3ltine]

"𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠" - Robert ("Bob") Reynolds x freader x platonic thunderbolts

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

a.n - Ava was sick of seeing you and Bob dance around eachother like puppies in love, so she does something about it

warnings - mention of mental illness, lovesick Bob! minor spoilers and major fluff!!

"Remember to call us if you need anything ok?" You were currently on the quinjet, ready to leave for a mission. But there was a problem, Bob had to stay in the tower by himself.

Bob nodded hurriedly before ushering you back onto the ship, but you hesitated when he turned to leave. You grab his arm rather quickly, which prompted him to look back at you with wide eyes.

"Be safe," you whispered softly so that it falls in his ears only.

Both Ava and Yelena heard the couple from a distance and snickered to themselves.

"I.. I will," Bob stutters before giving you a tight-lipped 'bob' smile. He stepped back so that he wouldn't delay your mission.

The hatch to the ship closed as you peer down at the small figure waving at you. Yet, you could almost feel the smugness of the duo behind you.

"Be safe," Yelena says with sickingly sweet tone while Ava butt's in afterwards. "Oh I'll be so safe."

You give them a deadpan look before responding with crossed arms. "Can you guys stop?"

"But how will that keep us safe?" Ava retorts sarcastically while Yelena falls into her arms dramatically. "I'll be safe once you kiss me."

You knew the two of them were mocking you for having a soft spot for Bob. Ever since you guys took him in after his 'incident' as Sentry. No thanks to Valentina ofcourse.

"Can you girls stop gossiping? It's annoying." John grunted while adjusting his suit.

The team was split into two for today's mission. Boys vs. Girls to make matters worse, but you guys didn't want to lose to John Walker.

So you tried your very best to complete your part of the mission as quickly as possible. An old hydra base had been spotted a few weeks ago so Bucky wanted to check it out and gather intel, just in case.

The location was in the snowy mountains of Slovakia and it was a mission based on stealth. Something that John struggled with, and Alexei, so he was left in charge of the jet. Much to his disappointment.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me..." John mutters as he spots you from a distance with a smug smile on your face.

"Hey asshat, how's the taste of being a loser feel?" You quipped while happily walking out of the building, after successfully infiltrating it.

John on the other hand had failed his part and the others had to step in while he sat in the quinjet with minor injuries.

He puts his hands up in defence before sighing. "Fine, you win this time."

Internally he was fuming, but he wasn't ready to admit that.

"Relax I was just kidding." You mused while passing by him with a quick pat on his back. John knew that you were joking, but it was reassuring to hear the words himself.

"You think Bob's doing ok?" You mumbled while putting on your seat belt.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he's curled up on the couch thinking about you." Yelena let's out a coarse laugh while she takes her seat next to you.

" Oh 'lena what would I do without you?" You say sarcastically while she links her arms with yours. "You'll be lost...and unsafe."

The last comment made you roll your eyes before finally laughing along to the joke. As the rumble of the quinjet signalled it's takeoff sequence, so you got ready to take a nap on the journey back home.

What you all didn't expect was to find Bob standing on the helipad, with a pillow in hand. It seemed like he was anticipating your return since he was sort of giddy when you got off.

"Ahh look your boyfriend was waiting for you after all," Ava makes the comment while walking past you swiftly. You shook your head unamsingly before making your way towards the awaiting brunette.

"Were you waiting for us?" You sighed while reaching up to fix his hair. It had gotten messy due to the blast of wind from the quinjet engines.

"Oh well...I sort of had another episode while you were gone...so I thought I'd wait out here until you returned." It was hard to make out what he was said on the last part but nonetheless, you pull him into a warm embrace.

"You wanna talk about it?" You whisper into his hair before running your fingers through the dark brown locks. Bob shook his head as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

Not wanting to push him, you just stood there while holding him until he was ready to go back inside.

What you didn't notice was how fast Bob's heart was racing while you two hugged.

Deep down he was glad that you didn't, he would be too embarrassed to ever admit that he secretly liked you. For now, it was better for you not to know.

