#‘time is supposed to run out time is supposed to. sun is supposed to go down sun is supposed to’

[poguehearted77]

Hi!! I've watched the scene where Sarah is starving and Rafe is pacing around and knowing he has cash in his pocket and doesn't care that his sister is starving and pregnant. I can't help but imagine it if it was reader, and they hooked up once twice or however you see fit, and she's pregnant with his baby.

Would it be any different? Could you write something about that? Take the idea and run with it because im bad at articulating 🤣

Oh yeah, Rafe is a class-A asshole, but he might show just a little remorse if the baby is his.

Love the requests, keep sending em' in!!

The Moroccan sun was beating down on the group relentlessly, sweating you out and drying you up with the shine of its bright light. The only reason your sweat wasn't dripping off you was because it was quickly soaked up into the modest fabrics around your head.

You'd been travelling tirelessly for the last few days, dangerously too, if you might add. The boat nearly capsized multiple times just trying to make it to Morocco. As if the boat ride wasn't abhorrent enough with your seasickness....and morning sickness...

The constant smell of saltwater and the rocking of the ship had amplified the awful experience and you would spend the first hour in the bathroom regurgitating your insides every morning. It was not fun.

None of the pogues know you're pregnant. Although, Cleo was on to you. One pregnancy was more than enough for the group to worry about. You figured this was something you'd keep to yourself despite the fact the father is currently trekking with you through the hot sands.

The day was only getting hotter. You're thirsty, your lungs hurt and it felt like your own organs were weighing you down. You naturally began to fall behind the group, little by little until the gap was hard to ignore.

"Come on, Y/n. We're not far from the city, just a few more miles." Pope encouraged but it triggered a laboured breath. You're exhausted. A small smile crept on your lips when you noticed John B holding Sarah's hand the whole time, never letting her out of his sight.

For what feels like the eighth time, Rafe looks over his shoulder, more annoyed than ever. "Jeez, would you hurry it up?" You scoff, mustering up enough energy to kick up some sand at his legs. "Nice. Real mature, Y/n." His sarcasm rolls off his tongue and you ignore him as you walk past him.

Once you finally made it into the city, you all needed something to eat. Sarah wasn't feeling so great and neither were you. Babies are nothing but greedy entities consuming all the nutrients you need.

You leaned against the cool rock wall, watching the others run off to help themselves to a five-finger discount. With your eyes closed, you tried to distract yourself from the ache in your abdomen. Not sure if it was the baby or your hunger, possibly a mix of both.

Without even realizing it, you let a hand rest lightly over your stomach. It was still early, you weren't showing and you thank god.

"We're wasting time!" You hear Rafe yell, it doesn't even faze you. He's somewhere near you when he mumbles to himself, "Sitting around on the streets when we should be going after Groff, unbelievable."

What was supposed to be a quick glance your way turns into an elongated stare. His eyes raked over your posture, your shut eyes, brows crunched in distress. He slowly looks down at the placement of your hand.

"Y/n." He says, tugging you into a corner out of sight from the others and you swat him. He shockingly accepts the reprimands and backs off, taking a step back. "What do you want, Rafe?" Your arms cross, waiting for him to say something.

"Is it mine?" Your arms fall slowly, caught, but you deny it. "I don't know what you're talking about." Hardly able to take two steps away before he's barricading you in the corner with his body.

"Don't bullshit me, Y/n. The baby. Is it mine?" You chew on your lower lip, avoiding his chilling gaze. Apparently, that was enough confirmation. "How long have you known?" He takes on a defensive stance.

How the hell were you supposed to know the answer to that? The last week alone has blurred together in memories of rough waters and dry deserts.

All you knew was it happened sometime between the various times you and Rafe swore it would be the last time you fooled around. Unsure if it was the time on his yacht, in the back of his truck or one of the dozen times you somehow ended up in his bed when you swore you were only in figure eight for a 'walk'.

The group had no idea the two of you had been involved with each other aside from the occasionally tense argument, but anyone could admit the two of you can't seem to stay away from one another.

"I dunno, a month maybe?" He pressed both hands to his forehead, fingers spread wide, and slowly dragged them down, smearing the tension all the way to his chin.

"Let's go." His grip on your hand forces you to follow his long strides between the bustling kiosks until you land inside a Delhi. You're too stuck inside your own mind to process what was happening until you watched Rafe lift the bottom of his shirt, revealing a fanny pack with a considerable amount of money.

"Of course. Of course, you had money this whole time! Of course, you let the others go stealing--!" He hushes you as the owner flashes you a look of concern, "Listen, I'm not the one who told those pogues to go looting. I've got money for more important shit than their sad jewel hunt." He explains, paying for the items with a small nod of gratitude towards the man.

Turning to you, he placed a sandwich in one hand, and a cool bottle of water in the other. "This," He starts, his palm gently resting against your stomach. For the first time in a long time, his brows relax and his gaze softens when he looks at you. "This is more important."

[wcters]

𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗞 𝗙𝗔𝗦𝗧

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

word count: 770+

summary: you let him pretend, just for a moment. pretend that it would last forever

request: hello!!!!! i love your work sm 🩷🌟 was wondering if you could write something with oscar ?? have a nice dayy 😽| @81evermore

warnings: established relationships, pda, some angst | i knwo it’s a little short but i was got the request and was listening to 5sos, why not make an imagine with oscar based on a 5sos song???

Oscar knew it was wrong, he knew it was irresponsible, but as soon as his eyes met yours, it’s like his rational brain went out the window. The adrenaline was like nothing he’d ever felt before ━━ not like driving at hundreds of kilometres per hour, not like making split second decisions that could make it break him, nothing. He could feel the grooves in your hand as you clasped his, your hands moulding together and filling up the empty spaces. He could feel the air going past every strand of hair on his head, and he could imagine the smile on your face as you both ran. It was exhilarating.

Oscar was supposed to be perfect in every way ━━ polite, nice, professional, put together. You let him live a life that wasn’t his, it gave him an escape, let him imagine what life could be, should be. A house overlooking the ocean, couple of kids, a dog, maybe. But he knew it wouldn’t happen. But you let him pretend . . . Even if it’s just for a night.

Laughs tumbled past your pursed lips as you ran, yelling at him to ‘hurry up!’ and ‘come on!’ every once and a while. Where were you even going? He had no idea. He couldn’t really register anything besides you and the lights blurring past him as he ran. Right now he was thankful he had the stamina he did.

You randomly stopped, Oscar almost stumbling into you. He wrapped his arms around you and rested his chin on your head. From what he could see, he assumed it was a lookout somewhere in the city. He could see the ocean, waves overlapping each other and the sun reflecting on the water. “Surprise.” You whispered, afraid you would ruin whatever was happening. He hummed, “where are we?” “Lookout. No one really knows about this place ━━ I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen someone else here.” He was right, and smirked at that.

You let the two of you bask in silence for a little bit. You wanted to know what he was thinking, but you let him have a moment to himself. You knew with his career he didn’t really get to do that. You rested your hands on top of his which were placed around your hips and started ti quietly sway. It was a habit of yours. It was like your mind and body were running at one hundred percent, twenty-four seven, and this resulted in you always moving. Oscar didn’t mind because he had the same thing. Though his brain wasn’t active all the time, he was still so used to the adrenaline and fast-paced life he had, which resulted in the same thing. He followed you, swaying back and fourth.

It stayed like for a little before you got bored at let go, releasing yourself from his hold. You turned to face him and held out your hand to him. “What?” He had an eyebrow quirked up, smile tugging at his lips.

“Dance with me.” You smiled while laughing lightly, and Oscar swore he could listen to that noise forever. He could imagine life with you in ━━ him chasing you and your kids, cooking in the kitchen. Oscar almost shook himself out of his train of thought. He was too deep, but he don’t care. “Okay.” He grabbed your hand and twirled you around, pulling you towards him. You leaned your head against his chest, his heartbeat familiar and comforting against your ear. “This is nice.” You whispered. “It is, isn’t it?”

The two of you took turns twirling the other around, though it was hard for you because you were shorter than Oscar ━━ though not by much. Laughs broke the stale night air as you two danced, surrounded by love and unsaid words. You both knew that this would eventually end, but that was a talk for another night.

The unsaid was a comfort, knowing that it didn’t have to end yet, but it was also a reminder. Reminder to Oscar that you couldn’t have the life together he and you wanted. No big backyard with a play set and barbecue, no nursery and kids rooms filled with toys, not the little bits of the other scattered throughout the house, none of your singing lulling him to sleep and waking him up . . . Nothing.

You two were stuck in this moment forever. Just you. No formula one, no school, no stress, just the feeling of the curves of your hands and bodies, the smiles and dimples, the essence of the person. In this moment, you didn’t have to face the inevitable.

[cinnamonest]

Ataraxis

"Failed Escape Attempt" prompt - Akechi Goro (Persona 5)

Finally completed this amidst my myriad of hospital visits this month. Prolonged viral anaphylaxis works hard but the spirit of degeneracy works harder 🙏

warnings/notes: dark content, noncon, fem reader, implied significant age gap, captivity, electronic monitoring/shock collar, asphyxiation, abuse, vague suicide references, bro has THE mommy issues of all time, mild stockholm, somewhat detailed backstory for reader (in which reader is a bit of an enabler)

----

Ataraxis - a state of tranquility, calmness, or peace of mind, free from mental stress or anxiety.

You hesitated. Your pulse was running fast, trepidation freezing your hand in place, just before you could touch the door.

No. You shook your head rapidly for a moment, trying to drive away the panicked thoughts. You couldn’t afford to waste time worrying about what-ifs, fueling your hesitancy. You’d done everything that you were supposed to in order for this to work. Gotten the doors unlocked, the wires cut, everything — you had to go through with it.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, pounding as you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and reached for the door handle, turning it slowly.

You wished it was an apartment that opened directly to the outdoors — that you'd feel the sun, breathe in fresh air, the moment you opened the door — but you were met with a hallway, and the number of the neighbor directly across plastered on the door. Light still poured in from the hall, into the otherwise dark apartment only dimly lit by a TV running off to the side of the room.

Regardless, undeterred, after a mere moment of hesitation, you took a step forward.

And then, your body seized up.

Your knees hit the ground, but you didn't even feel the pain of impact, every nerve overtaken by a sudden overpowering sensation, overwhelming your senses.

Gasping for air, your feet flailed, kicking outward as your hands and elbows desperately dug into the ground, all in a frantic movement to scramble away from the door. As you stumbled back, you practically threw the door itself forward, and it slammed shut.

After moving a short distance, just enough for the blast of overwhelmingly discomforting sensation to come to a sudden stop, your body turned onto your back as you collapsed onto the floor, shivering, each breath ragged and heaving.

For a moment, all you could do was lay there and tremble, grasping at your throat, the focus point of the shock, metallic prongs pressed into your skin beneath the layer of leather that clung around your throat. Your vision spun, and no coherent thought could even be formed in your head, the panic and discomfort consuming your capacity for thought.

Even as the sensation faded, there was still a twitching throughout your body, muscles in your arms and legs and extremities tensing over and over against your conscious volition. You weakly reached up, wiping away the trail of saliva that had spilled down the side of your face.

Your chest still rose and fell heavily, back arching against the ground it laid on with each inhale. Your eyes stared wide open at the ceiling — discolored, where some fixture had been ripped out and caulked over, you'd noticed before — vision fuzzy from tears, dizziness, and the trembling that overcame your body, mind spinning on the brink of consciousness.

And with that, even through the disorientation and disequilibrium that kept your consciousness spinning, you could still make out one particular thought, a realization that came as a harsh blow — failure.

A near tangible emotion that you could physically feel as its weight settled onto your chest.

And then disbelief — that can't be right that can't be right — you'd done everything you were supposed to, everything had gone perfectly as you'd planned.

Countless weeks down the drain. All that time spent in preparation for this very moment, not only nullified, but now undoubtedly turned against you for your own detriment.

And if the feeling hadn't brought you enough despair, if the frustration and dismay alone hadn't been enough to bring you to tears that began to well in your eyes, your body stiffened again as an acute sensation of discomfort ran through body once more. You glanced upward.

And then, an intense cold sprouted in your gut, rapidly seeping through your blood, a chill that ran through your bones and flesh.

Pure, unadulterated dread.

The electronic eye, the circular lenses poised directly at you from the corner of the ceiling, burned into your flesh. You could feel the sense of observation through the proxy of the device, transmitted over distance and invisible waves no differently than the image the camera would project to the phone screen on the other end.

Your trembling hands slowly reached up to your neck, fingertips grazing the leathery material secured so tightly around your neck you could barely slide your fingers beneath it, just enough to feel the metallic prongs on the inner side that dug into the flesh.

That was the whole point of it all, the effort, the risks, the time and patience, accumulating every little thing you'd need for this one moment.

Everything had been so methodical, had to be executed with perfection and painstaking effort.

And yet, all for nothing.

Your legs were still trembling too intensely to stand. You weakly propped yourself up on one elbow, weary eyes scanning your surroundings in the small apartment, until you saw the shape of the small device where you’d left it sitting on the edge of the bed. You shuffled your way over to it, dragging yourself along the floor.

Slowly, summoning your strength, you pushed your elbows to the ground and forced yourself to sit upright, before lifting yourself up on shaky legs, just to practically fall down onto the mattress, reaching out to grasp the phone in your hand.

He was busy. He had things to do. He might not have checked any notifications that popped up. Maybe.

The flip phone was inconvenient on your end — a long since outdated piece of technology, incapable of accessing the internet, and easily restricted with built-in parental controls used decades ago, impossible to circumvent despite many attempts. It was capable of receiving and sending calls to a single number, as well as receiving texts from the same number.

The cold sheets began to warm under the heat of your body as you nestled into them. With the pillow close to your face, you could hear your own shuddering breaths in greater clarity, see your own fingers gripping the sheets with such force that the flesh around your finger joints went lighter.

You glanced at the tiny screen on the front of the closed phone.

‘11:52 a.m.’

Your heart skipped a beat — it was much closer to the daily call than you had hoped. You must have been lying on the floor longer than you realized. You only had a few minutes to prepare yourself.

Yes, he wouldn’t call you the very second he saw what you’d done. He would just stick to the usual schedule. He liked routines.

You sat fully upright, leaning back against the wall one side of the bed pressed against. You drew your knees up to your chest, hugging your arms around them, eyes glued to the small screen.

‘11:53 a.m.’

You could do nothing but sit there and wait.

The helplessness and futility quickly turned to despair. The full weight of your failure began to set in.

It had taken so long to execute the plan in full. You weren't even sure exactly why it failed — your own error, a backup battery of some kind, maybe.

Not that it mattered now.

Your mind raced over each little step taken, all to culminate in futility, but any structure to your thoughts simply fell apart into bitter defeat.

You were brought out of your thoughts by shifting of numbers on the screen, several minutes having passed.

‘11:58 a.m.’

You could feel each beat of your heart, the pressure of blood circulating through your head and your throat. Your stomach churned.

‘11:59 a.m.’

You sat still, staring with wide eyes, unable to do anything against the unstoppable force of the passage of time.

'12:00 p.m.'

No sooner had the numbers shifted, that the phone screen lit up brighter, and the device began to vibrate.

Your stomach tightened, a cold, stiff feeling seized your limbs and every muscle tensed as the phone rang. A name popped up on the little front screen.

‘Goro’

He'd been the one to put the number into the device, to assign that title to the contact. At first, you’d assumed he didn’t want to bother painstakingly typing out any more than necessary on the device’s old 12-digit typing system.

Or maybe keeping you physically separated from the world was not enough — if you couldn’t exist in the outside world, if you had to be separated from it, naturally, you couldn’t use the same name for him as everyone else, all those people on the television and the voices on the other end of the phone.

A confliction of instincts twisted in your gut — an impulse to answer it immediately, knowing not doing so could not go without repercussion, yet at the same time, you reflexively shrunk back, as if repelled by the sound, clutching your hands to your chest at the immediate revulsion to the mere thought of answering.

And it rang, twice, three times. Your mind ran blank, staring wide-eyed at the screen.

But between conflicting instincts, you knew what you had to do.

Thus, on the fourth ring, snapping out of your momentary stupor, shaking hands latching on and flipping the top upward, the word that came out in a wavering voice was—

“…Goro?”

Your voice came out rougher than you'd hoped, an obvious rasp from the strain.

If he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead—

“Good afternoon.”

The voice that came through the other end was bright and cheerful. The same voice that he used on talk shows and public addresses. Composed, amiable, fairly upbeat, without any trace of negativity.

And then, he added,

“What have you been up to today?”

It was such a light-hearted tone, you thought for a moment, with some desperate hope, that he hadn't noticed. Maybe it hadn't triggered a notification. Maybe he just didn't see it.

Or maybe it was a test. Maybe he wanted you to be transparent. You didn’t know. There was no way to know.

The lingering exhaustion from all the strain left you somewhat dazed, and you hesitated as you slowly summoned an answer.

“Oh, I just… I watched some TV earlier…” You tilted your gaze over to said television as it continued to run silently off to the side of the room, a mere distraction kept on for some semblance of stimulus. “They… they were talking about the phantom thief people on the news again.”

He sighed. You tensed for a moment, worried that perhaps it was something that would only frustrate him, knowing the matter was a bit of a sore subject.

But instead, it seemed to be merely a part of the flow of conversation — he accepted your so-very-forced and awkward shift of subject without resistance.

“It’s all anyone ever talks about, recently.” You heard a shuffling sound, presumably shifting his posture. “The average person is only invested in the matter as a form of entertainment. It's distant enough from them personally that they can afford to treat it as such.”

“O-oh, right…” Struggling to think of something else, to further steer the topic away from yourself, you continued, “…Are you at school?”

“No, I'm at the station. The police called me in to help with something new, but…” he sighed again before continuing, “it turned out to be incredibly simple, and they’re already done with it. I don’t know why they thought they needed to take up my time with this…”

His voice got a little lower as he spoke, irritation breaking through the winsome charm that characterized that public-facing voice of his. Within a moment, though, it snapped right back to the correct gentleness as he continued—

“On the bright side, I only have a few things left to do, so I can come back to you a little sooner than usual.”

Your fingers clenched at the fabric of your shirt, your shoulders going tense.

“Oh, good…”

Your mouth felt dry. Your mind scrambled to think of anything else to say, but a heavy fog drenched your thoughts away, leaving nothing but a blank slate, unable to generate anything coherent.

There was another moment of pause.

"You sound a bit out of it. You're not feeling faint from earlier, are you?"

You blinked, the very daze of brain-fog he referred to making you slower to take in the words.

"I... What?"

He didn't miss a beat, nor falter in his tone, as he clarified—

"From the shock, I mean."

Your body tensed, shrinking back as if the words had truly been the gut punch they felt like. Your jaw hung ajar, your mind scrambling for a response.

Quiet seconds ticked by. Your shoulders rose and fell with harsh, short breaths.

"I… I guess a little…” You fidgeted nervously, fingers further curling into the fabric of the shirt that covered your upper half.

The voice on the other end remained upbeat and gentle even still.

"Ah. Well, try not to walk around, okay? The lingering effects can make you uncoordinated for some time." After a pause, he added, "I wouldn't want you to fall over and hurt yourself."

Your mouth felt dry. You shifted around in place.

“Oh… okay…”

You swallowed. Your eyes darted around the apartment.

You turned your bottom lip inward, biting down on it to alleviate your nerves, only for the sharp pain to stop you as soon as the pressure touched the spot where the flesh of your lower lip was already busted. One of many sore, bruised spots that littered your body.

The discomfort at the following pause of silence was nearly tangible. Your natural instinct was to shift away from the matter as quickly as possible, shame and fear and uncertainty forming a hard knot in your stomach, but no words came to mind.

Sensing that you weren't going to continue, he spoke again.

“Well, in that case, I'll see you soon—’

“H-hey, wait…”

Your voice was undoubtedly audibly uneasy, but he still replied with the same soft tone.

“Mm? What is it?”

You opened and closed your mouth, once, twice, struggling to collect your panicked thoughts coherently. He waited, patiently, not saying a word.

“…About that.” The single phrase was all you could manage.

"Ah, right.”

At that point, his voice was too upbeat, so unfitting the turn of conversation, that the reality of it being forced was no longer deniable, a fact that made your stomach churn.

As the pause lingered, he added in an equally calm, matter-of-fact tone, “well, if there's anything you wanted to say, now would be the time to tell me. It’s only fair to give you a moment to do so.”

You would have preferred bitterness and vitriol in his tone, accusations, promises of consequence. Anything else. The unease and uncertainty of the pretense of normality, of nothing being wrong, felt crushing.

“It…” You swallowed. “That, that was an accident, I just, I got too close and…”

It felt as if your throat closed up, unable to say anything more.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Suffocating, so heavy it was tangible, physically weighing down on your chest.

As the moments of quiet passed, you could very faintly hear sounds on the other end, people walking, distant unintelligible chatter from other people passing in the near vicinity.

Finally, a voice came through — several decibels lower than moments prior, a flat and empty tone; quiet, but spoken more closely to the receiver, ensuring that the words were directly in your ear.

“…You don't actually expect me to believe that, do you?”

You remained frozen in place, eyes wide, hand now curled into fists so tightly your knuckles paled.

He waited. There was no need to ask if something was the matter or wonder about a poor connection, the way one might normally do when met with silence on the other end of the line. There was only tension, dread, a mutual knowing.

You swallowed again before you spoke, barely above a whisper.

“…No.”

There was a soft, lighthearted laugh on the other end, a transition back to the same gentle voice as before, as if he’d never deviated from it.

“Ah, that’s good. Truthfully, I'd feel a little insulted if you thought I was that gullible.” You heard some background noise, a shuffling sound, perhaps standing or shuffling positions. “Well, anyway, as I was saying, I’ll be back a bit early. I’m already allowed this day off from school, so there’d be no point in going back when I don’t have to.”

Your lower jaw hung ajar, tongue dry and stiff. The television off to your side changed subject matter on the screen, the new set of colors shifting the hue that the dim light cast onto the walls.

“Oh, great! I…”

You swallowed, barely able to feign a happy tone, struggling to form any further words over the feeling of your stomach turning in on itself.

You knew that your attempt at faux cheerfulness to your voice was not convincing either of you. He knew the true emotion you felt in your chest and your gut, you knew he knew, he knew you knew he knew. Whether you kept the act up regardless out of some fear or desire to appease, or simply a lifetime of conditioning to the politeness norms of human interaction, maybe both, you weren’t certain. It was just the norm you’d settled into, the act that kept things at a peaceful equilibrium — until those inevitable moments that it fell apart, and the great pretend-act came to however long of a halt it would.

Another set of seconds ticked by. Far too long of a pause to be socially acceptable, far out of the bounds of normalcy, yet he merely waited for you to finish once more, neither acknowledging nor expressing any confusion or concern to the duration of your pause, letting you compose yourself to finally reply.

“…I’ll be right here.”

It was the only thing you could think of to say, though you felt a sharp sting in your chest of self-directed frustration at the recognition of the wavering of your own voice.

His response, unlike yours, was immediate, and the bite of the words made every muscle in your body tense.