"You got that right?" Ava asks while squinting her eyes to get a better view from the hanger. The sound of a click from a camera could be heard before Yelena answers with her phone in hand.

"Got it." Yelena snickers mischievously.

"We need a plan to get these two idiots to confess."

"What do you have in mind?" Yelena turns to Ava while she thinks of something.

"Ok... I think I have one."

"Is...is this ok?" Bob asks while showing his bowl full of cake batter. You leaned in slightly to see for yourself, and to your surprise, it was perfectly light and airy.

"Wow Bob! The batter looks perfect!"

Bob breaks into a wide grin at the compliment as the rush of giddiness returned. He observed the way your mouth was moving while you talks and was seemingly under a trance, that was until you pulled him back to reality.

"Bob sweetie are you ok?" You say in a gentle tone as you wave your hands infront of his face. He blinked at few times , seemingly lost before nodding. "Uh.. yeah I'm good."

"Aww you call him sweetie now?"

You sighed and hung your head low at the sound of the familiar voice. " 'lena don't push it."

You two had been dancing around each other for about 2 months now. Every day, it seemed like you were closer to getting Bob out of his shell. Whatever you did worked because he was able to start training with you all without the worry of the 'void' returning.

Speaking of Bob, he was in the kitchen having his dinner with Ava's company. It was late and well past midnight when the group had finished their training.

Her plan was beginning to unfold when you rushed into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around your shoulder.

"What happened? Is there any emergency?!"

Your hair was slightly damp from the shower you had just taken. Bob recognised the top that you were wearing and almost choked on his food. You were wearing his blue t-shirt that he had left behind a few nights ago.

"There's no emergency is there?" You sighed as you shift your gaze towards the woman near the refrigerator. She simply shrugged before taking a chug of cold milk.

Bob had completely forgotten about the shirt and to make things worse was that you look absolutely gorgeous with it on. Not to mention, your thighs were exposed since your shorts were hidden underneath the gigantic top.

"Bob...! I didn't know you were still awake," blood rushed to your cheeks when you realised Bob was staring directly at you with wide eyes. You had no idea he'd be here, thinking that everyone else had gone to sleep already.

Bob cleared his throat and swiped his bowl to the side. His dinner now forgotten about and directed his attention towards you. You felt like a deer caught in headlights.

You were planning on giving his shirt back but you kept on delaying up until now.

"Oh uh --...hey love." Bob stutters slightly while he drinks in your appearance. Which was very out of character for him, even making Ava stop dead in her tracks from the sudden pet name.

The muscles of your cheeks began to rise as you felt yourself smile at the sweet nickname that he had given you. Bob on the other hand? Felt himself swoon whenever you gave him that smile of yours.

Yelena returned from the pantry with a bottle of water in his hand with a shit eating grin on her face. Giving knowing glances between the two of you.

"Its good to see you too 'lena," you sighed before making your way towards the counter.

"How's your day been beautiful?"

Bob was caught offguard by hearing Ava giving you a pet name as he blinks at her in confusion. Was there something going on between you and Ava that he didn't know about?

He became even more jumpy when he noticed your form taking a seat right next to him.

You fought back the urge to smile again when you noticed the tips of Bob's ears turning red. He looked like a puppy begging for attention. Nonetheless you turn back to Ava to answer her question.

"My days been eventful, to say the least. I mean I made some new adjustments to my suit so it could take in more volts of energy-"

Ava nodded and promted you to carry on. You spoke about the drills you had done with John and Bucky aswell.

Bob had tuned out of the conversation. He rested his head on his palm as a lovesick sigh escaped his lips. He followed the way your mouth moved while you talked and the way your hair would bounce slightly from every gesture you'd make.

Seeing the way your eyes would sparkle whenever you'd talk about something you're interested in.

Bob considered himself lucky to be in your presence and the way the light above them gave you a warm glow. He didn't even notice the conversation dying down as you, Ava and Yelena turned their heads towards him.

You looked at him with concern while Yelena muffled her laugh behind her hand. She saw how smitten her best friend looked which only convinced her more to get you two together.

"Bob hon', are you ok?"

Ava let out a choked laugh at the nickname. You gave her a light glare as she calmed herself down.

Your body was fully facing the now flustered Bob, he almost flinched out of instinct when your cold hand met his burning cheeks.

"Geez Bobby you're burning up, are you feeling ok?" You started to get worried, thinking maybe he had gotten a fever.

"Mmh? I'm feelin' fine though." Bob murmured as he looked like he was going to collapse right there in your arms. Getting absolutely drunk from the attention you were giving him.

"I'd say otherwise," Ava mumbled to herself in amusement as she excused herself, also dragging Yelena with her despite her protests.

She believed that the two needed some privacy so she had the fabulous idea of locking you two in.

"Seriously guys?!" You yelled when the shut the door on you both. Knowing that there was no use in chasing after them, you turn to face Bob again.

Bob saw the way your mouth was still moving but he couldn't focus on the words that you were saying. If this was anyone else, he wouldn't even let them touch him. Depending on the person ofcourse, like Yelena.

But it was you. The woman that had the ability to make his heart hurt from how lovely you were. He'd never felt so much love for someone in a long time and it kind of scares him.

You were still patting his cheek, feeling the slightly rough stuble beneath your skin. You also moved stray hairs out of his face and tucked it behind his ears. He wanted to say something but no words came out.

"Maybe we should head to the med bay to get yourself checked out." You were about to get up to leave until you felt a strong grip on your arm as Bob made you sit back down again.

"Do you not want to go?" You asked in confusion as you tilted your head. Bob froze as he tried to figure out what he should do next.

His hands slowly reached up towards your cheeks and gently caressed them with his thumb. He was impossibly close now, his nose practically touching yours.

You were surprised at how bold he was being but you weren't one to complain. But still, you waited to see what he would do next.

The faint scent of your shampoo and conditioner fills his nostrils. Your peer into his deep blue eyes, his pupils were dilated but oh so full of love.

You hesitated, and rightfully so. Bob had the tendency to fluctuate his mood so you weren't sure whether you should take advantage of the situation.

Bob brushes his lips against yours, testing the waters. Not knowing if you wanted this or not. Without a second to waste, you pressed your lips fully against his.

They molded together perfectly, you don't know why you waited so long to feel this, to feel him.

His lips were like you imagined, soft and plump with a hint of cinnamon since he just started eating his dessert.

But a distant voice at the back of Bob's head made him pull away.

You noticed the way his eyes filled with worry, knowing something was bothering him. He lets out a shaky breath as you feel a slight shift in his demeanour, as if trying to hold something or someone at bay.

"Would you... want someone like me? I mean -... you don't think I'm...pathetic?" A hurt laugh escaped his lips as he mentions the last part.

"Darling, is that the reason why you're so hesitant?" Your heart hurt squeezed at the thought of him even thinking of being unworthy of love.

You lift his chin up so that he'd make eye contact with you again.

"You know...I fell for you for a reason, Bob. That means every part of you, including your insecurities. Because... that's what makes you human, just like us."

He couldn't help but smile brightly at your statement as all his worries leaving him in an instant. The voice that was nagging him not a moment ago, vanished. As if it wasn't there in the first place.

You pressed a chaste kiss on his lips to start off, causing Bob to become even more giddy than usual. Then turning into laughter as you pepper his face with kisses before pressing one last kiss on his now pink lips. Due to the excess tint from your lipbalm.

"Thanks for believing in me..." Bob whispers against your lips as he peers down at you through his lashes.

"Always," you whispered back in a slightly quieter tone while brushing the stray hair away from his eyes.

You silently ask for Bob's permission with your eyes, which he answered with a firm nod before leaning back in once again.

He lets out a surprised gasp against your mouth when you took a seat on his lap for better access. Taking the chance to show him how much you truly loved the man beneath you.

The rest of the world faded around you as you both got lost in time. It was beginning to get hard to breathe as he pulls you against him to deepen the kiss. You felt a butterflies deep in your stomach that you never felt before with anyone.