“Well, I would certainly hope so.”

In the mere moment your breath hitched, there was a chime tone indicating the end of connection.

Even with the call ended, you merely sat frozen still, staring at the shifting colors that bounced off the wall. Slowly, your hand descended from your face, arm lowering down to your lap as your shivering fingers finally forced the phone shut with a heavy snapping sound.

You set it down on the bedside table, and you found yourself sitting still, trembling, eyes wide open as you were left with nothing to do but wait.

He was a fairy predictable person. To a significant extent, you knew how he'd react to certain actions and words and gestures, based on moods, circumstances, good days and bad days.

The issue was not a matter of not knowing what to do — but knowing there was nothing you could do. There was no deescalating, no appeasing, no way to atone for a given transgression. The one thing you'd learned very quickly was that if he was upset, there was no way to soothe it on your own, you simply had to endure whatever came your way.

And that knowledge brought despair.

You found yourself slowly letting yourself fall to your side, curling up into yourself as you came to lay on the mattress.

There was a pinching discomfort against your side. The fabric of your shirt had bunched up, digging into your skin where you lay on top of it. You shifted, lifting your back enough to pull it down and straighten it out. It was deliberately oversized, designed for wearing around the home, so that and equally soft shorts were all you’d needed — perhaps not changing was another oversight in your plan, you realized with a twinge of bitterness.

You had to admit you were well-taken care of in many ways. He’d given you quite a lot of clothes to wear, so you picked that which was comfortable to wear when all you did was lay down all day.

Although, he’d never bought anything — rather, they all came from an aged-looking box pulled out of the closet, everything perhaps a decade or so outdated. He did insist on you wearing them, refusing to retrieve anything of yours even if you asked.

Just like he insisted you needed to have your hair a certain length, to wear the specific perfume he'd hunted down just to buy for you, to follow a handful of oddly specific regulations, all of which were met with defensiveness and dismissal if you inquired as to why.

You preferred to not think about the matter.

The TV colors shifted again, this time to a drastically increased brightness. Your eyes squinted at the slight sensation of burning, long since adjusted to darkness. The windows were covered up now, and the lamp in the corner had run out of battery, seeing as it was very specifically cordless.

You pulled the covers over your head, and let your face contort with the oncoming tears that welled in your eyes. You curled up into a ball, bunching up part of the sheets and tugging them close to your chest.

Your shoulders jerked with miserable sobs, and you bit your quivering lip, this time even disregarding the pain, as the despair took hold. You wiped at your eyes, flinching as the touch sent more ripples of pain from the swollen, sore right side of your cheekbone where a bruise had formed from the events of — when was it, the day before yesterday? The day before that? You weren’t even entirely certain, the days had long since all begun to bleed into each other, lacking any distinguishable beginning or end.

You had no recollection of falling asleep, but the next thing you were aware of was your body jolting at the sudden sound from the door that woke you.

There was a metallic rustling. Normally, at that point in the routine, you would hear each in the series of locks turned with a click, one by one — only now, after the first, he seemed to realize each had already been unlocked, yet another part of your earlier attempt that, you now realized with a twinge of dread, you’d forgotten to even try to cover up.

Thus, the door merely slowly swung open, the flat door handle — implemented to replace a traditional knob — shifting to the side.

Slow, heavy footsteps on the cold tile.

"I'm back."

It wasn't cheerful, but it wasn't angry. A flat tone that sounded more exhausted than anything.

It felt as if your stomach were going to lurch up out of your throat.

You pushed yourself upward on your arms, and forced a weak, wavering smile.

"Ah... Welcome home…”

You closed your eyes, rubbing at them with the heel of your hand to ward off residual sleepiness, hoping your eyes weren't visibly puffy. You sat upright and pulled your knees up to your chest, making room for another body on the small bed.

Setting the briefcase down on the floor, he then held up a convenience store plastic bag for a second, giving it a slight shake to draw attention before setting it down on the countertop.

“I got something for us both. Whenever you want it.”

“Thanks.”

As if it weren't the case each day — you'd offered more than once to cook something out of sheer boredom, but that meant giving you knives, and the idea was swiftly rejected, and he certainly couldn't do it himself, thus you both lived off of convenience store food.

You could hear the rustling sound as he took the layers of clothing off. The thumping of shoes as they were pulled off and placed on a rack. The suit jacket went on a hook near the door, but everything else was loosely set on top of a set of drawers, until he was down to briefs and an undershirt.

It was almost a bit odd, he looked out of place — someone normally so poised and formal, who so carefully crafted every detail of both his appearance and demeanor to appear intelligent and charming, qualities to endear himself to the masses, yet executed to such a degree of perfection that he seemed nearly untouchable — and here and now, taking on such a flawed, mundane form.

His posture went more lax, his eyelids seemed to fall, and the removal of the outer shirt had messed up his hair just a bit. As if in the act of taking off layers of clothing, he was stripping himself too of the public face.

Your eyes glanced over at the drawers — the clothes were merely strewn loosely on the top, accompanied by an empty water bottle, a plastic wrapper from something he'd brought home the day prior. Little flaws, the casual messiness expected of normal young man.

You'd found it almost amusing, the first time you'd set foot in here — for someone who was such a perfectionist in every other aspect of life, so obsessed with image and impressions and maintaining a flawless presentation, so determined to put up that aura of maturity so far above what was expected or even normal for his years — it was all shed off behind that door, like a snake to its skin.

You, too, were a part of it, one of the many testaments to the imperfection only allowed in this little haven away from the ever-watching eyes of the world.

And now, slowly making his way over to the bed with weary, dragging footsteps — hair disheveled by the undressing, the absence of the stiff material of the uniform that always made his shoulders look a bit more broad, up close and in person with no camera and screen and lighting to hide the textures of the flesh of one's face or the ever so slight darkness under his eyes, and with half-lidded, glazed-over eyes of a spirit worn down by a long, busy day — was a very normal, very human teenage boy, not so different from any other after all.

You looked up at him and forced a weak smile.

His eyes, however, were shifted downward from you, glancing at the sheets. Whether it was just tiredness or unwillingness to look you in the eye, you weren't certain.

You'd somewhat expected him to confront you the moment he opened the door, be it with direct aggression or passive coldness, or perhaps to continue the feigned act of pleasantness.

But instead, you received only quiet stillness, a neutral expression — and that was somehow far more frightening.

Instead, the mattress shifted and creaked as he climbed on, quietly pulling the blanket up to move beneath it. You wriggled backwards to make more room for him.

He moved to sit beside you. Not touching, but with the close proximity only people who were close to one another would be comfortable with.

And he'd stay that way, if you did nothing. Trial and error had proven that as well. If you did nothing, he would never move, would never get closer, waiting for you to do it with increasing irritation the longer you took.

You had to initiate these things. He never told you when you were supposed to give affection, never asked for touch or comfort, leaving you to try to decipher what was desired.

Of course, if you tried to provide those things at the wrong time or for the wrong reason, you'd also be in the wrong — then, you were being manipulative, hiding something, trying to distract. You were often deemed to have acted incorrectly regardless.

This was, thankfully, a repetitive, daily routine, so you were fairly certain you knew what was correct.

Fighting back a sense of dread, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his frame, making a soft sound as you gently pulled him back. He went with the motion easily, coming to lay down with you, facing each other.

You shuffled your body upwards and forward, reaching a shaky arm over his back, wrapping it around his frame and pulling him in so that his head rested against your chest. Only once you had done so was the gesture reciprocated, and you felt an arm reach around your waist.

You wondered if he could feel how hard and fast your heart pounded.

You tried to break the silence, finding some stimulation to be more bearable than pure silence.

“…How was your day?”

You felt his heavy breath against your chest. He exhaled, and with it, his body went lax, tension leaving his shoulders as he slumped further into the bed and against your body.

“Difficult.”

The word came out muttered, audibly laced with exhaustion and frustration.

“…Well, it’s over now, at least. You should rest.”

Your attempts at words of comfort were not the best, distracted by your nervousness and unease. You attempted a soothing gesture, running your hands through his hair, then down his back, repeating the motion over and over. You felt even more tension leave his body, practically melting into the touch.

It had taken him a long time to get used to that. A single graze of your fingers to his shoulder used to make him stiffen and recoil.

But over time, that defensive reaction faded, then he started leaning into the touch, and then he started to lean forward when your hand pulled away as if trying to bring it back, and soon he would sit closer, lean in further, fix his gaze at your hands — all but begging, yet never actually asking nor initiating, always waiting for you to be the one to close that gap.

But even though he seemed content, you didn't get a response to your words. That only made your nervousness increase.

Was he waiting for you to acknowledge it? You weren't certain. That sort of seemed like what he'd do. You just didn't know, couldn't be certain, and it ate further away at your nerves with each passing second.

As your eyes flickered over to the television again, you raised your eyebrows with recognition when the face on the screen registered. You attempted to stir some extent of conversation again.

"Hey... you're on TV."

"Mm." He didn't bother to open his eyes, much less turn back around to see.

Deciding from that response that it was better to not push further, you closed your eyes. The changing visuals of the television took form as shifting colors behind your eyelids.

Pressed up against each other, the back and forth movements of your bodies with each breath in and out was soothingly rhythmic, lulling you into momentary tranquility and ease. The atmosphere was so quiet, so gentle, you thought for a moment that perhaps the matter could simply be forgotten, that your mutual desire for peacefulness and rest outweighed any residual negative emotion.

Then you felt his fingers start to curl.

Slowly, they arched upward, the tips of his fingers pressing into your back, fingernails digging into the flesh through the fabric.

Your eyes shot open, and your heart began to speed up once more.

“…Goro?”

He didn't answer. His arms fully locked into place against your back, pulling himself ever closer to you, your collarbones digging into his forehead. He held you so tightly, with such strain, you felt his arms begin to tremble.

You squirmed in place, dread now returned in full force. You scrambled to find words in an attempt to deescalate.

“Hey, hey— listen, I'm sorry, I just—”

“Don't say that.”

His voice was a low, but firm murmur, barely audible and muffled by your shirt. You went stiff, toes curling, every muscle taut. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“Don't…” His chest rose and fell against yours as he took a heavy breath, “say you're sorry.”

You could do nothing but lay still, tense and frozen, wide-eyed as you felt his hand move, circling back to your front side.

You could hear his breaths become ragged, heavy. He slowly raised himself up, propped up on one elbow, coming to loom over your wide-eyed, trembling form.

“You have… no right…”

His hand latched onto your jaw, a painful, crushing grip, voice taking a sudden turn to a sharp, fierce hiss.

“…to say that shit to me.”

Your heart pounded. You inhaled a sharp gasp and squirmed, a natural reflex to the spike of panic surging through your veins. You grasped at his hand and pulled, to no avail.

“A-ah, no, I really—”

“Shut up.” The words were spoken through clenched teeth, a quiet, hissing voice. His hand squeezed your jaw tighter, pain rippling up through your face. “You want to placate me. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No,” you shook your head rapidly, eyes squeezing shut as fearful tears began to accumulate. “I don’t… I don’t know what else I can—”

“I have done,” his words of interruption were interspersed a heavy breath, “everything I could possibly do, to help you adjust to this.”

You could feel his nails dig into your flesh. Every part of you wanted to flail, to kick and struggle out of pure defensive instinct, to ramble on with apologies, but what little rationality and willpower remained kept you still, knowing from past experience that that would only make things worse. Instead, you lay still and tense, trying to control your own rapid breaths.

“I got you things you like to do,” he continued. “I got you things you asked for.”

Your toes curled, your hand gripped at his own locked onto your jaw. Your body felt cold.

“G-Goro—”

“But that's not good enough, is it?”

You managed to swallow, feeling the upper part of your throat shift under the pressure where the heel of his hand made contact.

“No, no, it's—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up. I told you to stop trying to placate me.”

His grip was crushing.

You couldn’t even finish a single sentence.

It was a futile effort. You knew full well that once he was upset, there was nothing you could do about it, no compromising, no appeasing.

Any attempts at such were helpless, pointless. The only way forward was to accept and take whatever would come.

Yet, it was only natural instinct to still try, to rush to attempt to fix what was wrong was only the logical, immediate impulse; you didn’t know what else you could do, and that only made the futility of it that much more crushing.

Thus, all you could do was tremble, whimper, lip quivering as you waited in trepidation.

“Then what… what do you want me to…?”

His eyes were dark, hair casting a shadow over them from the rapidly shifting colors of light that projected from the screen onto the rest of his face. A huff of offense at the question caused a segment of his hair to shift. His grip relented.

He sat upright, one hand up to grip at the side of his face in a gesture of frustration, eye glaring at you from the gap between his fingers.

“What do I want?” His voice was at least lower, a touch calmer from the momentary outburst, even if still frustrated. “I want you to follow the simplest of instructions, and you continuously prove incapable of that.”

“I…” You swallowed, pushing yourself upward with your forearms presses to the mattress. “I really just—”

“All you have to do,” he continued, fingers held to his face rigidly curling, “is stay in here, and do whatever I tell you to do — which is not much, mind you.”

“I, I know, I know!”

He scoffed.

“You certainly aren’t acting like it.”

You kept quiet, wanting to respond, wanting to placate him to any extent you could, but unable to think of anything to say coherently, overwhelmed and panicked. At your silence, he gave a heavy sigh and fixed his gaze to the wall, turned away from you despite his words being directed at you.

“You don't have to worry about anything. You don’t have to do anything.” He huffed again, eyes closing and grasping at the bridge of his nose in a gesture of irritation. “I have done nothing but make life easier for you, and you refuse to even attempt to understand that. Is it truly so hard to simply stay put?”

“N-no, no, I just—”

At your denial, his head snapped back to face you, voice turning to a nasty snarl.

“Then why the—”

And he cut off as he turned his gaze back to you.

Your huddled form was shrunken back away from him, curling in further on yourself, as you always did in reflex to such harshness. Eyes wide in fear and, as you could tell from your blurring vision, tears were visibly welling up in your eyes.

His momentary narrow-eyed, wrinkled-nose expression of disdain fell as quickly as it had appeared. He turned his head back away from you, hanging down to face the floor.

Everything went quiet. For a few moments, only silence hung in the air.

And then, he sank back down onto the side of the bed, slowly, softly, shifting so that he sat with his feet over the side to rest on the floor. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs. He tilted his head to rest his forehead on his hands, clasped together.

You sat fully upright as well, weakly reaching up to rub at your jaw, now throbbing in the absence of constriction.

You waited in the quiet, curling up into yourself, knees brought up to your chest, a reflexive defensive position. The uncertainty of the consequences of anything you might do kept you still. The awareness that trying to move away was a bad idea kept you firmly in place.

Likewise, there were no words that came to mind that you were certain would not earn a negative reaction, and thus, you waited in stillness and silence, mind drifting as you glanced over at the screen once again. Taking in the face displayed in the light, mouth moving silently, smiling and gentle and calm, barely recognizable, as if that of a stranger — but it was not.

Nor was it as if the one on screen was entirely a mask or a mere act, but a part of him just as much as the “other” part was. You often imagined such what-ifs in your head — if the adoring public could see this, see you, to know what things were like behind the door.

You wondered if anyone else knew the person beside you now. You now saw that side more often than the other one — a dependency that formed over time, you assumed, like an addiction, you were only viable thing to expel stress and frustration into, and thereby the only source of catharsis available.

And while there were still good days, days that almost felt like nothing had happened at all, like you just so happened to be here and everything was still normal — there were so many bad days. One unpleasant possibility had long since begun to seep into your mind, one that you found yourself mulling over with increasing frequency and dread.

And something about the moment of vulnerability brought that matter out of you, defeat and despair pulling the words out of your mouth.

“Do you still like me?”

The question felt so childish to ask, it made your face feel warm.

Quiet seconds passed.

His face turned to a mild scowl, you could see the corners of his mouth pull taut, though he didn't pull his head out from his hands.

“…Why would you even ask that?” His voice was still defensive, but far quieter than the outburst moments prior. “Why do you think you're here?”

You winced, sheepishly wringing your hands in nervousness, but managed to swallow and continue nonetheless.

“I thought maybe, you'd decided you didn't now, but just… didn't know what to do with me.”

He scoffed.

“Don’t be absurd.”

Despite the words technically being positive, his tone was laced with frustration, irritation, rather than any actual reassurance towards you.

There was a discontentment in his voice and what you could see of his face — perhaps to some degree, he wanted to say something else, but for whatever reason remained silent.

You were afraid, so very afraid, and yet the words came out anyway. Your spirit was worn down, your exhaustion even seeping past your fear.

“You don’t… act like it much.”

His hands shifted, clasping tighter, muscles tensing.

His voice was increasingly calmer, but still laden with a blatant tone of pretentious irritation.

“Maybe if you stopped being difficult, things could be different.”

More silence. You fidgeted in place.

“…Is that… what you want?”

“Clearly it isn’t what you want,” he muttered, “even though this was your fault to begin with.”

You closed your eyes at the harsh words, knowing all too well exactly what he meant. Knowing it was inevitable that this would lead down the same trail of dialogue that it always did, a conversation that had been had at every opportunity. That even if you said nothing, it would go that way anyway. Every time the matter came up even tangentially, he had to be sure to remind you. You waited a few seconds in silence, and sure enough—

“Don't forget that, either. You chose this.”

His voice was quiet. Cold and somber, placing so much weight on so few words.

A familiar line. In the beginning, he'd said it constantly. A reminder drilled into your head, over and over, so much that you often found yourself close to believing it.

“You just had to go out of your way and do everything you did,” he continued, in spite of a lack of response from you. Even with his face partially obscured by his hands and hair, you could see his nose wrinkle with an expression of disdain, his voice laden with bitter anger, as if describing some immense transgression.

Had you not been in this position, desperate to calm him and dispel any negative emotion within him, you might have argued against such a notion. But instead, you merely swallowed, before forcing out a reply.

“…I’m sorry… I wanted to help…”

“I was perfectly fine.” His fingers arched as he tightened his grip where they interlaced. “I didn't need help.” He gave a frustrated huff, hair shifting with the exhale. “You deliberately went out of your way to be—”

He cut off, mouth slightly ajar, struggling to verbalize the feeling itself, and thus, after a moment, he finished in a low mutter, perhaps self-aware of what a weak choice of words he had nothing better than to settle on, or even of how ridiculous it sounded that he was framing it as a wrongdoing.

“…to be nice.”

Such a simple, plain word, it sounded nearly unfitting from a individual normally so very articulate. The softer mumble of the words themselves was almost as if spoken in defeat, reluctant.

He leaned his head further down against his hands, spreading the palms apart so that they came to cover his eyes completely as his forehead rested against them.

You couldn’t formulate a response — in part from the intensity of emotion and exhaustion, but in even larger part due to the sheer absurdity of the matter, the way your kindness was framed as a wrongdoing, as something from which the outcome you now found yourself in should have been expected.

You sat still and slack-jawed, eyes scanning the sheets as you tried to process your thoughts, think of anything to say, try to appease him, but he spoke again before you could.

“You talked to me first,” he added, as if that fact proved some sort of important point.

Yes, if only you had known, in that moment, the chain of events you would set off, the consequences of a single act of considerateness.

Being a desk worker at the police station, it was inherently a responsibility to greet and help anyone who came walking by, but you found it particularly endearing when you saw some poor high schooler wandering around, now what felt like ages ago, brows furrowed in confusion and eyes scanning each of the directories and room numbers, blatantly lost.

Are you looking for somewhere in particular? I can help you.

You’d watched him stiffen and fidget, even if he managed to maintain that smooth, confident aura to his voice, smiling sheepishly, but accepting your offer for directions.

You'd thought it was cute.

“And you went out of your way to talk to me every single day,” he muttered. “You chose to do that.”

Yes, you’d begun a regular routine, one you thought little of. You greeted him when he came in, wished him a good day when he left.

Truthfully, that was something you did for every regular face that came through the building each day. In hindsight, you often wondered if he had believed it was uniquely reserved for him.

That had turned into conversations, when he started to linger — though you doubt you could get him to admit he had done so, even if he was self-aware that he had. Conversations that were first brief, but gradually grew longer.

A mature and capable sort of character, almost unbefitting of someone his age, yet there was a distinct sort of neediness that seeped through the cracks, whether or not he was aware that it was increasingly evident. The distinct desperation for positive attention so characteristic of a teen, that no amount of effort could conceal completely.

Only exacerbated by his life situation, you assumed — though, you'd only learned about that as a jarring startle, dumped onto you one afternoon as casually as if talking about the weather, and already having moved on to another matter before you could sputter out some kind of sympathetic response, and you'd never had the gall to mention it thereafter.

Regardless, you were certain that, be it conscious or subconscious, that information had played a role in your efforts to show him kindness.

Now, the same boy sat just an arm’s length away, scowling as he recalled those moments like some transgression against him.

He lowered his head into his hands, palms covering his eyes and most of his face, elbows pressed to his thighs.

“You didn’t just stop at that either,” he continued, a passive-aggressive note to his voice. Not as blatantly vicious as it had been a few minutes ago, but the malevolence was clear nonetheless.

That much struck you with uncertainty, confusion. He’d told you plenty of times how this was your fault, but normally left it at some notion that you’d essentially forced his hand by showing any semblance of kindness, not going into much more detail. You looked up at him, weakly forcing out an inquiry.

“…What… what do you mean?”

He huffed in frustration, as if your ignorance to your own wrongdoing was so glaring it was offensive.

“You just had to keep doing things for me,” he replied. “You bought me lunch when I forgot mine.”

You felt like you were doing something good, at the time. He was ever so grateful, and kept apologizing for the inconvenience.

You blinked, dumbfounded, processing the words, the treatment of the act as a wrongdoing, left in a stupor as he continued even still.

“You let me eat with you. Every day.”

He had asked once. There was no reason for you to say no. He was the one that then began showing up each day.

“You bought things for me, do you not remember that?”

You’d noticed it was well into the winter, and he kept walking in with nothing but a uniform. How you'd fretted and fussed — ah, I don't ever really buy clothes for myself, he'd said — and thus you soon ended up getting him a nice coat and a scarf for the cold. He lacked the figure in his life that would normally do so for a boy his age, after all, so you'd told yourself.

That incident itself was the first time you'd ever felt something strange about him. The way he'd stared with some unreadable, but unpleasant expression as you handed the intended gifts over. Something like confusion and pain. It had only lasted for a split second, before he smiled and thanked you, but you noticed it all the same.

One of his hands reached up to his head, pulling at his hair in frustration.

“You went out of your way to ask me how I was doing. Every day.”

His tone gradually rose in audible bitterness as he continued, fingers curling further into his hair.

“You kept asking me about my life. You kept saying all those things.”

You told him you'd seen him on the talk shows. Tried to complement it, said he was such a good speaker, told him how smart he was.

At the time, your words seemed to make his eyes lighten — just ever so slightly, any hint of reaction carefully restrained by conscious effort to maintain composure, but visible even still. You’d found he would subtly slip small mentions of achievements into conversation, like a quiet plead for praise, one more noticeable than you believed he realized.

Now, his head finally rose and turned towards you, eyes narrowing as he finished, practically in a snarl—

“I never asked for any of that.”