Bob could taste the slight hint of strawberry on your tongue from the candy you had eaten just before taking a shower. In another bold act of gesture, he takes the opportunity to fully immerse himself in the kiss and sucks lightly on your bottom lip. Wanting to taste more.

His hands were all over you and he had a hard time keeping himself under control. Giving your hips a gentle squeeze while you sat on his lap.

He whimpers against your lips while you gently prod and nibble on his bottom lip, the soft muscle becoming swollen.

Literally, anyone could walk in and see you two, but clearly that wasn't on their mind at the moment.

But eventually you both had to pull away for air, your cheeks were flushed but you were content. Smiling softly down at the adorable brunette below you. Bob lightly nuzzled his nose against yours while both your breaths became foggy due to the cold air in the kitchen.

"So Sunshine....can I finally call you mine?"

Before he could answer you hear the sound of muffled talking in the hallway and they were headed straight towards the kitchen.

You two quickly scrambled off eachother and tried to act casual. Bob picked at his now cold food while you rummaged through the fridge.

"Cut the act you two. We already know what happened." A teasing voice called out. "By the way, we have pictures as proof."

You internally groan as you turn to see Ava with a smirk on her face with Yelena having the same amused look.

"So, are you two dating now?" Ava asks while she looks between you and Bob.

You huffed as you made your way over to Bob, who was already standing up from his seat and stood beside the chair awkwardly. You reached his height by tiptoeing slightly and placed a firm yet soft kiss on his cheek.

Bob's face turned almost bright red while Ava and Yelena both looked at you in disbelief.

Which only made the situation all the more amusing. They didn't expect you to be so bold.

"I guess we are," you respond with a doting smile as Bob shared the same look he'd always had.

Lovesick.

Taglist: @doodlebob-mp3 @starktonyx @perdidosbucky-yyo @marianastudiesart @ordelixx @hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly @starstruckfirecat @adventure-awaits13

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | orange theory

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : quiet moments where love is tested through the smallest acts because sometimes, peeling an orange says more than 'i love you.'

୨ৎ : genre : fluff & romance ୨ৎ : word count : 1214

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i love love love writing things based off of tik-tok trends, it's so sweet and cute >.< also i know these are super short but i think that it reallyyy captures their personalities :)

ʚ・max verstappen

you toss an orange at max during downtime and go, “peel this for me?”

he catches it mid-air, looks at you, deadpan. “what am i? your personal chef?”

you snort and walk away, not expecting anything. max doesn’t do sweet, right? not like that.

but a few minutes later, you find the orange sitting on the counter, peeled perfectly — skin discarded, slices arranged in a neat spiral.

you eye him across the room, arms folded. “did you peel this?” he shrugs without looking up from his phone. “was bored.”

you know better. max verstappen doesn’t get bored. he gets intentional.

the next day, he grabs one for himself — and another for you. doesn’t say a word. just peels both and hands one over like it’s routine.

when you try to thank him, he waves it off. “don’t get soft on me now.”

but when he catches you smiling, he smirks.

because of course he peeled it. of course he cares.

he just needs you to understand that his love isn’t loud — it’s in the quiet things. like protecting you from citrus juice and acting like it means nothing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you barely get the words out, “can you peel this for me?”

and lewis is already taking the orange from your hand.

“no problem, babe.”

he sits beside you, cross-legged on the couch, and starts peeling it with careful fingers, chatting about his day while he removes the white pith piece by piece.

then he gets up, walks to the kitchen, and returns with it sliced.

“i thought we’d elevate the citrus experience.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed. “lewis, it’s an orange.”

“exactly,” he grins. “you deserve your fruit with style.”

he kisses your forehead, then curls up beside you as if he didn’t just turn a tiktok test into an act of service so soft it made your heart melt.

he never calls attention to it, but he always peels your oranges after that. leaves them in little containers when you’re busy. packs them in your bag before flights.

you never have to ask again. and you know why.

because lewis isn’t just your boyfriend — he’s the kind of person who peels oranges like he’s caring for your soul.

ʚ・george russell

george blinks down at the orange you placed in his lap like it’s a bomb. “…you want me to peel this?”