You winced at the harshness, shuffling your legs closer to your chest, leaning away from him.

The words themselves might have hurt in isolation from the context they were inherent to, were it simply a matter of your kindness being met with such negative reaction.

But the anger hurled your way did not erase your memories of how it all went over at the time.

You remembered the way he’d started to look in your direction as soon as he entered the building. You remembered the time you found him standing around your desk at the end of the day, when you’d left to print something off, apparently not wanting to leave without seeing you — though he must not have realized you were able to see him waiting there the whole time, since he passed it off as a coincidence you’d run into each other at the right time when you came back.

You remembered the time you told him—

I saw you on TV last night! You did a really good job out there!

The slight widening of his eyes and soft smile and so very humble reply, visibly happy nonetheless.

When he mentioned exam scores, successful cases, any sort of accomplishment — always in an off-handed, casual way, a clause wrapped within a larger sentence, as if to disguise the words themselves as inconsequential — you were more than happy to play along.

Aw, good for you, I'm proud of you.

You really are so bright.

That’s quite impressive.

One by one, every little word of praise and encouragement, every time you bit the hook of sentences that seemed to be prodding you to inquire further, the ever-so-slight effect it seemed to have — you’d thought it all so endearing.

Once again, you'd told yourself, if he didn't have the usual figure most boys his age had to tell them things like that, there was no harm in you doing what you could to substitute that, however slightly you could.

Thus, even now, whatever mess of emotions made him react so negatively, the words didn’t sting like they might have otherwise.

But the vitriol and harshness still stung. Your head hung downward. You stumbled over your words.

“I… I was just… trying to be nice, because—”

“Because you felt bad for me. Don't think I don't know that.” His gaze jerked back downwards, angled at the floor. “I didn't ask for your pity.”

You shook your head.

“I wanted you to be happy.” Your voice nearly cracked with the desperation that poured out of your chest. “I wanted to make you happy.”

Those themselves were words that would make most people pleased, you imagined — but he bristled, eyes darting downward to the ground, giving a tsk of irritation before he replied, a hissing voice filled with bitterness.

“I never asked you to do that either.”

With another huff of frustration, he propped his elbow onto his thigh again, this time resting his chin on his hand, keeping his gaze to the television. Not really watching or absorbing it, of course, but it was something to look at that wasn’t you, something that kept him from having to meet your eyes. You watched the colors bounce off his skin, illuminating his scowl.

“…But you just had to go and do it anyway, didn't you.”

As if that kindness were a crime, a transgression. Some wrongdoing you'd committed, for which penance was due.

His head tilted forward further, his fingers curled against his face, nails digging into the flesh.

“Then one day you just casually say you’re switching jobs and moving away like you’re talking about the goddamn weather.”

His expression contorted with vitriol. He spoke through clenched teeth, a voice so quiet you could hear the breath within it more than the words themselves.

“What makes you think you can just walk away after all of that?"

And then, his eyes closed. He let out a quiet, heavy sigh — this time not a short one of frustration, but a slow exhale, his body shuddering with the release of whatever tension it relieved.

"...I'm sorry..."

They were the only words you could summon. There were no other words that could properly address the blame being cast upon you, and anything else would be futile anyway.

Thankfully, that time your apology wasn't met with snapping anger, instead a callous sigh.

“...I suppose it was unreasonable to expect you to consider anyone but yourself.” There was an unmistakable passive-aggression to his tone. “Even now, you had every intention to get me locked away for the rest of my life, when I've done everything in my power to improve your quality of life here."

“No, no, I wasn't.” You shook your head, panic resurging at such an accusation, however accurate it may be.

“Obviously you—”

“I wasn’t going to do that.”

You forced the words out, forcing as firm of a tone as you could manage, fighting against your nerves.

It wasn’t often that you interrupted him. Which clearly came as a shock to him as well — you saw him slowly lift his head, eyebrows raised as his gaze turned towards you, so taken off-guard that he didn’t even respond with immediate offense as you might have expected.

Your gaze met his. The still-running glow of the silent television screen cast an overlay of shifting color onto the whites of his eyes.

The foreboding look that formed over his face made you look down, unable to keep eye contact, but you squeezed your eyes shut as you forced the words out regardless. You had already dug whatever grave you were going to lie in, there was no point in backing down.

But it was merely a passing second — by the time the colors reflected on the sides of his eyes had shifted with the change of screen, his eyes darkened, his expression grew solemn.

“I just wanted fresh air,” you continued, “to walk around.”

You hoped it wasn’t as obvious of a lie as it felt.

“I— I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you,” you continued. “I wasn’t going to. It’s, it’s just…”

You shook your head, eyes watering. Your hands curled up into fists against your thighs.

“People weren’t made to live like this.”

A long silence followed. Seconds ticked by. You stared down at the sheets, vision blurred by tears. There was a lump in your throat, you swallowed and fought the urge to break down. That would accomplish nothing.

At least a minute had passed before he finally responded.

“You think I don't know that?”

The words were cold and blunt. As if you’d said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. There was some degree of sadness within how quietly they were spoken, perhaps even remorse, but it was clear and unyielding.

And within that response was an unspoken statement in and of itself — that no amount of appealing to any inhumanity of your situation was going to change it.

Your jaw clenched. You swallowed before you continued.

“Then… then you have to realize this can’t last forever.”

“…”

The silence made your gut twist on itself, but desperation pushed you further.

“It, it doesn’t have to be by myself, o-or for forever, I mean, you can come with me, we can go walk outside…”

“I thought I told you to stop asking.”

You winced, but the words only made fury race through your heart. Against your better judgement, pure emotion overcame you, and your voice began to raise.

“I-I know! But you just said—”

“It doesn't matter.”

He spoke that time through clenched teeth. A warning tone.

“At some point you have to—”

“Shut up.”

Something in you broke. Your trepidation of your words, the fear of upsetting him — none of it mattered. You had nothing to lose.

“At some point you have to let me GO!”

No sooner had the word left your throat, than his hand slammed down on it.

Your vision blurred with rapid motion as his body lunged for yours, as your back hit the mattress. You instinctively put your forearms to the surface in an attempt to push yourself up, but within a mere moment, he was on top of you, weight slamming you back down.

There was a sharp sting of soreness — his hands fit perfectly against the ring of bruise you perpetually sported around your neck, a testament to the frequency of these very moments, the nature of the way things were within the small space cut off from the outside.

“I said shut up.”

His hand squeezed down hard. Reflexively, your body jerked forward, but he easily shoved you back down again, far superior strength making any struggle futile.

The grip on your throat and the fear pounding in your chest made your eyes blur with tears. Reflexively, perhaps against better judgement, your hands shot up to grab onto his, fingernails digging into his flesh.

His face loomed over you, shadows cast all around. You could still see his narrowed eyes, illuminated by the screen’s light, staring down at you, cold and angered.

His breaths were ragged, labored. He spoke through clenched teeth.

“And you know what?”

His shoulders heaved with the depth of his breaths as he paused.

“I know you knew.”

His nose scrunched with the expression of disdain.

“You’re not stupid. You knew what you were doing to me.”

The words made a knot form in your stomach.

You heard him swallow, felt his hand tremble against you, be it in fury or pain, you weren't certain.

“You made me act like an idiot every time I saw you. You couldn’t have not known.”

That much was true.

It was never as obvious at it would have been with any other boy his age — most were not as guarded as him, would not have put in the effort to always seems so nonchalant as he did, would not have held themselves back from their own enthusiasm and eagerness in the way you sensed he did.

But it was obvious nonetheless, over time. The double-texts, the lingering by your desk, the split-seconds facial expressions of joy and disappointment he’d make before correcting them to the pleasant neutrality of the perpetual mask forced on him by the public eye — but every now and then, it slipped nonetheless.

But that was normal. A common thing in a young man that age.

It was fleeting, you'd thought. It was innocent. It was harmless. It wasn't anything to take seriously. You weren't encouraging it, just being kind. It wasn't as if you didn't appreciate him.

Nothing bad could come of it.

The tightening grip pulled you out of your reflection on your actions. His breaths came out heavy, labored.

“And you didn’t stop me from coming to you. You could have told me not to.”

His eyes bore into yours, a sharp and intense stare, locked together. To look into his eyes and all the fury and contempt they contained made your chest feel tight, made your skin feel cold, sent a chill running through your blood and you wanted so so so badly to look away, yet found your own eyes fixed on his, unable to look away even if you tried, as if his eyes held onto yours in the way his hand held onto your neck.

The corner of his mouth twitched. His grip grew tighter, cutting off your airways entirely. You stiffened, and began to struggle. Your eyes squeezed nearly shut. You squirmed against his hold, but his hands did not relent.

His words were cold, bitter.

“You never said ‘stop.’”

His grip grew tighter.

“You never said ‘no.’”

It felt like it would crush your throat.

“You could have. I would have listened.”

His voice turned low and dark.

“But you didn't.”

Your heart pounded against your chest as your panic turned to desperation, as you realized his grip wouldn’t relent.

“You made it worse. You made me keep coming back.”

His shoulders shifted forward with the force of his grip.

“You chose this—”

His eye twitched.

“—every goddamn step of the way.”

The fear that ran through your blood pushed aside your concern that a reaction would just make it worse, instinct taking over the forefront of your processing.

“Goro—”

Your voice came out as a choked gargle. You clawed at his hand. He huffed in frustration.

“Stop moving, you—”

He cut off as his eyes settled over your form. Your spine turned with your squirming attempts to free yourself. Tears leaked out of your eyes and streamed down your face. Your struggles pulled your thin clothing tight against your form, your body writhing, back arching.

His expression shifted, his mouth pulled taut.

You saw his chest rise and fall with heaving breaths. His head tilted downward towards his body.

“…”

His hand released your throat. You gasped in cold air, body heaving with deep breaths and sputtering coughs, slumping down as relief washed over your body, reaching up to rest your fingers on your throat, wincing at the sting of each breath.

You could hear his heavy, panting breaths.

And then, he leaned forward again, hands grasping at your waist, pulling you closer.

It wasn't difficult to remove what was left between you — only a single layer of clothing each. You didn't have anything beneath the outer layers of clothing — it made things easier, you supposed, that way.

Nonetheless, you felt his fingers hook under the waistband around your hips, jerking downward. In one swift motion, your shirt was pulled upward too, breasts spilling out from underneath.

You laid still, tensing, shifting, but not outright fighting, largely because such resistance would only make things far worse.

And in part because — even now, in spite of everything — the thought of hurting him brought an ache of guilt to your chest.

Still, out of reflex, you found yourself shuffling backwards, elbows pressing to the mattress to pull you back, overwhelmed by the sudden shift of atmosphere and rapid pace of action.

“Ah, wait—”

Without even the slightest semblance of gentleness, his hand shoved you back down, flat onto your back.

“Hold still.” His voice was blunt, but not as strongly laced with emotion as it had been moments prior, too distracted by his current task.

The rumpled mound of blankets and sheets cast more shadow over the lower half of his body, but you could make out his other hand moving, hear the faint sound of fabric shifting against skin. You heard a string of repetitive curses come out of his mouth, faint whispers hissed out in a tone of irritation, as if angered by the urges themselves.

With another harsh jerk to pull you closer, he leaned his body downward, burying his face against the crook of your neck. That, too, was routine, expected, something he always did. He never let you see his face, could never look you in the eye throughout. Maybe it was a craving for physical closeness, maybe it was a loathing of vulnerability that the connection of your gazes would bring, maybe both.

You closed your eyes.

It burned. You were too tense, it was too sudden. The friction on such sensitive skin made you inhale a sharp gasp.

You felt him shudder against you, heard it in the way he exhaled, breath hot on your skin.

His hands grasped at your waist, pulling your body forward and, consequently, further impaling you on himself.

The positioning of his head brought his mouth close to your ear, letting you hear each ragged, labored breath, a brief soft muttering so slurred you couldn’t make it out, despite the proximity.

Your hand reached up, resting on the back of his neck. Even now, in spite of everything, the bruises scattered across your skin and the sore sting on your throat and the greyness of the walls that tormented you day in and day out as you struggled to recall how many days had passed since you’d been anywhere else —

— you couldn’t bring yourself to be anything but gentle.

He, on the other hand, was anything but.

Rather than a rolling motion, his hips merely slammed into your body back and forth, the movement intense, quick and harsh, driven by emotion and frustration.

Still, with each movement, he rubbed against your insides in such a way that made pleasure jolt through your body.

And it grew faster, faster, more forceful. The creaking of the bed grew harsher, an aggressive motion that lurched your body back with each movement, only for his hands to jerk your body back close to his, fingernails digging into your flesh.

You could melt into it — at this point, it was a mastered skill, letting go of any fear or despair and succumbing only to the feeling within you flesh, primal and simple, a sensation that existed outside of circumstance and emotion.

A warm pressure that built and built higher and higher, made you clench down on him, made you arch your back, made noises spill from your mouth that in turn made him move even harsher still.

You found your arms wrapping themselves around his back, clinging to him tightly. The only thing you had left, the only person that existed in a world that was otherwise dull and dark and filled with nothingness.

You supposed that was the point, what he wanted to be. The only thing of substance allowed to exist in your world, everything else pushed back and out behind that door, locked away just beyond your reach.

He brought his head up just enough to speak more directly to your face, but his hair still obscured any sight of his face you might have otherwise had, a harsh whisper through labored breaths.

“You thought you could just get away with it all?”

He jerked his hips forward again, so harshly you gasped, your back arched.

You gasped at the sensation, sputtering out whatever words came to your mind in the haze of sensation and intensity.

“No, I didn't — I, I never meant to— I wasn't trying to—”

“Shut up.” He snapped back at you through clenched teeth. “You knew from the beginning you'd leave eventually. You didn't care how it affected me.”

His fingernails sank into your waist.

“It never meant anything to you.”

Your bottom lip trembled, a sore lump in your throat threatening to break you apart even as fluttering sensation shot through your nerves, the physical sensation and emotion each heightening each other.

“I didn't think— I didn't think you'd—”

You didn’t think it meant that much. You only talked to him for a few minutes every day. To you, he was just one of many people you interacted with, and held a matching degree of significance. Something you had never explicitly told him, but you knew he’d come to understand all the same.

Tears leaked out of the corners of your eyes.

“I… I'm sorry… I never wanted to— ah!”

You gasped, your back arched as your bodies moved in such a perfect way as to make your mind go blank.

His voice became erratic, frantic, spoken between gasping breaths — just as his hips began to move faster, harsher.

“You were going to just disappear and leave.”

In the moment of pause, his ragged breaths were hot against your ear, before he finished in a snarl, snapping his hips forward so brutally the bedframe slammed into the wall—

“You don't get to do that to me.”

You tensed at the intense motion, insides spasming at the sensation, clamping down, and crying out — a filthy, wanton noise that made the heat of shame rush to your face just processing it.

In turn, no sooner had he spoken than you felt him shudder again, muttering out a quiet string of curses before lowering himself down again, body pressed tightly to yours, abandoning any efforts he might have intended to put into further words or maintaining some semblance of composure, instead giving in to the sensation and urges in full.

His hips moved against you in erratic frenzy, mercilessly harsh. His fingernails stabbed into the flesh around your hips, holding you firmly in place so that the sheer force of the movements didn't push your body off of his.

You, too, let go of any restraint — what was even the point of holding onto some semblance of dignity? — and let your mind lose itself in the sensation. Letting your mind run blank was far preferable to letting yourself be tormented by emotion any further. A freeing feeling from the cage of worry — always aware of how many days it had been, the burden of keeping track, the weight of endless wrestling with what-ifs and fantasies of possibility in both retroactive and prospective senses alike.

You let the noises pour out of your mouth, let yourself tense and spasm and wrap your legs around his waist, let yourself claw at his back. It felt as if your mind was melting.

Yes, giving in was easier. Separating yourself from the context of where you were and why and for how so very long, indulging in the relief cast by the shadow of defeat and acceptance. Regardless of the circumstances that led you here, and throwing aside the soul-crushing question of your hopes of a future that haunted your every waking moment, this moment was here and now and real, something you could feel and savor.

You let the sensation turn to pleasure and pain that blurred together, eyes closed, listening to the sync of the sound of the mattress shifting with the sparks of sensation running up your spine. You let that feeling bring you up, up, higher and higher, peaking as you pulled him as close to you as you could manage, sounds from your throat coming out high-pitched and needy.

Only mere moments later, before you could even come down from the dissociative feeling of fog over your mind, you vaguely felt him come to a halt, heard him suck in a sharp breath between clenched teeth.

There was a heavy silence that hung over the air, broken only by each other’s heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lowered himself down, moving to your side, hair still veiling his face from your view, before eventually letting his weight fall the rest of the way in a sudden collapse, causing the mattress to shift. Without any conscious thought to do so, you found yourself turning onto your side to accommodate it, so that you faced each other.

And once again, you lay in quiet, broken by your labored breaths, each exhale tangible on the other’s skin.

Your sweat made the sheets cling to your body.

He was so close, but even still, waited, hesitant, depending on your initiation.

Thus, instinctively, you wrapped your arm around him, slowly, cautiously. Your arm wrapped around his back, pulling his body forward into place against yours.

Slowly, you felt his hand reach up to your arm, just below your shoulder, fingers wrapping around it with only the faintest of touches.

His head came to rest at your chest once again, forehead settling on the spot between your breasts. His hand’s grip on your arm grew tight.

And you felt him shiver against you. A continuous, soft shaking, like someone freezing in the cold. There was something about the feeling that spread into you, something that poured from his body into yours.

He felt so much bigger and stronger when he was on top of you, those times where he held your wrists above your head, the times he’d grabbed you and drug you around like a ragdoll across the little apartment — and now, he felt almost small, in your arms. Fragile, as if he would shatter apart like glass, should you hold him too tightly.

Some time passed. Your eyes closed at some point, but you could still see the shifting colors behind your eyelids, light shining through. Your body slowly relaxed from all the tension.

You could feel his heart beating against your hand resting on his back, perfectly in sync with your own, which you felt in the form of the throbbing around your neck.

And in that stillness, you felt some sense of peace. As if everything were inconsequential, all your anguish melting. As if you were merely normal lovers in a state of post-coital exhaustion after a long day.

Part of you wanted to lean into it, to let yourself slip into that illusion. It was comforting and warm, and the burden of awareness of the reality of your situation was so, so heavy. You were tired of its weight.

But something else weighed on your mind, holding you back from the brink of exhaustion. And without conscious intent, that something slipped out from your lips.

“Do you wish I hadn't?”

Your throat stung to speak, the words came out in a scratchy voice, but nonetheless so quiet that he would not have even heard you had he not been pressed against you.

There was a long pause. He turned his head upward, slowly, exhaustion visible in such a small movement. Not even enough to look you in the eye, just enough to acknowledge your words.

“…What?”

You swallowed.

“Do you wish… I had never talked to you? That I hadn’t… done all of those things?”

The quiet that followed felt like a weight pressed to your chest. You felt the vulnerable softness of comfort leave his body, replaced by a tenseness that wasn’t there moments prior.

His head lowered back to its former position, and the room fell to silence again, seconds ticking by. When he finally replied, it was a cold, blunt tone, as if you’d asked a simple, obvious question.

“I never said that.”

You didn't have the energy to feel frustrated. You had long since accepted that there was no way to win. The absurdity of his response in light of it all barely fazed you. If anything, it felt like the response you'd anticipate, perfectly in line with how you knew him to be.

You wrapped your arms around him tighter.

Your bodies pressed together, tender and intimate and comforting, and in spite of everything, you let yourself savor the goodness of the feeling of it. You felt the tension slowly leave his body as well, it felt as if he melted against your touch.

You began to drift off, mind lulled by the colors behind your eyelids. Some time passed.

And then he moved.

Your eyes opened, groggily returning to awareness and clarity — and some degree of concern, never certain what he would do at any given moment — and you watched as he pulled himself out of your grasp, quickly pivoting to the side of the bed to stand.

You slowly sat upright, shirt falling back down to at least cover your upper half, tilting your head in curiosity as you waited to see what he'd gotten up for.

Without a word, he moved back towards the counter at the front of the small apartment, reaching out for the plastic bag he'd set down when he came in. His footsteps were heavy, lazily dragging against the floor as he brought it back, one plastic container in each hand. He extended one out to you.

“It’s past our normal eating time.”

His voice had returned to a perfectly normal tone, not tired nor bitter nor angry, the tone he used when everything was fine, a tone that set you at ease. As off-putting and surprising as it was, you didn't question the pleasant change, merely taking it from his hands, opening the box and little paper-wrapped utensils, only pausing to sheepishly, hurriedly put your clothes back on.

Your hand still shivered as you forced food into your mouth.

You'd had this before plenty of times. You assumed it was conveniently on his route home. He always got one particular order for you. You didn't hate it, but it wasn't your preference, not that you ever stated so, wanting to avoid any risk of negativity.

It wasn't the same thing he got for himself, either. That, too, had become part of your routine. He made very specific assumptions of what you wanted when it came to flavors, colors, and so on.

You became acutely aware of the sensation of the shirt that still clung to your body, how your hair brushed against your skin where it fell at the exact length he’d insisted on keeping it.

Much like those things, you preferred not thinking about where the assumptions came from.

You brought a few bites to your mouth, each of you eating in silence. In the absence of other stimulus, your eyes trailed back over to the screen.

Enough time had passed that he was no longer one of the figures on the television screen — but the subject matter appeared to still be the same as it always was, for the past few months. Yet another accident, the same circumstances as usual.

You saw him lift his head up, following your line of vision, then scowling at the screen — but as the only source of light, he didn't turn it off.

“You should be careful.”

Your words turned his head back towards you, eyebrows raising in an expression prompting you to continue. You looked down.

“All those people they show lately... going crazy and getting tons of people hurt. You're known to the public, so… just be sure to be cautious, you know.”

You couldn't articulate the look on his features. He paused, blinking a few times at you, eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed, before turning his gaze back down.

“I'll be fine.”

You turned your gaze back to your food as well — but not before your eyes briefly drifted over to the door once more. You felt a chill run down your spine as the far-too-recent memory of electrocution flashed through your mind, and with it, the humiliation of it all settled heavy on your chest.

You closed your eyes and swallowed, trying to rid yourself of the lump in your throat as the urge to break down threatened to take over you again, and dulled your mind, letting it fall to blank nothingness but the task of finishing your food.

You turned your head and looked at the soft-featured young man. His face — the mask of the public persona still off, now in a different way than mere anger, but a sort of quiet, barely-noticeable sheepishness that followed such outbursts, distinguishable by a faint frown, ever-so-slightly furrowed brows, an avoidance of looking upward — felt so innocent, almost endearing.

You didn't realize you were staring until he finally looked up, having sensed the feeling of your gaze. He blinked.

“Is something wrong?”

Asked in such a gentle, pleasant tone. Nonchalant, ignoring the bruises on your body, ignoring the band still latched around your neck. It was so easy to believe nothing had happened.

Your eyes shifted away from him, briefly trailing around the room — to the cordless lamps and flat door handles and locks on all the drawers and the spot on the ceiling where the fan had been gouged out and caulked over.

And likewise, you shook your head and resumed picking at your food, deciding for your own sake that that none of it was of any consequence. That was a far less painful way to think about it all anyway.

“No, nothing.”

[estellan0vella]

My Very Own Speed Demon: K.S Kim Seungmin x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 15.5K

CW: Seungmin is bad at feelings, talks of a guy making reader uncomfortable with touching, Mechanic Student Seungmin, Hyunjin is a bit of an ass

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The sun sinks lower, painting Miroh College in golden hues as shadows stretch lazily across the almost-empty parking lot outside the engineering building. The faint hum of machinery fades into the evening air as Seungmin steps out, rolling his shoulders with a slight groan. His black shirt hangs open, the silver chain on his chest catching the light with every movement. He wipes his slightly greasy hands on a rag stuffed into his back pocket, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he heads toward his car.

But something halts him. A few rows down, parked like a relic from a cooler era, is a 1977 Datsun 280Z. The hood’s popped open, and standing in front of it is you.

You’re bent slightly over the engine, your phone in one hand as the other gestures vaguely toward something under the hood. A quiet sigh escapes you as you tilt your head, clearly deep in a YouTube tutorial. The sunlight plays off the chain belt draped around your waist, your layered necklaces, and the flutter of your blue maxi skirt. A loose strand of hair brushes against your face as you mumble softly to yourself, brows furrowed in concentration.

Seungmin slows, lips twitching into a barely restrained smirk. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath. You’re cute. And absolutely lost. Before he realizes it, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he strides toward you.

When he’s close enough to see the way you’re squinting at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, he clears his throat. “You’re looking at the wrong engine model.”

You jolt like you’ve been shocked, nearly dropping your phone as you whirl around. Your wide eyes meet his, and your voice comes out breathy, startled. “Shit, you scared me!”

Seungmin raises his hands in mock surrender, the silver rings on his fingers glinting. His smirk deepens. “Sorry, sorry. I just couldn’t help noticing you looked like you were fucking struggling.”

Your cheeks flush, but you huff out a laugh despite yourself. “Yeah, well. I don’t know jack shit about cars, so I’m improvising.” You gesture toward the duct tape crisscrossing random parts of the engine. “This seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Seungmin leans closer, eyebrows raised as he inspects the tape job. “Jesus Christ. That’s a lot of duct tape.”

“Duct tape works,” you insist, crossing your arms in a half-defensive, half-sheepish posture.

He straightens up, deadpan. “How’s it working for you right now?”

Your lips twitch, trying not to laugh. “Okay, point taken.”

He snorts, rolling up his sleeves as he steps closer to the car. “Mind if I take a look? Because this thing isn’t running without some proper help. And no offence, but I don’t think YouTube’s got you covered.”

You hesitate for a moment, then sigh, stepping aside. “Go ahead. I’d appreciate it. Just, please don’t tell me it’s completely fucked.”

He leans over the engine, peering into the mess of parts. “Probably just your spark plug. Maybe the alternator if you’re really unlucky. But this? This is salvageable.”

You lean against the side of the car, watching him as he works. The way his fingers move over the parts, quick and sure, makes you feel a little less panicked. “The grease on your face tells me you’ve done this before, so I have faith in you"

Seungmin glances at you, smirking. “You should probably raise the bar for what counts as a ‘professional mechanic.’ But yeah, I’ve worked on cars since I was a kid and I'm a mechanics student. You’re in decent hands.”

“Well, considering I almost called Hyunjin to come save me, you’re already a fucking upgrade,” you admit with a small laugh.

He freezes for a split second, looking up at you. “You know Hyunjin?”

“Yeah,” you say, tucking your phone into your bag. “We’re supposed to be working on this art history project together. He’s going to fucking kill me for being late.”

That earns you a quiet laugh as Seungmin wipes his hands on his rag. “You’re meeting him at the Alpha Phi house?”

You blink at him in surprise. “Wait, you’re in Alpha Phi?”

He shrugs, leaning casually against the car. “Yeah. I'm Seungmin. I live there with him and the other idiots.”

A grin tugs at your lips. “I'm Y/N and Hyunjin's mentioned you. Mostly just complains about you being soulless.”

Seungmin snorts. “Sounds about right.” He glances back at the engine, then at you. “Hate to break it to you, but this car isn’t going anywhere until you replace the spark plug. You’re fucked for tonight.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Of course I am. That’s just perfect.”

“Hey,” he says, his tone softening slightly. “I’m heading home anyway. Why don’t you let me give you a ride? It’s either that or you haul your ass across campus alone.”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you weigh your options. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you or anything.”

Seungmin tilts his head, his voice calm but teasing. “What kind of dick would I be if I let a pretty girl with good taste in cars walk all the way to campus alone?”

“The same kind of dick as most of the guys on this campus?”

He bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Well, they’re all assholes. I’m not.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, and you push off the car. “Alright, fine. Let me grab my bag.”

As you fall into step beside him, he shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing at you sideways. “So, art history, huh? What’s the project?”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s on Tudor art. Specifically how Anne Boleyn’s image was erased after her execution. Hyunjin’s handling the movement and symbolism stuff.”

Seungmin groans, rolling his eyes. “That tracks. Hyunjin loves overanalyzing the fuck out of everything. Half the time, I think he’s just making shit up to sound smart.”

You laugh softly, your steps matching his as the two of you head into the twilight.

The drive to the Alpha Phi house is unexpectedly comfortable, considering you’re riding with a guy you’ve known for all of ten minutes. Seungmin’s Honda Civic smells faintly of coffee and motor oil, and the faint hum of the engine is almost soothing as it cuts through the winding streets of Miroh College. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curious about this sharp-tongued yet oddly chivalrous stranger. He’s relaxed, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, the silver rings on his fingers glinting in the muted streetlights.

Seungmin breaks the silence first, his voice dry but not unkind. “So, why a 280Z?”

You blink, his question catching you off guard. “What do you mean?”

He flicks his gaze toward you briefly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his eyes return to the road. “It’s a cool car, sure. But let’s be honest—it’s a high-maintenance pain in the ass. And judging by your duct tape situation earlier, I wouldn’t peg you as the ‘engine whisperer’ type.”

You laugh softly, your fingers fiddling with the bracelets on your wrist. “Okay, fair enough. I’m not exactly a mechanic. But it was my dad’s car. He restored it when he was in college, and it’s been in the family ever since. It’s sentimental, you know?”

His smirk softens into something more genuine, and he nods. “Yeah. I get that.”

The car falls into a comfortable quiet again, broken only by the soft buzz of the engine and the occasional sound of tires crunching over the asphalt. The two of you fill the gaps in the silence with casual conversation. You complain about campus parking, and he counters with a running list of the best parking spots he’s commandeered over the years. 

He mentions a coffee shop near the library that’s cheap but “doesn’t taste like watered-down pretentious-cunt water,” and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. When you bring up how much you love late-night drives, his face lights up just slightly, and he shares how he used to drive aimlessly to clear his head when shit got overwhelming.

By the time he pulls up in front of the Alpha Phi house, its massive white columns glowing in the night like some over-the-top temple to chaos, you’re almost disappointed that the ride is over.

The house looms ahead, loud even from the outside. Someone’s yelling from the second-floor window, and you catch a glimpse of a guy leaning halfway out, waving his arms. “For fuck’s sake, Chan, shut up and come back in before you fall!” someone shouts from inside.

Seungmin just shakes his head, exhaling sharply as he pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. “Every day, I wonder why the fuck I still live here,” he mutters under his breath, grabbing his keys.

You step out of the car and sling your bag over your shoulder, smoothing your skirt as he leads the way up the wide, creaky steps. The faint light from the porch lamp glints off the chain around his neck as he digs into his pocket for the keys.

“Hyunjin’s probably upstairs,” he says, unlocking the door with a practiced ease. “You’ll hear him before you see him.”

The door creaks open, and the chaos of the frat house spills out into the night. Inside, the space is somehow both clean and a complete disaster. The floors are clear of clutter, but the mismatched furniture in the living room is piled with discarded hoodies, random solo cups, and what looks suspiciously like a pair of boxers. A giant flat-screen TV blares some football highlight reel, and the faint smell of beer, sweat, and something burnt lingers in the air.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say quietly, taking a tentative step inside. The house feels like it’s pulsing with energy—voices shouting, footsteps pounding, someone laughing like a maniac in the kitchen.

Seungmin shrugs, brushing past you toward the noise. “No problem. Hyunjin’s room is upstairs, last door on the left. Just tell him I didn’t kill you or anything.”

You smile a little at that and nod, heading toward the stairs. The wooden steps creak under your Converse, and the sounds of the house get louder with each step. Behind one door, someone’s blasting music—something heavy and bass-driven. Behind another, you hear what sounds like a heated debate about the “existential meaning” of SpongeBob.

Finally, you reach the last door on the left. You knock softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you wait.

“Come in!” Hyunjin’s voice booms out almost immediately, loud and theatrical as always.

You push the door open to find Hyunjin sprawled dramatically on his bed, his long limbs draped across the comforter like he’s auditioning for some avant-garde art piece. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, and his golden hair is messy in a way that looks too good to be accidental.

“Took you fucking long enough,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “I was about to start working without you.” His eyes land on you, and then narrow slightly. “Wait—how the fuck did you even get here? Did you walk?”

“No,” you say, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. “Your friend Seungmin gave me a ride. My car decided to fuck me over in the middle of the engineering lot.”

At the mention of Seungmin, Hyunjin groans, flopping back onto his bed like the mere thought of his frat brother is exhausting. “Of course he did. Bet he was an absolute cunt about it too, wasn’t he?”

You laugh softly, setting your bag down on the chair near his desk. “He was actually pretty nice. Surprisingly helpful, considering the duct tape situation.”

Hyunjin snorts, propping himself up on his elbows. “That asshole’s full of surprises. Don’t get used to it, though. He’s usually too busy being a sarcastic dick to help anyone.”

You smile faintly, settling into the chair and pulling out your notes. “He’s not that bad.”

“Trust me,” Hyunjin says, grabbing a notebook from the floor and flipping it open. “You haven’t known him long enough yet. Give it time.”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, the chaos of the house fading into the background as you dive into your project.

Seungmin steps into the kitchen, popping the tab on a cold beer before leaning against the counter. The sound of the aluminium can hissing open is barely audible over the general buzz of conversation. He takes a long, quiet swig, hoping for just a moment of peace. But when he lowers the can, he immediately notices it. Six pairs of eyes fixed on him like vultures circling a fresh carcass.

Minho, Felix, Jeongin, Changbin, Jisung, and Chan sit scattered around the dining table, their expressions ranging from smirking amusement to outright glee.

“So,” Chan starts, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms like he’s conducting some kind of frat house tribunal. “She was cute.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

“You fucking heard me,” Chan replies, his smirk widening. “The girl. The one who came in your car.”

Minho snickers, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers. “Yeah, I saw her. Very your type. You into hippies now?”

Felix immediately elbows Minho in the ribs, his voice sharp with mock outrage. “Shut the fuck up, Minho. She wasn’t a hippie; she was hot.”

Seungmin groans, tipping his head back and muttering to the ceiling like it might spare him. “Here we fucking go.”

“You don’t just offer a girl a ride unless there’s something there,” Jeongin cuts in, his grin pure mischief as he leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Seungmin shoots him a glare. “Her car was busted, and it was getting dark. What was I supposed to do, leave her there to get mugged or some shit?”

Jisung raises a hand like he’s in class, his grin borderline feral. “Counterpoint: You’re totally the guy who lets people fend for themselves because you’re too busy being a soulless bastard”

Changbin chuckles, lifting his can in a mock toast. “Be honest. You didn’t give her a ride because you’re a nice guy. You did it because she’s hot, right?”

Seungmin takes a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his patience thinning with every word. When he sets it down, he exhales sharply. “From an objective standpoint, sure. She’s, objectively speaking, good-looking. I can admit that.”

“‘Objectively,’” Jisung parrots, squinting at him. “Why the fuck do you keep saying it like that?”

Jeongin smirks, leaning forward with his chin resting on his palm. “Because our boy here doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he just lived a fucking meet-cute.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t pop out of his skull. “I don’t know her. I gave her a ride, that’s it. The end. Stop making this a fucking thing.”

“Yet,” Changbin drawls, grinning like he’s cracked the code. “You don’t know her yet. But you could.”

“This isn’t a fucking fanfiction,” Seungmin snaps, slamming his beer down on the counter hard enough to make the others laugh. “Alright? This is real life. She’s not some pixie dream girl who’s gonna change my fucking world or whatever.”

“Relax,” Jisung says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “We’re just saying it’s a possibility. You’ve got the whole oil-smeared, black-on-black, moody mechanic thing going for you. Girls eat that shit up.”

“Exactly,” Jeongin agrees, nodding sagely. “She’s probably already imagining you fixing her car shirtless in slow motion. Hell, I’m imagining it.”

“Fucking gross,” Seungmin deadpans, shaking his head as the table dissolves into laughter.

Chan raises an eyebrow, his voice mockingly serious. “You’re saying there’s no chance, none at all, that she might’ve been a little into you?”

Seungmin stares at him, his tone flat. “Zero. I’m the asshole who told her duct tape isn’t a real fix and then made her leave her car in the lot. Really romantic.”

“That’s your version,” Felix says with a grin. “Her version is probably all, ‘Oh my God, this sexy, grumpy mechanic saved me and then gave me a ride in his cool car.’”

“It’s a Honda Civic,” Seungmin mutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jisung replies. “You’re a walking Wattpad trope right now.”

Seungmin sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re all idiots. I helped her out because it was the right thing to do. That’s it.”

But as their teasing fades into background noise, Seungmin can’t help the way your face lingers in his mind. The way you’d smiled at him, soft and sweet, like you weren’t sure if you were supposed to but couldn’t help it anyway. The way you’d laughed when he’d called you out on your duct tape fix, not defensive, just genuine. And the way you’d looked so at ease in the passenger seat of his car, your hair catching the light from the streetlamps as you told him about your dad’s 280Z.

He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts aside. This is nothing. Just a pretty girl who needed a ride.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself as he finishes his beer and listens to his friends laugh.

The autumn sun bathes the campus in golden light, shadows stretching across the cobblestones as Seungmin strides toward the café. The crunch of fallen leaves under his boots echoes in the crisp air, his every step purposeful but unhurried. His black compression top clings to his frame, the fabric outlining his shoulders and arms. The silver chain against his chest catches the light as he shifts the strap of his bag, his fingers absently toying with the chunky rings that gleam on his hand.

He spots the café ahead, its tables littered with students hunched over laptops, sipping steaming cups of caffeine. His plan is simple. Grab coffee, kill some time, and enjoy the rare peace between classes. But as he rounds the corner, the sight of you freezes him mid-step.

You’re standing near the entrance, your sage green blouse slipping slightly off one shoulder, the delicate strap of your bra peeking out. Layers of necklaces glint against your skin, and your chain belt sways with every tiny shift of your weight. You’re smiling, polite but clearly uneasy, as a Sigma Chi douchebag looms too close. His navy sweatshirt emblazoned with the frat’s oversized logo makes Seungmin’s lip curl immediately.

“You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?” the guy sneers, his voice dripping with mockery.

Your polite smile falters, but you hold your ground, your tone gentle despite the venom aimed at you. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think—”

“Bullshit,” the guy cuts you off sharply, his voice rising. “You were sweet as fuck at the party, all flirty and cute. Now you’re ghosting me like I’m some fucking loser? What the fuck is that about?”

Seungmin’s jaw tightens. The guy’s posture, leaning in with fake bravado, makes his blood simmer. You’re too nice, too soft-spoken, trying to defuse the situation instead of telling this idiot to fuck all the way off. Not on Seungmin’s watch.

“Hey, Y/N!” Seungmin calls out as he strides toward you.

Your head snaps to him, relief flashing across your face. “Oh! Hi, Seungmin!” The brightness in your voice is unmistakable, and you take a step toward him, only for the Sigma Chi asshole to block your way.

The guy sneers, glancing between you and Seungmin. “Kim Seungmin? Really? You’re ditching me for this fucker?”

Seungmin’s boots crunch loudly against the gravel as he closes the distance. His sharp eyes narrow, and his voice drops, calm but laced with menace. “Got something you want to say, Sigma Chi?”

The guy stiffens but holds his ground, though the confidence in his sneer wavers. “Yeah. I’m saying she’s ditching a real man for some emo mechanic wannabe. That about cover it?”

Seungmin tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Funny. You sound like a lot of talk for someone who’s about five seconds away from having their teeth kicked in.”

The frat guy falters, glancing around to see if anyone is watching. Seungmin steps closer, his boots scraping loudly against the pavement, and lowers his voice. “Walk away, asshole. While you still have a choice.”

The guy scowls but backs off, muttering something about “fucking losers” under his breath as he storms off. Seungmin watches him go, the tension in his posture easing only once the guy is out of sight.

“Fucking dickhead,” he mutters before turning his attention back to you. “You alright?”

You nod, your fingers fidgeting with the bracelets on your wrist as you take a steadying breath. “Yeah. I didn’t know how to get him to leave without making it worse.”

“You don’t have to,” Seungmin says simply. “Guys like that don’t deserve your time. Next time, just tell him to fuck off.”

You laugh softly, though it’s tinged with a bit of nervousness. “Easier said than done.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says, his voice lighter now, though the edge of protectiveness hasn’t left. He tilts his head toward the café door. “Come on. Let’s get coffee before some other Sigma Chi asshole shows up.”

You fall into step beside him, the warmth of the café greeting you as you step inside. The scent of fresh coffee and pastries wraps around you like a blanket, and the low hum of conversation fills the space.

“Grab a seat,” Seungmin says, gesturing toward the tables. “I’ll order.”

You choose a small table by the window, your nerves finally settling as you watch him at the counter. He exchanges a few quick words with the barista, his tone casual but confident, and a few minutes later, he’s making his way back to you with two drinks in hand.

He sets a cup in front of you before sliding into the seat across from you. “Chai latte,” he says. “Figured that’s more your speed than straight black coffee.”

You blink, pleasantly surprised. “How’d you know I like chai?”

He shrugs, smirking faintly as he takes a sip of his own drink. “Lucky guess. You just seem like the type.”

You chuckle, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. “Well, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Least I could do,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his silver rings tapping lightly against the ceramic mug. “That guy was a fucking disaster.”

You trace your finger around the rim of your cup, your voice soft. “He wasn’t always like that. We just didn’t click, and I thought he’d understand, but I guess not.”

Seungmin snorts, setting his drink down with a small thunk. “Yeah, because entitled shitheads like him don’t take rejection well. They think they’re God’s gift to the world and lose their shit the second someone disagrees.”

You smile faintly, though there’s a sadness in your eyes. “I just try to see the good in people. Maybe that’s stupid.”

He watches you for a moment, his eyes softening. “It’s not stupid. It’s just risky. Too many people out there are assholes, and being nice doesn’t mean they’ll stop being assholes.”

You nod, taking a sip of your latte and you glance up at him with a small smile. “Well, I’m lucky you were there.”

“Damn right, you were,” he says with a smirk. “Seriously, though. If some other dick tries that shit, call me. I’ll handle it.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “What, glare them into submission?”

“Exactly,” he deadpans, taking another sip of his drink. “It’s a very refined technique.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, and the tension from earlier melts away completely. Seungmin surprises you with his dry humour and blunt honesty, and before you know it, the conversation flows easily, dipping into random topics and shared complaints about campus life.

When you finally leave the café, the sun has dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the quad. Seungmin walks beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets as the two of you approach the main campus intersection.

“You heading to class?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Art history in ten.”

He nods. “Workshop for me. Another day of fixing shit that some moron broke.”

You laugh softly. “Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it’s a fucking thrill,” he replies with a faint grin.

At the intersection, you pause, turning to face him. “Thanks again, Seungmin. For everything.”

He nods, his expression softening. “Anytime. Just don’t let assholes like that ruin your day, alright?”

You smile warmly, your voice quiet but sincere. “I’ll try.”

With a small wave, you head off toward your class, and Seungmin watches you go, the sound of your footsteps fading into the autumn breeze.

He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. You’re sweet, soft-spoken, and far too good for this world. And somehow, you’re starting to get under his skin.

The Alpha Phi house looms ahead as you walk up the driveway, your oversized portfolio folder tucked under one arm. The autumn breeze toys with the hem of your blue maxi dress, making it swirl around your ankles as you climb the steps to the front door. Stray strands of hair escape from the clip holding them back, brushing against your face as you adjust the strap of your bag and shift the weight of the folder. Your mind is focused on Tudor art, Anne Boleyn, and the mountain of work you need to finish before tomorrow—definitely not on how chaotic the frat house is probably about to be.

You knock lightly on the door and step back, waiting. The sound of heavy footsteps grows louder before the lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal Seungmin, barefoot, in grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a white t-shirt clinging to his damp frame. A towel hangs loosely around his neck, his dark hair tousled and still wet from a shower. The sight is so effortlessly casual yet striking that it catches you off guard, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here.

His sharp gaze flicks to the massive portfolio folder you’re holding. “Jesus Christ,” he deadpans, leaning against the doorframe. “That thing’s almost as big as you.”

You huff a soft laugh, shifting the folder to rest it against your hip. “Well, Tudor art’s got a lot of depth. It’s heavy, literally and metaphorically.”

Seungmin’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Right. Deep. Heavy. Bet it’s still more entertaining than the shit Hyunjin tries to call art.”

You grin, your voice light as you step past him into the house. “Oh, it’s profound. Intricate. Emotionally moving. You’d love it.”

The house, predictably, is chaotic but lively. There’s the faint sound of a video game coming from one of the rooms down the hall, the kitchen smells faintly of burned something, and a pair of sneakers is inexplicably hanging from the banister. You glance around, searching for any sign of Hyunjin.

Seungmin notices your scanning gaze and rubs the back of his neck. “About that,” he says, his voice edged with mild irritation. “Hyunjin left, like, twenty minutes ago. Went to meet up with that Marissa girl.”

Your shoulders slump slightly as you let out a quiet sigh. “Of course he did. Perfect timing as always.”

Seungmin shrugs, dropping the towel onto the back of the couch and crossing his arms. “If it helps, I can try to help you out. And by help, I mean I’ll sit here, look up shit on my laptop, and let you do all the actual work.”

Your grin softens into something more genuine. “That would actually be amazing. Thanks, Seungmin.”

He jerks his head toward the stairs. “Come on. It’s quieter in my room.”

You follow him up, navigating past a stray hockey stick and what looks like a torn-out couch cushion, until you reach his room. It’s surprisingly neat—especially for a frat house—with a neatly made bed in one corner, a desk covered in mechanical tools and textbooks, and walls lined with posters. Your gaze lands immediately on one—a half-naked woman straddling a motorcycle, her pouty lips and sultry gaze seeming comically out of place compared to the otherwise functional vibe of the room.

“Wow,” you say, unable to suppress a small laugh. “A half-naked girl on a motorcycle? Real classy.”

Seungmin glances at the poster, his smirk returning. “What can I say? It’s vintage. Been with me since I was thirteen. Practically a family heirloom at this point.”

You hum thoughtfully, setting your portfolio down on the bed. “I had Bruno Mars on my wall. Right next to Edward Cullen.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Bruno Mars and Edward Cullen? What a lineup.”

You shrug, your lips quirking. “I was multifaceted.”

“Clearly,” he says, smirking as he leans back on his hands. “But Edward Cullen, though?”

You nod, unzipping your portfolio. “Oh, obviously. A staple for any teenage girl. But for the record, I was team Alice.”

That makes him pause, his brow furrowing slightly. “Team Alice? Not team Jacob or Edward?”

“Too mainstream,” you say with a grin. “Alice deserved better. She’s underrated.”

Seungmin lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I can’t even argue with that.”

You settle cross-legged on the bed, flipping through the pages of your portfolio and spreading your sketches and notes across the comforter. Seungmin leans forward slightly, picking up one of your reference images.

“So,” he says, studying the sketch of a Tudor-era portrait. “What’s the big project?”

“It’s about how Anne Boleyn’s likeness was erased after her execution,” you explain, pointing to a specific note scribbled in the margin. “They painted over her portraits, rewrote history through art. It’s fucked up, but it’s also fascinating. Some of her portraits survived, though. It’s like this tiny act of defiance against a system that tried to erase her completely.”

Seungmin traces his thumb along the edge of the image, his dark eyes thoughtful. “That’s some heavy shit. People really went that far to bury her?”

“Yep,” you reply, smoothing out another page of notes. “Art’s more powerful than people realize. It can tell the truth—or rewrite it. That’s what makes this so interesting. It’s like solving a mystery but through brushstrokes and canvas.”

He watches you for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. The way your eyes light up, your voice gaining a quiet confidence as you explain something you’re clearly passionate about—it’s distracting in a way he didn’t expect. And maybe doesn’t entirely hate.

“Alright,” he says finally, snapping out of it. “Tudor art, huh? I think I’ve got some old books on restoration techniques that might help.”

You blink, surprised. “You do?”

He gets up, heading to his desk and rummaging through a small shelf. “Yeah. Took an elective on historical restoration last year. Figured I’d keep the books in case I needed them. Didn’t think they’d actually be useful, though.”

You watch as he pulls out a few worn textbooks, his movements efficient but with an almost surprising gentleness. He tosses them onto the bed beside you.

“Here,” he says. “See if there’s anything in there you can use.”

You pick up one of the books, flipping through the pages with growing excitement. “Seungmin, this is perfect. Thank you.”

He sits back down, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “No problem. Just don’t let Hyunjin take all the credit for this shit.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “He’s not that bad.”

Seungmin snorts, his smirk turning sharp. “Sure he’s not.”

Seungmin leans back against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him, one foot tapping lazily against the edge of the bed. He watches you sketch in your portfolio, the soft scratch of your pencil filling the otherwise quiet room. The occasional rustle of paper or your quiet hum of concentration is the only sound beyond the faint chaos filtering in from the house downstairs. 

For a moment, he just observes. The way your brow furrows slightly as you work, how the delicate chain around your neck glints every time you shift positions.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his tone dry. “So, how many times has Hyunjin ditched you for shit like this?”

You pause mid-sketch, glancing up at him with a small shrug. “It’s not that bad,” you say. “He lets me use his printer when I need it. Mine broke a while ago, and I haven’t replaced it yet.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his smirk sharp as a blade. “Do you own anything that actually works, or is your whole life just duct tape and crossed fingers?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “A few things work. My blender’s still going strong.”

“Great,” he deadpans, gesturing at the mess of notes and sketches spread across the bed. “And how much of this ‘collaborative’ project is actually Hyunjin’s work?”

You hesitate before flipping to a single page in your portfolio, its sparse, half-assed notes glaringly out of place among your meticulously detailed work. You push it toward him, your lips twitching in a sheepish smile.

Seungmin peers at it, his expression blank for a beat before he lets out a low whistle. “Holy shit,” he mutters, leaning back. “He’s really pulling his weight, huh?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “He’s busy, I guess.”

“Yeah, busy being a useless dick,” Seungmin says bluntly. “Honestly, you should erase his name from the project and turn it in as your own. Fuck him.”

Your eyes widen, and you immediately shake your head, scandalized. “I can’t do that! He could fail!”

“And?” Seungmin’s gaze sharpens, his voice edged with disbelief. “That’s his problem. You’re the one busting your ass here. What’s he even doing, fucking Marissa while you save his degree?”

You groan softly, dropping your pencil and fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “It’s not that simple. I don’t want to screw him over.”

Seungmin sighs, his tone exasperated but not unkind. “Then you need to tell him to step the fuck up. You’re not his babysitter.”

You grimace, avoiding his eyes as you pick at a loose thread on your skirt. “Confrontation makes me feel like I’m going to physically die.”

He snorts, his lips curving into a smirk as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, you seem like the type who’d eat around a deathly allergen just to avoid ‘causing trouble.’”

Your silence is damning. You don’t even look up.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seungmin says, his voice laced with incredulity. “You’ve actually done that, haven’t you?”

You groan softly, covering your face with your hands. “I had my EpiPen! I was being polite!”

He stares at you for a long moment before letting out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You risked death to be fucking polite? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Peeking at him through your fingers, your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “To be fair, the coconut added to the flavour. I wasn’t even mad when my throat started closing up.”

Seungmin’s jaw drops, and he shakes his head, looking genuinely appalled. “What the actual fuck? You’re insane. Like, genuinely fucking insane. Who the hell does that?”

You shrug, biting your lip to hide a laugh. “It was a really good dessert.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.” When he looks back at you, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, though his voice is firm. “You’re unbelievable. Sweet, sure. But fucking unbelievable.”

“I just don’t like making people feel bad,” you say softly, fidgeting with your pencil again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” he counters, his voice dropping into something almost serious. “You shouldn’t have to risk your life or your grade just to keep everyone else happy. That’s not how it works.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sudden edge in his tone. The usual sarcasm in his voice is gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier. It’s unexpected, but it doesn’t feel unwelcome.

“Maybe you’re right,” you murmur, your gaze flicking back to the portfolio spread across the bed. “But it’s hard. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Seungmin leans back against the headboard, watching you for a long moment. His expression softens just slightly. “Standing up for yourself isn’t causing trouble,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s just making sure people don’t walk all over you. And trust me, people will walk all over you if you let them.”

You nod slowly, taking in his words as you absently trace the edge of your sketchbook. For a moment, the room is quiet again, save for the faint noise of the frat house below.

Seungmin’s voice cuts through the silence, light and teasing once more. “So, about the coconut. Did someone finally figure out you were dying, or did you just sit there and wait for your ‘polite death’?”

You laugh softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “One of my friends noticed and freaked out. She basically tackled me and stabbed the EpiPen into my leg while I was trying to tell her it was fine.”

Seungmin lets out another laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re lucky you’ve got people watching out for you, because clearly, you won’t do it yourself.”

You stick your tongue out at him, earning a sharp smirk in return. “Maybe I’ll start being more assertive. After this project is done.”

“Good,” he says, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms. “Because if you let Hyunjin keep pulling this shit, I’m gonna start calling you Saint Y/N. Patron fucking saint of doormats.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Fine, fine. I’ll try to stand up for myself. No promises, though.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his smirk laced with challenge. “I’ll believe it when I fucking see it.”

And though he’s teasing, there’s something in his voice that feels almost encouraging, like he might actually believe you can do it.

The house hums with faint background noise as Seungmin sits cross-legged on his bed, the fan lazily pushing air through the room. Your portfolio rests open in front of him, the pages fanned out carefully on the comforter. His sharp eyes flick over your sketches, pausing on the intricate lines and shading of Anne Boleyn’s face.

One piece in particular, a half-finished sketch of Anne wearing her iconic "B" necklace, makes him stop. Her expression is soft but haunted, the shadows under her eyes suggesting both weariness and resilience. It’s not just good; it’s fucking captivating.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, running a thumb along the edge of the page. “She's talented as fuck.”

He leans back, letting his head rest against the wall as his thoughts drift. He’s not sure what it is about you that keeps grabbing his attention. Maybe it’s the way your sweetness feels genuine, like it hasn’t been diluted by the world yet. Or maybe it’s the quiet determination you carry, even when people like Hyunjin leave you holding the bag.

The thought of Hyunjin makes his jaw tighten. That asshole.

By the time Hyunjin walks through the door later that night, the house is alive again. Bowls of Minho’s kimchi jjigae are being passed around the living room, the spicy, rich aroma filling the air. Seungmin sits on the floor, his back against the couch, spooning stew into his mouth like it’s his last meal.

The front door opens with a bang, and Hyunjin strides in, looking far too pleased with himself. His hair is slightly mussed, and he hums under his breath as he kicks off his sneakers. Before he can even greet anyone, a slipper flies through the air, smacking him square in the face.

“What the fuck?!” he yells, stumbling back and clutching his nose. His wide, offended eyes dart to Seungmin, who’s glaring at him.

“You,” Seungmin says, setting his bowl down on the coffee table with deliberate care, “are fucking lucky Y/N is too nice for her own damn good.”

The chatter in the room screeches to a halt. Chan, perched on an armchair, raises an eyebrow and gestures vaguely with his spoon. “Alright, what the hell is happening?”

Seungmin doesn’t even glance away from Hyunjin as he explains. “Our dear friend here has left Y/N to carry their entire art history project on her back. She’s done everything, while he’s done jack fucking shit.”

Minho, who’s leaning casually against the wall with a beer in hand, lets out a low whistle. “Classic Hyunjin move. Should’ve seen it coming.”

Hyunjin groans, rubbing the spot on his cheek where the slipper hit him. “She said she didn’t mind! I asked her if she needed help, and she told me it was fine!”

“Of course she did,” Seungmin snaps, his glare intensifying. “Because she doesn’t like confrontation, you absolute dickhead. And you fucking know that.”

“That’s rough, man,” Felix says from the couch, slurping his stew loudly. “Kinda makes you a cunt, doesn’t it?”

Hyunjin groans again, throwing his hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it. I fucked up. What do you want me to do?!”

Seungmin doesn’t even hesitate. “Pay for her car repairs.”

The room goes completely still. Then, one by one, everyone nods in agreement.

“Yeah,” Chan says, pointing his spoon at Hyunjin like a judge passing down a sentence. “That’s fair.”

“Her car’s a fucking 280Z,” Minho adds, taking a swig of his beer. “Repairs aren’t cheap. Pay up, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin looks around the room in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You guys are ganging up on me! What the fuck!”

“No, what the fuck is you,” Seungmin snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “You owe her. If it weren’t for her, you’d fail that class. Pay for the fucking car.”

Hyunjin sighs heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. Fucking fine. I’ll pay for her car repairs. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Seungmin says flatly, picking up his bowl of stew again. “And if you flake on this, I’ll throw something heavier than a slipper next time.”

“Like what?” Hyunjin challenges weakly.

“Like the fucking coffee table,” Seungmin replies without missing a beat.

The room bursts into laughter, but Hyunjin mutters under his breath as he grabs a bowl of jjigae for himself. Changbin, seated on the floor with his legs stretched out, nudges Seungmin with his foot. “You really stepped up for her, huh? Study buddy and all.”

Hyunjin squints at Seungmin, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Wait. You? Helping with art? What’s next, you learning to waterpaint?”

Seungmin glares at him, but the heat doesn’t quite reach his voice. “I know how to read, dumbass. It’s not that hard to help someone find sources.”

Jeongin smirks from his spot by the coffee table, resting his chin in his hand. “Nah, it’s not just that. Seungmin’s got a soft spot for her. We all see it.”

Felix leans forward, his grin mischievous. “Yeah, the mean mechanic act breaks real quick when she walks in with her flowy skirts and shy little smile. You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

Seungmin flips him off with zero hesitation, his eyes narrowing. “Eat shit, Felix.”

“I’m just saying,” Felix continues, unbothered. “You’re kinda protective for someone who’s ‘just helping.’”

“I don’t have a fucking thing for anyone,” Seungmin retorts, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “She needed help, so I helped. End of fucking story.”

“Right,” Jisung says, drawing out the word with an obnoxiously knowing smirk. “Totally believable.”

Seungmin groans, standing up and grabbing his empty bowl. “You’re all fucking insufferable.”

As he stalks out of the room, the sound of their laughter echoes behind him. But as much as he tries to ignore their teasing, the image of you sketching quietly on his bed lingers in his mind.

Maybe they’re not entirely wrong. But he’s not about to admit that. Not yet.

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the wide windows of the Alpha Phi living room, turning the room golden and catching motes of dust as they swirl lazily in the air. The mismatched furniture gives the space a slightly chaotic charm. Minho is sprawled on the couch like a cat, his cherry-red hair catching the sunlight as he lazily flips through a magazine about exotic pets. A faint smirk plays on his lips, suggesting he’s less interested in the articles and more in the idea of tormenting his housemates with his next grand idea.

Chan is perched on the armrest of the couch, his easy grin in place as he scrolls on his phone. His head bobs faintly to the playlist humming from a speaker tucked in the corner.

The peace doesn’t last.

Seungmin walks in, his boots heavy against the floor, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black cargos. His shoulders are tense, his jaw locked tight, and his sharp eyes dart around the room like he’s searching for something or someone to aim his frustration at.

Minho looks up first, instantly zeroing in on Seungmin’s sour expression. He doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Sunshine himself,” he drawls, tossing the magazine onto the cluttered coffee table. “What’s got your panties in a twist today?”

“Fuck off,” Seungmin snaps, sinking into the armchair across from them with all the grace of a dropped anvil. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath.

Chan raises an eyebrow, setting his phone aside. “Uh-oh. You look like you’ve been thinking too hard. What’s going on?”

Minho leans forward, his smirk sharpening like a predator scenting blood. “Yeah, Seungmin. Lay it on us. Who pissed you off now? Or is this your natural state?”

Seungmin glares, his gaze flicking between them like he’s debating whether or not to just leave. But the weight in his chest refuses to budge, and he knows he’s going to explode if he doesn’t say something.

Finally, he exhales sharply, his voice low and tight. “It’s about Y/N.”

Minho and Chan exchange a quick glance, eyebrows shooting up in unison. Minho’s grin stretches wider, and Chan’s expression softens with interest.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Minho says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Go on, lover boy. We’re listening.”

Seungmin scowls, but the heat in his glare feels more defensive than angry. “I don’t know,” he mutters, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ve just been thinking about her. A lot. And it’s fucking annoying.”

“Thinking about her how?” Minho presses, his tone a mix of curiosity and outright glee.

“Fucking... I don’t know! Like that!” Seungmin snaps, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “That’s why I’m asking you two assholes. What the fuck is going on with me?”

Minho’s grin turns predatory. “Oh, you absolute dumbass. You like her.”

Seungmin freezes, his sharp gaze snapping to Minho. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Chan says immediately, clapping his hands together like he’s just cracked the case of the century. “It’s so fucking obvious. How do you not know this?”

Minho cackles, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. “Are you emotionally stunted, or just slow on the uptake?”

“Probably both,” Seungmin mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, this is fucking stupid.”

Chan’s grin turns fond, his voice teasing but not unkind. “Oh, Seungminnie. You’re so cute when you’re like this.”

Seungmin flips him off without hesitation. “Don’t fucking start.”

Minho tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re really out here having a whole-ass existential crisis because you caught feelings. It’s almost... endearing.”

“Fuck you, Minho,” Seungmin bites out, though his tone lacks any real venom. “I didn’t ask to be analyzed. I just want to know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about it.”

Minho sits up, rubbing his chin like he’s deep in thought. “Well, for starters, you could try not being such a cold, emotionally constipated robot. That might help.”

Seungmin glares, leaning back in the chair. “So helpful. Thanks.”

Chan chuckles, reaching over to pat Seungmin’s shoulder. “He’s right, though. If you like her, you’ve gotta stop acting like a brooding asshole and actually talk to her. You’re good with words when you want to be.”

“Yeah, but not like that,” Seungmin mutters, crossing his arms. “What the fuck do I even say? ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about you a lot and it’s annoying as fuck, so maybe we should go out?’”

Minho bursts out laughing, nearly falling off the couch. “That’s... wow. No. Don’t say that.”

Chan shakes his head, biting back his own laughter. “Just be honest, man. You don’t have to make it weird. She’s the type who’d appreciate the truth.”

Seungmin sighs, tipping his head back against the chair. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I just fuck it all up?”

Minho snorts. “Then at least you’ll know instead of sitting here stewing like a fucking idiot. Either way, it’s a win for me. Free entertainment.”

“Go to hell, Minho,” Seungmin mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Chan chuckles, his voice softer now. “You’ll figure it out, Seungmin. Just don’t overthink it. You’re not as bad at this stuff as you think.”

Minho hops off the couch with a shit-eating grin. “And if you fuck it up? Well, we’ll all be here to laugh about it.”

Seungmin sighs heavily, standing and heading for the kitchen. “You’re all fucking insufferable.”

In the kitchen, he grabs a beer from the fridge and twists the cap off, taking a long swig before leaning against the counter. Minho and Chan follow him, their shit-eating grins still firmly in place.

“So,” Minho begins, hopping onto the counter and dangling his legs like a kid on a swing. “What’s the grand plan, Romeo?”

“There is no fucking plan,” Seungmin mutters. “I’ll keep helping her with her project and hope I don’t make things weird.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a plan. That’s avoidance.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” Seungmin deadpans, taking another swig of his beer.

Minho nudges him with his foot. “You like her. Just admit it to yourself and do something about it. Don’t be a coward.”

Seungmin sighs again, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m not a coward. I just don’t want to fuck up something good, alright?”

Chan claps him on the back. “Then don’t. Keep it simple. Honest. She’ll appreciate that more than anything.”

Minho grins smugly. “And if she doesn’t? Well, at least we’ll have fun watching you crash and burn.”

Seungmin glares at him, but the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Go fuck yourself, Minho.”

Minho smirks. “Already planned for later.”

Seungmin groans, pushing off the counter and heading for the stairs. “You’re fucking unbearable.”

Minho’s laughter and Chan’s chuckling follow him as he heads back to his room, but even with their teasing, Seungmin feels a little lighter. Maybe, just maybe, he can figure this out.

The low whir of Seungmin’s fan hums through the room as you sit cross-legged on his bed, your laptop balanced precariously on your thighs. Stacks of old books are scattered around you, a testament to the marathon research session you’ve been enduring. The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the room. You’re wearing a light summer dress, its fabric brushing against your skin as you adjust your position, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh. Strands of your hair have slipped out of the clip holding it back, framing your face as you squint at your screen.

At his desk, Seungmin leans back in his chair, his black sweatpants and tight tank top clinging to his frame in the warm room. One hand flips through a heavy book on Tudor history, the other absently twirling a pen. His brow furrows in concentration, but every so often, his gaze flicks to you. Curious, amused, unreadable.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “So,” he starts, his voice slicing through the hum of the fan, “have you talked to Hyunjin yet?”

Your fingers pause mid-typing, and you glance up, blinking. “Uh, no. I don’t think I need to. It’s not really a big deal.”

Seungmin’s pen drops to the desk with a loud clink, and he swivels to face you, his expression flat but his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Not a big deal. He slacks off, you do all the work, and he gets to keep floating through life like a fucking golden retriever on vacation. Totally fine.”

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping despite yourself. “He didn’t mean to slack off. He’s just... busy.”

“With what? Pouting for his Instagram stories?” Seungmin leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. His sharp eyes glint with mockery. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t let him off the hook so easily. I could shave one of his eyebrows off.”

You laugh again, waving him off. “Seungmin, no. It’s fine, really. I’ll just finish the project, and we’ll move on.”

“Yeah, no.” He stands abruptly, his chair squeaking against the floor. “That’s not happening. Get up.”

You blink at him, confused. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to teach you the art of confrontation,” he says, walking over to you with an air of finality. He holds out a hand, clearly expecting you to take it. “And before you say anything, no, you don’t get a choice.”

You lean back, groaning. “Oh no. I’m bad at that. Absolutely not.”

“Exactly why we’re doing this.” He grabs your hand, his grip firm but not forceful, and pulls you to your feet. 

The movement sends your laptop sliding precariously to the side of the bed, and you hastily catch it before steadying yourself. Your dress brushes against his sweatpants, and for a moment, his hands linger on yours, warm and steady.

“I already hate this,” you mutter, pouting.

“That’s the spirit,” he quips, smirking. He takes a step back, crossing his arms as he looks you up and down. “Alright. Repeat after me. Hyunjin, you’re a selfish asshole, and your hair isn’t even that great.”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head frantically. “I can’t say that! What if he hears me?”

“Good,” Seungmin says, his smirk widening. “Maybe he’ll learn something.”

You laugh nervously, covering your face with your hands. “This feels so wrong.”

Seungmin sighs dramatically, stepping closer and gently tugging your hands down. “I was prepared for this,” he says, his voice carrying a note of triumph. He walks to his closet, rummaging around until he pulls out a dartboard with a photo of Hyunjin’s grinning face pinned dead centre.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your jaw dropping as you stare at it.

“It’s modular,” Seungmin says nonchalantly, holding it up. “I’ve got all the guys’ faces in here. They piss me off in cycles.”

“This is insane,” you say, barely stifling your laughter as he hangs the dartboard on his door.

“It’s cathartic,” he corrects, tossing a dart into your hand. “Go on. Aim for the pretty boy’s stupid smile.”

You hesitate, holding the dart awkwardly. “I’ve never thrown a dart in my life.”

“Not fucking rocket science,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Just throw it. Let your rage guide you.”

Rolling your eyes but laughing, you square your shoulders and toss the dart. It bounces off the board and clatters to the floor with an anticlimactic thunk. Your cheeks heat up as you bury your face in your hands.

“Jesus Christ,” Seungmin mutters, pushing off the wall and walking over to you. “Alright, rookie. Relax. You’re trying too hard.”

He steps behind you, his hands gently resting on your arms and you feel your breath catch slightly as he leans in, his voice low and soft.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing your forearms lightly. “Loosen up. You’re not throwing a grenade.”

You nod, trying to ignore how close he is, or the way his cologne lingers, sharp and clean. “Okay. Relax. Got it.”

“Good,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now, aim. And don’t overthink it this time. Just let it go.”

With his guidance, you throw the dart again. It sticks in the board, just outside Hyunjin’s cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you turn to look at Seungmin with a triumphant grin.

“See?” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not so bad.”

You laugh, the tension from earlier dissolving. “Okay, that was kind of fun.”

“Kind of?” He raises an eyebrow, feigning offence. “It’s the best fucking stress relief there is. Try again.”

Grinning, you grab another dart and throw it. It lands even closer to the centre, and you let out a delighted cheer.

“Nice,” Seungmin says, nodding approvingly. “You’re a natural. Hyunjin should be scared.”

As you line up another shot, Seungmin leans back against the wall, arms crossed. There’s a softness in his expression now, a flicker of something he doesn’t let show often. Watching you laugh and let loose feels oddly satisfying.

“Alright,” you say, aiming carefully. “What do I get if I hit his stupid grin?”

“A medal for bravery,” Seungmin deadpans, but his smirk betrays his amusement.

You throw the dart, and it lands just shy of the photo’s centre. Laughing, you turn to him with a mock pout. “I want a rematch.”

“You’re not ready for that kind of pressure,” he says, his tone teasing but warm.

And for the first time all day, the weight of your project and the tension with Hyunjin feel far away. In this room, with Seungmin, all that exists is the laughter, the easy banter, and the flicker of something unspoken in the air between you.

The sun dips low, casting a warm, golden hue over the Alpha Phi house as you neatly pack up your things in Seungmin’s room. The quiet scratch of your pen against paper, the occasional tap of your laptop’s keyboard, and the hum of his fan have created a soothing rhythm all afternoon. Now, as you finish jotting down the last of your citations, you stack your books and papers into an organized pile.

Seungmin leans back in his chair, his legs stretched out and his dark eyes lazily tracking your movements. A pen twirls effortlessly between his fingers, his expression calm but sharp—like he’s quietly taking in more than he lets on.

“Leaving already?” he asks, his tone casual but carrying a note of something you can’t quite place.

You glance up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’ve got to get ready. I have a date tonight.”

The words hit like a brick, and Seungmin freezes for half a second before resuming the pen twirl, though his fingers grip it a little too tightly. His face remains neutral, but his jaw ticks slightly.

“A date?” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nod, slipping your laptop into your bag. “Yeah, Minho introduced me to a guy in his class. Animal behaviour or something? He seems nice.”

His forced smile cracks for a moment, but he patches it quickly. “Nice,” he echoes, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s… great.”

The silence lingers, awkward and heavy. You tilt your head at him, your soft gaze curious. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Fine,” he says quickly, too quickly, sitting up straighter. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You frown slightly, unconvinced, but you let it go, offering him a gentle smile. “Thanks for all your help today, Seungmin. I really appreciate it.”

He nods stiffly, watching you head for the door. His chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped a steel band around it. When the door clicks shut behind you, he lets out a low, frustrated sigh and tosses the pen onto his desk.

A beat passes before he’s on his feet, striding purposefully down the hall toward Minho’s room.

Minho’s door is ajar, soft music filtering out as Seungmin pushes it open without knocking. Minho is sprawled on his bed, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone with his usual smug expression. Minho barely has time to look up before Seungmin grabs a pillow from the bed and swings it at him with alarming force.

“What the fuck?!” Minho yells, his phone flying from his hand as he scrambles to defend himself.

“You!” Seungmin growls, punctuating each word with a swing of the pillow. “Fucking introduced her. To. A. Guy?!”

Minho bursts into laughter, raising his arms to shield himself. “It’s incentive, Seungminnie!” he cackles, gasping between laughs. “You needed a push!”

“I don’t need a fucking push!” Seungmin snaps, hitting him even harder.

Minho tries to sit up, still laughing despite the onslaught. “You’re so fucking obvious- Ow! Stop, you lunatic!”

“Good!” Seungmin barks, his voice sharp as he lands another hit. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your matchmaking bullshit to yourself!”

The commotion attracts Chan, who appears in the doorway with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m smothering Minho,” Seungmin says flatly, not even looking up as he presses the pillow down over Minho’s face.

Chan nods approvingly, stepping into the room. “Good. Carry on. You’re doing the lord’s work.”

Seungmin lets out a humourless laugh, pressing the pillow down harder as Minho��s muffled protests grow louder. “I know, right? Someone’s gotta do it.”

“While you’re at it,” Chan says casually, leaning against the doorframe, “make sure he can’t reproduce. The last thing we need is a mini Minho terrorizing the campus.”

Minho’s muffled yell rises to a panicked pitch as Seungmin shifts his weight, digging a knee into Minho’s crotch. The resulting strangled groan is enough to make Chan burst into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Seungmin,” Chan says, shaking his head. “You’re fucking ruthless.”

“Yeah, well,” Seungmin mutters, his tone clipped. “He fucking deserves it.”

Minho finally manages to yank the pillow away, his face red and his hair a mess as he glares up at Seungmin. “You’re a psycho!”

“And you’re a fucking meddler,” Seungmin snaps, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “What the hell were you thinking, setting her up with some random guy?”

Minho sits up, rubbing his face. “I was helping! You’re clearly into her but too chickenshit to do anything about it!”

“I didn’t fucking ask for your help!” Seungmin snaps, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Chan raises a hand, stepping between them with a smirk. “Alright, let’s all take a deep breath. Minho’s an idiot, but he’s not wrong. You’re jealous, Seungmin. Just admit it.”

Seungmin glares at him, his jaw clenching. “So what if I am? What am I supposed to do about it, huh? March up to her and say, ‘Hey, I think about you way too much, and it’s driving me fucking insane?’”

“Honestly? Yeah,” Chan says, shrugging. “She’s sweet. She won’t bite your head off.”

Minho smirks, leaning back against the headboard. “And if she says no, at least you’ll have closure. Better than sitting here brooding like some tragic fucking Byronic hero.”

“Fuck off,” Seungmin mutters, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

Chan claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, man. Just be honest. It’s not as scary as you’re making it out to be.”

Seungmin huffs, glancing between them. He hates that they’re right. The thought of you with someone else already twists his stomach into knots, and the idea of doing nothing feels even worse.

Without another word, he storms out of the room, leaving Chan and Minho grinning behind him.

“Think he’ll do it?” Chan asks, leaning against the wall.

Minho snorts, rubbing his sore ribs. “Oh, he’ll do it. Or he’ll self-destruct. Either way, we win.”

Their laughter follows Seungmin down the hall, but for once, he doesn’t care. He’s got bigger things to worry about and her name is Y/N.

The Alpha Phi living room is a vortex of noise and chaos. The mismatched couches are packed with bodies. Jeongin and Felix are loudly arguing over the outcome of a video game, their hands flailing in exaggerated gestures, while Jisung lies sprawled on the floor, chip crumbs scattered around him like evidence of a crime. The massive TV blares the commentary of a football game, its volume competing with the general din. Minho is perched half-asleep on the armrest of the couch, his cherry-red hair a mess from running his fingers through it repeatedly, while Chan sits cross-legged on the floor, calmly trying to fix the connection on a janky Bluetooth speaker.

Seungmin reclines in the worn recliner, scrolling idly on his phone, tuning out the noise with practised ease. His legs are stretched out, and his dark eyes are fixed on the screen in front of him. It’s an average evening in the house, loud, chaotic, and comfortably predictable.

Until his phone rings.

The name flashing on the screen makes him sit up so abruptly that the chair creaks. He immediately presses the green button, his heart rate kicking up as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge of alertness in it.

A soft sniffle echoes on the other end of the line, and every muscle in Seungmin’s body goes taut. “Seungmin,” your voice breaks, trembling and fragile, and it’s enough to make his blood run cold. “I—I didn’t know who else to call. He… he was awful. I just- I’m so sorry-”

“Hey,” Seungmin cuts in, his voice firm but gentle. “Stop apologizing. Just breathe, okay? Tell me where you are.”

Your breathing is shaky, but you manage to get the words out. “That sushi place near campus. I’m in the bathroom. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” he says, already slipping his boots on with one hand and gesturing wildly at Minho with the other. “Stay there. Don’t leave the bathroom until Minho and I get there. We’re coming to get you.”

“Okay,” you whisper, barely audible, and the line goes quiet.

Seungmin stands, his movements quick and purposeful. “Minho. Shoes. Now. You’re driving.”

Minho’s lazy posture vanishes as he sits up, alert. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“Y/N,” Seungmin says sharply, grabbing his jacket. “She’s in trouble.”

The room quiets instantly. Jeongin and Felix stop arguing mid-sentence, their heads snapping toward Seungmin. Jisung sits up from the floor, the chips forgotten. Even Chan abandons the Bluetooth speaker, standing with his arms crossed and his face serious.

“Fuck,” Minho mutters, pulling on his shoes. “What kind of trouble?”

“She’s at the sushi place,” Seungmin says, his tone tight. “And it’s because of the guy you introduced her to.”

Minho’s face falls, guilt flashing across his features. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit,” Seungmin snaps, already halfway to the door. “Now move.”

The drive to the restaurant is tense. Seungmin sits in the passenger seat, his foot tapping a relentless rhythm against the floor. He checks his phone every thirty seconds, the tight line of his jaw only softening when he glances at the screen and sees no new messages. Minho keeps his focus on the road, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual.

When they pull into the parking lot, Seungmin is out of the car before it even comes to a full stop. His sharp gaze sweeps across the glass front of the restaurant. Through the window, he spots the guy sitting at a table, casually scrolling through his phone as if nothing’s wrong. Seungmin’s blood boils.

Minho sees him too, muttering a low “Fuck” under his breath. “I’ll handle him,” he says, his voice hard. He pushes the car door open and strides toward the entrance, his usually laid-back demeanour replaced with something cold and dangerous.

Seungmin doesn’t wait to see what Minho does next. His focus is on you. He heads straight for the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant, his boots thudding heavily against the tile floor. Stopping just outside the door, he takes a deep breath before knocking softly.

“It’s me,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You can come out.”

There’s a long pause, followed by the faint sound of shuffling. The door creaks open slowly, and you step out. Your eyes are red and puffy, tear tracks glistening on your cheeks. Your arms are wrapped tightly around yourself, your whole frame trembling slightly.

The second you see him, something in you breaks. You step forward and bury your face in his chest, your hands clutching his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Seungmin freezes for a split second, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his arms wrap around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses against your back, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

You don’t say anything, but your fingers grip his jacket tighter, and your trembling becomes more pronounced. He holds you like that for what feels like forever, his heart pounding as he tries to stay calm for you.

When you finally pull back slightly, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his dark eyes searching your face. “You’re safe,” he says, his voice firm but soft. “I promise. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Your lips tremble as you nod, but you still can’t bring yourself to speak. Seungmin brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch careful, grounding. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Or do you just want to leave?”

“Leave,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Alright,” he says without hesitation. “Let’s go.”

He keeps a protective arm around you as he guides you out of the restaurant. As you pass through the dining area, his sharp gaze finds Minho, who is standing over the guy’s table, his expression icy and his arms crossed. The guy is slouched in his chair, looking decidedly less cocky than before, and Seungmin feels a flicker of satisfaction at the sight.

Outside, Minho’s car is waiting. Seungmin opens the back door for you, helping you in before sliding in beside you. Minho climbs into the driver’s seat a moment later, his face pale but his expression grim.

“Where to?” Minho asks, his voice quieter than usual.

“Back to the house,” Seungmin says firmly. “She’s staying with us tonight.”

Minho nods, starting the car without another word.

In the backseat, you lean against Seungmin’s shoulder, your body still trembling slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs slow, soothing circles on your back with one hand, his touch steady and reassuring. The warmth of his presence and the quiet strength in his gestures begin to ease the tension in your chest, bit by bit.

The drive back to the Alpha Phi house is suffocatingly quiet. Minho’s hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, his jaw clenched like he’s holding back a thousand words. In the backseat, Seungmin sits close beside you, one hand resting on your knee, steady and firm. It’s not invasive, not demanding. It’s just there, a silent promise of safety.

Your head leans against his shoulder, your breath shaky but starting to even out. He hasn’t said much since getting you out of the restaurant, but his presence is enough. When the car pulls into the driveway, the headlights casting long shadows against the house’s worn exterior, Seungmin nudges you gently.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost soothing.

You sit up, your movements sluggish, and Seungmin is already out of the car, holding the door open for you. He offers you his hand, and you take it without hesitation, your fingers trembling slightly in his firm grasp.

Minho hesitates by the car, glancing between you and Seungmin with guilt written all over his face. “Do you need—”

“No,” Seungmin cuts him off sharply, his glare like a blade. “Just... go inside.”

Minho opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it, nodding stiffly and heading up the steps without another word.

Seungmin keeps his arm around you as he guides you toward the house. The muffled sound of laughter and chatter spills out the windows, but the moment the two of you step through the front door, it dies like a switch has been flipped.

Jeongin, mid-laugh, stops abruptly, his expression shifting to confusion and concern. Felix, perched on the back of the couch, opens his mouth to say something, but Seungmin’s sharp glare silences him instantly.

“Not now,” Seungmin says, his tone flat but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority.

The room goes completely silent, everyone exchanging uneasy glances as Seungmin leads you upstairs. His grip on your shoulder remains steady, a grounding force as you ascend the creaky steps. You barely register the concerned murmurs behind you, too focused on the warmth of his touch and the growing knot in your chest.

When you reach his room, Seungmin pushes the door open and gently guides you inside. The familiar scent of his cologne wraps around you, grounding you further. He closes the door with a soft click, shutting out the world, and turns to face you.

You stand in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The dam you’ve been holding back all night finally breaks, and a small sob escapes before you can stop it.

“Hey,” Seungmin says softly, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. “Come here.”

You hesitate, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “I—”

“Y/N,” he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. “Come here.”

You move slowly, sitting beside him. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you into his side, one arm draped securely around your shoulders. His warmth seeps into you, steadying your ragged breathing.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Or we can just sit here. Your call.”

You swallow hard, nodding slightly. “I- I tried to call the date off,” you start, your voice trembling. “I just- he wasn’t what I wanted. And when I told him that, he got-” Your breath hitches, and you shake your head, trying to steady yourself. “He started touching me. Grabbing me. I- I didn’t like it. I told him to stop, but he just laughed, and I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Seungmin’s entire body goes rigid beside you. His arm tightens protectively, and his jaw clenches so hard you can hear his teeth grind. “That piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath, his tone low and venomous.

You glance up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. “Maybe I overreacted,” you say quickly, your voice defensive as though you’re bracing for judgment. “Maybe I just-”

“No,” Seungmin cuts in, his voice sharp. He shifts to face you fully, his hands gripping your shoulders gently but firmly. “Don’t fucking do that, Y/N. Don’t blame yourself. If you were uncomfortable, then you were uncomfortable. That’s it. No one gets to fucking touch you without your consent.”

His words make your chest tighten, but in a different way. A warmth spreads through you, breaking through the lingering fear. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Seungmin’s gaze softens, his hands sliding down to your elbows. He exhales slowly like he’s forcing himself to calm down. “You deserve better than that,” he says quietly. “Better than some asshole who doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”

“He wasn’t you, Seungmin,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The room goes still, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Seungmin’s eyes widen slightly, the sharpness in his expression giving way to something warmer, something softer.

“Good,” he says after a beat, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pulls you into a tight hug, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. “Because I’d never fucking treat you like that.”

You bury your face in his chest, letting his steady heartbeat and the warmth of his arms melt away the last traces of fear. For the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

After a while, Seungmin pulls back slightly, one hand lingering on your shoulder. “You know,” he says, his tone lighter now, “Minho owes you a massive apology. I say we make him grovel.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. “It’s not his fault.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “Sure, but letting him squirm a little wouldn’t hurt.”

You laugh again, stronger this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk. Then his expression softens, and he leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “Hey. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“What?” you ask, tilting your head.

He hesitates for half a second, then his lips curl into a faint smile. “Go out with me. Let me take you on a real date.”

Your breath catches, your heart thudding in your chest. “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while. I just didn’t know how.”

A small smile spreads across your face. “I’d like that.”

Seungmin’s shoulders relax, the tension he’s been carrying all night finally easing. “Good,” he says, his smile widening. “Because I’ve been waiting for an excuse to make a move.”

You laugh softly, the sound bright and genuine. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”

He groans, rolling his eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Cool and mysterious,” you tease, leaning a little closer. “Not exactly your vibe.”

Seungmin snorts, but the warmth in his gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah,” you say, your smile softening. “I know.”

The quiet knock on the door is hesitant, a rare sound from someone like Minho. Before either of you can respond, it creaks open, revealing him standing there in sweats and a hoodie that’s slightly too big for him. His cherry-red hair is a mess, like he’s spent the last hour running his hands through it in frustration. His usual cocky smirk is absent, replaced by something far more uncertain—almost guilty.

Seungmin’s eyes narrow, though he doesn’t move from where he’s perched on the bed beside you, his arm loosely draped behind your back. “What do you want?” he asks, his tone clipped.

Minho hesitates in the doorway, his eyes flicking between you and Seungmin. His hands stay buried in his pockets, his shoulders slouched as if he’s bracing for impact. “I’m… fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t fucking know he was going to be like that. I just thought—shit, I thought I was helping.”

You exchange a quick glance with Seungmin, who huffs but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, you stand and cross the room toward Minho, ignoring the way his eyes widen slightly in surprise. Before he can protest or retreat, you wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug.

Minho stiffens for a moment, caught off guard, but then he melts into the embrace with a sigh, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms come up, circling your waist with a grip that’s firmer than you expect—like he’s the one who needs comforting.

“I know,” you say softly, your voice muffled against the fabric of his hoodie. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Minho lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Still. I feel like a fucking asshole.”

“You’re not,” you say firmly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I think you scared him off, anyway.”

Minho smirks faintly, though the guilt still lingers in his eyes. “Good,” he mutters. “But I’m gonna fight him. Just so you know. That prick doesn’t get to pull that shit and walk away.”

“Do what you need to,” you reply softly, resting a hand on his arm.

His smirk falters, and his grip tightens almost imperceptibly. “You’re too fucking nice,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “You know that?”

“Minho,” you wheeze dramatically, giggling weakly as his hold becomes borderline crushing. “Can’t breathe.”

“Shut up,” Minho says, though his tone is lighter now. “I’m processing being wrong, and I’m not taking it well.”

Seungmin snorts loudly from the bed, crossing his arms as he leans back against the headboard. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says dryly. “Minho, wrong about something? Someone call the press.”

You laugh again, a little stronger this time, and Minho scowls over your shoulder. “You’re fucking enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Seungmin replies without hesitation, his smirk sharp.

Minho pulls back from the hug, ruffling his already messy hair with a groan. “This is a disaster. I try to help, and it just blows up in my face. I should’ve known you were too much of a coward to ask her out on your own.”

“Here we fucking go,” Seungmin mutters, rolling his eyes.

Minho points an accusatory finger at him. “You. This is partly your fault. If you’d just grown a pair and asked her out, I wouldn’t have had to intervene!”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And your intervention led to exactly what? A shitshow?”

Minho throws up his hands. “I’ll admit it! I fucked up, alright? But don’t act like you didn’t need the nudge.”

Seungmin leans forward slightly, his voice razor-sharp. “Next time, keep your fucking nudges to yourself.”

“Boys,” you interject softly, your tone patient but firm. Both of them snap their attention back to you, and you give Minho a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Really. No one’s perfect, Minho.”

Minho looks at you, his expression softening further. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seriously, though. If you need anything—anything at all—you come to me. I don’t care what it is, okay?”

You nod, your smile warm. “I will. Thanks, Minho.”

He leans down slightly, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. His voice drops to a low, serious tone. “I mean it, Y/N. I’ll fight anyone for you. Literally anyone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his words. “But I think you’ve done enough for tonight.”

Minho straightens up with a sigh, ruffling your hair playfully. “Fine. But if that prick so much as breathes in your direction again, he’s dead.”

Seungmin chuckles from the bed, shaking his head. “You’ll have to get in line for that, Minho.”

Minho smirks, turning back to him. “Big talk from the guy who’s been dragging his feet all fucking semester. Don’t get all protective now—you’ve got a date to plan.”

Seungmin flips him off without missing a beat, and Minho’s grin widens. You can’t help but laugh, the tension in the room finally dissolving as they slip back into their usual banter.

For the first time all night, everything feels like it might actually be okay.

The hum of the city murmurs faintly in the background as you linger outside your apartment building, your phone clutched loosely in one hand. The early evening air is warm, carrying the faint tang of gasoline and asphalt. The golden glow of the setting sun drenches everything in soft, honeyed light. You catch your reflection in a nearby window and smooth down the strap of your yellow bustier crop top. The fabric hugs you snugly, the bright color contrasting against your black flared pants, which sway lightly in the warm breeze. Your black Converse scuff against the pavement as you shift your weight nervously.

The distant growl of an engine draws your attention, low and throaty, vibrating through the air. You glance up as a sleek black motorbike rounds the corner, Seungmin perched effortlessly on top like he was born there. The machine glints in the fading sunlight, polished but clearly well-loved, with just enough wear to make it look lived-in. Seungmin slows the bike as he approaches, and your breath catches at the sight of him.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, cargo trousers that hang low on his hips, a fitted black t-shirt that clings to his lean frame, a well-worn leather jacket zipped halfway, and scuffed boots that look like they’ve seen more road than carpet. His hair is slightly tousled from the wind, and there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he kills the engine and kicks the stand down.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, stepping closer as the silence rushes in to fill the space the engine left behind. “You didn’t tell me you had a motorbike.”

Seungmin swings his leg off with ease, the motion fluid and confident. His boots hit the pavement with a satisfying thud as he straightens up, shrugging casually. “Not something I go around broadcasting,” he says, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. “But I figured it’d make a decent first date impression.”

“Decent?” you echo, your eyes wide and sparkling. “Seungmin, this is fucking unreal.”

His smirk deepens, and he reaches behind the seat, pulling out a smaller leather jacket. He holds it out to you, his fingers brushing yours briefly as you take it. “Jisung’s,” he explains. “Figured you’d need one. You’re about the same size, and he won’t notice it’s missing for at least a week.”

You shrug the jacket on, the leather slightly oversized but warm and reassuring. “It’s perfect,” you say, zipping it up. “Jisung has surprisingly good taste.”

Seungmin chuckles, then picks up the helmet hanging from the handlebars. He steps closer, his movements deliberate as he gently places it over your head. “Hold still,” he murmurs, his voice dropping a notch. His fingers brush against your jaw as he fastens the strap under your chin, his touch light but lingering. Once the helmet is secure, he pulls back, his dark eyes meeting yours through the visor. “Ready?”

You nod eagerly, your pulse quickening. “Hell yes.”

He grins, climbing back onto the bike and steadying it with ease. He gestures for you to climb on, his smirk playful. “Hop on, daredevil.”

You swing your leg over the seat carefully, your movements slightly hesitant as you settle in behind him. The leather of his jacket is cool against your palms as you wrap your arms around his waist. You feel the firm press of his body beneath your hands, steady and grounding.

“How fast do you want to go?” he asks, glancing back at you over his shoulder, his voice muffled but clear.

You lean closer, your voice daring and breathless. “Fast enough to feel like we’re fucking flying.”

His smirk turns almost wicked, and he nods. “Alright. Hold on tight.”

The bike roars to life beneath you, the deep rumble reverberating through your legs and chest. You tighten your grip on Seungmin’s waist as he pulls onto the street, the bike purring as it eases into motion. The city blurs past, a kaleidoscope of lights and colours, as Seungmin weaves through traffic with effortless precision. The wind rushes against you, tugging at the loose strands of your hair that escape from the helmet.

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you like champagne, light and effervescent. “This is fucking insane!” you shout, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Seungmin glances at you in the rearview mirror, his grin sharp and full of exhilaration. “You good back there?” he calls.

“Never better!” you reply, tightening your hold on him as he picks up speed.

The city begins to thin, the towering buildings giving way to open stretches of road. The air cools as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in streaks of deep orange and fiery pink. Seungmin leans into the curves of the road, his movements fluid, the bike responding to him like an extension of his body. You cling to him, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Faster?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice teasing but tinged with excitement.

“Y!” you shout back, your voice full of laughter.

He obliges, twisting the throttle and sending the bike surging forward. The wind whips past you, the world blurring into streaks of colour and motion. For a moment, it feels like nothing else exists. Just the bike, the open road, and Seungmin’s steady presence.

Eventually, Seungmin slows the bike, pulling onto a quiet stretch of road lined with tall trees. He kills the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening after the rush of the ride. He flips up his visor, glancing back at you with a smirk.

“Still breathing?” he asks, his tone light and teasing.

You pull off the helmet, shaking out your hair as you catch your breath. “Barely. That was incredible.”

He chuckles, leaning back slightly as he watches you with a mixture of amusement and something softer. “Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it?” you repeat, your grin wide. “Seungmin, that is the best fucking date of my life.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile, and he reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “That was the goal.”

The sky above has deepened into twilight, the first stars beginning to dot the horizon. You tilt your head back, taking in the clear expanse, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Beside you, Seungmin shifts slightly, resting his elbows on the handlebars as he watches you.

“You’re something else,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of awe.

You glance at him, your cheeks warming at the sincerity in his gaze. “So are you, Seungmin.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, but I think you’ve got me beat.”

You laugh softly, leaning closer to him, the warmth of his presence chasing away the lingering coolness of the air. “Guess we’ll call it a tie.”

His grin returns, sharp and playful. “Deal. But only because it’s you.”

The air between you feels charged, the adrenaline from the ride mingling with something deeper, more electric. Seungmin's eyes meet yours, and without hesitation, his hands find your waist, his grip firm but grounding as he lifts you gently off the bike and sets you down. The world feels steady beneath your feet, but your heart is anything but.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a sound that sends a shiver coursing through your spine.

Before you can respond, his hand slides to the small of your back, tugging you closer. His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face toward his. The heat of his body presses into you as he dips you slightly, his lips crashing into yours with an urgency that leaves you breathless. The kiss is searing, unrestrained. Like he’s been holding himself back for far too long and has finally decided to let go. His fingers tighten in your hair, and the hand on your back presses you flush against him, eliminating any space.

Your hands fly to his chest instinctively, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt as you melt into him. The faint scent of leather, wind, and his cologne surrounds you, intoxicating and grounding all at once. His lips are soft yet demanding, each movement carrying the weight of everything he hasn’t said out loud. The cool night air bites at your skin, but it’s drowned out by the fire between you.

When he finally pulls back, his lips linger close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb brushes against your waist absentmindedly, and his eyes, dark and intense, lock onto yours. A grin slowly spreads across his face, equal parts smug and genuinely amused. “You’re gonna have to hang on tighter than that for the ride back to the frat,” he teases, his voice roughened with desire.

You let out a soft laugh, still catching your breath as you clutch his jacket for balance. “I think I can manage,” you say, your voice softer than usual but no less sure. “I’ve got my very own speed demon. How could I say no?”

His grin widens, that slightly cocky, slightly boyish charm making your stomach flip. “Damn right you do,” he mutters, leaning in to steal another kiss, this one quick and playful but no less electrifying.

He steps back reluctantly, letting out a breath as if steadying himself, before turning to grab your helmet from the bike. “Helmet back on, daredevil,” he says, his voice light but still carrying that teasing edge.

You tilt your head as he steps closer, holding the helmet up for you. “Oh, you’re worried about safety?” you tease, but you stand still as he slides the helmet over your head with careful hands.

His fingers brush against your jaw as he adjusts the strap under your chin, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Gotta keep you alive,” he says with a smirk. “Wouldn’t be much of a date if you died halfway through.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by the helmet but no less genuine. “Fair point.”

Once the helmet is secure, he tilts the visor down, his dark eyes crinkling slightly with amusement as he steps back. “More Tudor art when we get back?” he asks, his tone casual but his gaze still holding that spark of mischief.

You pretend to think, tapping your finger against the helmet. “Depends. Are you going to admit that Anne Boleyn was a badass?”

“For you?” he says, his smirk softening into something more sincere. “I’ll admit anything.”

Your laugh echoes in the cool night air as you climb back onto the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist again. This time, your grip is tighter, not just because of the ride but because you don’t want to let go.

Seungmin revs the engine, the deep, throaty growl vibrating through your chest. He glances over his shoulder, his voice carrying over the roar. “Ready?”

“Always,” you say, your voice steady despite the helmet.

He grins, twisting the throttle, and the bike surges forward, cutting through the night like a blade. The city lights blur around you as Seungmin navigates the streets with the same effortless confidence as before, but this time, the ride feels different. It’s not just adrenaline now—it’s something more grounded, more connected. Each twist and turn feels like a shared secret, the warmth of his body steadying you as the wind rushes past.

As the city falls behind you, replaced by quiet streets and patches of open road, the sky above deepens into twilight. The stars begin to peek through the inky blackness, their faint light mirrored in the shimmering horizon ahead. You press yourself closer to Seungmin, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you even as the bike picks up speed.

When the lights of the frat house finally come into view, you feel a pang of regret that the ride is almost over. The bike slows as Seungmin pulls smoothly into the driveway, the rumble of the engine fading as he cuts the power. He kicks down the stand and turns to you, his grin still firmly in place.

“Still breathing?” he asks, his voice teasing as he removes his helmet.

You pull off your helmet, your hair tumbling out in a mess of strands. “Barely,” you reply, laughing softly. “But that was fucking worth it.”

He chuckles, watching you with a mixture of amusement and something softer. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you fire back, your smile widening.

Seungmin shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh, and steps closer to help you off the bike. His hands find your waist again, steadying you as your feet hit the ground. This time, his touch lingers, his dark eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory.

“Ready to dive back into Tudor art?” he asks, his tone teasing but affectionate.

You roll your eyes, a laugh bubbling out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“For you?” he says, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Always.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin, and follow him toward the house. The warm glow of the frat house lights spills out onto the driveway, and as you step inside, you feel the lingering coolness of the night disappear entirely. With Seungmin by your side, everything feels exactly as it should.

[buckgasms]

Umm so random thought if you'd care to join...

Naive princess!reader (hey what's new with me? Um nothing?) and I'm kinda thinking an a/b/o thing but let's see... And prince!Bucky.

Maybe you are visiting his palace as part of a relationship building thing between your parents? I reckon there would be other princesses there? It's probably like a 'find him a bride' type scenario, but you, being your naive self aren't really aware of that, you just think it's a beautiful place and you want to explore the beautiful gardens as soon as you can.

Ok let's make it a/b/o

So you are there for a few days and you've been dragged to various events and dinners and the best you've gotten is a glimpse of the prince and a peak outside. You aren't feeling very happy about any of it.

Your mother is constantly moaning about how you are all being ignored and the royal family should be treating you better. Better seats, nicer rooms all that jazz. It's suffocating.

But finally one morning you are free of obligations so you throw on a pretty gown and dash from the room before you can be held back and head to the gardens.

On your way you bump into him. Prince James. He's actually gorgeous up close and you feel your tummy burst into a million butterflies when he smiles at you and makes a slight bow.

"Not running away are you princess?"

You giggle and shake your head.

"Only from my mother. I wanted to look around the gardens."

His eyes light up. "Can I be your guide? My mother will be thrilled to know someone is enjoying them."

You chuckle and take his arm, which he kindly offers, feeling electricity where your body meets his.

He guides you along, pointing out various features and areas, whilst casually probing you for information about you. Things you like, your family, your kingdom.

You spend ages among the flowers, flitting to each one like a bumblebee, sighing at the perfect scents. You don't notice him watching you with a soft smile on his face. You do notice his scent though, sandalwood and sea salt. You blush when you think about how it would smell close up.

The sun keeps you warm and dances across your skin as the morning wears on, until you find yourselves at the entrance of a maze.

You feel like you should probably go back. In fact you definitely should. But his boyish grin pushes that from your mind.

"Race you to the middle?"

Before you can really answer he dashes off and you blindly follow, almost immediately losing track of him. You follow the path, going this way and that until you realise that you are a bit lost.

You stop at a fork in the path and nibble on your finger. What now?

"James?"

You call out and for a moment you don't hear anything.

"James! Are you there?"

Suddenly his voice drifts from a few paths over.

"I'm here princess. You can find me..."

Panic sets in a little. How are you supposed to do that?

"Come on, you can find me, just use your nose."

You shut your eyes and try and find that sandalwood scent, you think about his golden skin, the way his hair looked so fluffy and soft and suddenly your feet where carrying you along the path.

"That's it... Don't worry, I'm here..."

You drift along, your fingers itching to touch him, even though you don't really understand why. It's just an urgent, deep need within you.

You reach another fork in the road and you don't know where to go because he's everywhere. You close your eyes again waiting when suddenly you hear his footsteps and he's behind you, gently wrapping his arms around your body and pressing his lips to your shoulder.

"There you are" he mumbles, pressing a chaste kiss to your skin.

You turn in his arms and stare wide eyed at him, your hands gripping his shirt.

"James, we can't... You shouldn't..."

Your words falter as his lips run along your jaw and press butterfly kisses to your cheek and nose, failing completely when he presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

You whine when he pulls away, making him chuckle. He leans back down to kiss you again, taking a little more time and you let your arms wrap around his neck, unable to control the ache in your body, desperate to feel his body tight against yours. But your mother's scandalised voice rings in your ear and you pull away.

"No, James we can't. It's not proper! You're a prince, you're the prince."

He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours and squeezing your waist.

"And you are my princess. I want you. I've been waiting for a chance to be with you all week. And now I know for sure... I want you..."

🏵️

The rest of the visit, your family is top table, and you are seated next to James the entire time. You occasionally catch glances from sour faced girls who seem to really hate you, but he just whispers something in your ear and you're back in your happy bubble.

Other hopeful families start departing as they all see the writing on the wall. The prince has chosen his princess, and there's nothing they can do to capture his interest.

🏵️

Every morning he brings you a different flower from the garden.

Every lunchtime he brings you a sweet treat from the kitchen, and you eat it together on the steps of the palace.

And every evening he knocks on your door and you give him a kiss. Gentle and full of promise of a long love to follow.

*sigh*

[supremechancellorrex]

Okay, then, it's online space, we can go back and forth forever as it's all public discourse and there's no such thing as trespassing. Please give me examples of Mai saying fascist rhetoric or looking down on other nations racially. Aside from her just existing as a FN character born on the wrong side of the border. "Zuko did x" is actually a good measure when there's a double standard. Funny enough, I've met even people who call Zuko fascist and dislike Zuko's redemption story as it ends up with him as an absolute monarch, who mishandles the Fire Nation colony problem and puts FN citizen interests above Earth Kingdom interest for much of the Promise. The word is hardly stirring in this fandom now. Others have called him an abuser for how controlling he was in the Beach in who Mai could talk to. And they tell me all of that is so apparent. It seems in some opinions Zuko is badly written, despite the feels and "kindness" conclusions.

Also with Sokka and Suki it is not a "false equivalence" because Sokka and Suki were friends and then lovers who meet up again and kissed in the Serpent's Pass after spending days together and that whole spiel about Yue, his first girlfriend. He rebuffs Ty Lee in the Crossroads of Destiny by saying he's "with Suki now". Sokka went into a fit of rage and cried in Day of Black Sun over Suki, yet he didn't think of her missing until Azula mentions it despite it being weeks. Then as soon as they meet up again Sokka tries to smooch her immediately. They are in a relationship, it goes without saying. This is the nature of Avatar. You could complain the relationship between Suki and Sokka is fast, it could also be complained that Sokka forgets about Suki for a long time despite being committed to her. Arguably makes Sokka seem rather callous if one is to ignore this is an episodic kid's show, same with Zuko.

As for your conjecture of "We're supposed to think", that's just your interpretation, a rather absolutist one, but the context, voice acting, body language/smiles and structuring of those scenes, including the quotes I have shared but you're free to watch them yourself, make it unlikely for quite a number of others, myself included. Since you've talked about what you hate, I'll tell you what I dislike in the fandom. Absolutist takes where everyone in the audience is told "We're supposed to" with no evidence provided. This is what Azula stans say, they say "We're supposed to sympathise with Azula", "We're supposed to see that she's an abuse victim child and not judge her at all", despite it just being their interpretation. Mai does not dismiss everything Zuko says, there are many times she tries to understand and comfort him in Book 3, and Zuko's actual reasons for leaving are stated in the show.

Zuko: "Everyone in the Fire Nation thinks I'm a traitor... I couldn't drag her into it."

This is a protective measure for her, not "anti-war rhetoric" fears.

I think it's quite clear he didn't think she was going to do anything to him. He expresses no actual fear towards Mai at all. Even when he runs into her in the Boiling Rock, still no fear. It's because Mai and Zuko actually have a level of trust, because Mai has been often supportive of him despite a couple mistakes here and there. The more Zuko and Mai got to know each other in the show, the more time goes the more they ironed out problems like how most relationships work.

I also disagree with your accusations of how I allegedly "misconstrued" your argument when I actually think you misunderstand and misconstrue mine. You don't have to say someone doesn't need to be as bad as Ozai or Azula to be an abuser, although it's rather irrelevant, and I never said Mai's difficulty emoting was a good thing. Just like I would never say Zuko taking out his anger on others is a good thing, if we're talking about the relationship and responsibility. The funny thing is, Mai learns how to emote more and express herself. She even smiles more as the series progresses, she confronts Azula, she chooses Zuko over fear and bitterness. As for 'just "being human" and a teenage girl", think you restructured my sentence there, but regardless I never said Mai was perfect, there are reasons why, and I just don't believe it takes her out the running from having a relationship with Zuko just because they both have baggage or aren't perfect at communicating in every interaction. If you don't think Mai is "nasty", then why would Katara be supposedly justified in punching her in the throat and never liking her? I think the word is actually a good summary of your view of her, since you claim she's an "abuser" and "mean" to everyone, demanding a relationship with Zuko as if this is an entrapment case (despite Zuko clearly wanting the relationship as well and making his own decisions).

Zuko [surprised, happy]: 'Mai! You're okay! They let you out of prison?"

Mai : "My uncle pulled some strings. And it doesn't hurt when the new Fire Lord is your boyfriend."

Zuko: [happy, smiling] "So does this mean you don't hate me anymore?"

Look at Zuko's response, look at the context. Think we can take it that Mai isn't demanding anything here if they both know each other and what each other wants. Zuko is receptacle because he wants to be back with her, and she knows it, which is the context of the dialogue. It feels like you're forcing Mai into an aggressor/abuser role that doesn't fit her character. Mai herself is critiqued in the narrative for suppressing her emotions, and as the narrative continues we see her learn to express them more to the point she not only yells in the Beach but later goes against Azula. But Mai is never an abuser. Whether you appreciate this or not, these are canon scenes. You can argue bad writing, but it doesn't change that the writing is geared to Mai being a certain character, and that is likely not the one you're accusing her of, even with her earlier villain rep that felt rather mild in the narrative ultimately. She didn't even want to chase Katara and Sokka through slurry.

As for Ukano, guy hardly seems like a threat, Mai handled him and everyone easily while holding a toddler. Perhaps Mai didn't think Ukano would achieve much, or join with Azula, who was supposed to be in asylum. Do I think it's bad writing? Sure. Entire New Ozai Society is. Same with how I think Zuko regressing his character arc and getting advice from a genocidal maniac like Ozai is bad. At worst, they're just both muddled about their bad fathers and manipulated at times, Ukano plants doubts in Mai's mind in Smoke and Shadow (that undermine Maiko), Ozai plants doubts in Zuko in the Promise (that consequently undermine Maiko). Not sure how this adds to your Mai is an abuser narrative, Ukano and Ozai are a better fit for the blame by messing with their kids' feelings and relationship.

"I think Katara would get along with Azula/Mai because female solidarity!"

Cool. I think Katara would punch fascists in the throat.

[amane-by-together]

sharing an umbrella together

yugi twins [alive] + reader

hanako-kun; amane yugi

the weather promised you a sunny day so you left your umbrella at home, that is until the skies turned grey and the rainfall can be seen through the window

“ugh why did i left my umbrella at home, i swear the sun was there—“

you could either run through the rain or wish that some handsome guy would shield an umbrella over your head. realistically, the latter is impossible

you decided to wait till the rain starts to subside but apparently it gets raining harder as time passes

your classmate, amane yugi, came up to you after changing his shoes by the entrance asking as to why you’re not going home yet

so you told him that you left your umbrella. amane chuckled at first making you feel embarrassed for being so careless but he thought that it’s cute

“here, i’ll share my umbrella with you.”

he also offered to walk you home. so, ‘handsome guy shielding an umbrella over your head’ route it is

amane stepped out of the exit before opening his umbrella, placing it above your head as you walk next to him to make sure that you didn’t feel a single droplet

you placed your hand on his arm to huddle closer so the two of you wouldn’t get wet by the rain. both of you were shy by the close proximity but you two had no choice—though the two of you grew close as you both conversed while walking home

sharing an umbrella became a common thing for you and amane

tsukasa yugi

oh boy.

when you thought that you’re the only one that didn’t have an umbrella, apparently tsukasa also forgot his

and the both of you are trapped in school under the pouring rain

“oops, i forgot my umbrella.”

“well then how the hell are we going home?”

you and tsukasa decided to wait it out for the rain to subside but then the rain just gets even worse. tsukasa’s eyes landed on an umbrella by the banister.

“looks like someone had forgotten to bring their umbrella.”

then tsukasa had a smirk on his face. “what if we steal it?” you were against it and told him to wait for the owner to come back but apparently they didn’t

you two ended up sharing the umbrella.

“hey tsukasa-kun! the umbrella—i’m getting rained on!”

“oops, move closer then!”

tsukasa had the tendency to rant like his older brother and he would forget that he was supposed to be shielding the both of them but ended up not leaving for you midway, it wasn’t his intention

so you held his hand in place to keep the umbrella steady for both of you. you continued to listen to his random rants until you reached your house

will the owner ever find their umbrella?

author’s note: i’m writing this during community nursing lmfao im alive ya all :))

[socksandbuttons]

In the "a day in the life of eclipse" it wasn't the first time Solar's Moon treated him badly. Remember when Lunar first showed up in Solar's dimension, Solar told Moon that there's a dimensional traveler and he'll deal with it. And his Moon responded with "good because I don't care!" it looks like his Moon has been aggressive/treated him badly to him from the start. Sorry, I just didn't understand what you meant by you ignoring the lore from a day in the life of eclipse because it is part of the lore now

You're new on my blog which i frequently ignore things in my headcanons from time to time. And that canon changes from how its interpreted. Anyway, stems from Solar's explaining his moons situation. The lore SLIGHTLY changed. In terms of Moon, being slightly Glitched due to killcodes removal/memory loss. He never mentioned Moon being mean before that (at least not on the terms before he left his dimension). Not unlike things to be slightly aggressive from Moon tho, just it wasnt PERCIEVED moon was a jerk to Solar UNTIL Solar reveals this later on (after Lunars death). They didn't really develop his story until later a little more. So I'm sticking to my previous headcanon of Moon having a glitch, which is canon to s degree? SOLAR himself has mentioned he wanted to fix his MOON AND SUN. Which was forgotten/changed and turned into just sun then into Solar leaving forever.

[sophiethewitch1]

me and what we want are going through a lovers spat rn because i desperately want to write more for it but i constantly feel like shit so its really getting in the way of our relationship. also if youve sent me any asks that i havent responded to i am geniunely so sorry about it i am in the trenches right now

[fujoshi-yappings]

This is a horror story with Ivan finally giving up. There's no point fighting against the inevitable.

__________________________________________

He felt giving up. His hands weren't bound and his ears were finally free yet his chains remained despite his feet being useless in running away. 

He was undressed and dressed numerous times but he might as well be naked. His kidnapper became too lazy to put up bottom clothes for him with the chains getting in their way. His upper clothes were white even if he can't see it with the blindfold still on yet he can hear his kidnapper whisper in his ears as he embraced. How Ivan looked so beautiful in white.

He supposes his name is Ivan with how they keep reverently calling out this name.

The fight drains him slowly, quietly, until all that's left is exhaustion. His mind, once so sharp, begins to blur at the edges. He tried to hold onto something—anything—but the struggle is too much

Till. Till. Till. Remember Till. Till. Till. Till. Till.Till. Till.

The constant cycle of care, the soft hands, the hand feeding, the soft touches, the forced intimacy - all begins to seep in, like the fog in his mind becoming thicker with each passing moment.

He used to be someone. He used to be someone with thoughts, with desires, with a sense of what was right. But now… now it feels like those parts of him are slipping away, like he's losing pieces with every soft touch, every injection, every hour that stretches into the next. 

His kidnapper keeps touching him, forcing kisses and murmuring sweet nothings and promising him that they'll be together.

He is just so tired. He can’t keep fighting anymore. He's tired of resisting, tired of hating himself for needing something, anything, to feel human again. 

The desire for freedom fades, replaced by a strange, aching longing for comfort. For warmth. For anything that feels real in this suffocating place. 

He doesn’t care anymore about the world outside, about the life he might have had. It’s gone. 

It feels like he'd been here forever, and the idea of escaping seems as distant as the sun in the sky, something he can barely remember. It’s easier to stay here, to surrender, to let himself be shaped into whatever they want.

He let go. He doesn’t fight the hands that touch him. He doesn't resist the care they give him. It’s easier this way. 

He let himself be fed, cleaned, held in those careful hands. 

He let his kidnapper kiss him and take him again and again until he could only moan, writhe and beg for more.

The silence, the soft murmurs, the feel of another person close—it's all he knows now. 

He does not remember anything before this. He doesn't remember the person he was before this. Those times felt like a distant dream, something he could never return to, even if he wanted to.

Freedom is a ghost, an idea that no longer matters. It’s too far gone. His identity is slipping through his fingers, slipping into nothingness. 

All that’s left is this moment, and the strange comfort it brings, even as it erases everything he used to be. He doesn't know how long it’s been, but he doesn't care anymore. There's no need to know. There's no need to fight. He just needed the touch, the care, the peace. Even if it means losing himself forever.

Till. Remember Till

A traumatized and kinda insane Till after r6 transmigrates into the modern world into a body of an heir to the criminal underworld. He sees normal student Ivan and kidnaps him.

[ofmermaidstories]

i don’t normally think to share my current listens bc music taste is so subjective but i really like this album, and thought i’d share it. light, dark, light again is such a chill, hopeful album. i’ve shown the lyrics to exploding here, because it’s in one of my bakugou playlists (💀 weeb), but it’s also one of my favourite songs. 🥺 if you like florence + the machine’s vocals i think you’d like angie’s. she’s less opera and drama tho and more… soft rock, maybe? 🧐 folky-rock?

[just-slightly-chayotic]

why is it that prime kimchay writing time is 5am. it’s not that i don’t appreciate the braincell working i just think it would be neat if it didn’t fuck with my sleep schedule so much

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

i watched My Neighbor Totoro for the first time, here's my chronological viewing experience:

woo-hoo! dusty old japanese house with japanese architectural details aplenty

these kids got some ENERGY my goodness

family dynamic's adorable. peak quality dad humor

kids: our house is haunted. parents: that's so cool!

hell yeah, wrinkled old lady rep. we need more friendly old women with potato faces and warts like storybook witches. the backbone of society, these ladies

Plot Summary: Small Child Bothers Local Wildlife

sacred tree sacred tree sacred tree

Introducing Totoro! nobody said this fucker's got TEETH???

Uh-Oh! Inadequate Parental Supervision Detected

(you misplaced your four year old! you're not supposed to do that)

4-year-old: i met a magic forest spirit. dad: oh shit fr?

4-year-old: *angrily hugs sister* missed u bitch

this small child has a smile like a toad. like a really really cute toad. like the cutest toad in all existence. i love her she's perfection please just let this child be happy

rice paddies are so pretty....so back breaking....rice is such a prissy crop

*my crush is stranded in a rainstorm* takethisumbrellait'syoursnowBYE *runs away in panic im so good at flirting*

Giant Chinchilla Learns To Hold Umbrella, Is Fucking Delighted By Experience

take this, it will help you on your quest! *hands u trail mix wrapped in a leaf*

LO-FI HIP HOP STUDY LIST!

crouching down to peer at dirt--A++ top notch foundational childhood experience

mom has a big ass forehead

honey! the chinchillas are performing Rituals in the backyard again

help yeah let's jack and the bean stalk this shit

huh so we're all just climbing aboard the giant chinchilla's tiddies now ok

class trip!

the pure adrenaline of Vegetable Gardening

no! the small child is crying! she is bawling her eyes out. no no no. i can't cope with this. emotionally i cannot cope 🥺🥺🥺

i've only had Mei one hour but if anything happens to her i will raze this earth and everyone on it

please someone make this small child smile again

oh no the tall child is crying too

i can't take this. my heart can't take this.

i need a drink

small child running determined to deliver magic veggies to the hospital. this kid is my hero

she is also unsupervised. so, so unsupervised

babe you are FOUR

godDAMMIT ghibli, you cannot give me watercolor sunsets while a small child is missing. u are killing me. my heart is giving out. this is me, experiencing heart failure.

Totoro to the rescue!

no wait CATBUS to the rescue!

i admit i initially thought the cat was a creep. alice in wonderland prejudiced me. i have revised my notions of smiling cats

i've decided the cat is a metaphor for the magic of a robust public transport system

MEI'S OKAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and so is mom. she's a lovely lady im sorry for what i said about her forehead. it's a noble forehead.

happy ending YES bitch!!!!!!

ok. ok ok ok. that was magical.

(as a first-time adult viewer i was worried i wouldn't be able to Access the Magic. but i could and i did and it was incredible. that was culture. that was ART. joy distilled into animated form. holy rites of childhood. i understand now. how glorious, this world we grow out of. how full of marvels. i'm going outside to smell grass and sun and get dirt under my fingernails. miraculous.)

[st0rmyskies]

Furious that I came across this the other night before bed, I laughed so hard it negated the effects of the melatonin.

Time

Hair routine was solidified as a tween, now it's just muscle memory.

Does not have the sense to moisturize, no.

WHAT IS WITH THE OBSESSION WITH WASHING LEGS. WHAT IS IT. The consensus is that Dark makes some senseless jab during a verbal spat along the lines of "You're like one of those freakishly tall jocks who doesn't wash his legs!!" Two to three business days later Time is standing in the shower with his washcloth like "........"

Twilight

No he doesn't moisturize.

BUT he does use facial SPF, or a hat, when going out in the sun.

Champion

He's already in your walls.

Warriors

He does use curl-friendly products, even if he straightens. He doesn't co-wash, he doesn't 'plop', his haircare regimen is more mainstream.

Was unsurprised that Time didn't condition and I PROMISE you he's never even thought about whether other people wash their legs whaT IS IT WITH THE LEGS MY GOD WHO HURT YOU

Sky

He's a shower singer and Twi is most likely to harmonize with him, so probably Twi.

Also Wild though because he just. Chatters away ceaselessly while he's supposed to be brushing his teeth/fixing his hair and it's entertaining.

Four

Like Legend, why would he wash his legs? The soapy water just runs down them?? It's more efficient that way.

Wind

Listen, the fear of incurring grandma's wrath if he didn't thoroughly bathe as a kid lives with him to this day. He washes his ass, his legs, even his belly button.

Twi is still in the closet for ENTIRELY different reasons.

Stormy

Thinks of you every time I wash my legs now.

Don't make it weird.

SETTING: HSH/LMTCOY VERSE.

CIRCUMSTANCES: NOT IN CRISIS/BASELINE.

QUESTION: WHAT ARE THEIR PERSONAL HYGIENE PRACTICES? AND WHICH PAIR OF LINKS HAVE THE MOST INCONGRUENT STANDARDS.

Have you truly prepared yourself for these answers, friend?

The general rule is that each of the boys has the sense to shower after a good workout or getting gross in some other way, no matter what their daily hygiene routine is otherwise. Under the cut because I had a TON to say about this apparently. I never even knew.

Time - He's a morning shower guy. He needs it to wake up and, since he likes to run or work out in the mornings, it makes for efficient timing. Plus let's be real, he's not getting the volume in those bangs unless he applies it in the morning, every morning. He prefers to be clean-shaven, making that therefore a daily duty. He used to use a combination shampoo and conditioner before Warriors got to him, and even if his hair is softer now he sure as hell isn't going to admit that to anyone. If he has a particularly eventful day at work, he'll have an evening shower as soon as he gets home, too--very hot and very, very thorough, followed by an aspirin nightcap.

Twilight - He's such a night-showerer. I attribute it to being raised on a farm. He gets up, he gets shit done, in fact he's getting shit done the whole day long so that by the time he's through Twi is ready for a hearty meal, some time to shoot the shit with his friends, and a hot shower before bed. He's not too fussed about making sure his stubble is shaved down every day, although for an event or something he's sure to be clean-shaven. Doesn't believe in conditioner. Twi's toxic trait is using the same towel for a week or more.

Wild - Showers occur daily, although at random times of the day. Maybe it's right after breakfast. Maybe he has to prep something for dinner, so he hops in sometime in the afternoon. Shaving occurs when he feels like it, although his facial fuzz is pretty sparse so it never matters much. His real barrier to entry is the length of his hair and the time it takes to dry it. Thus, hair washing is a once- to twice-weekly event at most. You know he uses Mane n' Tail shampoo, and he swears by conditioner, mainly because it helps him comb through all the tangles. He doesn't dry his hair, just plops it on top of his head in a towel or braids it damp to keep it out of his way. You always know it was a wash day because there's a six to eight-inch ring of dampness outside of the shower curtain. Hope none of the other boys were keeping a dry towel in there for any reason.

Champion - Showers after every work-out, so at least once but often twice a day, morning and afternoon. His showers are thorough but short: quick shave once a day every day, shampoo, soap up, rinse all at once. He's in an out of the shower in six minutes flat. He washes his hair EVERY time and towels it dry (RIP those split ends). Fastidious but utilitarian, Champion isn't one for conditioner or aftershave. He also didn't start using antiperspirant until he was in the Guard and saw that everyone else used it.

Warriors - There are two types of showers for this man. The first is the daily affair, usually taken as soon as he wakes up. He starts by warming the water while brushing his teeth (recharging electric toothbrush only) and inspecting his brows, then washing his face with a gentle cleanser containing salicylic acid (the only boy on the list so far who does), followed by a thorough shampoo and conditioning (this is the longest part of the routine). While the conditioner sets he takes a moment to inspect his nails and attend to any cuticle mishaps, then there's a rich lathering of shaving foam applied to his face, his underarms, maybe his legs if he needs it that day. (Before you ask: the hardwood floors get addressed by a trusted professional, licensed and bonded). He has a natural sponge for washing and exfoliation. Once all that's done, he has specific microfiber twist-towels for his hair (I hc he has natural waves or loose curls) and his towels are white and washed in unscented detergent. The rest of his routine has to be attended to in his room; he's already been in the bathroom well over the prescribed 20 minutes per shower, according to Legend. His other type of shower is the Spa Night affair, and that's more of a bath situation.

Sky - Ohhh Sky darling. I love him so, and his hygiene practices are adequate, but somewhat questionable in my book. He's a morning showerer, definitely needs that wake-up rinse, and the bathroom is his stop immediately after chugging orange juice at the fridge each morning. (Yes, right out of the carton. Yes, his name's on it.) He's an electric razor guy because it's quick. He always gets in the shower before the water is warm enough because he's impatient in the mornings, and he subsequently gets burned when it gets too hot and has to stand outside the spray doing that quick-reach-for-the-handles-and-shrink-back thing until it's cool enough to resume. My biggest hangup is that he uses a combination shampoo-conditioner-body wash product. Because it's quick. His hair is fluffy because it's probably dry as shit. The other thing about Sky is that he never EVER remembers to lock the bathroom door, so whenever he's in the shower it's a free-for-all if anyone else wants to come in and brush their teeth or whatever.

Legend - In the beginning, when he was living with Hyrule in that first apartment, Legend wasn't a daily showerer. He was pretty fucking depressed, so it ended up being every third or fourth day, at least until he came around to realizing "Hey, this kills some time." He's another random-time-of-day showerer, and sometimes it's an overnight affair if he's out working late with Ravio (like, 2-4am). He'll use cheap drugstore shampoo and body wash, and on occasion will shamelessly use some of War's expensive bullshit conditioner for a special occasion. One of the few boys to use a hair dryer regularly. His toxic trait is putting his hat back on before his hair is completely dry, making the hair at the top of his head kind of stringy and limp most times.

Hyrule - Listen. Med school makes you a very versatile showerer. Hyrule has literally no preference for taking a morning or an evening shower anymore. Whenever he's awake enough and has enough time to spare is when he does it. He functions best with nighttime showers because it gives him ample time in the mornings to have his coffee and a slow wake-up. Rulie's hair is naturally curly, so his haircare routine is different from most. He actually doesn't use shampoo at all. He conditions every day, sometimes two rounds if he makes his little scalp scrub with brown sugar. He does a quick blind shower-shave and prefers a loofah. His toxic trait used to be towel-drying his hair until Warriors made him swear to never do it again. Now he wisely lets it air dry.

Four - Mister Nevernude showers before dinner since his work can get him fairly messy. At the very least, soldering leaves an awful smell in your hair. He's another user of cheap drugstore shampoo, he's not fond of conditioner, and is a bar-of-soap kind of guy. He used to take lightning-fast showers in the beginning until he really settled in to the house, and now he's in there for a more reasonable 10 minutes or so. He goes in fully clothed, he comes out fully clothed. Like Twilight, he unfortunately uses the same towel all week. He only has one, really, and just throws it in the laundry together with the rest of his clothing.

Wind - He is, unfortunately, not a daily showerer. He might go every other or even every third day, depending. That's only if he's shut in his room for a day or three, though. There's enough Axe body spray to make up for those days, at least in his mind. If he's going out, he has the sense to wash. He prefers coconut-scented products, uses a combination shampoo/conditioner product, and rarely remembers to replenish his body wash at the store so commonly chooses from some of his roommate's. He doesn't shave religiously but his facial fuzz is still fine and blonde, so it's not the worst.

[i-love-ptv]

Stacy’s Mom Has Got It Goin’ On ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣

Pairing: Husband!Rafe Cameron x Soccer-mom!Wife!Reader

It’s not easy being a soccer-mom, especially when dads hit on you at every game as if you’re not married to Rafe.

Wc: 1,596

Fluff, Protective Rafe making an appearance, kinda pushy guy (idk what to say)

An: I’ve really wanted to write a fic based on this song, and this idea randomly popped into my head so! Am I using the names I wanna name my kids? Yes, yes I am.

Not proofread tbh

Feedback always appreciated lovelies!! xx

“I’ll be back, ‘mkay doll?”

You hum in acknowledgement, eyes peering back at the field after looking up.

Your husband, Rafe leant down and places a firm kiss on your forehead.

“Yeahhh, Daddy’s gonna be back, baby.” Rafe coos at your two year old, who was sitting on your lap, babbling freely while peering at him with her big doe eyes.

Rafe walks off the bleachers; in search of the concession stand to buy food for the three of you.

You brush your hand over your young daughter’s head, making sure her somewhat oversized hat is still covering her head entirely. Her hand wraps around your index finger.

It was oddly humid today, if you continued moving, you’d break a slight sweat. You can't even imagine what your daughter -Stacy must be feeling, running around on the large grassy field under the beaming bright sun.

You were proud of your baby girl though, nonetheless. And so was Rafe, of course.

You shout loudly when you notice the game is about to start, bellowing out a “Go Stacy!”

Stacy’s eyes easily found yours, for you and Rafe would always sit in the same spot on the bleachers.

Her eyes were slightly wide due to your shout, despite you and Rafe always cheering for her during her games.

She’s motioning for you to ‘shh’, putting her fingers to her lips before getting into her position.

“Which one’s yours?” You hear to the left of you, the unknown voice makes you tear your eyes away from the field.

You smile shortly at the unfamiliar man next to you, “Number 22.”

You can’t help but notice how he’s rather scruffy looking, an odd contrast to your upkept husband with his neatly buzzed hair.

“Mine’s number 13.” He says, flashing his teeth at you.

You gasp and shoot up a little, making you look down at your daughter on your lap. “Valerie’s yours? Oh she’s just the sweetest!”

The man chuckles, looking deeply in your eyes. This makes your eyebrows raise, slightly in confusion, but mostly in discomfort.

He hadn’t done anything out of the norm, you’d randomly talk to the other moms around too, but something about him made you uncomfortable.

“My name's Brandon, and yours?”

You introduce yourself briefly, before turning back towards the game.

His eyes dart to your left hand, looking for a ring, for any indication that you belong to someone else. He smiles sharply when he finds your fingers bare. This goes unnoticed by you.

Little does he know, you do have your ring on, just around your neck.

Your biggest fear was your youngest accidentally pulling off your ring, resulting in you losing it. Or, even worse: it pokes her eye or something of that nature.

You suppose you could be considered a ‘Helicopter-mom’ at times, simply going to the extremes to make sure your kids are happy and healthy at every point in time.

Rafe is the exact same way, maybe even a little worse. But you knew he was just protective, he loves this life that he has with you, since he had no idea the two of you would’ve been together for so long.

You had started dating Rafe when you were 18 and he was 19. It was good for the first few months, disregarding the few arguments that you had. But then, you had caught Rafe doing cocaine.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to shake the look on his face from your memory.

You weren’t supposed to be at the party, you said you were busy filling out college applications.

So when he was mid-line, and he saw you standing there all dolled up, watching him with glossy eyes, he felt his heart shatter into pieces.

You weren’t supposed to find out, he wanted to keep this away from you, to keep you close to him.

He promised that he would try and stay sober for you, but eventually he’d give in every time the opportunity was in front of him. This resulted in several arguments, and surprisingly, a break up.

But things are different now. You both are in your 30’s, you got married, and of course, had two beautiful babies together.

Rafe knew he’d be crazy to fuck things up now, when he has the perfect life right in front of him.

Speaking of which; you’re really starting to wonder what the hell is taking him so long just to get some goddamn hotdogs and drinks.

You’re bouncing your knee anxiously, which makes your daughter giggle. You wish she wasn’t finding this amusing, but you know she can’t help it.

“Well who’s this cute girl, huh?” The man coos, tickling your daughter’s side.

“Her name is Noelle.” You huff, your mood quickly shifting due to this stranger touching your daughter.

He lets out another chuckle, you wish you never had to hear it again. “Sounds like you’re quoting Teenage Dirtbag to me.”

You give him a pointed look, you’re really getting sick of his pestering. “That’s where I got it from.”

Abruptly, the crowd starts cheering madly. You look around and see Stacy's team celebrating briefly; they had just scored a goal.

You cheer and clap, grabbing Noelle’s chubby hands and making her raise her arms wildly while giggling with her.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could-” Before Brandon could finish his sentence, none other than Rafe Cameron comes stomping up the bleachers, huffing and puffing angrily.

He sits down and sighs, “God, I’m sorry babe. The line was so long! I swear I’m going grey right now.”

“And I missed the goddamn play!” Rafe exclaims. He looks over at you and immediately goes quiet once he sees those wide baby eyes that look at him curiously.

“Da?” Noelle mutters, reaching her tiny hands towards Rafe’s larger ones.

“Yeah. Da’s here babygirl, do you want your food? Huh sweet girl?”

Rafe hands you your food, setting his food aside so he can put Noelle in his lap. He begins to split half his hotdog in pieces for her.

You glance to the left, you notice Brandon looking like a fish out of water.

Rafe is the CEO of one of, if not the biggest business company around. And Brandon had just borderline harassed his wife, who was holding his child.

Brandon sneers at the two of you in silence while the game continues, nearly boiling at the fact that he couldn’t have you.

Your head is laying on Rafe’s shoulders, you’re rubbing circles on Noelle’s shoulder as she settles down.

“Everything alright babe?” Rafe asks, trying to peer down at your face.

You untuck your necklace with your wedding ring from your shirt, fiddling with it. “Yeah, now that you’re here Ray.”

There’s silence between the two of you for a few seconds.

“…What does that mean?”

You hesitate to answer, but you do regardless, “Nothing! It’s just uh..That guy next to me, was kinda like hassling me I guess.”

This makes Rafe straighten his back.

“He do somethin’ to you doll?” Rafe questions in a whisper. You know you have about 30 seconds to try and calm him down before he’s banned from every soccer game left in the season.

“No, okay? I’m fine, it’s cool. I need you to calm down Ray.”

Rafe’s nose is flaring, “What about Ellie? Did he touch her?”

You feel your throat closing up, your heart is damn near pounding out of your chest.

You don’t say anything to Rafe, but that look in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

You grab his bicep, trying to keep him grounded. Even though he’s changed, some parts of him haven’t.

Rafe speaks lowly in your ear, but not too much to frighten you in any way. “I’ll take care of it, okay? Don’t worry y’pretty little head about it.”

Rafe presses a firm kiss against your cheek, then presses a softer one to your lips.

After 30 more minutes, and 2 more goals, Stacy’s team wins.

You and Rafe cheer loudly, letting out “That’s our baby girl!”

You meet Stacy at the bottom of the bleachers, holding Noelle in your hand as the littlest claps her hands between Stacy’s face.

You’re too busy congratulating your daughter to notice Rafe pulling Brandon aside while his daughter, Valerie is off talking to her friends.

Rafe puts a firm hand on his shoulder, “Hey man.”

Brandon lets out a nervous laugh, “Hey there, Rafe Cameron, right?”

“Yeah, let’s keep this short. I better not see or hear you talking to my wife again, do you hear me? I don’t give a shit what happened.”

Rafe continues shortly, “And keep your fucking hands to yourself, if I find out you touched my either of my daughters again, I swear to God himself I’ll put you under.”

The two men are holding eye contact, one looks with confidence and borderline rage, while the other looks with fear.

Rafe walks down the bleachers, meeting you and your girls.

“You were amazing out there sweetheart!” Rafe smiles while pulling Stacy into a bear hug.

“Jesus dad, you’re crushing me!” Stacy laughs with a slight wheeze.

Rafe ruffles her hair and puts his arm around your neck.

“All good to go?”

You nod your head, and with that, the four of you begin to walk to Rafe’s parked car.

Rafe realizes that this isn’t the first time you’ve been hit on at a soccer game, or anywhere in fact. And this definitely won’t be the last.

Cause everybody’s in love with Stacy’s mom.

[barbieaemond]

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol

Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.

Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

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Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.

Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.

She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.

Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.

The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.

Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.

Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie. 

“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.

She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”

At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”

Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”

“Thank you, husband.”

The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.

But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.

She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.

“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”

She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.

No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart. 

He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.

She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.

“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”

“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.

“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.

“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”

It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.

She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”

You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”

She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.

“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.

The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”

“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”

"No, I-I ought to.”

The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”

“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”

She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.

The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”

The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”

The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”

The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.

She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.

According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?

She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?

She wouldn’t dare ask him. 

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.

She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.

“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”

His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.

“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”

“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”

That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.

She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.

“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.

Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.

“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.

You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?

“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”

“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.

“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”

He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”

“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”

Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.

“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.

“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”

Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.

“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”

His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.

“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.

“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.

Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.

She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”

He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.

“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.

“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”

She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”

“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”

She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”

“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”

It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.

“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”

His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.” 

She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”

She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”

“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”

Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.

His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.

“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”

He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.

But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh. 

She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.

He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.

She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth. 

Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.

“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”

She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.

But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.

She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.

She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.

A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.

She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.

She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.

She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.

He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.

He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.

“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.

“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”

A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.

“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.

Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.

Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.

“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”

She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.

Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.

“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.

“Yes, child?”

“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”

The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”

Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.

The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.

“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.

“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.

She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.

It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.

Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time. 

Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”

But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.

What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.

She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.

But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.

Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.

In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.

However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”

“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“

“Over my dead body.” 

He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”

“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”

She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.

He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.

But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.

The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.

The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.

She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.

She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.

But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing. 

She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.

By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.

Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.

The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.

Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.

She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”

The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.

“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.

She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”

“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”

His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”

There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.

“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”

She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.

“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.

“How’s—"

“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”

He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”

“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.

Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”

“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”

“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”

“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”

She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.

“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”

She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.

Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”

She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”

“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”

“A pincher?”

She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”

“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”

She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.

“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.

“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”

“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”

“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”

He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”

Curse him.

He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”

His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”

Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”

“We’ll make it quick.”

“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches. 

Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”

“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.

“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—” 

“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”

They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.

“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.

Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes. 

“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”

Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.

“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”

Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”

Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.

“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly. 

At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”

“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.

Aemond did not join her.

The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.

But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.

She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.

Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.

When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.

Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.

“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”

“More or less.”

“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”

“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”

“That was your plan?”

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”

“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”

Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”

“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”

“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”

Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.

She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.

Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.

When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”

Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”

While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.

“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”

At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”

“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.

As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.

“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.

“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.

“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”

“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”

Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.

She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.

But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”

Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”

“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”

By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.

As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.

Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.

She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.

As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.

Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.

She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.

“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.

“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them. 

She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.

“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.

“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”

She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.” 

“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”

She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”

“You should be proud of my noises.”

“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”

His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”

“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”

She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.

She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.

“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.

“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”

“To do what?”

“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”

She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”

His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.

“Then do it.”

“What?”

“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”

“What would you have me do?”

His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”

She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?

When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”

His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.

When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.

He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.

“On your feet.”

And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.

“Come.”

It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.

“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.

“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh. 

Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.

But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.

“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”

A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.

Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.

She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.

Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”

She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.

“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”

His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.

Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.

He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.

“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”

But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.

His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.

Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”

And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.

“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.

“What, my love?”

“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.

“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”

“Let me come please…please…”

At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.

He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.

It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”

She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.

He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.

His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.  

He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.

“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.  

“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.

“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”

She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.

“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.

 “I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”

Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.

She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.

Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.

He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.

He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.

He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.

And she does all of that. She finds God.