“yup,” you grin. “no knife allowed.”

he stares at it, then at you. “this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“nope. just love language stuff.”

he huffs but you can see the gears turning. within two minutes, he’s looked up the most efficient orange peeling methods on his phone and begins carefully creating what can only be described as citrus origami.

“george, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“incorrect. i’m taking you seriously.”

he finishes with a perfectly spiraled peel, hands you the orange like a gift, and raises his brows. “well? did i pass your little test?”

you bite into a slice and nod, stunned. “you aced it. definitely best in class.”

he beams and mutters something about how he’d like that on the record.

you find out later that he’s now obsessed with fruit prep. pineapples. mangoes. grapefruits. the works.

all because you handed him a single orange.

and george russell doesn’t do anything halfway, especially not love.

ʚ・carlos sainz

you hand carlos an orange and say, “can you peel this for me?”

he blinks. “are your hands broken?”

you give him a look. he gives you one back.

he sighs. “you’re doing one of your tiktok psychology things again, aren’t you?”

you say nothing. just smile sweetly and leave the room.

a few minutes later, you hear him mumbling in spanish, something like “why do i always fall for this nonsense…”

but sure enough, the orange is peeled. slices separated. a napkin even folded beside it.

you grin. “i knew you loved me.”

he points a finger. “i only did it because i didn’t want you making a mess.”

“sure,” you say, popping a slice in your mouth. “that’s the reason.”

the next day, you find two oranges in your lunch bag. peeled. packed. one labeled “for mi amor” with a heart.

carlos acts like he has no idea how they got there.

but when you thank him with a kiss on the cheek, he just hums and goes, “well… i do spoil you.”

and you both know the truth: he always will.

ʚ・charles leclerc

when you ask charles to peel an orange for you, he doesn’t even blink. “okay.”

you expected teasing. maybe a confused “why?” or at least a sarcastic comment.

but no, he just quietly takes it and starts peeling like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

halfway through, he looks up. “…wait. is this a test?”

you nearly choke laughing.

“oh my god. it’s one of those tiktoks, isn’t it?”

you nod. “so? did you pass?”

he pauses, holding out the perfectly peeled fruit. “i mean… it’s in one piece. that’s worth at least a b+.”

you take a slice and smile. “a+ for effort.”

charles keeps stealing glances at you the rest of the day.

that night, he casually places another peeled orange on your nightstand before bed.

no words. just soft fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

and in the quiet, you realize this man would do anything for you.

even pass little love tests without realizing he was taking them.

ʚ・lando norris

“peel it yourself,” lando says immediately when you hand him the orange.

you pout. “fine. i just thought you loved me.”

he groans like you just kicked his puppy. “oh come on.”

you walk away.

ten minutes later, you hear him cursing softly in the kitchen.

“why is this so hard?! this peel is evil.”

he returns with a mangled, chaotic-looking orange and dramatically sets it in front of you.

“it’s done. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

you try to bite into a slice and get hit with the bitterness of leftover peel.

“you suck at this,” you laugh.

he grins and kisses your temple. “yeah, but i tried. and that counts.”

the next day, he hands you a pre-peeled orange in a ziploc bag like he’s been training for it.

he also printed a label that says “from your emotionally available boyfriend.”

progress.

ʚ・oscar piastri

when you hand oscar an orange and ask him to peel it, he gives you the driest look imaginable. “…why?”

“just do it,” you say, kicking your feet on the couch. “please?”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes the orange and gets to work.

two minutes later, he hands it back, peeled clean, slices stacked neatly like a pinterest tutorial.

you raise a brow. “…that was suspiciously fast.”

he shrugs. “it’s not that hard.”

“you didn’t even ask why i wanted it peeled.”

“didn’t need to. you wanted it, i did it. simple.”

your heart actually stumbles.

later that night, he places another orange in your hands, already peeled, in a container, lid snapped on.

he doesn’t say anything. just walks off like it’s no big deal.

but you’re left there holding the container like he just proposed.

because when oscar piastri quietly decides to care about you he really means it.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate