#and pasted them onto a different sheet of paper

[creekschaoscorner]

theonny?

Theonny!

[is-the-sky-blue]

OVERWHELMED: GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU

Fluff, satosugu x reader, reader is called mom, papa satoru, dad suguru

You were overwhelmed.

The warm steam from the pot below you wafted up to your face, the obnoxious low rumble of the range hood sucking up the air as to not let your smoke alarm go off, yet again. The curry bubbled and you stirred the mixture of carrots and potatoes, leisurely. "Mom," it was a troubled call, you turned, facing the long haired child perched in a chair at the table behind you, her brown eyes glassy as she stared at the textbook in front of her.

You were quick to lower the heat, tapping the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot before settling it down on the handles, placing the glass lid atop the stainless steel before shuffling over to her, fluffy socks adorned with a strawberry pattern, given to you as a little surprise from an ordinary grocery run, protecting your feet from the cool tile. "Tsumiki honey, what's wrong," you coo, taking a seat in the chair next to her, the girl's lips pouted in frustration as she pinched her brows.

"I dunno how to do this," she points, pencil led prodding at the textbook pages scrawled in graphite, loitered with jokes and absurd comments that your dear girl would never do, knowing that this, probably twelfth generation textbook's drawings, were presents from students past. It was a math question, simple algebra that she was only introduced to yesterday in class, and your ever keen student was quick to do her homework on Saturday as to not stress out tomorrow, as her Papa promised to take them all out on a fun day trip.

"Let me take a look," you murmur gently, offering a smile to try and quell her irritation as you stared at the notebook pages, neat handwriting full of numbers interrupted as she tried to answer question 6c, smudges of pencil rubbed away by eraser staining the paper and you reevaluate the problem, carefully repeating it onto the sheet. "This one is quite tough," you nod, hoping to show that her struggle was valid, "but basically you have to-" you start, ready to walk her through the steps to find an answer when yet another call drew your attention away.

"Mom!" this time it was a wail.

"Just a second baby," you pat the girl's hair, "I'll be right back," you promise, getting up from the cushioned seat to step towards the living room, crying children hidden behind the couch, as the open concept layout usually allowed you to see all your kids at once.

You spot the two twins, eyes glassy as Mimiko held a doll tight in her grasp, body shifted away from her sister as Nanako crossed her pudgy arms over her chest, tearful glare directed towards the former.

"What's wrong," you murmur, sore muscles slightly protesting as you pulled into a crouch assessing the situation. Your usually two well behaved girls who generally got along with one another were fighting for the nth time today. They were having a rough time, both irritated, grumpy and getting on each other's nerves consistently on this somber Saturday

"Mimiko won't share," Nanako cries, rubbing harshly at her puffy cheeks as salt rivers stain her face, falling in large droplets. You are quick to tenderly grasp her hands, careful touches wiping away the dew. You turn to face Mimiko, knuckles turning pale with the death drip she had on the pink haired doll.

"You two have loads of dolls though," you try to reason, plucking up a different toy, presenting it to the red faced girl.

"But I want that one," she sobs, hiccupping and you tried not to sigh too loud.

"Mimiko," you call, the child pursing her lips as she turned her body away in defiance.

"I want a turn," she huffs when you don't retract your scolding gaze, "Nanako's been playin all day wif her," she shakes the pink haired toy, glittery strands catching light and you don't know what to do. Nanako was crying because Mimiko had stolen the toy, and you knew the girl had been politely asking all day just to be denied.

It wasn't right that she took it, you know that, but it also wasn't right that Nanako hasn't been sharing. You didn't want to just take the doll away completely, even if a nagging voice said that a mere threat wouldn't hurt, but the high percentage that it'd leave both girls' crying already gave you a headache.

They were just tired. Bad dreams plaguing them last night, preventing them from sleep, they needed a nap but wouldn't settle down for one, not even after being cradled and read to. No matter how many picture books you pulled out, or if you just tucked them into their beds, neither agreed to your plan and now it was too late, settling for a nap now would only result in the inability to rest when it was actually bed time.

You bit your lip, their lack of sleep also resulting in your lack of sleep, achy limbs tired as you shut your heavy fatigue ridden eye lids as bawling tears continued to drip, "Nana-" you were about to start only to be interrupted yet again.

"Mom," it was raspy this time and you heed the call, facing a sleepy Megumi, his face florid as sweat beaded on his forehead, duvet you wrapped him in trailing along the hardwood floors as he pulled it onto his shoulders. His spiky hair was slightly matted, eyes a little red, nose running. 

"Megumi" you coo, your sick boy padding to walk into your arms, falling into your embrace eagerly as he nuzzled into your neck, his cold nose making you slightly cringe as he burned up in your grasp, fever overheating his tiny figure.

"m'sorry," he begins and you don't want to question what happened as you wrapped the blanket tighter around his little form, "I missed the bucket," he confessed, his fingers timidly grabbing at your sleeve, toying with the fabric and you knew what he meant, the little stomach bug beating up his organs had made you gift him a plastic container for all his vomit. "I didn't mean too," his voice wavers, you could feel your shirt begin to grow damp but all you could do was hold him tighter.

"It's okay," you try to keep the irritation ebbing away at you from your tone.

"Mom."

"Mom."

"Mom."

"Mom."

They all needed you, tears falling down fast as different anxieties permeated your house, home full of grief as they each battled with different problems. Tsumiki struggling with her homework, Mimiko and Nanako bickering yet again over something trivial but huge in their little world, while Megumi tried to fight off a sickness but was currently losing, and you trying to grapple every thing, your sanity quickly slipping as their sadness poured into you, the tired little smiles you kept up slowly fading away as you could feel your own anxieties claw up your throat.

All your children were crying, frustrated wails, and you were barely keeping it together, clutching your son tightly as you tried not to fall into a pit of tears yourself.

You were overwhelmed.

Overloaded with tasks and duties, you had to help Tsumiki finish her school work, settle this doll dilemma, clean up the little mess Megumi made and still finish up dinner. Your list was all consuming, trying to drown you as your house shook, trembled.

Your family was having a rough day.

Everyone was troubled and you-

You couldn't do it all.

You barely registered it, chaos consuming your leaden muscles as you did your best to organize your frantic thoughts, but when a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder the tension in your chest, weighing down on you eased. "Let us handle it from here love," a sweet murmur, his dark hair was messy, result of a tough day at work but he was quick to roll up his sleeves, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, soothing your berating mind and you could only nod, brain refusing to process an argument as he turned to the two twins.

"C'mere Megumi," your white haired counterpart now next to you, reaching out for the duvet coddled boy who merely nuzzled further into your grasp at the call and you can't help but keep him close, quicksand sinking limbs finding their way to cuddle him even further.

"It's okay Toru," your voice is laced with a slow molasses, tired dribbles as you mumble, blinking your stinging eyes, retreating tears falling back from your waterline, "can you just," and you bite your tongue, feeling a strange quiver form in your throat as an inexplicable lump formed, but he's cupping your face, squishing the fat of your cheek with his easy going toothy grin, pink lips parting to let an ever loving smile shine affectionately at your drained visage.

"Can do!" and he's popping to his feet, knowing your sentence without your words, upbeat aura exterminating the lingering gloom that held heavy in a foggy cloud from the ceiling. His call of Tsumiki's name is kind before he's taking the seat next to her, getting to work and slowly your growing checklist of tasks melted, shredding into tiny little strips as they rips apart the paper, taking a chunk to handle by themselves.

Your knees audibly crack as you stand, his warm cheek in the cove of your neck as he put up no fight to slump in your hold. "Let's get you a bath, yeah Gumi," you hum, body gently rocking as you pad down the hallway and towards the bathroom, light flickering on with a warm glow to paint the white tiles.

"M'sorry," he's murmuring again as you set him down, guilt ridden eyes swathed with remorse as you slowly began to fill the tub, squirting out some of the soap from a half-empty bottle of bubble bath, watching as white foam slowly floated to the surface, "I-I'll do better," he sniffles.

"You don't need to be sorry baby," you brush the strands of hair sticking to his forehead away, heat emanating from the slick sweat of his skin, dampening your fingertips as you gingerly peel the blanket off his body, pang of pity hitting your heart as he shuddered, "you didn't do it on purpose," you hum, "and all you need to do for me is drink lots of water, get tons of rest and get back to your strong and healthy self, okay my Gumi bear," you smile, watching the boy cringe at your little nickname.

"Don't call me that," he whines, voice nasally as you help him take off his clothes before settling him inside the water filled tub.

"Why not," you tease, turning off the tap but he could only puff out his chest, no reason coming to mind as he submerged his body into the water, steam slowly relieving his congested pathways.

"I- It's embarrassing," he tries and you coo with a sly little smile. 

"Are you embarrassed of me," you purse your lips in faux pain.

"That's not what I said," he rasps out, crossing his arms over his chest as he slumps his back against the porcelain, defeated.

"Mhm I see how it is," you sigh dramatically, snickering at his pout before you lean to boop his nose. "Will you be okay on your own," you ask the boy, observing as he picked up a cloud of soap and squashed it between his palms.

"Mhm," he nodded and you grin, giving him an affectionate rustle of the hair before grabbing the slightly soiled clothing, lingering smell of vomit and sweat clinging to the fabric of his pajamas as you stepped outside the bathroom, leaving the door open just a smidge as you padded towards Megumi's bedroom, the door wide open, readying yourself to untuck his bedsheets only to find his mattress already bare.

"It's in the wash," he murmured against the shell of your ear and you lean into his warmth, resting your head on Suguru's lowered shoulder, "do you need me to take that too," and his hands are quick to take the clothing from your grasp.

You simply shut your eyes for a moment, listening to his breathing, "thank you," you hum out when you blink open, whirling around on your toes to face him.

"It's no problem baby," and he's pressing yet another calming kiss to your forehead, easing the worries that had begun to clamber up your chest, "you should go take a break, I can finish giving Megumi a bath," he murmurs against your skin but you shake your head as he pulls away.

"No, I can do it," you affirmed, the worried look in his gaze doing little to force your hand, "I want to do it," you reiterated and his shoulder's slumped as he acquiesced, letting you have your way yet again.

"If you say so," he's sighing, "but let me know if you need anything, alright, you've already done a lot today, don't push yourself pretty," and he's kissing your cheek this time, flashing you an understanding smile but you are quick to peck at grinning lips, withdrawing much too early for his liking.

"I won't," you reassure, patting his arm, urging him to go and he chuckles, retreating back to the laundry room as you go to grab another set of pajamas for Megumi to wear.

Your heart felt a little lighter, the happy sounds of an understanding Tsumuki echoing down the hallway before she was sharing a high-five with Satoru, a resounding, elating smack reverberating as you take a small peek down the hall, her once pinched brows no longer furrowed with stress as your white haired partner thoroughly explained the topic in a way she could understand, patiently answering all her questions and kindly nudging her along the right path whenever she made a mistake. The sight had you smiling, there were no tears, no yelling, the image much unlike your childhood, her ability to even ask for help showing you that you must be doing something right, after all you didn't want her to face the same struggle you had when it came for asking your parents for any kind of assistance.

Turning back to the bathroom you nudge the door ajar with your hip, spotting your little spiky haired boy with a rubber duck in his hand, pushing it along the water and he's quick to stare at you, meeting your gaze as you plop the fresh clothing onto the counter. "Mom," he calls and the word no longer burdened you with such despair as it had moments ago, of course you loved your title, the very words being attached to you giving you an indescribably joy as your little found family discovered comfort in you as a mother figure, but you couldn't deny that a few moments ago the very call of that label had you broiling with stress.

"Yes love," you hum, quick to pull the stool over, sitting near the edge as Megumi glanced up at you, bubbles staining his fingertips.

"Will Papa still take me on the trip tomorrow," he sniffles, dry eyes blinking up at you with worry.

"Of course he will Gumi," you reach a hand out, petting his hair before cupping his warm face between your palms.

"W-What happens if I don't feel good tomorrow too," he whimpers, eyes going glassy as his lips pull into a pout and you could feel a little tremor shake your heart, small fracture nicking away at it as you pressed a tender kiss to his scalp.

"Then we'll reschedule it baby, okay," you murmur, staring into his heartbroken gaze, "it'll be alright."

"But I don't wanna ruin it," he mumbles so quietly, guilt ebbing away.

"Honey you won't ruin anything," you assure, "no one is leaving you behind, and no one will be sad if we can't go tomorrow, besides it wouldn't be fun if you weren't there." 

"Promise."

"I promise my love," and you interlock your pinky with his, rubbing away a stray tear that managed to fall, "now how about we get you dressed and back to bed," you offer, a gentle smile accompanying your words and he grins, nodding.

You were quick, drying the boy before pulling the dog themed shirt on his head, helping his arms through the fabric before tugging it down. "Cozy," you muse, fingers lightly tying the drawstrings of his fuzzy pants.

"Mhm," he hums, fast to find solace in your embrace as you carefully adjust him to settle on your hip, standing up. You survey the bathroom, empty tub still slightly foamy along the edges, drain covered in bubbles that you didn't focus on, preoccupied with dressing the sickly boy, the blanket he had dragged around, abandoned on the floor, crumpled in a corner, the floor slightly imprinted with wet footsteps.

You purse your lips, rubbing small circles onto his back as his face burrowed into the crook of your neck, dark hair tickling the skin but you pay no mind, occupied with your disinterest on cleaning the space, you had left a slight mess.

Shutting your eyes you sighed, maybe you could just pretend it wasn't there for a moment, you tried to offer yourself, turning to head towards Megumi's bedroom only to spot that his bed was still bare and you were soon painfully aware that both pairs of bedsheets you had used for his bed were now soiled and in the wash, the first set vomited upon in the morning when he had felt the brunt of his ailment clawing at his stomach.

You could feel irritation clamber up your limbs, leaving an unsettling itch in your bones as you push your weight onto your toes before rocking back onto your heels, uncertainty bubbling beneath your skin as your frazzled brain wracked for a solution. "He can sleep in our room for a little while," and the bubbles faded into nothing, heat of the element reduced to zero in an instant as your unsettled waters no longer even simmered.

His hand is on Megumi's forehead, checking the little boy's temperature while the other lay relaxed on your hip, leaving an assuring squeeze, "do you want me to take you Megs," Satoru offers, knowing full well he'd be denied, and rejected he was, the boy merely clinging to you tighter with a pout.

"It's fine Toru," you hum, his hands slightly fixing your hair before pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

"Alrighty then," he snickers, and you barely have to turn your head to know he and Megumi were sticking their tongues out at each other, "I'll go clean up the washroom then," and he shifts his focus to you.

"No that's alright, you should go rela-"

"I should be saying that to you pretty," he quirks a grin, cutting you off, "now go on," and he's shooing you away, hands on your shoulders before lightly ushering you out, "let me work," he tsks, opening the door, letting you walk into your shared bedroom before quickly scampering off with a cartoony whistled song.

You can't fight off your smile before shuffling towards the messily made bed, the rumple of sheets a painful reminder of your inability to focus this morning, waking up to sobs, the idea of making the bed no longer at the forefront of your brain, and it still wasn't. You collapse onto the mattress, lightly tackling Megumi beneath your body.

"Get off me," he giggles, squirming, fists pushing at your shoulders.

"What, you don't want my love," you gasp dramatically, peppering kisses over his face until he's shoving you away, hoarse voice laughing as he wriggles, crawling towards the head of the bed but you grab his ankle, "don't make me fight you," you tease, pulling him back, his happy little shriek of, 'let me go,' making you grin before you lift him into your arms, wrapping around him tight before squeezing him, planting one last firm peck to his cheek, his happy face lessening all your lingering unease before pulling the both of you beneath the covers.

"You're silly mom," he's snickering.

"Oh really," you laugh, resting his head upon the pillow, laying on your side as he puts his hand onto your face, pudgy fingers squeezing at your cheek, contorting your facial expressions, "I think you're pretty silly," you muse, reaching out to smush his face, his lips puckering as you forced him to look like a fish.

"Nuh uh," he huffs pulling away from your grasp before using both his hands to try and force your face the same way, and he's giggling.

"Nuh uh," you mock, "what do you mean nuh uh," you tease lightly tickling at his sides.

"Nuh uh," he shrieks again, squirming before burrowing into your embrace, putting an end to your attack as he cuddled close and you couldn't help but reciprocate. "Mom," he's calling again.

"Yes," you coo, running your fingers through his hair.

"Can we go see a T-rex." 

"Hmm," you raise a brow, "where'd that come from," you ask, slightly perturbed by his out of the blue question.

"Yuji told me at school that his papa took him to see T-rex bones."

"Oh, is that so," you coo, rhythmically patting his back, "we can go to the museum and see dinosaurs together when you're all better."

"With Tsumiki and Mimiko and Nanako."

"Of course, we'll take Tsumiki, Mimiko, Nanako, Dad and Papa," you grin, "so make sure to get lots of sleep and drink lots of water, okay."

"Okay," he's murmuring and despite his prior burst of energy his eyes were closing.

"Goodnight," your kiss his scalp, gently rocking his body and even though he drifted off you continued to lay there, weary limbs finally relaxing.

"Wake up love," you don't even remember falling asleep.

You blink your eyes open, "You need to eat." 

"Hmm," you groan as you stirred, staring at both their figures and you suddenly realize your arm's no longer hold the weight of a child, "where'd Megumi go."

"Asleep in his own room," Suguru coos, helping you sit up, thumb running over the apple of your cheek.

"What time is it," you ask eyes trying to adjust to the bright light of the digital clock on the bedside table. 

"9:30ish," Satoru grins, taking a seat next to you, "the kids are already in bed."

"Why didn't you wake me up," you yawn, leaning your weight onto Satoru, "I could've helped."

"You've already done so much today," Suguru sighs and you hum into his touch, "wanted to let you rest."

"M'sorry," you murmur, suddenly feeling ashamed.

"Why are you apologizing love, we are the ones who should say sorry," and Suguru is settling down onto your other side.

"We left you home alone to take care of all of them, it must've been tiring," Satoru is holding your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles.

"You had to go to work, it's fine."

"Regardless," Suguru tacks on, "but you did a good job today," he praises and you find yourself melting, lip wobbling.

"No I didn't," and a surge of sadness washes over you, your emotions taking over, "y-you came home and everyone was crying, I was going to cry too, and, and I didn't know what to do."

"That's okay my love," and Suguru is pulling you into his arms, "you did your best."

"But still."

"Baby it's hard looking after four kids by yourself, you did amazing, it was just a rough day," and Satoru is kissing your forehead, "we should've come home earlier but even without us you did great."

"I should've been able to handle it."

"You did handle it."

"I got overwhelmed."

"And that's okay," Suguru assures once more, "it's a lot of work and it's normal to feel that way, that's why we're here, okay baby, it's not your job to look after all of them on your own, we're a team, you can depend on us," he continues, soothing your anxieties, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. 

"My pretty girl had a long day," Satoru coos, lightly pinching your cheek, cracking a coy smile, "let's go eat yeah, I'll warm dinner up again," he grins, reaching for you, carefully picking you up. 

"I can walk," you protest, your arms snaking around his neck as he slid his arms beneath your bottom.

"And I can carry you," he sing songs, padding towards the door while Suguru quietly shushes him.

You were overwhelmed but Satoru and Suguru were quick to help you out.

[marsdql]

ʟᴀᴛᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋs

ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄ soft!jay x reader | fluff, comfort ᯓᡣ𐭩 | wc: less than 2.0k?? Idk//drabble 𐙚 | synopsis: jay coming home to you sobbing on your desk because of all the stress caused by school/work and making you feel better.

It was past midnight, you’ve been studying since you came back from work and can’t seem to finish anything despite all the hours already wasted on your projets that were supposed to be finished days ago.

Usually you’d sort something out, organise everything and make a plan, but today as different, you were overwhelmed, all sorts of emotions coming to you at once. Your boyfriend Jay hadn’t come home from his job yet, leaving you with your own thoughts.

Being the sensitive person you are, you just let yourself be at this point, letting all the tears come out and drip onto the sheets on paper under you, like if nothing mattered anymore. You let yourself cry, trying to be quiet as If anyone could hear you.

Jay finally came home, his car keys jiggling in his hand before putting them down on the coffee table. You didn’t even notice the door open, too lost in your emotions. He walked slowly into your shared bedroom, assuming you were asleep, but to his surprise, you were there on the desk with your face buried in your hands as u try to stop your mouth from making any loud noises.

He paused for a moment, taking in what was happening—your hunched shoulders, your trembling hands and just the fact you aren’t in bed yet. He walked slowly towards you. “Hey.. what’s wrong? Sweetheart talk to me” he said, crouching a little to get your height, attempting in getting you to look at him.

Just as you heard his soft voice, all your tears came crashing down faster, your brain telling you that your boyfriend had a long day and now he comes home needs to deal with you. “I-im s’sorry j-jay.. I can’t” choking on your sobs, not being able to get a word out.

“Hey, talk to me, it’s okay im right here, what’s wrong? Comon baby come ‘ere ” He slowly grabs you closer to him, getting you to sit in between his legs as he sits on the edge of the bed. You can barely talk, your sobs suffocating you. “Jay… I can’t do anything… i’m. I’m I can’t I just can’t. None of my teammates helped me on this project now I have to do it alone and it’s due tomorrow. I don’t know what to do I can’t do anything right im so behind in everything..” you blurt out as you catch your breath, proceeding to cry even harder right after you finish your sentence.

You changed your position, your chin on his shoulder, not wanting him to see your red face and puffy eyes, but he doesn’t mind your shyness, not wanting you to feel even worse in this vulnerable moment. “Baby, you don’t deserve any of this. My sweet girl— you’re working so hard im so so proud of you, your teammates don’t deserve you. You’ll finish this project it’s okay, just calm down..”

“Jay….” You whined, hugging him a little closer. “Mmhm baby? You ‘wanna rest? It’ll make you feel better, who cares about a project, your health is more important right now.” he said before moving you up into the bed, tucking you in knowing that you were too tired to protest. He gently placed your head off his shoulders and onto the pillow, exposing you face, making him rub your tear stains off with his thumb.

Right before tucking you fully in, he noticed the water on your nightstand, quickly grabbing it and making you drink some before dozing off, whispering sweet nothings to you as he held the bottle with one hand and rubbing your back with the other. “Poor girl.. you’ve been too hard on yourself.” “Just a little bit more, good job—let’s get you sleep now, hm?”. As you finished drinking water, you quickly laid on him, signaling that you may need a little more affection tonight compared to the others.

He let out a soft chuckle, pulling you closer and adjusting the blanket over both of you. “Alright, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. His hand continued its gentle rhythm on your back, grounding you in his warmth.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his breath tickling your hair. “No need to carry so much on your shoulders—just let it go for tonight.”

You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he hummed softly, a melody you couldn’t quite place but felt comforting all the same. The weight of the day melted away as his presence wrapped around you, every whispered word and tender touch assuring you that you were exactly where you needed to be.

And as your breathing slowed, matching his, you felt your worries dissolve, replaced by the quiet comfort of knowing he would stay there with you until the morning light.

———————————————————————————

It’s nearly 2am I’m half alseep, I am so sorry for whatever mistakes I made here..

[yellowjacketsfashion]

While there are lots of options as to where you can buy a replica of the Yellowjackets Letterman Jacket, they’re not always easily attainable. Last year for halloween I made my own letterman and I figured others could find my process helpful. (The supplies I used were things I already had or were accessible to me but there are other ways to create the same thing. If you have different materials that also work feel free to make suggestions or use them in your process).

HOW TO MAKE A YELLOWJACKETS LETTERMAN JACKET:

Supplies:

• Gold/Navy Letterman jacket

• Printer

• White Printer paper

• Gold Felt

•Chalk

• Heat ‘n Bond

• Embroidery floss in the colors White, Black, Gold and Gray (I ended up needing two packs of white).

• Embroidery needle

• White (or light colored) tissue paper

• White fabric (I used cotton)

• Embroidery hoop

• (Optional) White and Black thread

• Glue stick

Step 1: Aquire your jacket.

You can do a lot of different things for the plain base jacket. I bought mine off Amazon but if wanted too you could probably sew one or buy one second hand etc. The only specification is that it’s Gold and Navy. It is important to do this first because everything else builds off of this step.

Step 2: Print out designs.

Use the photos I provided below and paste them into a word document. From there you can size them up or down to reach the size that you like for printing. The “Yellowjackets” logo is for the back of the jacket so when I did it I kind of split the photo in half and put it on two different pages. In the end it turned out to be just shy of 13 inches length wise. The round patch goes on the front and mine was 4.25 inches in diameter.

Depending on the size of your jacket your patches can be bigger or smaller, but once your happy with the sizing you can then move onto the next step.

Step 3: Gather supplies.

The gold felt is to be used to create the back patch. Because of the size of mine I was able to get a little 50 cent sheet of it (I was able to place the logo at an angle to fit it) but because the patch sizes will be different it’s important to bring your print out of the logo when shopping to make sure you have enough. Most craft / fabric stores should have this in stock. It’s also a good idea to bring your letterman jacket with you to try to color match the shades of gold/yellow as best as possible.

The embroidery hoop, floss, white fabric, and thread are for the front patch as I hand embroidered mine but in theory you could use an embroidery machine or printable fabric sheets to create your patch. If you use these other methods you’ll need different supplies and different instructions that I can’t give.

The Heat ‘n Bond is to iron the patches onto your jacket so they stick (though I’ve had to re iron my back patch because the fibers of the wool make it hard to stick to). It will essentially act as double sided tape.

Step 4: Creating & attaching the back patch

• Cut out a piece of Heat n’ Bond that covers the area where your logo will go.

(i am using colored paper in the example pictures. Yellow represents the felt. White represents the heat and Bond).

• Once you have the right sized piece of Heat n’ Bond, iron it onto the back of your piece of Gold felt (make sure to follow the instructions on the Heat n’ bond packaging).

•Use your printed template of the logo and cut out the words on the felt. You can cut out the logo on paper first and trace it or attach the paper to the felt and just cut them both at the same time. (I moved the dot on the J down so that it’s still attached just to make it easier but you can do whatever you want).

• Put on your Letterman and use the chalk to mark where on the back you want the patch to go. For this step it can be helpful to have someone else assist you (though it’s possible to do it yourself).

• Take off the jacket and lay it flat to align the patch up with your chalk markings. Once it is where you want it you can Iron it onto the back of the jacket (according to the instructions on the Heat n’ Bond).

You now have a finished back patch!

Step 5: Creating the front patch.

• Trace the design of the front patch onto tissue paper (I would suggest a dark pen or sharpie so you can see it really well). If you have trouble seeing the design underneath it can be helpful to hold it to a window pane when it’s sunny or another light source. The photo of the logo I included has a white border around the black words but the patch in the show doesn’t have it so I just ignored it. From there you glue the traced tissue paper onto the fabric.

• Cut out a piece of white fabric big enough for your embroidery hoop and glue the tissue paper sketch onto the fabric.

• Put the fabric/tissue paper into the Embroidery hoop.

• Thread the needle and start embroidering the design. I found it good to use different techniques on different areas of the patch (long white stitches on the wings versus short ones on the background etc. I also thought it was helpful to embroider in color groupings (so like white all at once or yellow all at once etc. so you don’t have to switch out the floss that much). Save the white outer circle and black outline for last though to help clean everything up. The white and black sewing thread can be used to outline smaller details or neaten up some of the floss.

• Once the patch is done cut out a piece of Heat n’ Bond that covers the back of the patch.

• Put on your jacket and mark with chalk where you want to put the patch. In the show it’s placed by the second from the top button. (See Jackie reference photo at the top of the post).

• Iron on the Heat n’ Bond to the back of the patch (following packet instructions).

• Iron the Patch to the jacket based on your chalk markings.

• You have completed the front patch!

Above are some photo examples of my jacket (please ignore my messy hair in the left picture, being in the snow got it ruffled up).

Sorry for the long post but I think I got everything covered. I hope you guys found this helpful but if you have any questions about the jacket, my process, or anything else feel free to ask!

[magicshopaholic]

Part 2: A Stormy Night

Summary: Namjoon is on holiday with his girlfriend - and without Namjoon, all hell breaks loose.

Pairing: OT7 x OC (different OCs)

Genre: Humour, fluff, angst, smut, chaos

Word count: 20 fkn K (idk how I did it)

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, making out, oral sex, sex, dirty talk, masturbation

A/N: I have no words because way too much happens in this fic and I am exhausted. Starts right from the end of A Rainy Day. Highly, highly recommend reading Part 1 first - this story will make almost zero sense without it.

Tagging: @bbl32@quarter-life-crisis2@dreaming-with-happiness@faearchives@margopinkerton@purpleseoul7@confessionsofamarshlily @jiminjhang @xjoonchildx @tarahardcore @infinitehobi @handfullofcandids @whoisbts @kflixnet (drop a message if you want to be added)

Listen to: “bittersweet symphony" by the verve

teaser | part 1 | main masterlist

On a warm summer afternoon, a young girl walked home alone. The pavement under her feet was rough, poking the soles of her feet through the thin flip flops. She brushed her fingers absently against the picket fences on her way, unaware - or simply uncaring - of the beautiful day it was; the green gardens; the picturesque street of her childhood; the bees hovering lazily over colourful flowers. 

Perhaps she wasn’t at the age where she understood the beauty in the simple things. Or perhaps she was distracted, and somewhat sad, that she was walking home alone on such a beautiful day. It was, after all, her birthday.

When she reached home, her mother was sifting through mail at the dining table. The birthday cake she knew she would cut later this evening sat on the kitchen counter in a pink cardboard box, and she could see her name through the transparent top, written in chocolate icing.

Her mother noticed. “You’ll just have to wait till this evening,” she sang, wiggling her eyebrows in exaggeration.

She responded with half a smile; maybe her mother hadn’t realised, but she was fourteen today, much past the age where her birthday cake was the highlight of the day. Still, she was grateful her mother was trying, that she was here - unlike everyone else.

“Anything for me?” she asked hopefully. 

“As a matter of fact,” said her mother, pushing a small pile of differently coloured envelopes towards her, “there is.”

For the first time this afternoon, she felt excited. Reaching for the pile, she scooped them into one hand and hopped off her chair, immediately running upstairs to her bedroom and shutting the door behind her.

If her friends were not in town for her birthday, at least they might have wished her from afar. She had received a couple of e-cards: brightly coloured animations that opened in another window of Internet Explorer, slowing down the internet connection in her entire house.

But this whole year, all the cool kids in school had gotten into the fad of writing letters. It probably had something to do with the new drama that had come out last year, set in the nineties where the characters made it through the entire plot mostly through letters across the country.

Naturally, everybody had become inspired, finding emails and text messages too bourgeois, and opting to write letters to each other even if they lived in the same block. 

She understood it. There was something extremely satisfying about folding the sheet of paper, placing it in a crisp white envelope, sticking a stamp on it and depositing it in a mailbox, watching it disappear into the abyss and waiting for the day your friend’s response arrived in the mail.

Now, she fell onto her stomach on the bed and picked the first one to read. Everybody wished her a happy birthday, talked about their spring vacation, missed home and gushed about meeting once the semester resumed. Each letter was like a little wave from a different part of the country; subconsciously, one letter kept getting set aside until it was the only letter left, the last pastel blue envelope with her name in a familiar scrawl.

Hey birthday girl,

I hope you’re not too lonely without me (and all your other friends, but mostly me). You know I wish I could’ve been there to smear your face with cake and watch you get all dramatic about it but since I can’t, I’m just going to picture it and laugh my ass off (LMAO).

Busan is nice but it’s so hot! My favourite cousin didn’t come this time so I’m stuck with her two little brothers who spend all their time playing with sticks they found in the garden and pretending they’re swords. I wish I could join them but it’s honestly been way too long since something like that sounded fun.

Speaking of which, did you like your birthday present?? I totally wanted to see your face when you opened it! But when my parents told me I wouldn’t be there, I gave it to your mom that morning you got late for school and asked her to give it to you.

(And here I hope you’re reading this AFTER she gave you the present, otherwise the surprise is ruined LOL)

Anyway, I know we were supposed to go out on your birthday so I promise we will when I’m back… but it won’t be your actual birthday so I’ll DEFINITELY make it up to you next year. Or if that seems too far away, we can celebrate your half-birthday - whichever sounds better. Maybe all three (although I hope not because I’ll probably run out of pocket money by then).

Hope you have a great day and you BETTER write back. Splotch some icing on your face from me.

- Your favourite person on Earth (you KNOW I am)

She read it three times, giggling quietly and wishing he were here so she could flick his forehead every time he cracked a lame joke. Her cake and future present forgotten, she clambered off the bed with the letter and sat at her desk. Reaching for the light pink stationery set her aunt had gifted her this morning, she tucked her hair behind her ear and began writing her reply.

—

The rain is pouring with a vengeance now, and Jimin blinks it out of his eyes as he hurries into the hotel manager’s office. His hair is wet and the AC blows a gust of freezing air through it, making him shiver.

“Sir,” he begins, then stops. The manager turns around and Jimin blinks. “Um… Mr Moon?”

“Oh - he is busy with another client,” says the manager. “I’m Mr Jang - Jang Jiyeong - at your service. The deputy manager.” He reaches forward to offer a hand that Jimin takes, confused.

“But I just spoke to Mr Moon on the phone - I’m his client,” he says, a bit hassled now. “I called him an hour ago about booking the gazebo for the night and he assured me it was free - and dry. And now I can’t get ahold of him.”

“I’m sorry - let me see what I can do,” mutters Mr Jang, dialing a number and looking up at the ceiling as the phone rings. Jimin stares at him for a minute until he puts the phone down. “Apologies, Mr…”

“Park. Park Jimin.”

“Mr Park Jimin, yes - you see, I can’t -” He stops abruptly and his eyes go wide. “Park Jimin, the idol? My daughter loves you! Would you sign an autograph for her?” he asks, eyes shining excitedly.

“I will come to her in person and thank her for being a fan,” says Jimin deliberately, hearing his own voice shake, “If you can please help me get in touch with Mr Moon.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Moon. I apologise,” he says quickly, apparently remembering himself. “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t reach him. But I’m sure it’s just because of signal issues. In fact, if you wait right here, I’m sure he’ll -”

He’s interrupted by the door slamming open and Mr Moon stumbling in with a wet umbrella. “Oh, Mr Park, you’re here,” he says, sounding relieved. “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you but we’ve run into a slight problem. You see -”

A loud clap of thunder makes them all jump and is on cue, the lights fizzle out and the office is plunged into darkness.

“- we seem to have lost power.”

—

“Okay - what? Wait, slow down.” Taehyung winces at Jimin’s incensed shouts on the phone. He looks up to see Jungkook approaching, pushing his sweaty bangs back with a headband and taking a seat at the lateral pulldown machine. He raises his eyebrows and Taehyung puts the call on the speaker. “So - okay, so where are you now?”

“I’m driving down from that stupid hotel back down to Gangnam!” he answers, sounding livid. “Apparently half the city has lost power including a damn five star hotel - so I thought I could try the astronomy museum across from the office,” he adds sullenly.

Jungkook frowns, wrinkling his nose. “The one we all went to after we debuted?”

“Yes, well, I don’t have a lot of options,” sniffs Jimin, followed by the sound of water splashing. “But it had that auditorium where you lie on the ground and they display the history of the universe or whatever. I figured fake stars are the best I can do tonight,” he grumbles.

Taehyung raises his eyebrows, sensing that telling his friend that Sooah will like whatever he does would be unhelpful at this time. “There’s that Japanese place next door to it, too, if you want to pick up food from there.”

“Yeah, that’s probably what I’ll do because the caterer that I booked today has gotten stuck in the rain because their car broke down. All I have is a single bottle of champagne that wasn’t even my first choice, my hair is wet and not in a sexy way, and now the gourmet meal I’d planned is going to be replaced by takeout sushi! This is the worst birthday ever!”

“Doesn’t Namjoon hyung have a liquor cabinet in his studio? He might have a bottle of champagne you can borrow.”

“Yes, he does, and I called him to ask for the password to his studio but he didn’t answer.” There’s the sound of a screeching horn, followed by Jimin swearing under his breath.

Taehyung and Jungkook look at each other, both lost for words. “Hey, uh, Jimin hyung,” says Jungkook slowly, looking up at Taehyung for approval, who nods at him to go on. “Listen… we won’t keep you, but let us know if you need any help, okay?”

“My socks are drenched!” With that, Jimin hangs up.

“Wow.” Taehyung places his phone on his hand towel, folded neatly by his water bottle. “This is the most stressed he’s ever been in… like, years?”

“Since that outdoor taping of Filter, where the wind kept blowing the hat off his head mid-routine,” remembers Jungkook, and they snicker. “I’m glad I’m not out there right now. Although the rain does look kind of nice from here,” he comments, pointing to the window by the treadmills.

“I take it you did cancel your date finally?” Taehyung asks, stretching his triceps over his head. He hadn’t intended on doing much at the gym except for giving Jungkook some company, but Jungkook had been so excited about teaching him this new exercise his trainer had taught him that Taehyung had gone along with it and surprisingly enjoyed the endorphin rush.

“Yeah, I wasn’t too keen on it,” he replies dismissively, reaching up for the bar and pulling it down in a smooth motion, face screwing up slightly with the weight.

“Really? Because the first time you saw her - wait, what’s her name again? Haneul?”

“Hana.”

“Right - the first time you saw her when you went to get your first tattoo, you couldn’t stop talking about how hot she was,” he recalls. “Remember? You called me when I was at my parents’ and kept saying you’d just met the woman you were going to marry? And then you corrected yourself and said you probably wouldn’t marry her but you could see yourself proposing at least once?”

“Oh, man.” Jungkook grimaces, the tip of his ears reddening. “I was a stupid kid.”

“Nah, you were cute.”

“Stupid,” repeats Jungkook, grunting as he finishes his last rep of the set and lets go of the bar. Taehyung offers him a sip of water, grinning at his embarrassment. “But she’s still hot. And she’s pretty chill, too, but… I dunno. Not feeling it today. But I’ll probably catch up with her after Sooah’s birthday lunch tomorrow,” he adds, straightening up and beginning his second set.

“Sure, if Jimin hasn’t had a nervous breakdown and cancelled the lunch in a fit,” says Taehyung, rolling his eyes. “God, my arms are going to kill me tomorrow,” he mutters, turning to the wall mirror and stretching his biceps again.

Jungkook flashes him a toothy smile in the mirror. “No pain, no gain, hyung,” he says wisely.

Taehyung gives him a playful smack on the shoulder and moves towards the mirror, observing his biceps from different angles in the light, wondering if today’s workout is actually making a difference.

“Looking sexy, hyung,” remarks Jungkook, finishing his second set and standing up.

“I know, right? C’mon, we have to take a picture,” he instructs, waving him over and reaching for his phone. “Let’s commemorate my last gym session for the rest of the month.”

Jungkook chuckles, pushing the sleeve of his t-shirt up to reveal his own biceps. “The fans will get a kick out of this.”

Taehyung flexes his own and points the phone at the mirror and clicks, then groans. “No way, your muscles are way too big,” he complains, reaching over and shoving Jungkook’s arm out of the way. “They make mine look so silly.”

“Nuh-uh, your face looks better in the picture -” Jungkook starts to say, trying to force his arms further in focus as Taehyugn tries to push them away. They grapple jokingly until Jungkook pulls him back in a pretend headlock and faces the mirror, his biceps firmly in the centre of attention. 

Taehyung snorts but has to admit that the pose looks hilarious, so he flexes his own bicep and holds his phone up with the other hand, and both of them grin at the mirror. “Perfect.”

Jungkook laughs and lets go of Taehyung as the latter starts typing a caption. “Is ‘gym bros’ too predictable?” he asks.

“Nah, it’s fine. Wait, are you posting it on Instagram or Weverse?”

“Neither. I’m sending it to Dilara.”

“Oh.” Jungkook pauses, long enough for Taehyung to look up at him. “Do you… I mean, you think she’ll be okay with that? Us hanging out?” he adds when Taehyung raises an eyebrow.

Taehyung blinks, then sighs heavily. “Alright, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, properly. Look - let it go.”

When he doesn’t continue, Jungkook frowns. “Let, uh… let what go?”

Taehyung tilts his head and gives him a look, not fooled. “Look, it’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I get why you did it, alright? She’s your friend,” he says simply. “And that’s separate from our relationship. You were a good friend to her when I couldn’t be there for her and it’s not fair to assume that that won’t continue just because we’re back together now.”

Jungkook’s eyes, huge and doe-like, seemingly process this information. “She’s my friend,” he murmurs in agreement, almost as though he’s saying it to himself.

“Yes. She’s your friend. And as we’ve established over the many, many years we’ve known each other, that you get protective of your friends,” explains Taehyung. “Like the time that interviewer made fun of Jin hyung, or when that fan was taking pictures under Nayeon’s skirt when she was at the edge of the stage? You stood behind her and accidently kicked the phone out of his hand?” Both of them shudder at the memory.

Jungkook’s eyes flicker to Taehyung and he slowly nods. “She’s my friend,” he repeats, “and I get protective of my friends. She’s my friend,” he says, half-chuckling, sounding almost relieved that Taehyung apparently seems to understand this now.

Taehyung raises his eyebrows at this effusive response but goes along with it. “Yeah, she is. So… you know. I get it.”

“Right. So… so we’re really cool?” Jungkook asks.

His eyes shine hopefully, enough to make Taehyung’s heart break just a little. He places his hands on either side of Jungkook’s face. “Yes, you ridiculously muscled kid,” he says seriously, squeezing his face. “Now will you please chill the fuck out about this?” 

“You got it,” says Jungkook immediately. “And, uh… Dilara, too?”

“Even more so, if it’s possible. In fact, she, uh -” He takes a step back, moving to leave. “She asked me to ask you if you’ve got the sequel to the last Resident Evil… Hazardous Waste installment or something on your Playstation. And since I couldn’t care less, maybe you could text her yourself and let her know?”

“Definitely.” Jungkook nods, sounding relieved. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, this is more than enough exercise for me. It’s kind of getting in the way of my lying around time,” he points out, grabbing his things and waving.

“Alright. Oh, send me the picture!” Jungkook calls, seeing Taehyung’s thumbs up before he disappears out the glass doors.

—

The auditorium in the astronomy museum is less than ideal but Jimin knows he is fast running out of options. While the museum is almost shutting down for the night, he manages to keep it open for a sum, for a private tour with whom the manager refers to as his “lady friend”.

He’s at the gift shop, ruminating over a blanket and some fake champagne flutes, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Expecting the manager again, he fishes it out and tucks it in between his ear and shoulder.

“Hello?” “Jimin?”

Jimin drops the items he’s holding and picks up the phone. “Sooah? Hey, I was just going to -”

“Jimin, where the hell are you?” she yells, her voice barely audible over the rain. “It’s so dark - how do I even find you?”

“What do you -” And suddenly, Jimin’s heart stops, for he does know what she means. This can’t have possibly happened, he reasons, his heart pounding and stomach dropping at the same time. Somewhere, in the midst of securing one venue after another, coordinating with various sellers and bitching to his friends while driving in a storm, he has forgotten to inform the birthday girl of the change in plans.

“I’m at the park! Chim!” The sound of the rain is even louder now. “I’m holding the yellow umbrella at the front gate but, babe, it’s pitch black,” she tells him, sounding uncertain. “Are you sure this is even a good idea tonight?”

Jimin falls to the ground, resting on his heels, and presses the ball of his palm to his eyes. This night was already starting to seem unsalvageable, but now it suddenly feels like an all-time disaster. 

“Sooah,” he starts, feeling exhausted and defeated all at once, “listen, I’m… fuck, I am so sorry.”

“What? Chim, I can barely hear you,” comes her voice, slightly muffled through the rain. “Listen, the night guard here just told me the park is closed? Can you please come here? Or - or can you come to the Caffetta across the street? The rain is just way too strong here.”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, yes - I’ll be right there.” He hangs up and abandons the shopping, heading straight to the parking lot and going to Sooah. This drive feels like a blur; Jimin tries to ignore the disappointment, knowing that if he doesn’t rein it in now, he’s bound to start crying and that’s the absolute last thing Sooah needs after the hideousness that’s been this night.

He spots the logo of the Caffetta coffee shop as he’s nearing the park, the place where it all began today, and slows down the car. A brand new coffee chain borne out of a coffee brand, with branches all over Seoul, the place looks incredibly cozy and warm from where Jimin is, in the cold and the rain surrounded by dim streetlights and nothing else. He hurries inside, no longer caring if he gets wet in the process.

Sooah is in a cushy armchair, finger combing her hair when she looks up and spots him and, in what is probably the only highlight of Jimin’s day so far, she beams at him.

“Hey, I was starting to get worried,” she says as she walks up to him, immediately moving to hug him. He hugs her back, feeling his face start to morph as the urge to cry in anger starts to take over, until he takes a deep breath to force it away. 

She squeezes his shoulders before stepping away. “What happened? You sounded really stressed over the phone,” she says, taking him by the hand to the table she was sitting at. 

Jimin sinks into the chair next to her and sighs, wondering where to begin. He looks around briefly; it’s a pretty café, full of warm brown and yellow toned furniture, beanbag chairs and a corner booth - but it’s also almost empty. Aside from one table with a man and woman who look to be in their forties, and one younger man with headphones around his neck and a laptop in front of him, Sooah is the only other patron. 

He turns back to look at her, eyes roaming over her damp hair. Her sweater had clearly gotten wet; she’s taken it off and draped it across the back of her chair, left only in a thin full-sleeved shirt and jeans.

“I tried to…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I tried. I really did. I wanted to give you an amazing birthday, booking out the park and getting gourmet catering and falling asleep under the stars, but…” He rubs his eyes. “Everything got so fucked up.”

Sooah frowns slightly but it disappears, being replaced by a growing smile. “That actually sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, I knew you would love it!” he exclaims, feeling even worse now. “And then it started raining so I tried to move it and then I tried to book a hotel - but then the stupid power went out everywhere and the food never arrived,” he lists, “and all I had left was the champagne… which I now realise I left at the museum.” He swears and drops his head into his hands.

“Oh, my God.” Sooah is silent for a moment before moving, and he feels her soft hands on his. “Jimin. All I want for my birthday is to be with you. Anything you do will be lovely - I’ll love it no matter what.”

“It’s your first birthday since we got back together,” he says in a small voice, sniffing and looking up. “We’re always on-and-off and I don’t want this time to be like all the other times. Starting with this.”

She bites her lip, and Jimin is somewhat glad to see how affectionate she looks. “God, you really still are the sweetest guy I’ve ever known,” she murmurs, brushing back a stray lock of hair. “And you look cold. It means everything that you tried, baby, but I promise - I don’t care about that stuff.”

Jimin gives her a look. “That’s just not true. You… you’re - ” He struggles for the words, then gives up. “You’re Kim Sooah!”

She frowns, bewildered. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You love grand gestures! All the way from that chocolate-based treasure hunt in high school. And you just said the park thing sounded amazing.”

“Okay, yes, I would’ve loved that,” she admits, a little sheepishly. “I would’ve been blown away. But not at the expense of your evening. Chim, no grand gesture is worth you taking this much stress over it. And that part is true.”

Despite how much of a bust this evening has been, Jimin finally cracks a smile. “I promise lunch tomorrow will be better.”

“A simple restaurant, as long as it’s just you and me.”

“Yup,” he confirms, straight faced. “Totally.”

She pokes his forehead teasingly before kissing him. “Oh, wait. What was your original plan at the park, anyway? Like a picnic?”

Jimin shakes his head. “It was going to be a movie screening, just for us. Delicious food, champagne, a couch, the night sky above us… It would’ve been pretty spectacular. But honestly, I’m just tired now. Not to mention freezing.”

“I’m glad you said that because you know what? So am I.” Sooah stands up and heads towards the front of the shop and begins to order something.

Jimin jumps to his feet. “Absolutely not,” he says firmly, hurrying over and sliding in between her and the counter, before turning around to face her. “You are not going to pick up the tab on your birthday, too. Not unless you want me to kill myself.”

“Dramatic much?” she asks, making a face but moving away anyway. “Fine, a hot chocolate for me and…” She cranes her neck to read the menu. “And a hotdog. I’ll get us a better table,” she adds as he waves her away, brandishing his wallet in the air.

When Jimin returns with the food, it’s to see Sooah at a table in the back of the cafe, this time on a plush couch right by the window. She reaches eagerly for the hot chocolate, even before he’s set the tray down. He doesn’t go for the food, though; instead, he sits back on the couch next to her and sighs. The streets outside are dark, with the rain blurring every shape in the city and only the glow of streetlights piercing through the storm, like little charms. Now that his hair is drying, the view actually looks pretty.

“You okay?”

“You know, in a really twisted way, I’m glad the whole thing got ruined to the point where I just can’t salvage it, no matter what.” He gives her an apologetic look. “I mean, I wish it had worked out, but… God, this is the first time all day that I’ve finally relaxed.”

Sooah snickers, reaching over and kissing him on the cheek. “I was just thinking, though - maybe it’s not a total bust,” she points out, unlocking her phone and getting ready to type. “What was the movie?”

“Guess.”

“I dunno. Star Wars?”

“You -“ He gasps, affronted. “You think my romantic evening was going to be with Star Wars? Damn, Sooah, I thought you got me. It was going to be Grease.”

“Best movie of all time,” she agrees excitedly, typing it in. “And my favourite. And what do you know?” She turns the phone screen towards him. “It’s on Netflix.”

“Convenient,” he says, nodding. “But this wasn’t really how I’d pictured -”

“Things very rarely happen the way we picture it, Chim,” she says wisely. “But, as Chaeyoung told me that one day my face broke out right before a work event and I was out of concealer, we just have to make the best of it,” she says, placing her phone against the cute little tissue dispenser on the table so it faces them. “And I didn’t believe it would work either,” she adds, handing him one of her Airpods, “until she helped me discover the beauty of simply being who you are.”

“Wow.” Jimin raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes. That and BB cream.”

He nods, feeling so lucky in this moment that he feels sorry for every other individual out there who doesn’t have someone like Sooah. Taking the Airpod and tucking it into his ear, he picks up his own hot chocolate as she starts the movie. Maybe a movie on a big screen under the stars with gourmet food and champagne simply wasn’t in the cards tonight. Maybe this, shared earbuds and cuddling on a couch with hotdogs and hot chocolate, while the rain poured outside, was their BB cream.

“Oh, hang on.” He stands up and places his hot chocolate on the table. “I forgot something; I’ll be right back.” He jogs out of the cafe and runs to the car, wincing at the rain again. Determined to make at least one thing go according to plan tonight, he throws open the passenger door and retrieves the Gucci hoodie.

—

When their car almost hits a pothole, the jerk from swerving out of its way makes Yoongi feel like his stomach is falling out his back.

“Oh, my God, will you please drive in a straight line?” 

Yoongi grits his teeth and exhales sharply out of his nose, barely hanging on to his last shred of patience. “Hey, you know what? If you think you can do a better job, you drive next time.”

“Oh, really? Do you think you’ll actually let me in the drivers’ seat of your precious Range Rover next time?” Miso snaps, but it lacks its usual bite.

Yoongi chances a glance at Miso, looking away from the chaotic windshield for a moment. Her back is pressed to the passenger seat and her hands grip the edges, knuckles white. Her pale face looks a bit green but when another flash of lightning occurs, her entire face comes into view for a fraction of a second.

“Eyes on the road, Min Suga!”

“I can’t see anything!” Yoongi exclaims, turning back to the road and clicking his tongue in frustration. “There are too many trees and the damn leaves are flying everywhere! Fuck!” He swears, hitting the steering wheel. “One thing can’t go right today!”

“Oh, God,” mutters Miso. “Not this again.”

“Why the fuck not?” Yoongi demands. “I had been preparing for this meeting for weeks! Do you have any idea how many presentations and budgeting meetings I sat through with the management? Preparing demo after demo, just for you to get all prissy in there and ruin it?”

“Prissy? I was defending you, you prick!” she retorts. He can see her shift slightly to orient herself towards him, probably so she can yell at him more easily. “That guy was treating you like dirt, acting like you were some silly singer who didn’t know jack shit about business!”

“So what? He’s an arsehole - everybody knows it!” he argues, maneuvering through a blind turn on the highway. “But we need his money! We needed this investment because my - a lot of things depend on this! And now -” He huffs and breaks off, shaking his head and trying to focus on the treacherous road.

“You were really okay being spoken to like that? I don’t believe it,” she states. “You have way too much pride for that - and I can’t believe you’re getting mad at me for standing up for you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you didn’t just stand up for me - you insulted him to his face!” Yoongi scoffs, more out of frustration than anything. “It’s not about pride, Miso. Nothing comes for free, so if him making his little digs was going to ensure he gives us what we want, it’s fine!”

“What we want - you mean his money? He insulted your whole career - aren’t you the one who always says that music is the soul of this company?” She reminds him. “That that’s why you feel so protective over it, because you built it or whatever?”

“I - that’s still true,” he admits, reeling a bit at the realisation that she remembers a conversation from ages ago. “Music may be the soul of the company but it still needs cash to run. You probably don’t value it as much because you’ve always got it so easy, but some of us have to take shit -”

“Oh, here we go,” she interrupts loudly, and he can hear her rolling her eyes. “Obviously I can’t make it through one investor meeting because I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth. Because I eat gold and burn money for fun. Is that it?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Jesus. You talk big about taking shit to make a company run - is that why you’re still agonising over a fucking collaboration because you’re afraid it will hurt Namjoon’s feelings? Even though it’s sure to top the sales of any solo this company has ever put out?”

Yoongi grips the steering wheel so hard it makes his forearms hurt. “That is a completely different thing. I’m not okay with betraying someone I’ve worked with for so long - someone I lived with for over a decade for a project.”

“Why not?” she argues. “How is it different? He’s in the business, too, isn’t he? He’s a smart guy - he probably knows it’s okay to take a couple of digs if it means getting what you want.”

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, finally approaching the end of the highway, Seoul now almost within view. “Fucking hell, the road is flooded.”

“Shit.” Miso sighs. “Are you sure your car has enough ground clearance?”

“Only one way to find out.” He pushes on, the wiper blades working over time. “Damn it, how did it get so late?”

“Maybe you took one too many digs on a rainy day.”

“God, will you shut up for two seconds?”

“Sure, probably around the same time you grow a spine. You know, you can give me a little credit,” she continues, cutting Yoongi off just as he turns to her furiously. “I was sent here with you for a reason. You may know a lot more than me about music but this is more than just artistry - it’s a business. And as the only person in this car with a business degree, I think I can -”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! You think you were sent for this meeting because of your degree?” he retorts. “You were sent because you're Kang’s Jaesung’s daughter, another billionaire who invested in the company! They hoped that guy would see you, find out who your father is, and see him as a viable example to invest! That’s why you were sent here - you’re a proof of concept!”

There’s silence in the car, the rain sounding loud and like a hundred gunshots on the roof of the car. Yoongi breathes heavily, grimly satisfied at finally having shut her up - not least because the road ahead looks chaotic as hell.

“What the -”

There’s the faint sound of honking in the distance, followed by two cars driving by them in the opposite direction and spraying a wall of water on his car as they do. Yoongi wants to wonder out loud but he stops himself, deciding there’s no way to go but forward.

At that moment, his phone rings and he answers out of habit, ignoring Miso’s quiet scoff. “Hello?”

Seokjin’s voice emanates out of the speaker. “Yoongi!” he exclaims, voice sounding urgent. “Listen - have you ever seen the resting rooms on the top floor of the company building?”

Yoongi swerves a bit, trying to avoid branches and leaves on the ground that have turned to mulch. Next to him, Miso straightens up, her eyes up ahead on the road. “Shit,” she mutters.

“What?”

“The resting rooms on the top floor,” says Seokjin, apparently thinking Yoongi’s question was intended for him. “Have you seen them? What are they like?”

“Oh… that. The ones for the idols?” Yoongi asks absently, starting to spot some kind of commotion up ahead - but the rain is making it too blurry. “They’re fine, I guess. I’ve crashed there a couple times after all-nighters.”

“Really?”

But Yoongi hardly hears him, for his headlights don’t shine on the tree trunk blocking the road until he’s only a few feet away from it.

“Yoongi - that’s a tree!” 

“Fuck!”

Miso’s hands appear out of nowhere and turn the wheel with surprising strength, just edging the car out of the trunk’s way. Yoongi’s foot hits the brake automatically and the car screeches to a painful stop.

Yoongi turns the car off, his heart thumping madly. Miso’s hands disappear just as quickly as they appeared and he turns to see her just as shaken as he feels, brushing her bangs off her face. She meets his eyes, glares and looks away.

“Uh, hyung?” Yoongi says, realising suddenly that they aren’t alone. “I’m going to have to call you back.” Without waiting for Seokjin to answer, he hangs up.

Once again, there’s silence inside the car. The tree trunk is blocking almost the entire road and now that they’ve stopped, Yoongi can see barricades up ahead, along with traffic police carrying flashlights.

“Are you okay?” he asks Miso, giving her a sideways glance.

“Spectacular.” She doesn’t turn away from the window. “Let’s go,” she adds in a smaller voice.

Yoongi obliges, turning the car back on and driving around the trunk up to where the barricades are. “The road looks blocked,” he says, but she doesn’t respond. It isn’t until one of the policemen, shrouded in a thick plastic raincoat, tells them the same thing and informs them that this is only the first of many tree trunks blocking the highway and that it will take all night to clear the road to Seoul, that Miso speaks.

“What do we do now?” she asks, almost to herself.

“Well, we’re not getting out of here tonight.” Yoongi sighs and moves the car to the side of the road, before turning off the engine. He runs a hand through his hair; this is not how he saw this evening going. “I’m guessing we can’t call a car from Seoul either.”

“No, we can’t,” she confirms in a mutter, looking at her phone. “If there was any way into Incheon, Seungkwan would’ve found it. I’m telling him I’m checking into a hotel for the night,” she adds, shaking her head.

Yoongi nods, glad he doesn’t need to create a fake plan so people don’t come looking for him. He knew her father was out of the country, which meant her neglectful mother might be the only one capable of realising she’s missing.

Miso catches his eye, almost as though she knows what he’s thinking. “My mother is on a spa weekend.”

“Okay. Well, now that you’ve covered your bases…” He trails off, asking the obvious question with a shrug.

“I guess we find some place to kill the night,” she finishes.

A combination of Google Maps and dubious road signs later, Yoongi and Miso find themselves checking into a motel by the highway. It doesn’t look too secure in terms of safety but Yoongi reasons that they just need to make it to daybreak, once the rain has stopped and at least one road is cleared out.

The receptionist looks tired herself, looking to be in her early thirties at best, with her hair in a ponytail and faded sweatshirt, circles under her eyes and a complete disinterest in the guests she’s checking in. The only thing that strikes him about her appearance is a pair of thin gold earrings with a brilliant green stone in the middle.

“ID?” she asks listlessly, barely looking up at them.

Yoongi and Miso exchange a wary look; without speaking, they hesitantly place their drivers’ licenses on the counter. If the receptionist sees anything familiar in either name, she doesn’t show it. She simply checks them in, the green earrings catching the light of the table lamp next to her. 

“Room 104, straight down. Follow me,” she says in a monotone, taking a big yellow key off a board on the wall and starting to walk down the hall. It’s a small, unassuming establishment, with the ground floor opening up into the open, a patch of grass separating it from being right on the sidewalk.

Frowning, Yoongi follows her after making sure Miso is, too. The receptionist stops in front of a room and unlocks it, jiggling the key a couple of times before the door creaks open. 

“Water is complimentary, snacks are chargeable. Check-out is at ten am. Have a lovely stay with us.” Her face unchanging, she turns to leave.

“Wait a second,” says Miso, stopping her. “We’re two people. And we’re not together,” she adds pointedly, ignoring Yoongi’s sigh as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

The receptionist seems to not register the implied statement for a few moments. “We only have one room left,” she states. “If you wish, you can look for something else up the highway.”

Miso bites her lip, her jaw hardening. All of them turn to look at the street, the rain coming down in waves of fury as gusts of wind change its direction. Yoongi raises his eyebrows at Miso, who rolls her eyes and looks away, but doesn’t argue. Nodding, Yoongi holds out his hand for the key.

“Thank you. We’ll let you know if we need anything.” He waits until the receptionist is out of earshot before turning to Miso. “It’s just for a few hours.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She stalks in, dropping her bag by the door and shrugging off her jacket. 

Yoongi shuts the door behind them and takes off his as well, shaking out his damp hair. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal,” he says, walking inside. “It’s not like we have…” He trails off as he walks further inside the small room and stops. “Okay, there’s only one bed.”

Miso stops next to him and folds her arms across her chest. “Oh, my God, there’s only one bed.”

—

The sprint from his car to Chaeyoung’s apartment drenches Hoseok to the bone and by the time she opens the door, his teeth are chattering.

“Hoseok? What are you doing here?” Chaeyoung steps aside and ushers him inside, closing the door behind him. It’s dark with minimal light, just as he’d expected. “Jesus, did you drive? That’s so dangerous, oppa - there’s a storm outside!”

“I know,” he replies, still shivering as he tries to drink in the warm and dry interior of the apartment. Compared to his woolen hoodie and thick jeans - all of which are wet now - she’s dressed far more freely in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her feet tucked in a pair of furry blue house slippers. “I heard the power was out in this area. I called you - but you didn’t answer,” he points out, trying to keep his limbs from shaking. “And I got worried. Why the damn hell didn’t you answer?”

“My phone is out of charge.”

“Then why didn’t you charge it?”

“Because there’s no power!” Chaeyoung frowns and tilts her head. “Seriously, is that why you came all the way here? Because I didn’t answer my phone?” When Hoseok opts not to answer, partly feeling silly and partly because he doesn’t want her to hear his teeth chatter, she sighs. “You’re crazy, oppa.”

“Yeah, you know what? You seem totally fine so this was just - like, a false alarm. I’ll head out now,” he says quickly, turning to leave when she grabs his arm.

“Whoa, no way. I’m going to get you a towel. Hang on.”

She disappears inside and Hoseok steps further into the small apartment, now allowing himself to shiver a bit more visibly. He takes off the wet hoodie and that’s when he notices her living room, lit up with a dozen suns. Just beyond the couch and television area, between the closed balcony and the dining space, is a mattress on the floor and at least ten to fifteen candles in various spots around the room, the flames small but bright. There’s music at a low volume playing from somewhere, sounding like Taylor Swift.

“Okay, here.” Chaeyoung steps out of the tiny laundry room with a stack of clothes in one hand and a towel in the other. “You can dry off and take a shower if you want. And these I presume are Jimin’s,” she explains, handing him the clothes. “It’s just a t-shirt and tracks because unfortunately, I couldn’t find boxers. Not that I looked,” she adds quickly.

“Not that I would wear another guy’s boxers,” he mutters. “Er, thanks. Should I…” He waits for her to point to the bathroom before ducking inside. Like most things Chaeyoung suggests, she’s right about the shower. After peeling off his cold, wet clothes and feeling the hot water against his skin, he feels reborn as he throws on Jimin’s borrowed stuff and traipses back out into the living room.

“Tea?” Chaeyoung asks as soon as Hoseok steps out and because he is taken by surprise, he nods and gratefully accepts a cup of steaming green tea. He notices her outfit a little more closely this time. Unlike her usual outfits which seem carefully styled and perfectly coordinated, all the way down to her shoes and accessories, she seems almost bare without it all. He reminds himself that this is likely what is underneath all that - this is simply the first time he’s seeing it.

“How come your phone’s out of charge?” he asks, taking a sip and feeling the heat start to return to his bloodstream. “Where’s your power bank?”

“I lost it,” she admits sheepishly, sitting on the edge of the mattress and tucking her knees under her chin. “I think I left it on the bus a couple weeks ago.”

Hoseok half-chuckles and takes another sip of the tea, looking around the room again. He realises now that some of the candles must be scented; he catches a whiff of lavender and inhales it, the storm outside becoming a distant memory. 

“Feeling better? The tea,” she says, pointing to his cup when he raises his eyebrows. 

“Oh. Yeah, actually. Thanks.” He gestures to the room. “You’ve got a hell of a set up here, huh?”

Chaeyoung shrugs. “I guess. I figured it would be a good night to stay in but then the power went out and… well, my room got pretty dark and there’s this branch outside that looks like a hand which just freaked me out.” She shudders. “So I got my stuff out here. The apartment feels less empty this way.”

Hoseok nods, spotting the pillows neatly set up at one end by the balcony, a soft purple blanket folded at the other. There is another half-finished cup of tea on the floor next to the blanket, along with her tablet which is open on Spotify, a flashlight, a book and what looks like a knitting project next to it.

“Oh, that’s a new hobby,” says Chaeyoung, following his gaze while he takes a seat next to her. “I didn’t think crocheting would be fun but I have to say, it kind of grows on you. Check it out,” she adds excitedly, leaning over him across the mattress to pick up a little figurine he hadn’t noticed. “My first finished project,” she declares, holding up what looks like a crocheted bear, a little smaller than the palm of his hand.

“You made this? Caterpillar, this isn’t half-bad,” he says, impressed. “I like the tail. Except… oh, I think its eye is a little loose…” He holds it out so she can look at it, amused when she groans. “It’s okay, he looks kind of cool. Like a pirate bear.”

She grins. “Yeah? Is that a thing?”

“Sure. Anything or anyone can be a pirate. Doesn’t even have to be about the eye, although that’s a bonus.”

“Pirate vibes,” she offers.

“There you go.” He goes to hand it back to her but she shakes her head.

“Keep it. I mean, if you want.” She gestures to the half-made crochet project still on the needles. “I have a lot more where that came from and the last thing I want to do is become a crazy lady surrounded by her creepy crochet animals.”

“This isn’t creepy,” he argues, tucking it into the pocket of Jimin’s tracks. 

“Yeah, because it’s just one and not an army.” Chaeyoung exhales and stretches her legs out in front of her, her long hair falling down one of her shoulders. She looks warm and dry and cozy, especially surrounded by the clean cotton and soft candlelight, but he thinks he catches a bite in her tone.

“How’s Sooah? Was she excited about tonight?” 

“Not sure. The last time I spoke to Sooah was…” She checks an imaginary watch on her wrist. “Six days ago.”

Hoseok frowns. “What?”

“Well, unless you count a cursory hi or a good night or do we have any milk left? Otherwise, it’s pretty much a lot of texts from her telling me she’s staying over at Jimin’s so not to wait up.” She bites her lip. “Sorry. I probably sound really bitter.”

“Not bitter,” he says reassuringly. “Maybe a little resentful. It’s understandable, though.”

“I’m happy for her,” she admits in a low voice. “And Jimin. They’re cute and - and she’s in love. It’s great. But… it’s kind of come to my attention that Sooah is my only friend in this city. And when she’s away…” Chaeyoung sighs heavily, looking slightly embarrassed. “It gets kind of… lonely. Which is my fault, not hers, I guess.”

Hoseok stares at her, waiting for her to look at him and raising his eyebrows when she does.

“What?”

“Well, not to be dramatic or anything, but I would say that a person who drove across the city in a storm because you didn’t answer his calls could be counted as a friend, too.”

Chaeyoung’s cheeks go slightly pink and her eyes widen slightly, before she laughs. “You’re definitely my friend, too, oppa,” she says, leaning over and hugging him. “I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hoseok rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling, too. She smells of lilies and he shifts slightly closer to her. “I get it, though. Namjoon was that way a little bit in the beginning, when he started dating his girlfriend. She didn’t live here, though, so it wasn’t as bad, but… it’s a tough change.”

“I guess. You know, I’m trying really hard to shut up that tiny paranoid voice in my brain that’s insisting that Sooah was just pretending to be my friend until she found a more worthwhile person to be with. I know it’s ridiculous,” she says quickly, rolling her eyes. “I don’t actually believe it.”

“Good. Don’t. It’s just the honeymoon period,” he says, setting his cup down and leaning back on his hands. “And if you think she’s slipping away, you’re allowed to ask her for one on one time, you know? Friends have a right to ask that of each other, within reason.”

Chaeyoung looks doubtful, but also hopeful. Her eyes are wide and doe-like and Hoseok has to repress the urge to brush his thumb against her cheekbone.

“Maybe I will.” She nods and holds his gaze for a few seconds. “So, uh…” She clears her throat. “Did you really drive across the city in the storm just to check up on me?”

Hoseok doesn’t look away. “Is that so hard to believe?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, but the pink tinge returns to her cheeks. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well, if I’d known you’d prepared this well for it, I probably wouldn’t have.” He pauses. “But I’m kind of glad I didn’t.”

This time there’s no mistaking it; she’s definitely blushing.

“In fact, uh… I was a little unsure,” he admits after a moment, looking at his feet. “I mean… maybe I’ve been imagining it, but…” He looks up at her again, searching. “Have you been avoiding me lately?”

Chaeyoung blinks. “I - of course not. Why would you think I was?”

Hoseok’s mind flits through the abrupt texts and strange excuses he’s heard over the last few weeks. “I don’t know. Just felt like maybe you were.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” He nods, sensing a slightly defensive tone but unable to be sure. “But… hypothetically if you were,” he ventures, “and hypothetically if it was because of something I did… I’m sorry. For whatever I did, hypothetically.”

Chaeyoung bites her lip, not quite meeting his eyes. “You didn’t do anything. Hypothetically, if I were avoiding you,” she adds. “Which I wasn’t, so…”

“Mhm.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound! You don’t believe me,” she accuses him, scowling dramatically.

“Yeah, because you’re a terrible liar. You always have been.”

She swats him on the shoulder and he mock-gasps, grinning when she huffs and stands up. “To think I gave you my debut crocheted stuffed toy. I’m going to make the next one so much cooler, believe me,” she declares, picking up the needles on the ground. 

“If it has two intact eyes, at the very least. Oh, come on, that was a joke,” he implores, laughing and lightly grabbing her ankle as she starts to walk away and sits a few inches away in the centre of the mattress. “I love the bear. I am sorry I barged in on your night, though,” he adds honestly.

“Oh, don’t be. I’m happy you did,” she admits, and the pink tinge returns to her cheeks as she looks down at her lap. Hoseok’s heart skips a beat, trying to think of anything and everything else he can say that can keep those faint pink spots from disappearing.

He turns properly to face her and is about to say something, when he spots a writing pad he hadn’t noticed next to her tablet. “What’s this?”

“Oh -“ Chaeyoung reaches over and snatches it out of his grasp, hiding it behind her back.

Hoseok, still reeling, looks up in confusion. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to -“

“No, it’s fine,” she mutters, shaking her head and waving him off, apparently a little embarrassed at her reaction. “It’s just… notes. Work stuff.”

“You got that defensive over work stuff?”

She gives him a look and he thinks she’s about to respond smartly, but instead she sighs. “Okay, I’ve been dying to tell someone, I guess… I kind of want to ask my boss if I can transfer to the creative team. You know, the one that actually works on the themes and end-to-end campaigns? Well, there’s a spot open there and all those teams are under my boss…”

“But?”

“But it’s a higher designation. So I’m essentially asking for a promotion,” she finishes. Her shoulders deflate slightly. “It’s a long shot, but… God, I really think I can do well there, you know? I have the ideas, I’ve worked on a couple of projects with the creative team, too. My entire internship during college was with a team like that.”

Hoseok leans forward. “So what’s stopping you?”

She looks at him like it’s obvious. “I mean… I have to actually ask for it. It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it’s not easy,” he agrees, his voice gentler now. “But you’ll never get it if you don’t ask. Are those notes for that conversation?”

Chaeyoung nods. She visibly hesitates, but then passes the writing pad to him.

Hoseok shakes his head, though. “I don’t need to see it. But if you want, you can practice with me. I’ve had my share of experience asking for things. And getting rejected a fair few times, too.”

She looks doubtful, but she sits a little straighter. “Really?” Her brows furrow slightly. “You won’t make fun of me?”

“Never.” He gives her knee an encouraging squeeze. “Go on.”

Chaeyoung nods and sits up on her knees, resting her hips down on her heels. She holds the pad up and begins a clearly rehearsed speech, occasionally looking up at Hoseok for his reaction. He nods as she goes along, giving her his feedback only when she stops and asks for it.

It’s probably the longest conversation they’ve had in months and it’s only towards the end, as Chaeyoung gets more confident and has added another half a page worth of notes to her original set, that he realises how terribly he’s missed her.

“You’re a lot more talented than you think you are,” he remarks when she sets the writing pad to the side, looking far more at ease than before. “Any team would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” she says gratefully. “I was just spiralling a bit, I guess. Especially because I was going crazy just keeping it to myself. Are you hungry?” she asks suddenly. “I managed to store just enough hot water in my thermos when the power outage warnings started.”

Marvelling at her ability to plan, far better than he or any of his friends did, he nods wordlessly. They devour a cup of instant ramen each while they chat, and then split a brownie she’d baked earlier in the day.

“Damn it, this is really good.” Hoseok takes another bite, the chocolatey goodness melting in his mouth. “You really baked this this morning?”

“I told you, I’m pretty bored these days. And my fingers started cramping after the first hour of crocheting, so I thought I needed a change,” she jokes, popping a piece into her mouth.

Hoseok chuckles and helps himself to some more, watching as she does the same. The candlelight makes her skin look like silk, throwing the softest shadows around the contours of her face. Without thinking, he reaches out and touches her cheek with the back of his hand.

Her eyes widen and he immediately yanks his hand back. “Sorry, there was, uh… cake. On your… yeah.”

“Oh.” She brushes her face a couple of times. “Did I get it?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Hoseok nods. Wanting to avoid catching her eye, he looks at the balcony doors behind her. The rain is still pouring heavily, streaks of lightning appearing in the sky, trees blowing in the wind and making it seem like a horror movie out there. Inside, it’s warm and lit and dry, just their voices and soft music in the background.

Hoseok doesn’t want to leave. He hopes she won’t ask him to; even if she denied avoiding him, he wasn’t fooled. But whatever it was that made her avoid him, she seems to have let it go for now - or she’s just too nice to ask him to go back home in the storm. Whatever it is, he’s glad. It’s never been like this before; she’s never opened up to him this much, this easily, this… readily. He feels like he’s seeing someone else - or it’s the same girl he’s always known, but it’s a side of her that hasn’t come out around him.

“Are you planning to sleep out here tonight?” he asks, patting the mattress and leaning back against the side of the sofa.

“Yeah, I was. I figured Sooah would sleep over at Jimin’s again so I’d have to literally weather the storm myself.”

She tries to play it off as a joke, but Hoseok spots the corners of her mouth turning down. “Dude, I know she’s got a boyfriend but trust me, okay? Just ask her to lunch or say it’s a girls’ night or something. She’s not going to turn you down.”

“Oh, she won’t turn me down,” agrees Chaeyoung. “But a girls’ night will just turn into a girls’ night, plus Jimin.”

“Call me the next time that happens. I’ll kick his arse.”

That makes her laugh. “I’m sorry, oppa, I can’t picture you kicking anyone’s arse. And I like Jimin,” she adds with a shrug of her shoulders. “He’s sweet, always comes with booze and his facemask application technique is out of this world. I just… don’t like being left behind,” she confesses.

Her eyes flicker towards Hoseok, lingering before looking away, and it makes him wonder if there’s more to this than she’s letting on. He’s not sure if he wants to ask, though. Her vulnerability feels too delicate to disturb; the last thing he wants to do is cause her to clam up.

“Well…” He searches for something to say. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back working sixteen hours a day again before you know it.”

Chaeyoung frowns. “Why? Didn’t you just finish touring? And I thought you said it’s the first time the company's given you a break after a tour.”

Hoseok’s heart stops for a moment. “Wow, you really do remember a lot of our conversations,” he mutters, mentally slapping himself.

“I do. So why will Jimin be back at work?”

He bites his lip. Chaeyoung looks genuinely curious; compared to the company or his members or anyone else, she seems like the only other person in the world right now.

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks, holding her gaze and waiting until she affirms it out loud. “We… the group… we’re going on a hiatus soon.”

Chaeyoung’s eyes widen. “What?” she asks in a hushed voice. “How - I mean, when? Why?”

“Soon,” he repeats, “and… it just seems like the right time. But listen, Chae - you can’t tell anyone. Okay? This is top secret stuff - even most people in the company don’t know it. Once the Hybe takeover happens and they release some more content under the new label, we’ll probably announce it. But until then, you have to keep it to yourself. No one at work, not Sooah - nobody finds out.”

“I - of course I promise,” she says quickly, looping her little finger around his when he holds it out. “But what do you mean it’s the right time?”

“I mean… we don’t want to do it exactly,” he admits. “We kind of have to, if we want to grow as artists at all. We’re getting pushed into a mould and it’s just not working anymore. Plus we’ll have to start enlisting soon…” His stomach jolts weakly. “We all have so much we want to do. Yoongi wants to tour, Namjoon wants a series of collaborations with artists half of us haven’t heard of, Taehyung wants to have fun, whatever that means,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jungkook -”

“And what do you want?” Chaeyoung asks, interrupting him. 

Hoseok doesn’t answer immediately. The answer has been noodling around in his mind for years now; first as a pipedream, then as a personal goal, and more recently, as a scary but real possibility if things worked out right. Now, it’s at the tip of his tongue, ready to be said out loud for the first time ever.

“Okay,” he says hesitantly. “Just… don’t laugh, okay?”

“What?” She scoffs. “Hobi, I just roleplayed a scenario with you where I asked for a promotion at work. Of course I won’t laugh.”

He nods. “I want to headline a music festival,” he says. “Like Coachella or something. I fucking love concerts,” he confesses, feeling his chest expand at the realisation that he’s finally saying it. “I love the preparation, the rehearsals, the costumes, the high on stage, the audience singing along. I’ve done tons of them with the group but I want to do one myself. Just to see what it would be like.” Just to see if I can.

Chaeyoung is starting to smile, and it makes Hoseok nervous. “Maybe it’s stupid,” he says hurriedly. “It’s stupid - just forget I said anything at all. It’s just a -”

“Oppa.” She interrupts him again, this time accompanied by a light slap on the shoulder. “If you score me a ticket to this festival, I’ll scrounge up enough cash to fly out there myself and watch you,” she says. “It’s not stupid.”

Hoseok regards her suspiciously. “It’s not stupid?” he asks, uncertain.

“It’s not,” she confirms. “In fact,” she continues, getting on her knees and leaning across from him to reach for her glass of water, “it sounds pretty on brand for you.”

“That’s - no, come on,” he stutters, feeling his face turn hot - and suddenly aware that he isn’t wearing anything under his joggers.

“I’m serious. I know you probably didn’t think you’d actually find success with BTS at first, but believe me - where you are now is exactly how I pictured you’d end up when you left Gwangju.”

He considers this. It had been a big decision, especially for his parents to balance their anxiety and desire to support him. His sister had given him some rare, sisterly advice at a time when she’d started building her own life, Chanyeol had called their classmates over for a farewell party, while young Chaeyoung had been a extra in his life - part of the extended family circle, but only by her association to the Kang family.

Confessing his secret lifelong dream to her hadn’t been on Hoseok’s bingo card. But there’s no one he trusts more at the moment, and possibly very few others he would drive through a storm for.

“Just let me know which festival and when,” she says after a moment, tone slightly teasing. “I’ll crochet a new, two-eyed bear for you.”

He nods. “That’s a long time to be crocheting. How did you get into it, anyway?”

Chaeyoung shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “It was a gift from… from my stepmom.”

Hoseok doesn’t respond immediately. She looks up at him, and he leans forward and kisses her. The rain is just in the background now, like the candles, the music - everything except Chaeyoung. 

Her hair smells sweet and her lips are soft; it’s exactly how he’d imagined it would be. The last time they had kissed had been over in a flash, too quick for him to appreciate every single physical aspect of it. He had been too consumed by the fact that it had happened at all, but it’s so fitting right now, as though every single thing that happened today was leading to this moment right here.

Chaeyoung kisses him back; if his hunch is correct, if the racing in his stomach is indicative of anything, it’s that she probably wants this as much as he does. He feels her fingers in his hair and her nails light against his scalp; he moves his hand from her face down her arm and reaches for her hand. He feels her move; a moment later, she’s climbing onto his lap.

Hoseok is afraid for a moment that she will feel just how much he’s wanted this and how long he’s wanted this but before he can think it through, he has her in his arms and the thought leaves his mind instantly, along with every other thought. His hands are at her hips and he’s so aware that it’s Chaeyoung, young and lifelong family friend Chaeyoung, that he stops them from moving any lower. It’s difficult, though; he tugs at the ends of her t-shirt and it’s harder to resist it this time. He moves his hands under the cloth, feeling the waistband of her shorts, her slender waist and the light indents of her ribs.

“Chae,” he murmurs against her lips, somewhere hearing her name sound on his tongue like it never has before. She hums in response but doesn’t move away. “Are you… are you a virgin?”

There’s a pause and Hoseok freezes, terrified he’s ruined the mood. Then she snorts and shakes her head. “No, Hoseok, I’m not.” She pulls away slightly and slips off her t-shirt, revealing a faded grey sports bra with thin straps disappearing over her shoulders in an X. “Don’t worry,” she assures him, tilting her head and kissing him again.

He doesn’t stop her; he can’t imagine ever wanting to. There’s a lot more skin now, soft and smooth; his lips glide over sections of it, the side of her neck, her collarbones, the base of her throat. Somewhere during it he gets his t-shirt out of the way and feels himself pulsate in his tracks and knows there’s no ignoring it longer, especially now that he thinks he knows where this is going.

“Chae.” Reluctantly, he pulls away again. At the sight of her swollen lips, flushed face and particularly her somewhat exasperated expression, he almost forgets what he was going to say. “Listen, I… this is…”

“Do you want to stop?” Her voice is even, but there’s a hint of disappointment he doesn’t miss.

“No,” he says immediately. “The… opposite. I just think I need to tell you…” He swallows, finding it hard to think straight amidst her raised eyebrows and her hand absently resting on his chest. “Um, so when this happens, when I - when I do… something like this… I tend to get kind of… carried away.” He swallows and waits for her to react, painfully conscious of her warm crotch against his, the hem of her shorts having ridden up all the way.

It seems to take Chaeyoung a few seconds to work out what he means. “Carried away?” she repeats. When he nods, she bites her lip and for the first time in a long time, he thinks he spots a hint of shyness. She bites her lip and her cheeks redden slightly, but she nods, tossing her tousled hair back and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Gotcha,” she mutters, and this time he kisses her.

The last time Hoseok had hooked up with a girl was almost a year ago. He’d been recording a song in Los Angeles and met her at a party and despite the fact that they didn’t have much to talk about, they’d carried on a casual fling for the three days that he’d been there, during which time she had remarked with some admiration that he had “the stamina and determination of an athlete”.

She hadn’t been the only girl to say this to him in his life, and Hoseok had gathered that this was just something he brought to the bedroom and probably didn’t need to apologise for it. He wouldn’t have actively warned anyone else, but Chaeyoung didn’t feel like just anyone. She knows now, though, and despite the fact that he would’ve thought she’d be the last person to ever know this about him, finally telling her, seeing her blush at his admission and her clear desire to keep going, lets loose what he’s been suppressing around her for a while now.

Deciding that Jimin would probably not want these track pants back, Hoseok pulls her closer to him before leaning forward and easing her onto her back. Her head hits the pillow and she looks momentarily surprised at the impact but Hoseok kisses her again and she responds instantly. She sighs against his mouth and he hardens, feeling it against the inside of her thigh, where she bends her leg at the knee and pushes her hips up to meet his.

One hand stays on the mattress to support him and the other runs down her body, past her waist and around her hips to stop between her legs. She’s warm through her shorts; the thought of what’s in there makes his cock throb and he palms her and squeezes. Her surprised moan fills the room and he pulls away from her mouth abruptly, reaching up to take off her shorts. The mismatched black panties make his erection even more apparent and he drops down to her body, kissing her sternum, her willowy ribcage, the smooth skin of her abdomen down to the elastic of her underwear where, without hesitation, he slips it down her legs. 

Hoseok glances up at her from between her legs, just in case he’s misreading anything, but the sight of her arched back, her closed eyes and long hair splayed on the white pillow wipe any and all doubts from his mind. 

Chaeyoung tastes incredible. Hoseok takes his time going down on her, starting with his lips on her thighs, exploring every single fold with his tongue before reaching her clit. It dulls his senses and heightens his desire at the same time, reeling him in as he holds her legs open, devouring her and welcoming the taste, the only other sensations being her fingers in his hair and her sweet, sweet voice moaning his name.

He knows when she’s about to cum; he pulls his hips to her face, hearing her gasp in between the sounds that are reaching higher and higher in pitch and frequency. She clutches at his hair just as she climaxes, her warm wetness filling his mouth and her legs trembling slightly as he sets them down. He sits up slowly, wiping his mouth with one hand while the other absently strokes her thigh, watching as her chest rises and falls in the aftermath of her orgasm, the orgasm he just gave her, and feels his heart jolt.

Hoseok crawls to her side to lie beside her, using his elbow for support and resting his head on his palm as he waits, patiently, for her to open her eyes. When she finally does, they’re slightly unfocused as they find him. He says nothing, but simply brushes her bangs out of her eyes.

“Wow,” she says softly. “I’m really glad I left my power bank on the bus.”

Hoseok chuckles and a moment later, both of them laugh.

—

It’s very nearly dawn - probably. 

The sky is dark outside and the sound of the rain outside is calming. The city is sprawled underneath them and the moon is the only source of light in their hotel room, the massive windows illuminating the bed, the rumpled sheets and Kaya’s naked body straddling his.

In the three years or so they’ve been together, their intimacy has never been a source of conflict or stress. It’s only ever been the opposite; whether it was distance or work or disagreements, the thought of her skin on his and her mouth on his body reduced triggered the most primal form of attraction, despite the cerebral aspect of their relationship he prided himself on so much. 

Sometimes she is under him: he loves the sight of her underneath his body, encased and safe, for his view only as he thrusts into her. Sometimes her back is to him and he pulls her in, feeling sensations and strength as their hips meet with force; sometimes it is against a wall or a table and she wraps her legs around his waist as they struggle to stay quiet, only their silent gasps mingling as he fucks her into a wall.

But nothing - nothing - compares to when she rides him.

He doesn’t know what it is - maybe it’s the visual of her entire body up there on display for him, her long hair falling down one shoulder as she rolls her hips into his, eyes closed and neck tilted up. Maybe it’s the way her back arches when she hits a sweet spot, and her head falls back as she moans, or maybe it’s the sight of her taking charge, speeding up and slowing down as she wishes, edging him until he’s compelled to grab her hips and take matters into his own hands.

They shouldn’t have maintained any hopes of getting any sleep tonight, not in the last precious hours of their trip before the morning arrives and after three amazing weeks, they have to part again. Even though they’d fallen asleep for a bit, it hadn’t been long before he’d been awoken by her tugging at his arm, waking him up to make love on their last night together, just as they’d done throughout the holiday.

Namjoon had lost count of the number of times they’d had sex by the third day of their trip. It had been impossible to stay away, to keep his hands off her, to resist her advances even if they appeared in semi-public. Throughout the trip - and possibly their entire relationship - those urgent sex sessions that began with filthy words and roaming hands in public and culminated in desperate and earth-shattering sex in private, dominated. 

She’s so beautiful. His eyes roam her naked body, committing it to memory until the next time they see each other, knowing it’s what will keep him going until they do. He moves one of his hands up her waist and to her chest, stopping underneath her breast before lightly brushing her nipple with his thumb. She bites her lip and moans softly, when a buzzing sound interrupts them.

Her frown deepens and the erotic sounds change as she groans in annoyance. Namjoon clicks his tongue and turns to look at his phone on the bedside table; the screen lights up and Hoseok’s name flashes on the incoming call. He reaches over and declines the call, just as he’d done the last time Hoseok had called five minutes ago. 

The call ends and Namjoon catches a glimpse of a trail of messages left by his friend, none of them particularly coherent, but Namjoon can’t begin to decipher them right now. In the last six hours, every single one of his members had called him at least once, all coincidentally during moments when he couldn’t or didn’t want to answer. They’d tried to leave him alone for most of the trip but apparently, they couldn’t keep it going for long.

A movement distracts him and he looks up to see Kaya sweeping her hair off her neck, her skin sweaty and glowing. All thoughts of his members clean out of his mind, he sits up and wraps his arm around her waist to flip them over.

—

The rain is deafening as Nari stares at him in silence. Seokjin’s eyes fall again to the papers in her hand and the thick socks on her feet, hoping she will respond soon.

“Seokjin,” she says slowly, “it’s not my birthday. My birthday is in -”

“May, I know.” His heart stutters slightly as he realises for the first time that coming here might have been somewhat stupid. “But we weren’t exactly on the best terms in May and I was on tour anyway… so today is kind of the next best thing.”

Nari frowns for a moment before it dawns on her. Her forehead clears and she starts to smile, pursing her lips in amusement. “Of course it is,” she agrees, nodding.

Massively relieved, Seokjin smiles back. “I’ll rephrase: happy half-birthday, Nari.”

She laughs. “Thanks. You did wish me over text, so it’s not like you forgot.”

“No, but an in-person wish is the bare minimum. I tried my best to make it here before midnight but the streets are fairly empty. I thought they’d be jammed all the way to Hongdae.”

“Yeah. Wait - you drove in this?” Her eyes widen and she glances at the window behind him. “Are you kidding? Is that why you’re wet?”

“Kinda - I had to run from my car to your building because there’s a pothole open right… there,” he answers, opening the window wider and pointing to where he’d left his car. Nari comes up next to him to look at it, resting her hand with the papers on the wall.

Unfortunately at that exact moment, a strong gust of wind blows through the street, making them flinch away and cover their faces, and a few of the sheets in her hand fly out of the window.

“No!” Nari shouts in panic, reaching for them as though hoping they will fly back to her.

“Shit, that was - wait, what the hell are you doing?” Seokjin watches in confusion as she darts back into her apartment and out of it in a second, her feet in slippers, and dashes down the corridor. “Nari!” He hurries after her as she runs down the stairs and out into the street, splashing in the direction of the papers.

“No, no, no…” She shakes her head and looks around wildly, wiping her wet hair off her face. She whips around to face him, blinking through the rain. “Help me look for them!” she yells.

“What are you talking about? Nari, they’re gone!” Seokjin yells back, still at the doorway of the building. When she doesn’t respond, however, stepping further into the puddles, he runs out after her. “Nari, you’re going to fall sick!” he says loudly over the rain as he reaches her, grabbing her arm and trying to tug her back.

“I can’t! Those were my notes from a medical seminar about a groundbreaking clinical trial!” she cries, still looking around. “I need them for my application to be a part of the research - and now they’re gone!” To his surprise, she turns around and hits him on the shoulder.

“Ow! Just print out another copy!” he yells back, rubbing his shoulder.

“They’re handwritten, you idiot!”

“What? You wrote notes in this day and age?” He asks incredulously. “What happened to the Macbook I got you for Christmas two years ago?”

“You know that typing distracts me while I take notes,” she reminds him, glaring as her wet hair sticks to her face. “What am I going to do?”

“What about your friends? Can’t you borrow their notes?”

“I - mine were colour coded with different highlighters!” she argues, but she takes a step back. “But… yeah, I guess I could. Damn it, Kimbap!” She slaps him on the arm again, but it’s lighter this time.

“Hey!” He reaches over and shoves her shoulder. “It’s not my fault!”

“Of course it is!” she retorts, shoving him back. 

“I came here to wish you a happy half-birthday because I missed your real one,” he points out, the rain starting to blur his vision. “And you gave me a lot of grief for it in middle school, in case you don’t remember.”

“I - that was - that was so different,” she stutters, before her shoulders fall. “But kind of accurate,” she mutters.

Seokjin scoffs, placing his hands on his hips. “You really thought you were going to find your notes floating around in the sky? The ink must be smudged beyond comprehension!”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans. “I worked really hard on that. And now we’re probably going to get hypothermia!”

He shrugs uncertainly, looking around the deserted street, the branches of the trees swaying and rivulets of water flowing down the street. Clearly there were kids playing on the street before the real downpour began, for a football, a couple of tennis balls, and a pair of what look like water guns have been abandoned on the pavement in front of the building.

“Didn’t you have one of those?” he asks, pointing to the guns.

Nari turns and her annoyed expression instantly fades. “Oh, yeah,” she says, chuckling. “I got it right after Eunbi’s birthday party where her parents took us all out to that water park. And, no, I didn’t forget,” she adds quickly, holding her hand up to him, “that you’re the one who got it for me.”

Seokjin nods in satisfaction. “I did - I had to save up for, like, four months for that. Was it your fifteenth?”

“Fourteenth.” She eyes the guns before looking back up at him. “We’re both thinking the same thing, right?”

“If we aren’t, then one of us is an imposter.”

She laughs and they sprint for the guns at the same time, grabbing one each and immediately filling it with water from the puddles on the road. Seokjin reaches them first but waits for Nari to shoot him first, feeling it hit his shoulder as she cackles, and proceeding to return the favour. It’s a complete one-eighty from when they’d run out of the building five minutes ago, in a state of confusion and disarray, only to be using water guns for the first time in over a decade while the city of Seoul drowns in the rain.

“Ugh - that one was right in the face, Nari!” He shouts after a bit, wiping his eyes as she hoots in the background. “That’s not fair!”

“I have better aim than you - just accept it, Kimbap,” she crows, coming over and peering at him from a distance. “You’re fine. Now come on!”

“I think you just blinded me, you ghoul,” he accuses her, blinking rapidly. When she comes closer, frowning slightly, he raises his gun and shoots her right on the college logo in the middle of her sweatshirt.

Nari gasps. “That’s - I’m going to get you for that, I swear to God!” They resume play, splashing through the puddles and laughing whenever they get in a good shot, until she aims at him and pulls the trigger, only for nothing to come out.

“Oh, shit - okay, hold it! I’ve been compromised!” she declares, checking her gun frantically as Seokjin narrows his eyes, wondering if it’s a tactic.

She looks up, panting slightly. “Okay, I think I may have broken some kid’s water gun.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes!” She nods, jogging over to the pavement and dropping the gun where they found it. “Shit! I’m going to have to buy this kid another one, aren’t I?”

“I - probably!” Seokjin joins her and places his gun neatly next to it. “I don’t know. Do you even know whose it is?”

“Not really.” She swallows and looks up at him, wiping her hair out of her eyes again. “Or… I don’t know - who leaves their shit outside like this instead of taking it home? Anything could have happened to it!”

“You’re right,” he says. “Anything could have happened to it!”

She raises her eyebrows at his tone, which he returns with an incorrect shrug. A smile spreads across her face and she shakes her head. “I guess that’s true!”

Seokjin winks at her conspiratorially and she laughs, raising her hand. She presumably intends it to be a high-five and he obliges, but somewhere along the way, in the rain and wet sweatshirts and water ricocheting off every surface, they reach for each other and meet in a kiss.

Something explodes in Seokjin’s stomach and the aftershocks continue even after it’s gone. It’s a new sensation, with the water and the cold and the entirely unexpected nature of how it occurred, but before he can wrap his head around it, she pulls away.

The rain pours around them, a ridiculous secret about water guns in the middle, but now that the guns are gone and so are her notes and it’s just them remaining, the cracks start to form.

“Shit,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut and dropping her head.

Seokjin doesn’t saything, the bursts in his stomach now dwindling away to form a knot that feels uncomfortably like guilt. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, taking a step back but she shakes her head.

“It’s not right,” she states, her voice trembling slightly. “You have a girlfriend and I have… it’s not right,” she repeats, swallowing and looking up at him, seemingly with some effort.

There’s nothing more to say. Seokjin feels a dangerous lump in his throat, the impending complications looming before him. “I’m going to go,” he says, turning around and feeling defeated.

“Seokjin.” Nari tugs at his sleeve. “Just… hypothermia.”

“Come again?”

“You’ll get hypothermia.” Nari opens her mouth to say something else but then closes it. A moment later, she gestures to the building. “You need to towel dry your hair, and drink something warm. And… at least put on a dry hoodie before you leave.”

He’s about to decline; he wants to get out of here, suddenly be as far away from here as possible before his mind goes into overdrive. But his fingers are frozen - he may not even be able to grip the steering wheel properly. Plus… Nari is asking. She’s really asking, meaning what she says and after a moment, Seokjin nods.

Apparently convinced that he’s listening to her, she beckons to him and they walk back into the building together.

—

Yoongi can’t believe how this night is turning out. He’d pictured it so differently: prepping for the meeting in the morning, calming his nerves during the drive from Seoul to Incheon, finishing the meeting and hopefully securing the investment he needed, having the rest of the evening to himself. 

Most of all, for once, he and Miso would get a few hours outside of the office and away from the Seoul elite. Her father is abroad for work and it shows; she’s far less on edge and the fact that Seungkwan hasn’t paraglided onto the doorstep of their motel room to whisk her back to her prison is proof of that.

Taking her on a date seemed like an alien concept, in those words, at least. He didn’t know if that was actually something he wanted and he definitely couldn’t imagine her ever agreeing to one either. But he reckoned that even just a day away, seeing her with her guard down, actually spending time with her, hooking up in his car before he dropped her seemed like something to look forward to.

That’s what he reckoned.

“What is wrong with you that you can’t see how fucked up it is that you don’t care what the outcome of your behavior is?” he demands, standing by the edge of the bed, next to the bathroom door. 

“My behaviour? You know what - I’m sorry, Yoongi,” she snaps. She’s at the other end of the tiny room by the window,  the curtains blow in the wind entering through the cracks, brushing her arm. “I’m so sorry that I ruined your precious meeting that no one senior from the company couldn’t even be bothered to make it.”

“It’s for my tour!” he bursts, livid now - and frustrated, because while he’s admitted why it matters so much to him, it’s a coin toss to see whether she will care. “I’m going on tour next year so yeah, I’m the one that needs to secure the investment!”

“If you’re going on tour, you’re still doing it for the company!” Miso points out with irritating condescension. “You’ll be making them money and losing sleep and working yourself to death - and they couldn’t be bothered to have someone from management come with you?”

“I chose you,” he says bitterly, shaking his head and turning away. “The board suggested it and I pushed for it. And now I’m starting to regret it.”

“Why wouldn’t you? Just a proof of concept, right?” she sneers, although it lacks its usual bite. She folds her arms. “All I had to do was sit there and shut up and let my last name do all the work. No wonder you chose me.”

Yoongi sinks onto the chair next to him and drops his head into his hands, tired. There’s no explaining this to her; it’s too complicated. He would have to reveal things he’s barely acknowledged himself, only for her to get defensive and throw it back at him.

He struggles but forces himself to recall how she’d switched teams and taken her name off a record for him, ages ago. Where is she, though? Her disdain for the company and its dependence on her father’s money is expected, but he can’t fathom why she wouldn’t care that she’s sabotaged his future, too.

“You’re not a proof of concept,” he says hoarsely, trying again. “I shouldn’t have said you were.” He looks up at her hopefully, only to see her face still and stony. “And I get it - I get that you thought you were trying to defend me, but -“ He shakes his head. “God, Miso, all he did was act aloof and say that rap doesn’t sound like real music to him - which a lot of people think,” he adds quickly. “I don’t agree but who cares what he thinks? You insulted him and his business to his face and just be honest, alright? You did that because you knew he couldn’t touch you, because he knows who your father is.”

A dark shadow passes across her face. “I promise you, my father is not who I was thinking of at that moment,” she says coldly. 

“No, but you were able to say all that because you knew you’d get away with it,” he presses. “You’ve never had to face a single consequence in your life so you just -“

“Fuck me - you don’t think I’ve face consequences?” she interrupts furiously. “You wouldn’t last one fucking week in my life, Min Yoongi,” she spits, pointing a finger at him. “You and your self-righteous bullshit would be crushed under my father’s shoe, believe me.”  

“But you’re still there, aren’t you?” Yoongi retorts, standing up and shrugging. “If you’re facing all these consequences then why aren’t you - God, Miso, why don’t you just leave?” he asks, and his voice cracks on the last word.

He knows she’s heard it, too, because she doesn’t respond immediately. He retreats; it’s a thought he’s managed not to say out loud to her so far, despite wondering about it constantly, because there’s no telling how much he would be prying. Going to find out now, I suppose, he thinks grimly.

“That’s - it’s complicated,” she mutters, turning away from him. 

“What is complicated?”

“It’s not as easy as just packing up and leaving,” she snaps. “There’s a lot more in the picture.”

“What are you talking about? You’re twenty-nine - most people your age are living alone,” he points out, frowning incredulously. “You must have savings, don’t you? Just - just find an apartment and leave. Or - or you can stay with me until you find something, but at least try -”

Yoongi breaks off when she takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, suddenly feeling like a child explaining things to an adult. It makes him fume.

“You know,” he starts again, then pauses. “You keep talking about how terrible your life is. Your shiny, perfect life on the outside but behind that, with your narcissistic parents and stalker of a driver who follows you everywhere. But you have to get out of it yourself, Miso. You can take help where you need it but you’re the one who’s going to have to take the first step.”

She scoffs. “Why? Because there are no handouts in the real world?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “You’re clearly unhappy but… why are you still there? In your father’s house, under his thumb? Is it because you’re scared? Because… I don’t know, you think the heir to the Kang empire can’t leave or something?”

Miso’s stance doesn’t change but there’s a flicker in her eyes. Her face relaxes minutely and she exhales again, but this time it isn’t impatience. Yoongi can’t be completely sure, but he thinks it might be relief.

“Oh, my God.” The words come out without thinking. “I’m right? You’re not leaving because you’re the heir to his fortune?” As he says it, Yoongi knows he is right. Her father’s words from the dinner come back to his mind, as does her evasiveness when he’d questioned her about it in his studio.

Something contracts in his ribcage; the air isn’t reaching his lungs fast enough or his lungs aren’t accepting it or… he closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep breath, feeling his stomach slowly start to loosen, just enough to keep him standing up.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” he asks, watching how she doesn’t seem caught or surprised. “You’re the heir to his… what did he call it? His legacy? His fortune?”

Miso doesn’t answer immediately, but her eyes shutter over a bit. “I deserve it, don’t you think?” she asks quietly. “After everything he’s put me through?”

“Really? So you’ve been taking his bullshit all these years because you know you’ll get Kang Industries at the end of it? That’s what your freedom is worth?”

“Two hundred billion dollars?” She shrugs, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’ll take it.”

Yoongi sighs shakily; somewhere, he knows he hasn’t processed this fully, that it will hit him in full force later, what it really means. But for now, he just wants to know.

“Are you serious? After everything you’ve told me about him, every time you’ve looked so scared of him - all of that is worth it because he’s going to give you his company when he retires in twenty years?” He’s bewildered, angry, disappointed. “And you’re just going to keep taking it?”

“He doesn’t have any other children,” she says. “He has no choice. One day, he’s going to have to look me in the eye, sign over his company to me and know that his life’s work is in my hands.”

“Two hundred billion dollars,” he repeats.

“Sounds like a fair deal.” She scoffs again, but there’s no force behind it. “But I’m sure you think it’s money-hungry or egotistical for me to think that.”

“No,” he says. “I think it’s sad.”

She licks her lips and swallows. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” she whispers, but her voice trembles. “I’m making the best of my situation, something you will never understand.”

And Yoongi explodes.

“You think I don’t know what making the best of a situation feels like? Are you serious?” he shouts. “I delivered food to people to pay rent! I couldn’t afford the bus, or dinner! I made music using a second hand laptop and knocked on the doors of producers before getting the Big hit audition - an audition!” He glares, panting slightly. “I had to audition for the opportunity to make something of myself - not be born into two hundred million!”

“Are we back to this again? I grew up with money and you didn’t so that makes you a more morally superior person somehow?” she demands.

“No, but it makes you a hypocrite!” he retorts. “All this time, I thought you were different but you’re just like them! You’re a regular old chaebol who’s selling out for the money - except you’re selling away your entire life for it! Can’t you see how fucked up that is?”

“For two hundred billion? You’re right - I am a chaebol,” she states, her cheeks flushing now. “I was born into it and I can’t do anything about it. But that’s how it is, okay? Every single time my father has treated me or my mother or anybody else like crap, it’s been for his company. For his money. And one day, I’m going to be in charge of it.”

“But what about your life? Fucking hell!” Yoongi kicks the edge of the bed in frustration, noting how she flinches very slightly. “Your father’s money, your money - there’s a world outside money, Miso! There’s family, there’s friends and loyalty and - and passion and love - and so much else!”

Miso frowns incredulously, then gives a harsh, derisive laugh. “Family? Friends, love… what - what the hell are you talking about? You sound like a children’s book, Yoongi,” she accuses, scoffing. “My father added a bonus to my trust fund every time I got a good grade - that’s the extent to which we’ve been a family.” She shakes her head but a flash of lightning lights up her face for a moment and even through her glasses, Yoongi is startled to see her eyes wet. 

“I get it, but -”

“No, you don’t! Where the hell do you get off acting so high and mighty, huh?” she argues. “You’ve spent this whole evening bitching at me because you didn’t get an investment for your little tour! Isn’t that about money, too?”

“That’s different! That’s for my job, that’s for - it - “ He struggles to articulate it, realising he never thought he would have to. “It’s not a fucking coping mechanism, Miso! Because that’s what you’re doing - you’re using this heir thing to cope with your family’s bullshit!” he points out. “You’ve never even mentioned this to me in two years!”

“Yeah, telling you I’m the heir to my father’s company would’ve worked out great for our relationship,” she snarls, rolling her eyes. “You could’ve added chaebol to the nepo kid crap you kept giving me.”

“Don’t turn this on me,” he says dismissively. “The only time I’ve ever seen you care about anything has been music, when you’re stuck in the studio for hours and hours, eating cold takeout and Diet Coke! You don’t care about the company - that’s just what you’re telling yourself. What - do you go to sleep screaming two hundred billion two hundred billion into your pillow every night?”

“Watch yourself, Min Suga,” she snarls, her eyes flashing.

But Yoongi is too far gone right now. Everything seems unfamiliar and his only defense is offense. “You’re putting up with all this crap - you’re giving up your whole life just so you can inherit your father’s billions! At this rate, you’re probably going to turn out just like him!”

In a flash of a movement, the cordless phone hits the wall next to him and crashes to the ground at his feet. 

“Get out.”

Yoongi doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns around and wrenches the door open, stepping out and slamming it shut behind him. He needs air - fresh, rainy air and space to breathe. It’s still raining, albeit not as heavily as before, so Yoongi makes his way under the roofed area to the end of the corridor and lights a cigarette, wondering if he should just drive back to Incheon.

The thought disappears as soon as it enters his mind. He smokes in silence, his heart heavy and disappointed, but most of all angry at how he’d never considered this possibility at all.

Or had he? Yoongi struggles to remember. Hadn’t he always had some amount of contempt for her and what she represented? Where had it changed? Was it when he’d started seeing her as a victim of her situation, too - and if had, had he been completely wrong about all of it?

Not all of it, a voice reasons in his mind. Yoongi remembers the bruises on her wrist, her agitation the entire day leading up to the dinner at her house. She hadn’t been faking that. She’d seemed like a cornered animal just now but the brand new realisation he’d made made her seem like a completely different person. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about why that hurts so much that he can’t breathe.

“Uh… sir?”

Yoongi turns tiredly to see the receptionist back at her desk, a dim lamp lighting the small area up. The brilliant green of her earrings match the lone fake plant at the end of the desk. 

“You’re not allowed to smoke here.” She points to a sign on the wall.

He pauses but doesn’t get rid of the cigarette immediately. “Why not?” he asks, hearing the defeated, almost-whine in his own voice. “There’s no one here and we’re outdoors…” He doesn’t have the energy to argue further, simply waving his hands to indicate the rest.

The receptionist evidently doesn’t have an answer to this; if anything, she looks just as tired to care. Her eyes fall to the cigarette in his hand, her right hand twitches, and she looks away.

Yoongi raises his eyebrows and fishes the pack out of his pocket. “Would you like one?”

Her eyes widen and she opens her mouth to answer, before abruptly looking around, presumably to see if anyone else is there. She steps out from behind her desk and hesitantly picks out a cigarette, lowering her head in thanks, and taking the lighter he offers.

“Do you live around here?” he asks after a minute, since she continues smoking next to him. He looks around as well at the rain, wondering how anyone is supposed to get the hell out of here.

“I live in Seoul,” she answers. “But I’m working the night shift tonight and also it’s raining…” She trails off.

“You come here every day from Seoul?”

“Yes, there’s a bus.” She pauses. “I like Incheon more but my siblings go to school in Seoul and… well, I heard there are better schools in Seoul.” 

He nods, not actually knowing whether that’s true. “Are you from Incheon? Because you don’t sound like it,” he adds, having recognised an accent in some of her words.

“Oh… no. I’m from Daegu, actually.”

She sounds almost ashamed of it, until Yoongi says, “Yeah? So am I.”

Something changes in her face and she smiles a bit, still looking exhausted. “Good to know,” she says, her accent suddenly changing completely to a Daegu one. “My parents still live there. Do you go back home often?” she asks.

“Not as often as I’d like.” He looks up when she tosses the butt of her cigarette on the ground and kicks it off the elevated corridor. When he offers her another, she shakes her head.

“No, thank you.” She gives him a small smile again, the green of her earrings catching a flash of lightning. “Thank you for the smoke. Good night.” As abruptly as she’d appeared, she turns around and disappears into a small room behind the desk labelled “Staff”.

Yoongi lights another one and takes a long drag. It occurs to him suddenly that he should’ve asked for the receptionist’s name, the one from Daegu who’s working a night shift before returning to Seoul in the morning, to the younger siblings she’s clearly the guardian for. 

There’s more than a little that’s familiar there. It makes no sense, he reflects with some chagrin, how he’s now found himself so deep in the water with the most unfamiliar of people, a chaebol he met at his work because of a nepotistic hire. His people were like the receptionist, hard workers from the provinces who came to the capital and worked to the bone, doing what they could to take care of their families. 

Miso wasn’t his people. He hadn’t ever assumed she was, but this chasm between them, vast and of unfathomable depth, had never seemed this large. 

He eventually finishes his cigarette, followed by a third, before he deems it time to go back to the room. He doesn’t want to argue with Miso anymore - he truthfully doesn’t think he can. But it’s late and he’s tired and the small burning hope of a temporary reconciliation fuels his legs to move.

He opens the door quietly. “Miso?” he murmurs, stepping in to see the room dark. The only light is a dim one by the door, just enough for him to see Miso on the bed, right at the edge, curled up and asleep. He doesn’t move for a few moments, wondering how long she’s been asleep or if she even really is.

But she doesn’t move either and finally, Yoongi slips out of his shoes and steps into the room, turning off the light on his way. Only a sliver of moonlight giving him any visual aid at all, he reaches the bed. It’s small, but she’s taken only about a quarter of it. 

He reaches over and gently slips off her glasses, folding them and placing them over her body on her bedside table. Then he slips under the covers on his side and closes his eyes, hoping to get some sleep.

—

Dilara wakes up to a blue sky and an empty hotel room, in a bed that’s too big for her, and extremely, extremely frustrated.

She has to be out on the track in a few hours, in the cold winds of Austin, Texas in November. But for now she’s in a warm bed under cozy covers, keenly aware that she isn’t wearing pajamas. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why during this weekend in particular it’s so hard to ignore the fact that she’s alone, without Taehyung. It is, technically, around the time of their anniversary and this very hotel is where they’d officially become a couple two years ago. 

She’d started feeling sentimental about it a few days ago and she knew he had, too. It was generally a romantic time and had they been in the same city, they would’ve made the best of it. Unfortunately, she has a race and he has some meeting at the company headquarters tomorrow that he can’t miss, and their anniversary weekend is pushed by another week.

There is something exciting about the distance and longing, too. A couple of days ago, she’d been texting Taehyung while he’d been at lunch with his friends, the messages getting progressively more explicit. He’d told her to cut it out but had also accompanied it with a subtle picture of his denim-covered crotch and his hand in the frame, clearly taken under a table. 

The entire experience, including when he’d abruptly stopped responding for about ten minutes, had been so hot and so incredibly arousing, that Dilara had been waiting for another opportunity for another remote quickie.

She rolls over and picks up her phone, scrolling to their chat.

Dilara [08:10] Hey you

Tae [08:10] Hey beautifulJust woke up?

Dilara [08:11] Mhm. Had a really nice dream.

Tae [08:11] Oh yeah? Was I in it?

Dilara [08:11]Oh you definitely came in it

Tae [08:13] What are you wearing?

Dilara [08:13] Just underwearBut I’ll probably take it off soonI woke up with it really wet

Tae [08:14] Come on Zoom right now

Feeling her heart toss and her abdomen clench, she reaches over for her tablet on the side table and flips it open. Scrambling out of the blanket, she piles a couple of cushy pillows in front of her and places the tablet on it, balancing it neatly on the cover. She opens the Zoom app and checks the view on the preview screen, to see herself leaning against the remaining pillow, her face and entire body visible at the perfect angle.

Satisfied, she enters the meeting. Taehyung is already on the screen, his long black hair falling casually into his eyes, looking freshly washed and on their way to drying. He looks up and there’s a momentary smile that flickers across his face, interrupting the tension-filled atmosphere. It disappears quickly, though, and she sees him lean back and tilt his chin up. 

He’s in his bedroom on the floor, sitting against his closet door with his laptop presumably on the bed, also positioned perfectly so she can see him perched nonchalantly, relaxed and in the forefront, only his bedroom door and a corner of his bedside table in the frame.

“You told me you were just wearing your underwear,” he notes.

Dilara nods, silently taking off her t-shirt, leaving almost all of herself completely exposed. It’s working already; she rubs her legs together in anticipation, wishing he were here in person to put her out of her misery.

“Good.” Taehyung is silent for a few moments, his gaze burning into her even through the screen. He palms his crotch, almost absently, and then flicks his head once. “Show me where it’s wet.”

Licking her lips, she bends her legs at the knees and spreads them, moving her hand down between them and pressing her fingers to her core. “Right there,” she confirms softly, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes.

“Does that feel good?” His voice is low, deep and raspy. When she nods, he leans forward. “Do it again. And don’t stop.”

Dilara obliges, resting her head back on the pillow and rubbing herself through her underwear, her back arching slightly and her other hand twitching. Fortunately, he takes his cue.

“Squeeze your boobs for me,” he murmurs, sighing quietly when she obeys. “Flick your tits - like that, exactly. Play with your nipples.”

This was exactly what she needed; feeling his eyes on her, his voice commanding her and every single nerve ending alert and awake. “I’m really fucking wet, Tae,” she groans, opening her eyes to glance briefly at him.

“Take it off, then. Show me that beautiful pussy.” She can hear his sharp intake of breath when she slips her underwear down her legs and spreads them again. “Wider,” he says hoarsely. “I want you to rub that clit till you cum all over your fingers.”

She hums in pleasure, her moans growing in volume as she holds onto his voice, thick with arousal, and pictures his fingers inside her, his lean naked body against hers, her nipples in his mouth and his thick, hard cock pulsating against her thigh…

“Like what you see, baby?” Dilara opens her eyes again to see his bottom lip between his teeth and a deep frown on his forehead. “God, I wish I had your cock in my mouth right now…”

This time, he takes the cue. Swearing gruffly under his breath, he slips his tracks down his hips and frees his erection, the drops of pre cum glistening on his tip. His breathing gets choppier as he strokes himself and Dilara feels a familiar clench in her stomach once again.

She squeezes her eyes shut, able to focus on nothing but her fingers, her wetness starting to coat them and the knowledge that across the world, Kim Taehyung is coming undone just watching her pleasure herself. 

“Oh, God,” she whispers. “Tae, I’m - I’m close…”

Taehyung says something, louder than before and her heart skips a beat: has she made him cum already? Just as she starts to reach the base of her orgasm and she hears him say something else, her eyes snap open - because that is not Taehyung’s voice.

“Lara!” Taehyung’s voice rings loud this time and she straightens up to see, unmistakably, another person in the room. 

Dilara gasps and rolls out of the frame, her leg getting caught in the covers and causing her to tumble down onto the soft carpet. Her heart races, partly due to the mortification at being caught and partly due to the orgasm that was so rudely cut short. She yanks the throw from the chair next to the bed and wraps it haphazardly around herself, even though no one can see her anymore.

From the tablet, she can hear Taehyung go, in an annoyed voice, “What? Do you want to watch or something?”, followed by the other person - it’s Jungkook’s voice - going “Sorry, sorry, oh, my God -” and the sound of the door closing.

Dilara still doesn’t move, not until she hears Taehyung’s voice call her name. 

“Is he gone?” she asks, gingerly climbing back onto the bed and keeping herself covered.

“Yeah.” Taehyung’s pants are hitched back up around his hips and he looks just as exasperated and disappointed as she feels, though seemingly minus the embarrassment. “Sorry… Namjoon broke the lock to my room and Jungkook just - what’s the word? Like, came in suddenly -”

“Barged in,” she mutters, settling back up in front of the camera. “You guys really need to learn how to knock.”

“We really do,” he agrees. He tilts his head apologetically, as though trying to gauge her exact mood. “Are you okay?”

“I am. I think JK was more traumatised than either of us, though,” she adds, cracking a small smile. Taehyung’s eyes twinkle, and they both burst out laughing.

—

One, two, three and four! Five and six, seven and -

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut as the next step slips his mind. He forces himself to focus, humming Dionysus under his breath to keep his mind trained solely on the choreography, recalling every step and every movement and every muscle and every expression -

Oh, God… I’m - I’m close…

He grunts in annoyance as he turns on the shower in his bathroom, starting the routine from the beginning in his mind. He needs to focus - on Dionysus, on the Kyla Hanagami video he’d encountered on Instagram this morning, his gym routine today - on anything except his best friend’s girlfriend, naked and pleasuring herself.

His she’s my friend, she’s my friend mantra had been working ever since Taehyung had said it, and Jungkook had managed to convince himself that that’s all it was. He loves his friends, all his friends, and she was just that, a friend, a close friend, a close naked friend whose ribs jutted out just the tiniest bit as her back arched, whose tanned legs and small feet involuntarily pointed and dug into the covers as her voice got higher…

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

But the damage is done. He covers his face with his hands as the hot water falls from the shower; the choreography to Dionysus or whatever the hell he’d been trying to recall is clean out of the window by now. The image of Dilara, so naked and so hot and so insanely beautiful is burned into his mind and he doesn’t imagine it can ever leave.

It’s so wrong. It was so wrong of him to even catch a glimpse of it, accidental as it had been; it was so wrong to be unable to forget it, and it’s so wrong of his cock to be so hard in his hand right now.

She’s my friend. She’s my friend. She’s my…

The mantra continues, but it settles somewhere far behind in his mind, a different sort of instinct taking over. His hand moves of its own accord and he exhales softly, knowing he can’t stop now. She’s my friend that I accidentally saw naked, his mind tries to amend weakly, even as he sees only one thing behind his closed eyes. 

Her high-pitched whines, ones he can hear ringing in his ears, mix with his lower, quicker, more frustrated grunts. His hand goes up to the wall for support as he reaches his climax, spilling over his fingers until he’s spent. He opens his eyes slowly, watching the evidence of his slip wash away into the drain. 

His heart starts to slow down as he realises what he’s just done, and his stomach sinks low into his body.

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

[kometqh]

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂..

Captain Rex x F!Reader x Fives

Pt. 2 Every night, without fail, you wake up crying, heaving as you realise the monsters of your nightmares have been long left behind on the battlefields you fought on alongside your beloved Clone Troopers, the 501st Legion. Every night, without fail, you note down all your thoughts and feelings onto paper, into your beloved Diary that your Jedi Master has given to you as a gift. What happens when the Captain and Trooper of the 501st get their hands on your prized possession? Word Count: 2845 Warnings: Very much unedited, most definitely not lore-accurate as I have just begun to watch Clone Wars. A/N: A spur-of-the-moment kind of fic, it will be a two parter story :) It does say Female reader as that is what I had in mind, however there are no pronouns or descriptions used that allude to the reader being female!

Your body shot straight up, sweat rolling down the side of your temple, shoulders heaving up and down rapidly through heavy breaths. You wearily scanned the area, the room you found yourself in, your bedroom, hidden under a blanketed darkness. You could vaguely make out the different shapes of objects in your room; the steel wardrobe, the desk seated in a faraway corner, the tall frame of the door. The small line of light that peaked through provided some comfort, some more visibly.

A shaky hand reached for the night light beside your temporary bed - a silver steel, upright lamp that provided a bright, white light. It didn't provide much comfort as hard white light flooded the room, but it was enough to convince you that the terrors in your dreams weren't physically present in your waking days. 

Heaving a slow, heavy sigh, you slid back down into the pale comfort of your sheets, hugging a pillow to your body. 

As you laid there, light still on, eyes shut, you were engulfed in the sound of deafening silence. You could almost hear the light buzzing of the mechanical structures of the ship, ringing in your ears. 

You sighed again, turning your body to face the door. The light from the outside tickled at your eyelids, forcing them to flutter open. With a groan, you shoved your nose deeper into the soft material of your pillow, beginning to count down, hoping that, the mental image of numerous General's jumping up and down like innocent sheep, would lull you back to sleep soon enough.

Mini Skywalker's, Plo Koon's and Obi Wan Kenobi's cluttered your mind, hopping over a tall fence as you silently counted, 'One.. Two.. Three' and so on. It was definitely interesting image to think of, but in the meantime, it did little to stop your body from tossing and turning, heaving and sighing, twisting in your sheets.

With another, heavy sigh, you reached into your bedside draw, pulling out a small notebook and pen. You flipped it to the most recent page, jotting down the date and time, a small curse leaving your lips as you noticed the time; 01:25. 

You were going to become a zombie at this rate.

Nethertheless, you began spilling words onto the page, the crease between your brows easing as time passed, the fast pace of your heartbeat steadying with each word that slipped past the boundaries of your mind.

By the time sleep had finally pulled you into it's clutches, your mind could tell the ship was leaving hyperspace, and approaching a new atmosphere, your diary and pen abandoned at your side, left open on the most recent page yet again.

You awoke when the ship had landed; merely five hours later. The metal hit the ground with a thud, successfully forcing your eyes open. You laid there for a long while, ears twitching as you listened to the distant sounds of clone troopers wandering the hallways, accompanied by loud chatter and laughter. 

Those moments, those peaceful moments, where your men could take a moment to relax and unravel were your favourite. You fought hard to keep every single one alive, the guilt chipping away at your sturdy resolve, discipline and beliefs in the Jedi rules. 

You had broken one of the most important rules from the very beginning; it was forbidden to form attachments. How could you abide by such a cruel rule, when you were stationed with the same men for the last three years, getting to know them, living with them, laughing and sharing meals? To you, such a rule shouldn't exist. You could tell many other Jedi also disagreed with it - Anakin Skywalker being one amongst many. Even Obi Wan Kenobi, whose rebellious personality did very little to hide his affections for a certain Mandalorian Senator..

Taking in a deep breath, you slowly opened your eyes, looking around the room. 

A warm glow peaked through the tightly shut curtains, warming your skin in a gentle embrace. Even though your eyes burned with exhaustion, you had willed yourself to get up. It was already 07:00, your men were definitely up and ready for their mission briefing. 

Though they'd have to wait a little longer, you supposed.

This was meant to be an easy, diplomatic mission centred around a Neutral planet. You and your troops, the 501st, would be ensuring the citizens' safety, and potentially discussing joining the Democratic Republic. 

After spending some time getting ready, you left your quarters, silently stalking through the hallways, a distant rumble of the canteen ringing in your ears. The closer you got, the more shouts and lively conversations you could hear. 

All of those men shared the same exact voice, but the small differences in speech patterns, accents, tone and volume, were enough for you to be able to distinguish between your squadron without even seeing any of their faces.

Tugging your robes closer to your body, you entered the canteen, heading straight for the food buffet. It was going to be a simple mission - grab some toast, some water, and escape before anyone could notice you. 

And simple it would of been, if it wasn't for a certain Captain's sharp eyes and enhanced instincts; as if an alarm went off in his head anytime you appeared within his vicinity. 

In no time, you felt his warm breath fan over the back of your neck, his chest close enough for you to feel the coolness radiating off his body armour.

"Good morning, Captain." You spoke softly, a hint of tiredness still laced within your voice as you blinked slowly, placing a piece of toast on your tray.

"G'morning General," His voice came out a rolling, warm rumble, directly by your ear as Rex leaned over you, "What are you having for breakfast?" He asked, his honey-brown eyes scanning over your food tray. 

"Nuffin special, Captain, just a plain toast and water, how 'bout you?" You asked, moving away from the queue and to an empty table. You looked to Rex, noticing the corners of his lips tugging upwards, the sight warming your closed-off heart. You desperately wanted to cradle the side of his face in your palm, to soothe over the lines that wedged themselves between his eyebrows, noticing his exhaustion still showing even after a decent night's sleep.

"I've already had my breakfast with Fives and Echo, woke up quite early actually." He spoke softly, a chuckle escaping his lips as his palm rested on the small of your back, leading you to your seat.

Confusion took over your body as you sat down, bringing the toast up to your lips, taking a bite. "So, why are you here then, Captain?" You asked through a mouthful, eyeing him up and down, confusion clear as day across your face. 

At that, his face hardened into one he wore often during meetings and battles, an uncertain heaviness clouding his eyes. His fists clenched atop his lap, his lips pulling into a thin line. He wished to discuss the mission with you; hoping to lessen the number of men needed. Though he wasn't sure how willing you'd be to give your men a small vacation, he still wanted to attempt to provide his brothers with some respite. 

What kind of Captain would he be if he didn't consider his soldiers' health?

"Actually- I wanted to discuss the mission with you, General," He paused, breaking eye contact as his gaze dropped to his lap, then scaled back up to focus on the ice-blue, steel table separating the two of you, "I was thinking-"

"Thinking too much isn't good for you Rex, you've got enough lines on your forehead already." You joked, interrupting the clearly tense Captain. As you eyed him up and down with a soft smile, his shoulders visibly relaxed, the thin line his lips had become turning into the softest of smiles, his cheeks puffing up into marshmallows over the stretch. 

"W-Well, I was wondering if you could allow my men to take this time to rest." He stated, his voice dropping to a low rumble as he eyed you from underneath a curtain of lashes. He was using his best puppy eyes, knowing very well what effect those had on you.

You blinked once, then twice, your eyes widening owlishly as you stared at Rex.

Was he.. Trying to woo you?

You sat just the smallest bit straighter, your shoulders stiffening as you begged the Maker for Rex to not pick up on the sudden stiffiness that clutched onto your body with a steel grip.

Why was he making things so much harder for you?

"R-Rex.. I'm not sure I-" You started, your stomach dropping as he released a defeated sigh.

"I know General, I know.. It's just that, after the last mission, we're all still quite exhausted." He spoke, his gaze unwavering as he leaned closer to you, his scent invading your nostrils. He smelled of the Canteen's breakfast, a faint scent of aftershave lingering over him. Had he shaved already? You never got to see more than a hint of stubble on his jaw and chin, before it was gone with the wind; like it never even existed.

That's why you were grateful for Fives; that man's goatee could never disappoint. You were sure a beard of some sorts would suit Rex so well - it wasn't too difficult to imagine with his brother around, serving as an example. 

What would it feel like to feel the short hairs underneath your fingers? To feel the smooth skin of his cheek under your palm? The soft plushness of his lips against yours-

"General?" He interrupted your fleeting thoughts, a glint of hope shining in his eyes as you shook your head lightly. 

It was the defeated, gentle sigh that gave you away. 

If it were anyone else, Rex would never dare to ask such a question. But with you- with you, his men felt most comfortable, most safe. They respected you, and could feel you returning that respect every time you'd prioritise their lives over yours, telling them to retreat, to find cover as you had a handle on every situation, on every battle. You never abandoned them.

"Fine.. But I'll need at least one of you to accompany me." You paused, quirking a brow at the Captain, conveying your seriousness in just one look. "And I'll need the men to be on guard, okay? We can't risk being caught off guard if anything were to happen." You finally finished, your toast long forgotten, cooling down in the chilled canteen, as Rex graced you with the gentlest of smiles, his gaze softening the longer he listened to you.

He knew he could count on you, and he would prove to you that this wasn't a mistake. That it wouldn't be. 

Clearing his throat, Rex stood up from his seat, rounding the table to you. 

"Thank you General, I can assure you that the squadron will be ready for any and every circumstance, and I will personally escort you to the meetings. You have my word." He spoke, reaching his hand out for yours. Confusedly, you extended your hand into his grasp, a hint of pink dusting your cheeks as he pressed a swift kiss to your knuckles.

"R-Re- Uhm, Captain," You stuttered and paused, clearing your throat as you prayed for the blush to go away, "There is no need to thank me." You insisted, slowly getting up from your seat. His gaze followed you, tracing over your body with an unknown emotion hiding behind his thick lashes.

"Thank you General, now if you'll excuse me, I'll go inform the others that haven't heard." He stated, bidding you a goodbye, cheers following soon after as Rex lifted a hand, signing a thumbs up to some of his men behind you. Your gaze followed his form as you watched him exit the canteen, his head turning to look back at you one last time before the doors slid shut behind him. 

"What the hell was that.." You whispered, continuing your breakfast as your thoughts ran at tens of miles an hour, a blush permanently settled on your cheeks.

-

"Captain, are you sure this is a good idea?" Fives asked as he adjusted his helmet, following Rex as they made their way to your quarters.

"Yes yes, I'm sure. She should be in here anyway." Rex stated, waving his brother's concerns off as they rounded the corner, your bedroom doors coming into sight. "Besides, she said we should meet her at her quarters before we depart." He insisted, coming to a stop by your doors.

Raising his fisted hand, Rex knocked on your doors three times before backing away, waiting for a response. 

As a moment turned into a minute, and a minute turned into three, Rex knocked again, this time calling out your title. "General? Are you in there?" He asked, his voice raised in uncertainty. When he received no reply once again, he shook his head.

"I don't think she's in there." He turned to Fives, feet ready to start moving again as his brain racked over any other locations on the ship that you frequented. Fives looked at Rex, quirking a curious brow at him, though his helmet covered any and all expressions he shot in his brother's way.

"Maybe we should go in? Who knows, maybe the General got herself stuck in the refresher." He quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips as Fives made his way over to your door. Pressing a button, the doors swiftly opened before him. 

Walking over to the doors of your refresher, Rex followed after Fives, taking his helmet off, unable to, unwilling to, stop his eyes from wondering all over your room, taking note of the lack of personalised decorations in your bedroom. There was a desk, numerous multi-coloured folders stacked neatly on top of it, a small lamp next to them.

He looked over your wardrobe, his fingers itching to pull it open, to see what other articles of clothing you owned apart from your Jedi robes.

As Fives knocked at the refresher doors, his helmet at his side, Rex inched closer to your bed, noticing a small notebook hidden just beside your pillow, still open on the most recent page. His fingers reached over for it, eyes scanning over the yellow-coloured pages, gloved hands gliding over the leathery spine of the small book. 

"Oooh, what's that?"

Before Rex could react, the book was snatched from his grasp, his head snapping upwards to see Fives flipping through the pages, turning and closing the book, only to gasp. That had Rex's ears almost twitching, a curious brow quirked up. 

"What? What is it Fives?" Rex asked, standing next to his brother. 

The silence that followed made him uneasy, and leaning his head closer, he looked to the book, his lips gaping open.

"Do you see what I see?" Fives inquired, a smirk tugging at his lips as he turned his head to Rex. All that Rex could do was nod in stunned silence.

"Y/n's Personal Diary.." Fives whispered aloud, eyes scanning over the firsts page.

A lump built up in Rex's throat, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides as Fives read over the words you had messily written in your diary, his heart thumping as he recounted each memory, a soft smile tugging at both brothers' lips as they could feel every emotion you had spilled out onto the pages.

Though they quickly scrambled to hide the small book behind their backs, interrupted by the sound of your bedroom doors sliding open.

A scream left your lips as your gaze landed on the two armoured men, heart racing wildly at the unexpected scare. Their gazes didn't linger on you for too long, a faint pink ghosting over their cheeks as they looked anywhere but you.

"H-Hi General, we tried knocking but-" Rex begun, unsure of how to explain why he and his brother were snooping around your quarters.

"We were worried that you got stuck in the refresher when we heard no answer, so we wanted to make sure you were safe and ready for our trip." Fives finished Rex's sentence, casting his brother and Captain a side glance, his lips stretched into an awkward, innocent grin on his face. 

"R-Right.. Sorry, General, it won't happen again."

"That's quite alright, I'm actually flattered you men were worried about me," You spoke softly, hand covering your mouth as you giggled at their explanation, your heart warming at the thought that the two cared so much for your well-being. Though you wouldn't let yourself show just how much that thought made you blush. "Now come on, we've got meetings to go to." You exclaimed, waving the two men over as you made your way out into the hall.

Giving each other a knowing glance, Rex and Fives followed, quietly telling one another to hide the diary. Rex nudged Fives with his elbow, now too far gone to quietly and innocently return the book to its original place.

"Just shove it into your bag.." Rex hissed out through thin lips, rushing after you as he cast his brother one last glance, making sure the diary was stored safely in one of their backpacks. 

[zgvlt]

hearts held out of harms way ace trappola x reader x deuce spade (polycule)

commissioned by: shopkeep !!!

summary: in which (1) ace, a nobleman, desperately wants to be more than just the earl you and deuce serve; (2) deuce, a knight, doesn't how to get not just one but two people to fall in love with him; and (3) you, a fairy, try to push ace and deuce together while ignoring your own feelings for them

tags: gender neutral reader (only you is used), sfw, fluff, knight x nobility x fairy, commoner x nobility, poly relationship, getting together fic, 8.3k+ words, not beta read, completed (division by "chapters" = just a stylistic choice)

The young Lord Ace Trappola was a nobleman people found difficulty understanding. The new earl—and how new he truly was; how unexpected, too—was many things all at once and, depending on who was asked, they would all have something different to say in regards to the gentleman.

For instance, some would say he was no gentleman at all—some being a past love, who claimed she had never really felt his love for her at all. It was not too uncommon for nobles to abandon their old partner one way or another, but it did dishearten those in society seeking to become his marriage candidate.

Others, specifically his old schoolmates from the academy, would call him clever and cheery but a little too carefree, so much so that they were surprised he had been declared not just the heir, but had taken hold of the position the moment he left his youth. Was it the truth, that he was that kind of character? Yes, though it did give way to less than savory questions regarding his inexperience and capabilities.

Finally, though said noble would not know until later how the rumor had been birthed, it was said that he was a man who had deceived everyone magnificently into thinking he was who he presented himself to the public. As to who or what he truly was, nobody could quite agree. There were those that argued he was the manipulative sort, perhaps one who dabbled in illegal magic, for how else could he ascend to his position so quickly? There were those, too, who had proposed that perhaps their household had something to hide, that the young Trappola was simply a dutiful son to his father.

A small, terribly small group, however, would argue that the truth behind Ace Trappola was that he…

“Good morning My Lord!” Ace looked up from his desk, immediately abandoning his work. It’s not that he’s particularly excited or anything, but he sure does think that his two faithful attendants are far more fun than any scroll or sheet of paper could be.

Former delinquent turned knight, his right-hand man Deuce Spade had a serious look on his face despite the jolly greeting. Beside him was you, his right-hand’s right-hand, a fairy who greeted him in a calm but elegant manner. The juxtaposition between his two aides had surprised him once-upon-a-time, but he’d come to realize that they were far better suited to each other than he had initially realized.

“Lock the doors, then be at ease,” he ordered. Though he did not care much for appearing particularly prim or proper, the idea of being walked in on while he conversed with his two companions did not appeal to him either.

“Slacking again, Lord Trappola?” You peered over his shoulder, reading the documents he had atop his table. “Household affairs? New knightings? Isn’t that mere child’s play for you? You could very likely finish all of those in one go.”

“If I accomplish all of it in one sitting, they will think it a sign to pile more work for me the day after,” he explained, as though it were common sense. “It’s better to slack off a little bit sometimes. I understand I’m quite capable, but I detest people who push all their work onto others.”

“There, there. You can let your worries out with me,” you laughed at him, fingers combing through his unkempt hair as you did so. It was an action he always distinguished from his father and brother, who would purposefully ruffle it, or Deuce, who accidentally chopped a portion off with his sword. 

He used to think it was out of pity, once, or some kind of disapproval, the way you could bicker and banter with Deuce but hesitated to do the same with him. However, nowadays it was easy to tell that it was your way of empathizing with him. That good-naturedness of yours was probably why Deuce clung to you, too. “Let’s have you spar with Deuce so you can catch a break.”

“Exactly what I was thinking! Can you read minds or something? You know I don’t know much about fairies.”

“You just so happen to be an open book, Deuce. If I had come to possess that kind of ability, though…” Ace knew you were merely being humorous, an attempt at getting a laugh out of him and a way to tease Deuce, but he did shiver the slightest bit as you laughed ominously. Just what would you do given that kind of power? “Though not quite fairy, I have heard of a fae that can see people’s dreams… Or was it manipulate? I can’t quite recall.” 

“If someone were to see my dreams…” Deuce blanched, and Ace found himself curious by the reaction. By the looks of it, you were curious, too. Ace’s dreams tended to be the nonsensical sort—that or he could never remember them at all save for a detail or two, like how you or Deuce or even some old schoolmates from the academy would simply appear. 

“Now that you mention it, I do remember you sleep talking.” You looked away from Deuce and back to him, fingers still weaving through his hair. “There was a night, when Deuce and I were still wanderers, where…”

Cruel, Ace thought to himself, smiling, the good-natured fairy could tease the poor knight again and again. 

“You truly are incapable of not embarrassing me at every opportunity, especially in front of our liege,” the blue haired man huffed, though he hardly seemed frustrated. On the contrary, his gaze had gone through a fiery change, as though engaged in a new competition. “If we are to compare sleeping habits, then yours–”

“Are not as worse, I am certain.” In truth, Ace was unsure if you were being truthful, but that aside–

“Oho, feel free to argue and spill your deepest secrets in front of me~ Although…” he feigned a sigh, “did the two of you forget my presence? Or that I know nothing of either of your sleeping patterns?” Or that it was considered inappropriate to so much as discuss nighttime activities, no matter how innocent? Ace could not say he was against it, however, having always been less… traditional, he supposed.

At his words, neither you nor Deuce had the decency to be embarrassed, though the latter made a genuine attempt at appearing to be. Clearly he had done a good job of keeping things as casual and comfortable as possible, even with the imbalance of power. That he could not erase, but at the very least he would feel much better if it could be ignored.

“Ahem, so are you up for it, Ace? The sparring? It could be good practice for the upcoming tournament.” Deuce had been leaning against the door as he said it, but he jolted up as he’d come to realize his informality. “Or, uh, Lord Ace? No, should it be Lord Trappola?”

Never mind. Perhaps some work still needed to be done, after all.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ace said quickly, hoping to elucidate the matter. The previous topic had not been forgotten, but perhaps he would be able to bring the matter up at a different time. “It’s just the three of us right now. Isn’t it exhausting being so formal all the time?”

“I guess that’s fair,” Deuce replied, “although I have a feeling I’ll call you the wrong thing in public.”

“Mhm, it’s the same for me, which is why I’m avoiding forgoing the title,” you sighed, “we’d cause quite the scandal if we so much as fumble–”

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter!” Ace snorted, “What do they care? You’re my people, so if they have a problem with how I let the two of you address me, then they should bring it up with the Earl of Trappola himself!”

For the most part, he had been serious with his proclamation—the formalities were starting to get to him, and he’d prefer to maintain Deuce’s casualness with him; has been meaning to convert you into dropping the titles, too. However, the way Deuce blinked up at him and the way you began clapping made it feel as though he had put on some performance instead, a rare show of his nobility.

“Our Lord… is a noble too, after all,” Deuce said with disbelief—Ace thought it to be feigned, though a small part of him wondered if it was genuine. You followed suit with a slow nod of your head. 

“We made the right choice of pledging our loyalty to him after all.”

“Hah?” Ace scratched his head, inevitably messing with what you had worked to fix. “Seriously, would the me of the past have guessed the two outsiders I brought into my estate would become the bane of my existence?”

He had said as much, though he knew—and he knew that his two attendants knew, too—that no regrets had been brought in with said decision.

Deuce Spade enjoyed the life he was currently living.

It was a stark contrast to the life he possessed back home, his troublesome ways before he stowed away on that boat, before he crossed paths with you in that forest, before the two of you somehow wound up in the Trappola estate.

It was a tough life and he had ways to go before he could show his face to his mother, but it was a life he could finally be proud of, a life that was his.

Which was why he trained intensively and persistently, the need to prove his resolve not simply to the world, but to the people who he cherished in that world—the parent who awaited his letters every week, whom he lived for, and the two he swore to protect, whom he would lay down his life for… 

But he knew you would be angered to hear such a bold statement, and the noble he was guarding would ask how he grew to become so serious, so he supposed he would have to keep his perspective a secret.

He thanked the Queen and whatever deities there were up there that you could not read minds, or see dreams for that matter. How troubling would it have been for him if you knew how his affections had grown for you and for–

“Oh, is that for Ace?” 

Though he supposed you already knew of that, thus he only had his feelings for you being leaked to be worried about. Not that he was not worried about his feelings for Ace being made known—both, both were cause of worry. The mere idea of him being fond of two people should have been troubling, what more that one was his close companion and the other his liege?!

“Ace? Is that right?” he said with a stifled chuckle, “Were you not the one who wanted to address him properly?”

“What could you possibly mean? I could never! Well, if you pretend you did not hear my informality, that is.” Stepping closer and fully entering his quarters, you peered over his shoulder, eyeing the soft fabric carefully. You prodded a finger at the handkerchief, tracing his attempt at embroidery. “You have gotten better! The heart is cute.”

“Only in the front. You should see how badly I fumbled the back,” he said, showing you the messy stitching himself. Still, he knew progress was progress, and he gleamed at you having taken notice of his hard work. “Whoever could have guessed that years of watching my mother stitch my clothes back together would be of use for this very reason?”

“I’m sure she would be proud to see your work so far.” 

Genuine. That was always something he enjoyed about you—genuine in your actions, genuine in your words. Thinking about it, it was somewhat humorous that he had come to like Ace Trappola too despite his selective dishonesty. He supposed, at the end of the day, it had to do with his honed ability to detect those with immoral intentions, the inherent lack of such within the two of you.

Surrounded by people who were good to him, he often found himself thinking he could finally be on the right path—the path of becoming someone good for his mother.

“It might be nice to have one sent to her as well, though not yet,” Deuce replied sheepishly, “even though I worked hard on this one, it seems practice is still needed on my end.” 

“I believe in you. What is a needle if not a small sword? What are stitches if not… hmm… different techniques using the needle, just as stances and movements are to battle?” Even you seemed unsure about the last analogy. Nevertheless, it had made Deuce laugh, your intentions in uplifting his spirits effective as always.

“More like things you must get after a battle,” he retorted, shaking his head. “Given the topic, it should be appropriate to ask… How’s your progress?”

“Progress with…?”

“Your token!” he reminded, finding you silly for forgetting. “You’ve chosen to craft an amulet, right?”

“I did say that, yes. It seemed fitting given magic is my specialty, even though handkerchiefs and ribbons seem to be the norm in society these days. I’ve yet to review the rules, though, so perhaps no spells can be imbued yet,” you sighed, “So should I give something, an amulet or some kind of  charm would be good.”

By now, he could say he knew you rather well, and he knew that while you did your best to be truthful with him, you did not exactly shy away from allowing people to interpret your words differently. Sometimes, you seem to want to be misunderstood. 

It’s just too bad that he caught and understood your choice of wording.

“What do you mean by should you?  Did we not agree we were both giving Ace something?”

You shrugged. “Would it not be better if, oh, perhaps you were the only one to give him a gift?”

“But we both care for him as our liege and as his… friends? Companions? Whatever the appropriate term may be, we are that to him and he is that to us. Certainly he would appreciate getting something from you?” he reasoned, an attempt at convincing you to continue as planned.

“Yes, but you like him. I am able to give him a token at some other time surely, but for now… I don’t see how my giving him anything will aid in my mission to help you convey your feelings–oh don’t look at me like that, fine, your appreciation for him.”

He huffed out your name, willing to argue with you about the situation if he really needed to, but after staring you down the best he could whilst looking up at you, you eventually relented, as though carrying a soft spot for him, or for Ace. 

Likelihood was that it was both.

“I will consider it, but don’t mention anything. In any case, since I’m banned from competing due to the humans-only stipulation, hmph, I’ll give you a token. Since you’ll be competing for the both of us.”

Deuce finally smiled. He would still try to make sure you handed Ace one as well, but for now he would pretend to be satisfied with his small victory.

“If–When I win, I’ll make sure Ace knows it’ll be on both of our behalves.”

You cannot stop yourself from smiling as well. “Have I ever told you I was thankful? That you are always trying to include me in things, even with matters in regards to Ace? Even when I’m not actually one of his knights?”

It’s because I like you too, you foolish fairy! 

“Because you are our resident fairy and perhaps the best magic user in the estate,” he proclaimed. Always the first to tease you, always the first to praise you.

“Well if you put it that way,” you chuckled, “and since you are being so terribly kind to me today, I’ll put in the effort to defend you should the young lord throw a fit about his own knight beating him in the tournament… and of course, I shall comfort you should you throw a fit should you lose to him.”

“So win or lose, it will be a lose-lose situation. Absolutely wonderful!” He had only been joking, truly, but you gave him a slight nudge at the comment. 

“Just do your best regardless!” 

You laughed, a warmth not unlike the sunlight peeking from the woodlands the day he first met you. 

“Besides, you have a goal when you win, don’t you?” 

Momentarily bashful, determination soon replaced it. Fears and anxieties aside, Deuce knew that should he win, the adrenaline would certainly convince him to profess his adoration and devotion to their earl and, unbeknownst to you, their fairy.

“A confession.”

“Oh, for sure, but that should only be the first step!” you encouraged, always the first to aid him in his lofty ambitions. “Have you considered marriage? Or a grand trip to another nation? I heard the Sunset Savanna is lovely this time of year.”

He snorted, “Perhaps nobility move faster than us commoners, but I find a proposal would be too sudden even for human standards. However… A trip does sound nice.”

“Does it not? Ah, but should you go about one in the future, I’ll lock you both out of the manor if you fail to bring me a souvenir.”

“I cannot speak for Ace, but… Oh, I might as well—Ace will certainly lock you out of the manor should you refuse to come with us!” 

“You shall be there to help me back inside.”

“Wrong! As a matter of fact, I will be present to drag you in the carriage with us.” He was being quite serious, but you laughed at his apparent persistence. 

“All three of us stuck in a carriage, perhaps even a boat or two, for weeks,” you were groaning with feigned displeasure, but when you told him it’d likely be good fun, he could tell even you couldn’t lie to yourself there, that you enjoyed their company as much as he, and to speak for someone else, and Ace did.

But as much as he enjoyed having you around, he also knew that with you being in his room, any more progress for the day was pretty much impossible. Ace’s aside, he’s going to have a hard time starting on your handkerchief anytime soon if you’re going to remain a frequent visitor.

Ace knew he carried a certain attitude about the work assigned to him. He knew, despite the loyalty of those in his estate, his detractors would call him all sorts of insults, deprecate him and his character, see him as nothing more than a young man who cared not for aged tradition and stiff nobility, and had no ability to command and control his territory. 

Ability aside, he simply never cared to accomplish them immediately as opposed to pacing them according to his tastes. 

Thus, he would do as he wished, just as his ancestors would’ve before him. After all, would his family have become, and stayed for that matter, nobles if they had continued to abide by what was expected? 

If anything, would it not be expected of him to differ from the rest of them? A smart person would, he believed.

Which was why he found himself in the markets again, not bothering to put on any sort of disguise. He grew up visiting the nearby towns anyway, with some of the vendors having practically raised him since childhood, so really, what was the point?

“I’m still not convinced this is the best idea,” Deuce sighed, following him a little too far for his liking, “not that my opinion should matter. What you say goes, Lord Ace!”

“You have gotten comfortable enough with me to complain about the tasks I give you, but not comfortable enough to walk a centimeter closer or call me by my given name alone,” Ace teased, putting on a show of scolding his knight. “Your perception of what is more egregious between the three astounds me.”

“It is one thing for you to be alright with it, it is another for the prying ears to be. If it were only up to me, I would talk quite informally to you, too.” Ace need not question who too was referring to, for there was only one other person in the estate Deuce relied on to the extent of comfort: you.

“And I’ve let you change the subject… Really, what will happen if an assassin, or someone who wants to cause you harm, comes across you in broad daylight?”

“Then you’ll deal with them! Although… I may be able to protect myself better than you, hmm?” he laughed, shaking his head at the slight irritation Deuce attempted to hide. He could not get back at him now, but Ace was sure Deuce would attempt to do so the next time they were on the training grounds. “And perhaps I wished to change the subject of our conversation.”

“To?”

“You, perhaps. Our one and only fairy as well, possibly.” 

Except, despite his wording, he was positively assured of his choices. Discussing the two of them—well, the three of you, was always a difficult affair when you were around, and Ace is not dense enough to not detect your affection and yet avoidance of him, the scheming nature you seem to possess and yet hold back in front of him but fully show towards Deuce.

He never needed a companion during his trips out, sometimes preferred not to have one, so perhaps his invitation carried impure intentions. 

Deuce stiffened and though he tried to pass it off as a simple response to his surroundings, Ace knew better. What could have rendered such a reaction? Was it a secret you, or him, or the both of you together, were hiding? Was it something he ought not to know but would undoubtedly weed out right this second?

“What could you possibly want to know?” his knight inquired, seemingly nervous around him. How uncharacteristic. 

“A few things. For starters… There’s something wrong.”

“With what?”

Your name left Ace’s lips. Even to his ears it sounded a bit awkward, like he knew how to say it but barely uttered it outside of his head, at least compared to how Deuce would say it—undoubtedly familiar with you in a way he, too, wanted to be. It’s only then that Ace realized his hypocrisy… or, if hypocrisy was too strong a description, then the humor with the two of you.

His insistence at being just Ace and not Earl Ace or Lord Trappola, yet his persistence in calling you their fairy, their magician. 

Maybe it’s the need to remind himself that you’re one of his people, too, without having to commit to actually saying it. Maybe it’s his way of letting you know of your presence in his life, considering you always seemed so insistent on downplaying your importance to him and, if his eyes are working as clearly as he thinks, to Deuce as well.

Really, did you think he played favorites? Because he did, obviously, but the plurality implied he certainly had more than one! For such a scheming being, were you not oddly dense?

“I see…” Deuce muttered. With a hint of embarrassment, Ace figured the knight actually understood, if not completely then partially, his troubles when it came to you. “What could I… Is there any way for me to help?”

Cute. He’d rather gouge his eyes out than admit he thinks it unironically, but he still remembers the rascal that appeared in front of his manor, all roughed up with a scary but determined look on his face. Seeing Deuce be so thoughtful and kind when it comes to both him and you is just plain nice—the heavens know the world needs more people like that around him… and in noble society in general, but he’d rather not share with them.

“Help?”

“With, you know… I could give you advice, or–”

Ace sighed. Speaking of dense… Is there even a good way to say, ‘If the two of you haven’t noticed, I have a severe, desperate need to infiltrate and be a part of whatever it is the two of you have’ without being perceived as rude, or worse, a complete nutter.

Not being able to think of anything, he reluctantly changed the subject.

“Let’s go look around the market. Help the local economy! Purchase a few things for ourselves.”

The man next to him narrowed his eyes, and for a moment Ace genuinely worried that Deuce realized everything. Sure, he mocked the two of you in his head for not understanding him, but he certainly was not ready to reveal anything! Especially without any assurance from either involved party!

The knight did not utter another word for a while, simply guiding him through the stalls, prattling about things you enjoyed. Alongside him, the earl absorbed every piece of information, all the while watching whatever it was the Deuce’s eyes landed on for more than a few seconds.

Ace, whether he was aware of it or not, harbored feelings for you, Deuce was sure of it. He had his assumptions beforehand, mostly due to his increasing number of delusions of all three of you. In any case, there was no doubt in his mind now—he was not alone in harboring feelings for you.

On one hand, he could not blame Ace. You were, for all intents and purposes, his first friend, a cherished friend, thus he understood how the earl could fall for you. If anything, he’s going as far as applauding the choice. If anyone deserves love and adoration, of course it should be you! 

On the other hand, he’s reminded of his own troubles. If Ace is troubled with getting you to be more comfortable and closer to him, Deuce is troubled with getting not one, but two people to miraculously like him in the same manner he does. Meanwhile, Deuce can’t even tell if you like either one of them that way! It’s just a mess, truthfully, one he cannot speak of lest all three of you end up in a scandal, so he can do nothing but keep quiet…

Alright, perhaps that was not entirely true. There was something he could do.

“That’s a nice color,” Deuce commented. He can’t really differentiate the stones when they’re all round and smoothed out so he’s not sure if you’re holding a jasper or a carnelian (names he knows only because you had a knack for buying all sorts of stones) or something else entirely, but it’s this blend of orange and red and he knew it was chosen for a reason.

You smiled at him fondly, knowingly, “I’m not surprised you like the color. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re already aware of what I think.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop with the teasing.” You abide by your word, dropping your stare so you could focus on the task at hand—creating an amulet for Ace. “It can’t be helped that I cannot resist either one of you.”

“Then don’t! Did either of us ever imply that you should do as such?” he huffed, “I know for certain that Ace—”

“That I would what, exactly?”

As though caught in the midst of an immoral act, Deuce scrambled to hide everything as quickly as possible for you, shoving the stone in the nearest box he could open. Meanwhile, you were left to face Ace, who made no show of being even the slightest bit apologetic for his intrusion.

“Aren’t nobles meant to have perfect etiquette?” Were you smiling? Yes. Did you look amused? Not particularly. “I’m always happy to see you, Ace, but I can’t say for certain that I appreciate your storming in my quarters without so much as a knock on the door.”

“You don’t look particularly happy right now.” Ace, by contrast, looked particularly happy at your slip up, and Deuce would do his part in not calling you out on it… until Ace left, of course.

But the earl seemed to have no intentions of doing so any time soon, propping himself up against the now-shut door. 

“I’m perfectly happy, for sure,” you insisted, and though your face was not betraying it, Deuce thought you truly meant it. “But what are you doing here? You’ve never visited my room before.”

“I meant to look for Deuce to see if he wanted to train–”

You and Deuce locked eyes instantly. You’re trying not to make your change in expression too noticeable, but Deuce has observed you far too many times to not notice. It’s incredibly evident that it embarrassed him, almost, that you could be so happy for him because of something so very simple. 

It was a childish sort of glee, which might have been why he accepted it so readily. He never had the chance to experience that sort of situation and he’s not too sure you have either, having a laugh with someone over some puppy love. 

“He’s certainly free to do so,” you supplied, “if you want to, you’re free to take him off my hands right now.”

“Ah, but I’ve changed my mind. We train every day, so we should have a change of pace, should we not? Perhaps the tavern that opened the week prior?” 

“Hmm, should you really be forgoing training? The current victor of the tournament, the young Rosehearts, will be competing, too.” you interjected. It’s not an outright rejection of a suggestion, but Ace should have prepared a better excuse if this was his plan all along, thought Deuce. Still, he was currently his liege’s number one supporter—more time spent with the both of you? He could not see it as anything but a positive for all parties involved. 

“Oh please! What’s one day spent with my two companions instead of training until sundown?” Ace snorted, “And it was different last year! This year, my victory against the young duke is certain.”

“To be sure,” Deuce replied immediately, half out of belief and half out of solidarity of having lost to the same man. Next to him, you nodded your head slowly.

“Then if you’re certain…” What you said about not being able to resist Ace and Deuce must have been true, your reluctance at heading out visibly fading. This time, it’s Ace and Deuce who exchanged a knowing glance, and the same, childish feeling bubbled up within him again.

It’s not quite the trip to the other nation you mentioned to him, but it’s a delightful start, is it not?

“Then the both of you better get changed!” Ace grinned boyishly, “Or don’t! Regardless, I’ll have the carriage prepared by five!”

“Wait a moment, shouldn’t we be calling the carriage for you?!” you exclaimed, but the earl had already left your quarters. “Good riddance. Deuce, could I have the amulet I was working on back? We have some time before we need to leave and… I have the sinking suspicion he won’t leave us alone before the next few days.”

“Definitely. To both statements.” Remembering where he had placed it, he opened up the wooden box to retrieve the stone, only to be distracted by an already completed amulet—a nice blue that reminded him awfully of… ah. 

“Deuce? The amulet?” you asked again, shaking him out of his reverie.

“Here.” If you notice anything odd about his expression you do not speak of it, allowing him to leave your room peacefully to ready himself for the awaited excursion.

“I told Deuce I would comfort him should he lose to you… I can’t say I expected this turn of events instead.”

Perhaps Ace should have trained more. 

In his defense, he did not think Riddle Rosehearts would have done that well in the tournament considering there were no horses to ride on this season. His athleticism was never the best either during their days at the academy, so even if his swings were passable, his stamina should have run out quickly enough. And yet…

“But next year surely, my liege,” you comforted him, wiping the sweat off of him with a white handkerchief, uncaring of the fact that the both of you were in public or, perhaps, knowing everyone’s eyes would be on the ongoing match rather than the two of you. Even though Ace prided himself of being the (self-designated) mature person amongst the three of you, he did not say no to the opportunity of receiving your attention and affection. 

“Besides, not all hope is lost. We can still have the winner come from our house.”

Our house. Ace gleamed at your words. Of course. The ideal situation would have been to face off against his knight, but as much as he wanted to be the winner, Deuce being the victor would have been just as much of a joyous affair for the Trappola Earldom.

“If our Deucey wins, he’ll never let me forget it,” he sighed.

“But it would be worth it, having someone to avenge you, wouldn’t it?” Seemingly having deemed him presentable enough, your hands returned to your lap, handkerchief in tow. It's only then that Ace realizes it.

“Deuce gave you one too,” he said, more amused than anything. “What’d he sew for you?”

You didn't respond but you did smile, so it was likely something meaningful to you. If you were happy, then Deuce must have done a good job at choosing something for you, just as he chose something that well-suited him.

“He did not have to. I’m not competing in this tournament, so…” Again, Ace thought, you were smiling, so what did it matter if Deuce did not have to. Could people not act based on wants, now?

“And yet you’re using it, just as you’re wearing the tassel I gave you.” He grinned, fingers flicking the fringes the color you loved most, allegedly. If Deuce gave him the right information. You liked it enough to keep it on you, at least. “The tassel I did not have to get you.”

“It’s nice. They’re both nice gifts,” you murmured, and even though you’re no longer meeting his gaze he can still tell that you’re being honest. A part of him will attribute it to his amazing observation skills, but another, far warmer part of him knows it’s because he’s gotten to know you better. 

The two of you are already by his side, closer than before, and yet it is still not enough.

“What design did Deuce sew for your handkerchief?”

“Don’t pretend like you do not know.” For he knew for a fact that Deuce must have shared it with you, or at the very least failed to hide it from you (just as he failed to hide his tokens from Deuce).

“Then what do you think of it?”

He brought it out of his breast pocket, having tucked it in there before his matches began. 

“The hearts are differing in sizes. You can tell there were loose threads he tried cutting as much as possible without ruining the whole work. Still, there are hearts, the symbol of Trappola.” The symbol of Deuce’s dedication and loyalty. 

“It’s… I suppose it’s—” You threw him a look, and Ace reluctantly gave in, “—It is good. Give me a break! Nobles tend to have a hard time being honest, you know! If you think I’m bad, you ought to see the rest of them!”

You laughed, “I know, I know. I won’t tell. You should do it by yourself, after all.”

“Only if he wins,” he said, grinning.

“So I’ll tell him for you if he loses?” 

“A menace, you are,” he muttered, “I’ll tell him you thought he would lose, then.”

You no longer respond to his taunt, eyes now stuck to the grounds, clearly waiting for a certain blue-haired knight to appear before everyone’s very eyes, but your hands are moving, reaching into one of your pockets as though searching for something.

“I meant to give you something as well,” you said, pulling out two amulets. The stones are different in color, different in shape, but the similar craftsmanship all lead to one creator—you. “I’m aware these types of tokens tend to be given out before the matches, for good luck of course, but I’ve gone and imbued magic so I couldn’t take the risk of disqualification, and thus…”

You’re explaining. Overexplaining, really, in Ace’s humble opinion, every possible meaning you could think of—the importance of the stone’s color, the stone itself, what rune’s been inlaid and what spells you’ve enchanted it with. It’s detailed and clearly an overly complicated process and yes, he cannot deny that his heart is not unaffected by the gesture, but looking at the clearly matching amulets just makes him laugh.

He snatches the red one out of your waiting  hand, knowing what was clearly meant for him. His heart had just calmed down and yet it is full again.

So he might have been dense too, but at least he was the first to figure it out. That is a victory in and of itself, one he is never going to forget and let go of. Ever.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing!” He’s thumbing the amulet within his palm, invigorated despite his loss earlier. Even with the magic, he doubts it’s the stone’s doing. “Just thinking of how entertaining things will be from here on out.”

“Because of the match?”

“Sure,” Ace laughed, “because of the match.”

“I still got further into the competition than you,” Deuce argued, nursing his own injuries with one hand and… holding onto your amulet with the other hand. The injured hand. He justified it by saying it was because the amulet had healing properties, as you said, but he was just busy admiring it and thinking of a way to combine it with his (Ace’s) tassel to make a combined good luck charm of some sort.

“Second place is still the first place loser, Loosey-Deucey” mocked Ace, though not out of ill-intent. He knows malice is not at all there by the way he patted him on the back after his duel, the way he beamed at his progress, the way he promised to train harder with him so either one of them could take the young duke down. It’s the sincerity before everything else that makes him take everything he says with a grain of salt.

You seemed to understand all the same, simply allowing the two to go at it with each other since they were unable to do so officially. 

“It does not matter. I would have won if it was a competition of fists over swords,” Deuce laughed, “it’s just a shame. There was something I wanted to do if I won, but since I lost, I don’t have it in me to proceed.”

“Pray tell, what could that possibly be, dear Deuce?” 

He stared the earl down, shaking his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. You can find out when I win next year, my liege.”

“Is that so?” Ace asked, quirked eyebrow, almost as if he interpreted his personal oath as a challenge to beat. “And if I win instead of you, will you not go about completing this quest of yours?”

Beside him, you stood up.

“Perhaps I should set off—”

“Absolutely not!” Ace interjected just as Deuce reached out to stop you from moving, hand grasping your arm. There’s a momentary confusion—he knows why he stopped you from moving, you and your assumptions on this and that occurring between him and Ace and you wanting to step away from it, but Ace stopping you is…

“Hold on, should I leave?”

“What, no! Nobody’s leaving! I’m not getting up from here either! Are the two of you truly oblivious or are you playing oblivious?” Ace groaned, scrunching up his nose in distress. “Why is being the smartest person in the room such a difficult affair?”

“Rude,” Deuce muttered, before quickly inquiring, “but to what are you referring to?”

Instead of words, Ace made an odd motion with his hands, some triangular gesture that was clearly meant to speak louder than words. 

Deuce wants to laugh because it’s an amusing action for a nobleman to be making but humorously, it works well in getting Deuce to understand. It was to be expected, considering he spent much of his time thinking of this exact scenario (albeit, a setting more romantic than the manor’s medical ward, but he’s not in a position to be fussy about the details). He’s trying to catch your eye immediately, but compared to him, you just seem… confused.

Not confused in the sense that you did not understand what Ace was referring to—there was no subtlety in his implications—but more so a general confusion over what was happening.

“I know about Deuce’s feelings, quite obviously, and I was more than certain that his feelings for you had a chance of being reciprocated, so my being here…”

Deuce cannot help himself anymore, and it appears neither can Ace as they both erupt into laughter of chaos and disbelief. Who or what they are laughing at is not a question—it is everything, and then themselves for their own, self-induced stupidity and suffering. 

“I get that it might not have been obvious with me, but with Deuce?” Ace exclaimed, astounded at how you failed to realize the knight’s affections. “He could not have made it any more obvious if he tried!”

“Sorry? It’s quite difficult to determine gratefulness versus love versus love…

“And let’s not be a hypocrite as I could say the same for you, my lord! I thought Deuce was plenty obvious about his feelings, and yet, if I am right in regards to the timing of this affair, you’ve just realized it recently,” you huffed, “we are one in the same.”

Deuce stops laughing. Why did it feel like the two of you were blaming him for your respective lack of analytical skills?!

“As long as we agree that’s not my fault! If I was incredibly obvious, as the two of you would put it, the two of you are anything but.” But with Deuce’s insistence, the two of you turn to look at him as though he had grown a second head.

“What? No! We could make an argument for Ace as I was only mostly sure that your feelings for him were reciprocated, but I hardly made any effort to conceal my own.”

“Agreed. It was as clear as day to the point that I thought the two of you had already gotten into a relationship,” laughed Ace, probably the most honest he was going to be for the rest of the day, “and without me! I was quite offended at the thought of being excluded.”

“Like we could ever leave you be, my lord,” you replied, half a joke but fully the truth. “What would have become of us without you in the first place?”

“Like you would ever let us leave you be,” Deuce quipped, having finally absorbed the situation. If it was an accurate assessment, Ace had no plans of letting them know, merely grinning in response. “What would become of you had we not arrived at your estate?”

“Well there would be far less rumors about me, for one.” Still, the Earl Trappola will remain himself, the need to appear as though he had the upper hand when they all knew the feelings shared between them were of equal measure. Still, with a singular gesture, the two of them walk towards their liege—amulet clanging against his remaining armor, tassels swaying with your very steps. 

“But who cares about that, right?” Deuce replied, knowing it would be what Ace wished to hear—after all, he’d been pretty apparent about it since day one. As they neared him, Ace pulled them closer, making sure the both of them sat on either side of him. 

Then, Deuce heard the door lock. Ace and Deuce both turned to you, the obvious culprit, and you merely shrugged. “I know we’re not supposed to care, but let’s not cause a scandal today of all days! Who knows how many prying eyes there are in the estate!”

“Too many. Don’t be surprised if a strongly worded, but supportive, letter from either father or my brother arrives at our doorstep tomorrow morning,” Ace snorted, “Just hope it’s not some distant relative. I’m sure there are some spies prowling in our manor as we speak.”

“There won’t be any if we deal with them!” Deuce declared, “We’ll protect your dignity, my lord!”

You nod in agreement just as Ace smiles. “I’ll hold you two to that!”

There are other things Deuce wants to declare, to ask and to question. He wants to know what they are now, what will change between the three of them, and what will be of them in the future. He wants to ask and yet it doesn’t feel quite right, not now, perhaps because he already knows, and what he knows is not mere fantasy but reality.

Dear Madam,  Good day to you. I hope you do not mind if I skip the formalities. Until this fairy learns how to send letters with magic alone, the cost of these letters will unfortunately be priced according to how many sheets of paper we use up. In any case, Deuce must have updated you about everything that has happened in his letters. He must have also mentioned that the earl and I will be sending you letters to ask for your permission or blessing or whatever word it had been that the earl had used. In truth, we had been mostly joking regarding that. Ace—the earl—does not believe that the process of seeing one another requires permission from one’s parents, he is far from traditional, but we had come to the agreement to push through with the letters first due to the unusual state of our relationship—that being that we are all seeing one another, with one party not being human and another one being the noble we serve. Foremost, we agreed to send our letters out of respect for you, as we’ve long known what you mean to our knight, and what he means to you, his mother. As previously mentioned, I believe Deuce has told you much of our household affairs and much of his life, but I believe you would appreciate knowing how we see him. I am certain you know that your son spends much of his time training to become a splendid knight, and I am sure you would be happy to know that, day by day, he arrives closer to his goal. It would only make sense considering his sparring partner is none other than our competitive lord as well (and tell not the earl, too, but after keeping track of their victories and defeats, Deuce may have a lead on the tally). His skills are not which I wish to share the most, however. Ace and I have learned from Deuce about his past, we’ve known for some time now. Constant is his worry, just as constant is his change. His warmth and the good of his heart has become more evident than ever, and should Deuce not come to see you soon, we will be the ones to present him to you. (A mere jest. If it were Ace, he would find a way to bring you to the earldom.) That is all I can say for now. With your approval, madam, I hope we could become close correspondents. I would love to tell you more about Deuce, Ace, and myself, as well as know more about you yourself. Faithfully yours, 

Ace’s arm wraps against your shoulder just as you’re signing the letter off with your name, loudly talking your ear off about how he just won against Deuce (as expected, he tells you). It’s a tie now, though you know you won’t correct the tally you mentioned in your letter. 

Deuce, meanwhile, chalks it all up to luck, some sleight of hand the earl must have pulled, and swears he’ll beat him tomorrow. You want to tell Deuce to try twice as hard, just so you won’t tell his mother a lie. Instead, you joke that they both need to try harder else you come out as next year’s victor. 

They’re shouting now, mostly about how you’ve finally picked up their competitive spirit, about how you’re challenging them, about how they won’t go easy on you and about how you shouldn’t go easy on them. It’s a whole lot of noise one after another but, unsurprisingly, it fits your very idea of a peaceful day.

“You’re smiling. Is that your way of saying you’re confident you’ll beat us?” You stare at Ace for a moment, wondering if you’ll lie, before shaking your head.

“Not at all. I’m just happy.”

You don’t play it for laughs or take it back, finding comfort in the fact that you can leave the truth just as that. 

“What has made you so softhearted, huh?” You know you’ve got them when Ace can only scratch his neck and Deuce can only cover his ears, perhaps knowing it would match the hue of his liege’s hair. “As long as you're happy, then.”

It’s a rare moment of silence in the estate, and while you know one of the three of you will break it soon enough, you appreciate it while it lasts. You think to yourself, even the quiet can be peaceful, too. Peace is, and yet beyond, the volume of one’s chatter, the clashing of their swords; the quietness of their breaths and the unheard beat of their hearts. 

Beyond sound, peace is a place, a place you have found with them.

end notes | masterlist

[ 1 ] Decided to just leave the details about Reader’s tassel (from Ace) and handkerchief (from Deuce) blank, mostly since I didn’t feel too comfortable assigning something for them.

[ 2 ] As per my research, “In the Regency period (1811 - 1820) it was very expensive to send a letter. The cost of postage could be as much as a day's wages for a working man”. Of course, Deuce and the Reader have Ace to pay for the letter since they’re all sending it together (and I am not going for historical accuracy, lol), but I figured they’d still be conscious to cut to the chase to write as much as possible per sheet of paper.

[estrellami-1]

Steddie Week 2023

May 22nd Prompt: Hunger

Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7

@steddie-week

Steve wakes up slowly, rolls over to look at his alarm clock, then bursts out of bed in a rush of limbs and sheets and curses.

3:42 blinks back at him. Sometime during the night the power had gone out, and Steve knows it is well past 9, when he was supposed to be opening at Family Video. He pulls on his jeans and a clean shirt, stuffs his feet in his shoes, runs a brush through his hair, and grabs his vest on his way out the door, sparing half a glance at his kitchen, but not having time to eat.

If it comes down to it, he thinks, there’s always the candy.

He gets to Family Video in record time, breathing out a sigh of relief when he yanks on the door to find it still locked. That means he’s the first one there. Keith might notice when he goes back through times this week to figure out pay, but Steve’s hopeful he’s gotten away with it this time.

He clocks in, computer reading 10:01 (an entire hour late, whoops), and takes a breath as he looks around the store. Robin’s scheduled to come in at three, meaning he has five hours alone.

No one comes in for the first hour. Steve finishes logging returns and winding back the tapes.

Halfway through the second hour, the bell above the door jingles, and Steve raises his voice from where he’s putting away tapes. “Welcome to Family Video!”

“Either you’re hiding or you’ve officially started haunting this place,” a voice calls back, and Steve laughs as he walks out of the aisle.

“Hey, Eddie.”

“Hiya, Stevie.” He grins. “Tell me if this is too forward? But I noticed the power went out last night and figured if I know you as well as I do, you slept in and missed breakfast.” He hands Steve a brown paper bag, creased nicely at the top.

“Lifesaver,” Steve gasps, opening the bag. Three muffins. He sniffs them, then groans. “You’re perfect, holy shit, thank you.” Banana nut, his favorite. His heart skips an odd beat, then again when he realizes Eddie’s blushing, pulling a piece of hair across his face.

“You’re welcome,” Eddie says quietly, chuckling slightly. “I guess I was right?”

“Yeah, I woke up, like, half an hour after my shift had started, immediately panicked, and got here as fast as I could. I don’t need another write-up.”

Eddie nods, a smirk crawling onto his face. “How about waiving the fees for your favorite customer?”

Steve makes a show of looking around. “Dustin’s here?”

Eddie just laughs. “I can’t even be mad at that one.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, eyes wide, adorably serious. Steve tries to school his face accordingly, but he can’t really feel his face. “I’m hungry.”

Steve thinks about it. “I am too,” he decides, then thinks some more. “Is there pizza left over?”

Eddie shrugs, looks at the blunt in his hand, then shrugs again, taking another drag. “Chips?”

“I have chips,” Steve agrees, grabbing for the blunt. “C’mon, share.”

Eddie hands it over. “Steve,” he says again, “I’m a genius.”

“Yup,” Steve agrees.

“We should watch a movie.”

“Oh my god,” Steve breathes. “With snacks?”

“Yeah. Yeah, with snacks, c’mon, help me, help me!” He pulls Steve up, laughing when Steve does.

“Eddie,” Steve says. It’s his turn to be serious. “What if we call Argyle? And Jon?”

“And they can bring pizza,” Eddie breathes. “Stevie, I think you’re the genius.”

“Yup,” Steve agrees again. “I’ll call. You get snacks. And movie.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie laughs, resting his head against the wall. “There’s no way.”

“I swear! That’s exactly what she said! And then she tried to blame me, like it isn’t all automated.” Steve huffs a breath.

Eddie shakes his head. “You have way more patience than I do, man.”

“That’s not true. We have different types. I could never sit like you do, painting your figurines.”

Eddie snorts. “I zone out and wake up four hours later. I don’t think that counts as patience.” He sighs. “As fun as this has been, Steve, I’ve gotta go get ready for my shift. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. What time does your shift start?”

“Six.”

“That… Eds, that’s in twenty minutes.”

“No? I’m looking at a clock right here. It’s 4:40 right now. I’ve got an hour twenty.”

“Eds,” Steve says, sounding pained. “Daylight savings.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie breathes. “Shit, shit, shit, you’re right, shit, fuck, okay, I’ve gotta go, love you, bye!”

He hangs up before Steve can say anything else, stuffing his feet in his shoes and grabbing his keys before racing out.

He’s halfway to work before he realizes he’s hungry. He lays his head on his steering wheel at a red light, breathes. “Just five hours,” he tells himself. “I can make it five hours.”

Half an hour in, he’s not so sure. His hands aren’t as steady as they should be, but he hides it from his coworkers, takes another few deep breaths, and tries to trick himself by drinking more water.

Ten minutes later, a familiar maroon Beemer pulls up. Eddie’s heart thuds in his chest as he goes out to meet Steve.

“Sorry I’m late,” Steve grins. “I think I got caught by all the lights possible.” He grabs something from the passenger seat. A brown paper bag.

“You didn’t,” Eddie breathes.

“I did,” Steve admits. “I hope turkey’s okay.”

“Turkey’s fantastic,” Eddie promises. “Freakin’ food for the gods, when I’m this hungry.” He opens the bag. A sandwich, a small bag of chips, an apple. He laughs. “Jesus wept, Steve, I brought you three little muffins!”

“Yeah, and I meant it when I called you a lifesaver.” He tilts his head. “I’m curious about something, though. If you meant it.”

Eddie pauses with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Meant what?”

“Gotta go, love you, bye.”

“Oh.” Nausea makes its presence known. He brings the sandwich down. “Steve, I-”

Steve’s fingers land on his forearm. “The truth, Eds. Please.” He’s whispering, eyes big and hopeful, and Eddie feels some of that same hope filling him.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

Steve grins again, steps back. “I’m picking you up tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, watches as Steve drives away.

“Hi,” Eddie says breathlessly, opening the door before Steve could knock.

“Hi.” Steve chuckles. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Where are you taking me?”

“Where do you wanna go?”

Eddie bites his lip, slides into the passenger seat. “Dinner? I’m starving.”

Steve grins at him as he puts the car in gear. “Me too.”

[theresattrpgforthat]

Almighty TATTRPGFT, I ask you what is a good fantasy ttrpg thats like a smidgen simpler than/tighter than dnd thats flexible and has individual character progression thats cool? (I am so damn tired of dnd and after I finish my lancer campaign I'm gonna try to run a fantasy thing thats about world hopping since my brain cant stick with just one world... I wanted to run OSR stuff but most of my players want to keep their characters longer than a couple sessions)

THEME: World-hopping Fantasy Games

Hello there, so I’ve got some world-hopping games for you that I consider all much simpler than D&D, although the way they cater to your players’ wants may vary. Now I’m personally biased towards Forged-in-the-Dark games if your characters want to hold onto their characters and explore all of their mechanical and narrative details, but I’m also hoping that folks will see this ask and suggest more fantasy games that give you cool character abilities - maybe you can even mesh some regular fantasy games with something else on this list!

Portal Rats, by Tore Nielsen.

Portal Rats is a stand-alone fantasy tabletop rpg, based on the Black Hack rules. 

There is an unlimited wealth of worlds out there. Some are embodiments of ideals, some the product of a god's fevered will, and some who seem to have congealed from pure potential. In Portal Rats you can visit all of them. 

The core mechanic of Portal Rats is a roll-below test, using a d20 against an attribute on your character sheet. You have six attributes that should remind your players of D&D, although the backgrounds of your characters are less about your race and more about what you did in the past. The rules of the game look to be pretty concise, with much of the 58-page book being different character options and character classes. You level up when you finish a mission or quest, which results in more hit points, and higher attributes.

This game is probably close to what you as a GM are looking for: it’s an OSR mindset, with very little that allows the players to hold onto their characters if a roll goes badly. That being said, if your players are attached to their characters, they might be able to bring out emotional and narrative elements regardless of the system. Therefore, even if you pick up something that is more similar to OSR, they’ll find ways to role-play.

Vergence, by Small Cool Games.

Within the multiverse are a few places of great power called Vergences. They are ruled by families bred for the ability to open portals between worlds.

You play a member of one of these empowered bloodlines. Your birthright gives you the capacity to travel across infinite dimensions and manipulate reality.

But you’ll need to deal with conflicts involving your own powerful and manipulative family, secret conspiracies, mystical enemies, moldering gods, terrifying monsters, ancient artifacts, and existential threats with the potential to affect all the worlds of the Umbra. And possibly your annoying little sister…

Vergence is a Forged-in-the-Dark game that really amps up your character’s powers and broadens the stakes to a cosmic scale. Vergence is a much looser interpretation of Blades, taking away much of the bookkeeping found in the vice and heat mechanics that punish typical Blades’ characters. You also level up as a group, rather than individually, which I understand might not be what your playgroup is looking for, but your characters are still uniquely powered individuals with special abilities.

1400 Planes, by Unknown Dungeon.

1400 Planes is lo-fi hi-fantasy. 

The multiverse roils with boundless existence. For many, the infinite planes of creation drift past at an immeasurable distance, their alien secrets perpetually out of reach. However those who break their mortal shackles and cross that liminal space, wander such exotic spheres on an eternal pilgrimage.

1400 Planes is a stand-alone table-top RPG. The rules are short and easy to learn and the whole game can fit on a single sheet of paper.  It can be played using just the rules provided, or combined with other entries in the 1400 series to expand the world and provide more character and game options.

24XX games feel very slim and small, but I think they can provide the base for something bigger that caters to your group. They can also be combined with other games that use the same rule-set very easily, which you could use to provide interesting level-ups for characters. 24XX games are also usually pretty cheap, so you’re not going to break the bank picking up a few to play around with.

Planedawn Orphans, by Sharkbomb Studios.

Set in the Planar City, a strange melting pot that connects the vast diversity of the multiverse. You all play Planar Orphans stranded in this city, your original home worlds destroyed, corrupted or lost. 

A mysterious Patron has brought you together, provided you with a base of operations and tasked you to complete a Planar Key. This key will let you create a new plane for you and your fellow refugees. Your quest will bring you to exotic places filled with strange creatures and bizarre phenomena.

This isn’t a game in itself - it’s a campaign framework - but it gives you the opportunity to cobble together a bunch of different games while still giving your players a structure upon which they can scaffold their character’s growth and personalities. I’m currently running this across a huge number of different games with a co-GM and my home group: so far we’ve played Household, The Wildsea, Sundered Isles, and The Great Soul Train Robbery!

Sig, City of Blades, by Genesis of Legend Publishing.

Sig is the nexus of the multiverse, where eternal planes and infinite primes meet. It’s a rough home for cutters and bashers, hungry for coin and glory. It’s a city of gods, demons, and stranger things which lurk. It’s a place where opposites meet, trading knives and kisses in equal measure.

The Silent Regent once ruled over the city with a bladed fist. Now her throne sits empty and the criminal factions battle for control. They dispatch crews of Freebooters, clever and bold, to further their schemes. This is where you come in.

In Sig: City of Blades, you will play the Freebooters in service to once of the mighty city factions. Your faction depends on you to perform vital missions to seize territory and coin from their rivals. This is a game about clever spies, renegade sorcerers and reckless smugglers. You are the best of the best and the worst of the worst.

If you are familiar with Planescape, I’ve heard that Sig: City of Blades gives off the same vibes, at least when it comes to setting. Rules-wise, it’s Forged in the Dark. It looks like in this game, the multiverse comes to you; as scoundrels in a city at the centre of these dimensions, there are plenty of ways for you to get rich in some kind of way that counts. If your group is up to play scoundrels and thieves, you might be interested in Sig: City of Blades.

Tiny Dungeon: Second Edition, by Gallant Knight Games.

Tiny Dungeon: Second Edition is powered by the TinyD6 engine, with streamlined mechanics that utilize only one to three single six-sided dice on every action, characters that can be written on a 3x5 notecard, and easy to understand and teach rules, Tiny Dungeon 2e is great for all groups, ages, and experience levels!

Tiny Dungeon feels like a very boiled-down version of a classic fantasy game; heritages that give you starting abilities, traits that are reminiscent of character classes, and a turn economy that structures combat to make sure everyone gets the same amount of time to do things. You use d6’s to roll, with 1d6 being the worst pool (rolling with a disadvantage) and 3d6 being the best (rolling with an ability or advantage). The game is meant to be mod-able, with optional rules and various micro-settings meant to get your inspiration flowing. The best part about so many different micro-settings that all use the same rules is that you can absolutely jump from one setting to another!

Fantasy Recommendations from The Past

Fantasy, With Tools

Echoes of D&D

Non-Western Fantasy

Non-Gritty Low Fantasy

Fuck Wizards of the Coast

I’d also ask myself if Slugblaster could be hacked to be about fantasy adventurers jumping into various dimensions, rather than teenagers hoverboarding across space and time. It certainly has plenty of pieces that allow your characters to dig into personal issues - the Trouble mechanic really lets you digest the kinds of things your character might have to neglect in order to go adventuring! You can read more about it in my Dimensional Travel recommendation post.

[reallygroovyninja]

I want to preface the story I am about to post is garbage. No, really, it's bad. There are moments in it you can see my brain think oh shit, I need to explain myself.

If you want to read a story I am very proud of, check out The Fallen. It does have a shocking ending, which I am very sure turns people off, but I stayed faithful to the story that inspired it.

Anyway, here is unfinished Word Document 20. It's so bad I had to hide it under a cut. lol

Lexa was seated in a quaint office adorned with countless baby pictures, each snapshot a vignette of new beginnings and cherished memories. The walls, a gentle palette of pastel hues, were lined meticulously with these joyful expressions, casting a soft, hopeful glow throughout the room. The ambiance was both serene and surreal, as if Lexa had stepped into a gallery of future possibilities. 

At the desk, a woman named Marlene, who ran the agency, extended a packet of papers toward Lexa. "Based on your criteria and the comprehensive tests you completed, these are the candidates we believe match your needs," Marlene explained, her tone both professional and empathetic. She knew that the choices contained in these documents could change lives. "Once you have a shortlist, let us know. We can then provide you with their photographs. This decision is profound—it should transcend mere physical appearances." 

Lexa appreciated the process's discretion and thoroughness. She had longed for a child, a desire unmet in her past relationships, none of which revealed an alpha compelling enough to share her life's journey. Now, she sought a different route—a sperm surrogate, an alpha who would contribute to the life she wished to create and then step away, allowing her the autonomy she desired in raising her child. 

They would meet intermittently, their encounters solely intended to achieve conception. It was an arrangement devoid of traditional romantic entanglements, focused instead on the singular goal of motherhood. 

Taking the packet, Lexa began to leaf through the pages. Names, occupations, medical histories, personal hobbies, and more—details designed to paint a picture of each potential candidate. Yet, as she skimmed the information, the details seemed to meld into a blur of text. She knew she would need time and quiet to pore over these sheets, to consider who these people were beyond the data. 

Marlene watched her with a calm understanding, accustomed to the weight such decisions carried for her clients. "There’s no rush," she reassured Lexa. "Take the packet home, think over your options carefully. We're here to support you every step of the way." 

Grateful for the empathy and professionalism, Lexa nodded, clutching the documents a bit tighter as she prepared to leave. The smiling, innocent faces of the babies seemed to bid her farewell and good luck. Stepping out of the office, Lexa felt the gravity of her decision resting on her shoulders—a burden, yes, but also a beacon of the profound joy and love she hoped to welcome into her life. 

Later that evening, Lexa settled onto her couch, a glass of red wine in hand, the soft hum of her quiet home enveloping her as she spread the stack of profiles across her coffee table. The light of her living room lamp cast a cozy glow, perfect for the introspective task at hand. She had decided on a methodical approach to review each candidate: she would create two piles—one for definite no's, and another to review again. 

Taking a sip of her wine, Lexa began. One by one, she carefully read through each profile, considering the potential of each candidate not just as a genetic contributor, but as someone whose traits might mesh well with her own for the child they would share. Her fingers brushed against the papers, shifting them between the two designated areas on her table. 

There was Jacob, whose profile intrigued her right away. His interests in environmental science and community gardening hinted at a thoughtful, perhaps gentle soul. Then there was Bellamy, a police officer whose tone in the self-description came off a bit too brash for her liking; his profile radiated a certain arrogance that Lexa found off-putting. He was promptly placed in the no pile. 

As she continued, a few others passed her review—some with potential, others lacking the certain je ne sais quoi she was searching for. Finally, she reached the bottom of the stack, where a profile named Clarke rested. At first glance, something about Clarke's description didn’t quite resonate with her, and she was tempted to add it to the no pile. Yet, something—perhaps a detail she had missed or a gut feeling—nudged at her to reconsider. 

With a thoughtful frown, Lexa picked up Clarke’s profile again. This time, she read slower, trying to capture the essence behind the words. Clarke was an artist, deeply involved in local community projects, which spoke to a creative and civic-minded spirit. His brief mention of a love for old cinema and classic books hinted at depth. Lexa waffled, her initial impression clashing with the intrigue now sparked by her second, more careful reading. 

Setting Clarke's profile down on the "review again" pile, Lexa decided not to rush her judgment. She finished her wine, her mind actively weaving through the impressions each profile had left. Tonight was just the beginning. She knew the importance of this choice, not just for herself, but for her future child. She’d return to these profiles after a night’s rest, perhaps seeing them anew with fresh eyes and a clearer perspective. 

The next morning, Lexa found herself with a phone pressed to her ear, recounting the previous evening's deliberations to her cousin Anya. Anya had always been more like a sister to Lexa, providing both support and candid advice whenever Lexa needed it. 

"So, I've got these two piles," Lexa explained, her voice carrying a mix of resolve and uncertainty. "The no pile is pretty straightforward—those profiles just didn't click for me. But the 'review again' pile, that's where it gets tricky. There’s Jacob, who really seems like a gentle soul, and Clarke, who I almost passed on but decided to give another look."  

On the other end of the line, Anya listened intently, her occasional hums of agreement punctuating Lexa’s detailed descriptions of the potential alphas. When Lexa finished, there was a brief silence, the kind that hinted at Anya's deep consideration before she spoke. 

"Lex, are you sure about all this?" Anya’s voice was gentle, yet probing. "I mean, it sounds like you're really trying to convince yourself here. Aren't you giving up a bit easily on finding the right alpha? You know, the traditional way?" 

Lexa sighed, a soft sound of mixed emotions. "I know it seems like I'm rushing into this, but I've thought about it a lot. I just haven't met someone who fits what I'm looking for in a partner... someone I want to share my life with. This way, I can focus on what I really want—a child. I don’t need a romantic relationship to make that happen." 

Anya was quiet for a moment, likely weighing her next words. "I get that, I really do. But it’s a big step, Lexa. Just make sure you’re choosing this path because it’s truly what you want, not because you feel it’s your only option." 

Lexa nodded to herself, appreciating Anya's concern. "I understand, and I appreciate you looking out for me. I’m not closing the door on finding someone someday, but right now, this feels right. I want to be a mom, Anya. And I feel ready to do this on my own terms." 

Anya’s response was warm, supportive. "Then you know I'm behind you one hundred percent. Just promise me you'll think on it a little more, okay? And whatever you decide, I’m here for you." 

"Thanks, Anya. That means a lot to me," Lexa replied, feeling a comforting sense of reassurance. She knew Anya only wanted the best for her, and having her support strengthened Lexa's resolve to move forward thoughtfully and confidently. 

After ending the call with Anya, Lexa set aside the 'review again' pile of profiles on her dining table, deciding not to revisit them until later that evening. She knew the importance of the decision ahead and recognized the need to approach it with a clear mind and a settled heart. 

The conversation with Anya had stirred a mix of emotions and considerations, reinforcing the gravity of her choice. Lexa felt it crucial to give herself space—to let her initial impressions simmer and her intuition align with her logical reasoning. This pause, she believed, would help her return to the profiles with fresh eyes and a more decisive heart. 

During the day, Lexa busied herself with her usual activities, allowing her subconscious to process the morning’s conversation and her own feelings about each candidate. She went for a long walk in the park, the rhythmic steps helping to clear her mind. She met with a friend for coffee, enjoying the distraction and the normalcy of casual conversation. 

As the day turned into evening, Lexa felt more centered. She prepared a quiet space at home, with minimal distractions, lighting a candle for a touch of calm ambiance. She poured herself a glass of wine, similar to the night before, setting the stage for contemplation and decision-making. 

Sitting down, she slowly began to revisit each profile in the 'review again' pile. Lexa’s goal was to narrow her choices to two or three potential alphas—individuals who not only met her criteria on paper but whom she felt could genuinely contribute to the life and the values she hoped to nurture in her future child. With a deep breath, she delved into the profiles once more, ready to make one of the most significant decisions of her life. 

As the evening wore on, Lexa methodically revisited each profile, reflecting deeply on the characteristics and values of each potential alpha. Slowly, her list began to narrow until she was left with three names: Jacob, Roan, and Clarke. 

Jacob’s profile had an immediate and strong appeal. His dedication to environmental conservation and his gentle demeanor resonated with Lexa's own values. It seemed a natural alignment, one that suggested he would bring the kind of thoughtful and nurturing influence she desired for her child. 

Roan presented a different allure. His profile portrayed him as a resilient and ambitious individual, someone who had overcome significant challenges to achieve personal and professional success. There was a strength in Roan's narrative that Lexa admired, a testament to his character that she believed would be a valuable trait to pass on to her offspring. 

Yet, despite the compelling cases for both Jacob and Roan, Lexa found her thoughts continually drifting back to Clarke’s profile. There was an intriguing blend of creativity and intellect in his background— an artist with an Ivy League education, deeply involved in community service. His profile hinted at a complex, multifaceted personality; he was someone who valued both expression and academia, who understood the importance of giving back to the community. 

Clarke’s interests in the arts and his commitment to societal contribution painted a picture of a man who was not only educated but also empathetic and engaged with the world around him. These were traits Lexa admired and sought for her child’s upbringing. 

The more Lexa thought about Clarke, the more she realized how much his qualities appealed to her. He represented a balance of intelligence, creativity, and civic responsibility—elements that she valued deeply and imagined could foster a rich, nurturing environment for a child. 

With a thoughtful sigh, Lexa placed Jacob and Clarke’s profiles side by side, with Roan's just slightly below them. It was clear these were her finalists, each bringing something unique and valuable to the table. She knew her decision would not be easy, but she also felt reassured by the strength of her final choices. As she prepared to retire for the night, Lexa felt a quiet confidence that among these men, she would find the right partner for the journey ahead. 

On a quiet Sunday morning, with a cup of tea steaming gently beside her laptop, Lexa settled down to compose an email to the agency. The decision to request photos of her three final candidates—Jacob, Roan, and Clarke—felt like the next logical step in her carefully considered process. She knew the agency wouldn't respond until Monday, but drafting the email gave her a sense of progress and control over her choices. 

Lexa typed with deliberate care, her words reflecting the gravity of her request. She explained that she had narrowed her selection down to three potential alphas and would now like to see their photographs to aid in her final decision. Lexa stressed that while she understood the importance of not basing her choice solely on physical attraction, she believed that a certain level of physical compatibility was essential for her comfort and confidence in this unique and intimate arrangement. 

As she hit send, Lexa felt a wave of anticipation mixed with satisfaction. Each of her chosen candidates brought distinct and strong qualities to the table. Jacob with his gentle nature and environmental passion, Roan with his resilience and proven ambition, and Clarke with his creative spirit and intellectual prowess—each was appealing in a uniquely compelling way. Lexa appreciated the diversity in their profiles, which she believed would allow her to make a balanced choice based on a combination of intellectual, emotional, and physical attributes. 

Leaning back in her chair, Lexa allowed herself to feel hopeful about the next steps. She hoped that the upcoming photos would not only confirm the impressions she had formed from their profiles but also ignite a spark of attraction. The thought of conceiving a child necessitated a certain level of physical appeal, and she hoped to find that in at least one of these men, making the process of becoming a mother not just a fulfillment of a desire but also a comfortable and pleasing journey. 

With her part done for now, Lexa spent the rest of her day engaged in preparing for the new week, her mind occasionally wandering to her three candidates. The blend of curiosity and excitement for what Monday would bring was palpable, as she envisioned a future where one of these men would help her realize her dream of motherhood. 

In her office, Lexa found herself repeatedly glancing at her phone, which lay beside her keyboard—a silent testament to her growing impatience. Each time the screen lit up with a notification, she felt a jolt of anticipation, only to find emails unrelated to her personal inquiry. The response from the agency, it seemed, was taking its sweet time. 

Lexa tried to anchor her focus on the reports and spreadsheets that crowded her desktop. Her work, typically a realm where she excelled and found clarity, now felt like a cumbersome distraction. Her thoughts, disobedient and wild, fluttered incessantly towards the potential images of Jacob, Roan, and Clarke. 

She knew their basic features—hair color, eye color—but these details painted no vivid picture in her mind. What were their smiles like? How did they carry themselves? Were they tall, broad-shouldered, or had a more slender, athletic build? These unknowns spun around in her head, each a question mark adding to a mosaic of curiosity and expectation. 

Her concentration broke again, and she reached for her phone, scrolling through her inbox fruitlessly once more. With a sigh, Lexa set the device down and tried to realign her focus on a particularly complex data analysis. But even as she parsed through numbers and trends, part of her mind wandered, sketching imaginary portraits of the three men based on the scant information she had. 

The morning dragged on, each tick of the office clock a reminder of the waiting she had to endure. Lexa found herself tapping a pen against her desk, her gaze drifting towards the window, where the city below seemed indifferent to her internal turmoil. The blend of excitement and nerves was palpable, like the quiet tension that fills the air before a storm breaks. 

Finally, acknowledging her distracted state, Lexa decided to take a brief walk around the building, hoping that a change of scenery and a bit of movement would help her regain her concentration. As she strolled through the quieter parts of her workplace, she reminded herself that the decision she was about to make was significant and deserved this level of anticipation and thought. Returning to her desk refreshed, Lexa resolved to put her personal feelings aside and dive back into her work—determined to keep her professional prowess intact, even as her personal life beckoned with unanswered questions. 

As the end of the workday approached, Lexa had almost resigned herself to the idea that her eagerly awaited email from the agency wouldn't arrive until Tuesday. She felt a mixture of disappointment and relief, the delay giving her more time to prepare mentally for what those photos might reveal. 

She set her phone down one more time, focusing on shutting down her computer and organizing her desk for the evening. Just as she pushed back from her desk, her phone buzzed with the distinct chime of a new email notification. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the sender: the agency. 

Quickly, she tapped on the notification, her eyes scanning the email's contents. The agency apologized for the delay, explaining they had taken extra care to ensure the photographs matched her request for confidentiality and respect towards the candidates. Attached to the email were three files, each labeled with the name of one of her potential alphas: Jacob, Roan, Clarke. 

Lexa's thumb hovered over the attachments. A part of her wanted to open them immediately, to finally put faces to the names and profiles she had been pondering over for days. Yet, as she sat in the stillness of her office, a wave of hesitation washed over her. Was this the right place to make such a personal, potentially life-altering discovery? 

Her office, usually a space of professional decisions and work-focused thoughts, suddenly felt too impersonal, too public for this deeply private moment. She contemplated the weight of what these images represented—not just potential genetic contributors but possible co-creators of her future child. 

Deciding she needed the privacy and comfort of her own home to experience this moment, Lexa locked her phone and slipped it into her bag. Once home, she could take her time, process her reactions in her own space, and make thoughtful decisions without the confines of her professional environment. 

As she walked out of the building into the warm evening air, Lexa felt a reassuring calm settle over her. Tonight, with a cup of her favorite tea in hand, she would meet, in a way, the men who might help her fulfill her dream of motherhood. It was a meeting that deserved her full presence and undivided attention, best done in the sanctuary of her home. 

Lexa's evening unfolded with a mixture of routine and restless anticipation. After a quiet dinner, she methodically washed her dishes, the warm soapy water running over her hands as she scrubbed. This daily chore, usually a mindless task, felt different tonight. Each plate rinsed and set to dry was a moment to stall, a brief reprieve from the decision that awaited her. 

As the dishes were put away and her kitchen returned to its usual tidy state, Lexa brewed a cup of calming chamomile tea. The steam curled into the air, carrying with it a scent that usually relaxed her, but tonight it was just another step in delaying the inevitable. 

Part of her meticulous post-dinner clean-up was borne from habit, but another part was driven by a palpable apprehension. She was about to make a decision that would significantly shape her future. The man whose image she was about to view might very well be the one to help her fulfill her deep-seated desire to become a mother. This wasn't just any routine interaction; this was about selecting an alpha who would provide the genetic material to conceive her child and then, as per the agreement, step away. 

With her cup of tea in hand, Lexa finally settled onto her couch, her usual spot for unwinding after a long day, but nothing about tonight was usual. She took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the warmth of the tea seep into her palms. Her phone lay next to her, an innocuous presence that now seemed daunting. 

Finally, she picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over the email app with hesitation. This action, so simple and routine, felt momentous. She opened the email once more, and there they were, the attachments waiting just a click away. Each file bore the name of a potential alpha: Jacob, Roan, and Clarke. 

Lexa tapped tentatively on the image file labeled "Jacob," her breath catching slightly in anticipation. The photo that materialized showed a man with boyish good looks, his smile gentle and inviting, eyes sparkling with a warmth that reinforced the impression of kindness his profile had suggested. Jacob's image aligned perfectly with what Lexa had envisioned—a friendly face that could bring comfort and reassurance. 

Next, she opened the file for Roan. As his image came into view, Lexa noted his longish hair and the unmistakable intensity in his gaze. His strong jawline and the serious set of his mouth gave him a rugged appearance, one that spoke of resilience and a certain sternness. Roan looked like a man who faced challenges head-on, a stark contrast to Jacob’s softer, more approachable demeanor. 

Finally, Lexa clicked on the last image, labeled "Clarke." She expected to see another male alpha, similar to the first two. However, as the image slowly loaded, her expectations were upended. The photo revealed not a man, but a striking woman with deep blue eyes and long blonde hair. Lexa stared, taken aback, as she processed the unexpected sight of a female alpha. Clarke’s presence in the photo was compelling; her gaze was direct and confident, radiating a strong sense of self-assuredness. 

Lexa’s initial shock slowly gave way to a mix of emotions. Clarke’s appearance was stunning, and there was an undeniable beauty in her features that Lexa found herself unexpectedly drawn to. This twist in her journey made Lexa pause, her mind racing through the implications. She had not considered the possibility of a female alpha, yet here was Clarke, challenging her preconceptions and expanding the horizon of her choices. 

Sitting back on the couch, Lexa took a moment to reflect. Each candidate brought something unique to the table: Jacob’s kindness, Roan’s intensity, and now Clarke’s unexpected presence—a female alpha who exuded strength and allure. Lexa knew this decision required more than a cursory glance at photographs. It was about finding a connection, a match that felt right on multiple levels. 

As she continued to gaze at Clarke’s image, Lexa felt a curious pull, a fascination that urged her to reconsider what she thought she had been looking for in an alpha. Clarke’s striking blue eyes seemed to beckon for consideration, asking Lexa to step beyond the familiar and entertain the possibilities that lay in unexpected quarters. 

As Lexa continued to sit on her couch, the images of the three alphas lingered on her phone screen, each one offering a different possibility, a different future. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside her window. Lexa found herself lost in thought, trying to envision what a child with each of these individuals might look like. 

First, there was Jacob, with his warm brown eyes and dark hair, features that gave him an approachable, boy-next-door charm. Lexa imagined a child with similar soft, dark locks, perhaps inheriting Jacob's easy smile and the inherent kindness that seemed to radiate from his expression. 

Then there was Roan, with his intense blue eyes and dark, slightly wild hair. His features were sharp, his presence in the photo almost commanding. A child with Roan might inherit those striking blue eyes, Lexa thought, along with a likely strong-willed spirit and perhaps that same sense of resilience that Roan seemed to embody. 

Finally, her mind drifted to Clarke. The image of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed alpha with a distinct chin dimple was vivid in her mind. Lexa found herself particularly curious about this feature—a charming little dimple that added so much character to Clarke's smile. Would a child with Clarke inherit that same dimple? Lexa pictured a little one with light hair and those piercing blue eyes, maybe running around with a mischievous grin punctuated by that adorable dimple. 

Each mental image brought a smile to Lexa's face but also added layers of complexity to her decision. This wasn't just about choosing a partner for conception; it was about choosing half of the genetic makeup of her future child. Each alpha not only offered different physical traits but also different backgrounds and personalities that would influence their child. 

Lexa took a deep breath, feeling both overwhelmed and excited by the possibilities. As she sipped her tea, now lukewarm, she realized that this decision would shape not just her future, but that of her child. She knew that beyond looks, she needed to consider which values and qualities she most hoped to pass on. The process felt daunting, yet the thought of motherhood filled her with a profound sense of purpose. As the evening waned, Lexa knew that these reflections were just the beginning of her journey towards making one of the most significant decisions of her life. 

After a period, Lexa felt the need to share her thoughts and get some feedback. She reached for her phone, dialed Anya, and quickly forwarded the email with the images of the alphas she was considering. 

"Hey Anya, can you check your email real quick? I sent you something important," Lexa said as soon as her cousin answered the phone. 

"Got it, let's see these candidates," Anya replied, her interest piqued. They started with Jacob, whose soft features and kind eyes made a good first impression. Then they moved on to Roan. "He looks exactly like what you’d expect an alpha to look like, doesn’t he?" Anya remarked, clearly impressed by his strong, intense demeanor. 

Lexa chuckled, "Of course, an alpha would pick the most alpha-looking of the three." 

However, the conversation took a turn when Anya opened Clarke’s image. "Oh, wow, this is a female alpha. That’s unexpected." 

Lexa nodded to herself, feeling a mix of emotions. "Yeah, it adds another layer to Clarke. I've always been attracted to female alphas, but I was open to a male alpha, thinking it might be simpler for the whole baby process." 

Anya paused, considering Lexa's words. "How do you feel about Clarke being in the mix now? This is a bit of a curveball." 

"It is," Lexa agreed. "But honestly, seeing Clarke in there, it kind of stirred something. My ex was a female alpha, too. There’s a familiarity there." 

"Sounds like Clarke’s presence is challenging some of your initial thoughts," Anya said thoughtfully. "But Lex, this is about what you want and need right now. If Clarke resonates with you more, maybe there’s more to think about here than just going the straightforward path." 

Lexa took a deep breath, feeling the weight and truth in Anya’s words. "I guess you’re right. I need to think about what each option could really mean for me and the future. Clarke being a female alpha isn’t just a detail; it’s significant to how I feel about this whole process." 

As they wrapped up their conversation, Lexa felt grateful for Anya’s insight and understanding. Discussing each candidate openly had clarified not just the practical considerations but also the emotional ones. Now, more than ever, Lexa knew her decision would not only be informed by what was expected but also by what felt right for her personally. 

With the images of the alphas now in her possession, Lexa faced a self-imposed deadline: by Friday, she needed to make her decision. The choice she was about to make was not just about selecting an alpha but choosing a co-contributor to a life-changing journey. It would set the course for her long-held dream of becoming a mother. 

Over the next two days, Lexa immersed herself in deep reflection. She had swiftly eliminated Roan from her list of potential candidates. His intensity, though initially striking, felt somewhat overpowering upon further consideration, and she realized it didn't align with the kind of parental influence she envisioned for her child. 

Now, it was down to Jacob and Clarke. Jacob, with his gentle demeanor and environmental passion, seemed like a safe and rational choice. His traits aligned well with Lexa's values, and she could easily envision him as a positive genetic influence on her child. Yet, despite the logical fit Jacob presented, Lexa found her thoughts repeatedly drifting back to Clarke. 

Clarke's presence in the selection process had been unexpected and impactful. As a female alpha, she brought a familiar dynamic that resonated deeply with Lexa, reminding her of the past. Lexa had to admit, there was a certain allure and comfort in the idea of choosing a female alpha. 

Sitting at her dining room table with both profiles laid out before her, Lexa pondered whether her inclination towards Clarke was primarily influenced by her being a female alpha. Was it the novelty and emotional resonance of Clarke's status that drew her in, or was there something more substantial in Clarke's profile that connected with her own aspirations and dreams? 

Lexa spent hours dissecting every detail in their profiles, weighing not just the emotional but also the pragmatic aspects of each choice. She considered not just who they were on paper, but who they might be in her life while conceiving a child. As she mulled over her options, Lexa tried to separate her feelings about their alpha status from what each could potentially offer as a co-contributor to her child’s genetic and cultural heritage. 

By Thursday evening, a decision began to crystallize in her mind. Lexa realized that her choice needed to be based on a balance of emotional resonance and practical considerations, a decision that felt right both in her heart and her mind.  

Friday morning dawned with a sense of resolution for Lexa. She had made her decision, and though nerves fluttered in her stomach, she was ready to take the next step. Sitting at her dining room table with her phone in hand, she dialed the number for the agency, her finger lingering over the call button for a moment before she pressed it. 

"Marlene speaking, how may I assist you today?" came the familiar, professional voice from the other end. 

"Hi Marlene, it’s Lexa Woods," she responded, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of anxiety. "I’ve made my decision regarding the alpha. I wanted to discuss it with you and see what the next steps are." 

"That's great to hear, Lexa," Marlene replied warmly. "I know this has been a thoughtful process for you. Who have you decided to go with?" 

After a slight pause, filled with a momentary doubt, Lexa affirmed, "I’ve chosen Clarke." 

"Clarke, excellent choice," Marlene said. "She brings a unique perspective and strengths. What ultimately led you to this decision?" 

Lexa hesitated, feeling a brief resurgence of her earlier indecision. "Well, there’s a lot about Clarke that resonates with me, her background, her values... and I guess the fact that she's a female alpha adds another layer of connection. I just hope I’ve made the right choice," Lexa confessed, a hint of uncertainty lacing her words. 

"Choosing an alpha is always a significant and personal decision, Lexa. It’s normal to have some last-minute doubts, but it’s important that it feels right to you. Let’s arrange a meeting with Clarke. You two can discuss everything openly, and it will also be a chance for you to address any concerns you might have before moving forward." 

"That would be very helpful," Lexa agreed, feeling reassured by Marlene's calm and understanding tone. "I think meeting her will give me the clarity to move forward confidently." 

"Perfect," Marlene responded. "I’ll arrange for you both to meet and discuss the details. You’ll also have the opportunity to sign the contracts, ensuring everything is transparent and agreed upon. I’ll look for some potential dates and get back to you as soon as possible." 

"Thank you, Marlene," Lexa said, relief washing over her. "I appreciate all your help." 

"You’re welcome, Lexa. We're here to make sure that you are comfortable and confident in your decisions. I’ll be in touch very soon with some dates for the meeting," Marlene assured her. 

As Lexa ended the call, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. The decision was made, and a plan was in place. The thought of meeting Clarke and discussing the future brought a mix of excitement and a newfound peace. Lexa knew that whatever doubts she had would likely be settled once she and Clarke could sit down and talk face to face. 

Marlene had been efficient and considerate in her arrangements. She set the meeting for two weeks out, giving Lexa and Clarke ample time to prepare for their first encounter. The date was marked on Lexa’s calendar, each day inching closer filled with a blend of anticipation and nerves. 

Finally, the day of the meeting arrived. Lexa stood in front of her closet in the morning, her mind racing with the unusual complexity of choosing the right outfit. "What do you wear to a meeting with someone you are contractually going to be sleeping with in order to create a child?" she muttered to herself. The question was as surreal as her situation. 

After much deliberation, Lexa opted for something that struck a balance between professional and comfortable—an elegant blouse paired with well-fitted trousers. It was important to her that she present herself as both serious about the arrangement and approachable. 

Driving to the agency, Lexa’s hands were slightly shaking on the steering wheel. Her mind was a whirlwind of what-ifs and hopes. As she parked her car and walked toward the office building, she took deep, deliberate breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. 

The agency’s office was a space Lexa had become familiar with over the past weeks, but today, it seemed to hold a new form of gravity. Marlene greeted her warmly at the door, her smile reassuring. 

"Clarke just arrived. She’s waiting in the meeting room," Marlene informed her, leading the way. 

Lexa’s steps felt heavy yet determined as she approached the room. Marlene opened the door, and there sat Clarke, just as striking in person as she was in her photo. Her presence seemed to command the room, yet there was a softness in her eyes as she looked up and met Lexa’s gaze. 

"Lexa, meet Clarke. Clarke, this is Lexa," Marlene introduced. 

"Hi, Lexa," Clarke said, standing up to shake her hand. Her voice was calm, carrying a hint of warmth that eased some of Lexa's tension. 

"Hello, Clarke," Lexa replied, her voice steadier than she felt. The handshake was firm and brief, but Lexa felt a surprising jolt of connection—an electric mix of nerves and excitement. 

Marlene excused herself, leaving them to converse privately. "I’ll give you both some space to discuss. If you need anything, I'll be right outside," she said before closing the door gently behind her. 

In the quiet confines of the meeting room, the air thick with anticipation, Lexa and Clarke faced each other. Their initial nervousness was palpable, each aware of the significance and unusual nature of their meeting. Clarke, sensing the growing tension, decided it was time to steer the conversation towards more familiar ground. 

"So, Lexa," Clarke began, her tone casual yet curious, "Marlene didn't tell me much about your professional background. What do you do for a living?" 

Lexa, slightly surprised by the shift towards personal details, replied, "I'm an accountant. I spend most of my days surrounded by numbers and spreadsheets." 

Clarke chuckled softly, her eyes lighting up with a mix of amusement and relief at the shift to lighter conversation. "Oh, numbers and I have never been best friends. I was always the one in class who thought 'algebra' was a foreign language," she joked, a playful smile crossing her features. 

Lexa found herself smiling genuinely for the first time since the meeting began, the tension easing from her shoulders. Clarke's humor and light-heartedness were infectious, and it helped Lexa feel more at ease. Encouraged by the more relaxed atmosphere, Lexa decided to learn more about Clarke's interests. 

"I saw in your profile that you’re an artist," Lexa said, her tone shifting to one of genuine interest. "What kind of art do you do?" 

Clarke’s face brightened at the question, clearly passionate about her craft. "I work mostly with mixed media. I love exploring textures and layers—there’s something about the tactile process of creating something tangible that really excites me. It’s a way to express emotions that words can’t always capture." 

Lexa nodded, intrigued. "That sounds fascinating. Art seems like such a freeing way to express oneself." 

"It really is," Clarke agreed, her enthusiasm evident. "And every piece feels like a part of me, yet once it’s done, it belongs to the world, not just to me." 

Their conversation flowed more naturally now, the earlier awkwardness fading as they discussed their respective careers. Lexa felt a newfound appreciation for Clarke's artistic perspective, contrasting yet complementing her own methodical, numbers-driven approach. The dialogue not only bridged their understanding of each other’s professional lives but also built a deeper, more personal connection that eased their initial apprehensions about the arrangements ahead. 

After Lexa and Clarke had spent some time getting to know each other and discussing their backgrounds, the door to the conference room opened, and Marlene re-entered, a stack of papers in hand. She approached the table with a professional smile, setting down the documents before them. 

"Looks like you two have been having a good conversation," Marlene observed, taking a seat at the head of the table. She then shifted into her role as the facilitator of the process, her demeanor becoming more formal as she prepared to discuss the contracts and legalities. "I have here the draft contracts for your arrangement. Let's go through these together to ensure everything is clear and that all parties' expectations are met." 

Marlene spread the documents out so both Lexa and Clarke could see them. She began to go through each section meticulously, explaining the legal jargon and what it meant in practical terms. "This section here outlines the obligations of both parties, including medical examinations, confidentiality agreements, and the planned schedule for the conception process," she explained, pointing to each clause as she spoke. 

She then moved on to a critical part of the contract. "It's very important that both of you understand that this agreement is based on mutual consent and comfort levels. If at any point, for any reason, either of you feels that this arrangement isn't working out, you can withdraw from the contract." Marlene looked at both Lexa and Clarke earnestly, ensuring her point was clear. "This clause here provides the details on how to terminate the agreement respectfully and legally without facing any penalties." 

Marlene paused to allow Lexa and Clarke to absorb the information, checking their faces for any signs of confusion or concern. "Do either of you have any questions about this part, or is there anything in the agreement that you would like to discuss further or modify?" 

Lexa and Clarke exchanged a glance, both appreciating the agency's emphasis on their comfort and autonomy within the process. Clarke nodded, indicating she understood and appreciated the terms, "It's reassuring to know that there's flexibility if the circumstances change." 

Lexa echoed Clarke’s sentiment. "Yes, I agree. It's important to have a way out if things don’t feel right. It makes the whole arrangement feel safer, more considered." 

Marlene nodded, pleased with their responses. "Absolutely, we want to make sure you both feel secure and supported throughout this process." She then continued to go through the rest of the contract, covering financial arrangements, the handling of medical data, and the support services the agency would provide. 

As the meeting drew to a close, Marlene handed each of them a pen. "Take your time to read through everything once more on your own. If you’re ready, you can sign today, or you can take the contracts home and think things over. We want you to make a decision when you're completely ready." 

As Marlene finished outlining the terms and left the choice to sign immediately or take the contracts home for further consideration, Clarke turned her gaze towards Lexa, silently seeking her input on how to proceed. The moment was charged with significance; the decision to sign now would cement their agreement, setting them firmly on a path toward a shared, albeit unique, journey. 

Lexa held Clarke’s gaze for a moment, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. She could feel the flutter of nerves in her stomach, but beneath that, a steady current of resolve. This was what she wanted, and every interaction and discussion up to this point had only solidified her confidence in her choice. 

Finally, with a nod to herself, Lexa reached for the pen that Marlene had placed on the table. Her hand was steady as she picked it up, and with a decisive motion, she signed her name on the dotted line. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper seemed to echo in the room, marking a significant milestone in her journey to motherhood. 

Clarke watched Lexa sign, noting the determination and clarity in her actions. Seeing Lexa make her decision with such resolve helped dispel any lingering hesitations Clarke might have had. Inspired by Lexa's confidence and encouraged by the thoroughness and fairness of the contract, Clarke picked up her own pen. With a thoughtful look at Lexa, acknowledging her readiness and mutual commitment, Clarke signed her name as well. 

As they both put their pens down, a sense of relief and anticipation filled the room. Marlene, witnessing this, offered them both a warm, reassuring smile. "Thank you both for your trust and courage in this process. I’ll make sure everything is processed promptly, and I’ll be here to support you both through every step that follows." 

Lexa and Clarke exchanged a look, a silent acknowledgment of the journey they had just agreed to embark on together. There was a mutual understanding that while the road ahead would be uncharted and not without its challenges, they were now linked by a shared commitment to bring a new life into the world, each in their respective roles. 

As Lexa and Clarke gathered their belongings and prepared to leave the conference room, Marlene interjected with one final point of order, outlining the next steps in their newly formalized agreement. 

"Before you both go, I want to discuss the logistics of your first official meeting," Marlene began, her tone shifting back to her professional demeanor. "The agency has protocols in place to ensure the safety and comfort of all parties involved, especially during initial meetings." 

She pulled out a small tablet and tapped a few times on the screen, pulling up a schedule. "We prefer to arrange the meetings on neutral ground. It helps maintain privacy and provides a secure environment for both of you." Marlene looked up from her tablet, making sure she had both Lexa and Clarke’s attention. 

"For this purpose, we usually arrange for a hotel room. This setting not only ensures confidentiality but also allows you both to meet in a neutral, comfortable environment without the pressures or personal biases that might come from meeting in a more personal space," Marlene explained. She assured them that the agency had longstanding arrangements with a reputable hotel chain known for its discretion and high standards of service. 

"We’ll handle all the bookings and logistics. You won’t need to worry about any of the arrangements," she continued. "I’ll send you both the details and date options for your first meeting. You can choose what works best for both of you." 

Marlene’s explanation provided a clear framework for how the initial stages of their agreement would proceed, emphasizing the agency’s commitment to maintaining a professional and secure process. "Safety and comfort are our top priorities. We want to ensure that both of you feel secure and at ease during your meetings." 

Lexa and Clarke nodded in understanding, appreciating the thoroughness with which the agency was handling the situation. The idea of meeting in a hotel for the first few times made sense, and the agency’s attention to detail and safety was reassuring. 

"Once I have everything arranged, I will send you an email with all the information, including the date, time, and location of the hotel. You will both have access to the private suite, and agency staff will be available on-call, should you need any assistance during the meeting," Marlene concluded, her tone both serious and comforting. 

With everything laid out so clearly and professionally, Lexa and Clarke felt more confident about the steps ahead. They thanked Marlene for her assistance and left the office with a sense of readiness for the next phases of their journey together. The agency’s meticulous planning and support made a complex process seem manageable and secure. 

As soon as Lexa got back into her car, she couldn't resist the urge to share the events of the meeting with Anya. She quickly dialed her cousin, who picked up after just a couple of rings. 

"Hey, Lex, how did it go?" Anya's voice was eager but tinged with concern. 

"It was... good, really good," Lexa began, her voice carrying a mix of relief and excitement. "Clarke is nothing like I expected. She’s very grounded and seems genuinely interested in making sure this works out for the best." 

"Oh? And how does she look? Did she match up to her picture?" Anya asked, her tone playful yet probing. 

Lexa laughed softly, a blush creeping across her cheeks even though Anya couldn’t see it. "Yes, she looks just like her photo. But her eyes, Anya, they’re this striking shade of blue. It’s almost mesmerizing." 

There was a brief pause before Anya responded, her voice now carrying a note of caution. "Lex, remember this is a business arrangement. Don’t get carried away because of pretty eyes. You told me she’s there for the money, right?" 

Lexa sighed, knowing Anya was just looking out for her. "Yes, I know. And yes, the financial aspect is a part of this for her, like it is for many alphas. But she doesn’t make it feel transactional, you know? She's professional but also really considerate." 

Switching topics slightly, Lexa then shared more details about the arrangements that had been made for their upcoming interactions. "Marlene arranged for us to meet in a hotel. It’s a neutral place, which the agency has set up for safety and privacy. They’ve really thought of everything to make sure both parties feel secure." 

Anya listened intently, her initial skepticism giving way to understanding. "That sounds sensible. They seem to be handling things very professionally. Just... be careful, Lex. I know you, and I know how easily you can get attached." 

Lexa nodded to herself, taking in Anya’s advice. "I’ll be careful. I promise. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open—figuratively and literally," she added with a chuckle, trying to keep the mood light. 

"Good to hear," Anya replied, her tone softening. "Keep me updated, okay? And if you need to talk, anytime, I’m here." 

"Will do. Thanks, Anya. I really appreciate it," Lexa said, feeling grateful for having someone like Anya to confide in. 

With that, they ended the call, and Lexa sat for a moment in the quiet of her car, reflecting on the conversation. She felt a blend of caution and excitement—a cocktail of emotions that she would need to manage carefully as she navigated this uncharted path. 

Lexa stared at the computer screen, her eyes tracing over the details outlined in the email. The room at the Arkadia Hotel was booked under the agency's name, providing an added layer of privacy and discretion with the room number assigned to Lexa being "439". The preparations were meticulous, reflecting the seriousness and sensitivity of their upcoming encounter. 

As she absorbed the reality of the arrangement, Lexa's mind wandered to the intricate details of alpha and omega biology—a fundamental aspect that dictated the unique way they could conceive. The biological necessity for an alpha to 'knot' during intercourse to successfully conceive was an evolutionary trait, deeply embedded in their genetics. It was a process designed to enhance the probability of conception, ensuring that during the crucial moments, the alpha's body could maximize the chance of fertilizing the omega's egg. 

This biological imperative was at the forefront of Lexa's thoughts as she contemplated her meeting with Clarke. The concept was still somewhat surreal to her. On one hand, the scientific aspect of it made sense, and she respected the biological processes involved. On the other hand, facing the reality of engaging intimately with someone who was essentially a stranger, even with mutual agreement and understanding, was daunting. 

The part of Lexa that hesitated wasn't concerned with the logistics or the biological necessities—those were facts she had come to terms with when she decided on this path. Instead, it was the emotional aspect, the vulnerability of sharing such a personal experience with someone she hadn't known long. Yet, despite these reservations, the stronger part of her—the part driven by her deep desire to become a mother—was prepared to move forward. 

As she sat there, Lexa reminded herself why she had chosen this path. It wasn't just about fulfilling her desire to have a child; it was about doing so in a way that felt right to her, under terms she had carefully considered and agreed upon. Clarke, too, had her reasons for participating, and their prior meeting had laid a foundation of mutual respect and understanding. 

With each passing moment, Lexa's resolve grew stronger. She knew that the biological processes were just one part of the equation. The more significant component was her readiness to embrace the responsibilities and joys of motherhood. By the time she closed her laptop, Lexa felt a quiet confidence. She was ready for Saturday—not just to meet the biological demands of the process, but to take a significant step towards a future she had long envisioned for herself. 

Lexa arrived at the Arkadia Hotel promptly at 4 PM, her heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and resolve. The hotel's lobby was bustling with activity, but she navigated through it with a sense of purpose, her focus fixed on the task ahead. At the front desk, she confirmed her identity discreetly, referring only to the reservation number and the agency's name. The clerk handed her a key card with a polite, professional smile that didn't probe too deeply into the reasons for her stay. 

With key card in hand, Lexa made her way to her room, her steps measured and her mind racing. The hallways of the hotel were elegantly carpeted and softly lit, creating an atmosphere of privacy and tranquility that helped soothe her escalating anxiety. Each step brought her closer to a moment that might very well define her future. 

Standing before the door marked with the number 439, Lexa paused, her hand hovering over the key card reader. She knew that behind this door, preparations would need to be made, both mentally and physically, before Clarke's arrival. The agency had arranged for Clarke to arrive later, giving Lexa ample time to acclimate to the environment, to settle her thoughts, and to prepare herself emotionally and physically for what was to come. 

All she had to do was swipe the key card and step inside. Taking a deep breath, Lexa steadied her trembling hand and slid the card through the reader. The light blinked green, and a soft click signaled her access. Pushing the door open, she stepped into the room. 

The room was tastefully decorated, neutral tones and soft lighting crafting a calming environment. There was an understated elegance to it, conducive to both comfort and privacy. Lexa let her gaze sweep over the space—the king bed, the sitting area with its inviting sofa, and a small work desk that faced a large window with curtains drawn. 

Closing the door behind her, Lexa allowed herself a few moments to just stand and absorb the reality of her surroundings. This was the setting where she hoped her dream of motherhood would begin to materialize. It felt surreal, yet incredibly real at the same time. 

She placed her small overnight bag on the bed, unpacking a few personal items to make the space feel more familiar. Lexa then spent some time simply sitting on the edge of the bed, collecting her thoughts. She reflected on her journey to this point—the decisions made, the fears confronted, and the hopes cherished. 

As the time ticked closer to 6 PM, Lexa prepared herself, changing into something comfortable yet appropriate for the occasion. She reminded herself why she was here, focusing on the positive outcomes she hoped to achieve. This was about more than just the mechanics of conception; it was about taking control of her destiny and shaping the future she desired. 

By the time Lexa heard a knock at the door just after 6 PM, signaling Clarke’s arrival, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and clarity. She was ready to open the door, not just to Clarke, but to the possibilities that lay ahead. 

Lexa walked to the door, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. She reached out, her hand almost trembling as she turned the handle. The door swung open, and there stood Clarke, her presence as compelling in person as it had been in their previous meeting. Clarke offered Lexa a shy, somewhat tentative smile—a softening of her usually confident demeanor that made her seem more approachable in this intensely personal setting. 

"Hi, Lexa," Clarke greeted with a quiet warmth, her voice carrying a hint of nervous anticipation. 

"Hello, Clarke. Come in," Lexa replied, stepping aside to allow Clarke entry into the room. Her heart was beating fast, but she managed to maintain a composed exterior. 

Clarke stepped past the threshold, her eyes quickly scanning the room as she entered. The soft lighting and tasteful decor seemed to impress her, and a small, appreciative smile appeared on her face. "This is a nice room," she commented, her tone carrying genuine approval. "The agency really does ensure comfort, don't they?" 

"Yes, they do," Lexa responded, closing the door behind Clarke. She felt a slight relief that the initial moment of greeting was over, and now they could proceed with the reason they were both there. "They try to make this as comfortable as possible for everyone involved." 

Clarke nodded, setting down a small bag she had brought with her. She looked around, taking in the environment that would play a significant role in the next steps they were about to take. The room, was designed to be calming, a sanctuary from the outside world and the weight of the decisions made within its confines. 

Turning back to Lexa, Clarke's initial shyness seemed to melt away slightly as she became more accustomed to the setting. "I appreciate the effort to make everything feel serene. It helps," she admitted, meeting Lexa’s eyes with a more steady gaze. 

Lexa nodded, feeling a similar gratitude for the care taken to create a space that respected the gravity of their meeting. "I agree. It makes things a little easier," she said, managing a small smile. 

There was a brief pause as both women acknowledged the situation, the room serving as a silent witness to their agreement and the hopes tied to it. Then, almost instinctively, Lexa gestured towards the small sitting area. "Would you like something to drink? Maybe some water or coffee before we... start?" 

Clarke agreed, appreciating the offer to ease into the moment more gently. "Water would be great, thank you," she said, her voice steady but still carrying a trace of the nerves they both felt. 

As Lexa went to get the water, the air between them filled with a quiet acknowledgment of the partnership they were about to embark upon, each aware of the significance of their actions, yet comforted by the shared understanding and the meticulously arranged environment that surrounded them. 

Clarke made her way to the sofa, settling into the soft cushions with a slight exhale that betrayed her underlying nervousness. Lexa opened the mini-fridge, retrieving a bottle of water which she handed to Clarke with a gentle, reassuring smile. The small, ordinary gesture seemed to anchor them both amidst the swirling emotions of the occasion. 

Lexa lingered by the edge of the sitting area, her hands clasped in front of her, unsure of her next move. The room, while comfortable and inviting, suddenly felt too vast, filled with unspoken expectations and the weight of their impending decision. 

Clarke noticed Lexa's hesitation and patted the space next to her on the sofa. "Why don't you sit here?" she suggested, her voice carrying a soft but clear invitation. "It might be more comfortable to talk this way." 

Lexa nodded, grateful for Clarke's lead. She moved to the sofa, taking a seat at a respectful distance that still allowed for private conversation. She could feel the warmth of Clarke's presence beside her, a comforting reminder that they were in this together. 

Once settled, Clarke unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and took a sip, then turned slightly to face Lexa. She initiated some light conversation, perhaps recognizing the need to ease into the deeper discussions that lay ahead. "So, how was your day before coming here? Anything interesting happen?" 

Lexa took a moment to switch gears from the intense internal monologue she had been engaged in all day. "Oh, it was pretty routine," she replied, managing a small chuckle. "Just some last-minute work stuff and mentally preparing for today. What about you? Did you find time to do any art today?" 

Clarke shook her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips. "Not today, unfortunately. But I did spend some time in the studio yesterday. It helps clear my mind, you know?" 

"Yeah, I can imagine," Lexa responded, feeling the conversation begin to flow more naturally between them. "Art seems like a great way to express and maybe even sort through feelings, especially with everything that's going on." 

Clarke nodded, visibly relaxed as the topic turned to her passion for art. "Exactly. It's not just about creating something beautiful or interesting. It's also therapeutic. It gives me a space to process things—a bit like an escape, but also a way to confront emotions directly." 

As they continued talking, the atmosphere between Lexa and Clarke began to shift subtly. Clarke's discussion about her art opened a window into her inner world, showing Lexa the passion and depth that motivated her work. The conversation seemed to flow effortlessly now, with each topic leading seamlessly into the next, covering everything from favorite artists to the influence of different art forms on society. 

The air lightened around them, filled with shared laughter and nods of understanding, as the initial awkwardness melted away under the warmth of genuine connection. They found common ground in unexpected places and differed in others, which only added layers to their interaction, making it richer, more textured. 

About 30 minutes into their conversation, as they were discussing the emotional power of color in visual art, Clarke reached out and gently took Lexa's hand. Lexa felt a sudden impulse to retract her hand, startled by the unexpected contact. The moment hung between them, charged with the potential for deeper connection or withdrawal. But as she met Clarke’s eyes, Lexa saw the intention there—soft, unassuming, aiming to add a layer of intimacy and reassurance to their conversation. 

Understanding Clarke’s gesture as an effort to bridge the gap between them further, Lexa relaxed and allowed her hand to stay in Clarke’s gentle grasp. The touch was comforting, grounding, and it brought a new level of openness to their dialogue. 

Clarke’s thumb brushed lightly over Lexa’s hand, a soothing motion that seemed to anchor them both more firmly in the present moment. "Art is my way of understanding the world, and sometimes of escaping it," Clarke shared, her voice soft but resonant. "It's personal, yes, but sharing it feels like extending a part of myself to others, hoping they might understand or feel something too." 

Lexa nodded, feeling the truth of those words resonate within her. "I think that's brave—putting a piece of yourself into your work and then putting it out there for the world to see and experience." 

The atmosphere between Lexa and Clarke thickened with unspoken promises as the moments stretched on, each second building upon the last. Clarke's gaze intensified, conveying a mix of curiosity and boldness as she leaned in closer to Lexa. Her movements were deliberate, aimed at closing the distance between them with a cautious yet clear intent. When their eyes met, there was a silent exchange, a question posed and an answer given without words. 

Clarke's lips touched Lexa's softly at first, a gentle test of boundaries that was sweet and tentative. The world around them seemed to pause, holding its breath along with them. Lexa's response was subtle but encouraging, enough to spur Clarke on. Pulling back slightly, Clarke searched Lexa’s eyes once more, seeking reassurance. What she found was a quiet acceptance, a willingness to explore the emotions that were beginning to simmer between them. 

Emboldened by Lexa's silent affirmation, Clarke leaned in once more, this time with a firmer resolve. Her lips met Lexa's with more purpose, conveying a deeper intent. The kiss deepened, driven by a blend of newfound affection and a shared desire to discover more about each other through this new, unspoken language. 

As the intensity of their kisses grew, so did their need for each other's closeness. The initial cautious exploration gave way to a more passionate expression of their burgeoning connection. Clarke’s hands found their way to Lexa's cheeks, holding her gently yet firmly, anchoring her as they navigated this new terrain together. Lexa responded in kind, her hands threading through Clarke's hair, pulling her closer, deepening their embrace. 

The kisses evolved, becoming a profound dialogue of their lips and breaths, each kiss building upon the last, growing more fervent, more insistent. The connection sparked between them ignited something deeper, a flame that had been cautiously kindled now threatening to burn brightly. 

Eventually, the need for air forced them apart, and they pulled back, each catching their breath, their foreheads resting against each other. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them, heavy and warm. The room around them came back into focus slowly, the sounds of the city beyond the walls creeping back into their awareness. 

Clarke and Lexa remained close, neither willing to break the connection entirely. Their eyes met again, this time reflecting a mix of wonder and a hint of vulnerability after sharing such a potent moment. The initial purpose of their arrangement still loomed in the background, but what had transpired between them now added a profound layer of intimacy and complexity to their relationship. This was no longer just about an agreement or a process—it was about them, here and now, together in a way that was unexpectedly profound. 

In the quiet aftermath of their breathless exchange, the air between Clarke and Lexa was charged with a new, palpable energy. Clarke, sensing the shift in their dynamic, slowly stood up from the sofa. There was a silent invitation in her posture, a gentle yet unmistakable beckoning as she extended her hand toward Lexa. 

Lexa watched Clarke's movement, a myriad of emotions flickering across her face. There was a moment of hesitation, a brief internal debate visible in her eyes as she considered Clarke's offered hand. It symbolized more than just a physical gesture; it was an invitation to continue exploring the depth of connection they had unexpectedly discovered. 

With a subtle nod to herself, as if making a decision, Lexa placed her hand in Clarke’s. The contact was electric, reigniting the spark that had flared between them moments before. Pulled by a force that felt both thrilling and inevitable, Lexa stood, bringing her face to face with Clarke once again. 

They stood there, hand in hand, close enough to feel each other's breath. The world around them seemed to fade, narrowing down to the space they shared. Lexa's eyes locked onto Clarke's, searching, questioning, and finding answers in the deep blue that stared back at her with an intensity that matched her own. 

Without breaking eye contact, Clarke leaned in, her movements deliberate and full of intention. Lexa’s breath hitched, her body and mind anticipating the contact that was to come. As their lips met again, the kiss was different from the ones before. This time it was charged with the energy of standing together, of the decision to step into this space as equals, partners in whatever was unfolding between them. 

The kiss deepened naturally, their bodies instinctively moving closer until they were embracing fully, the world around them completely forgotten. Clarke's hands moved to Lexa’s lower back, pulling her closer, while Lexa’s arms wrapped around Clarke’s neck, anchoring herself to the moment, to Clarke. 

In that kiss, they communicated more than could be expressed in words. It was a promise, a commitment not just to the process they were undertaking but an acknowledgment of the vulnerability and strength found in true intimacy. 

As the intensity of their kisses deepened, Clarke gently guided Lexa towards the bed, their hands intertwined, conveying trust and mutual desire. The steps were few but filled with anticipation, each one marking a deeper commitment to the moment and to each other. As they reached the edge of the bed, their lips barely parted, sustaining the connection that had now become their world. 

Standing beside the bed, Clarke’s hands slowly found the edge of Lexa’s shirt. Each touch was careful, measured, filled with an unspoken question that Lexa answered with a slight nod, a breathless "yes" whispered between kisses. Clarke’s fingers trembled slightly—not with hesitation but with the gravity of the moment, aware of the trust Lexa was placing in her. 

With each piece of clothing that Clarke gently removed, Lexa felt a layer of her defenses dissolve, not just exposing her skin but opening up deeper parts of herself. Clarke’s touch was reverent, filled with care and attentiveness that spoke volumes. She took her time, ensuring that each movement, each kiss that followed the removal of a garment, honored the vulnerability and strength Lexa displayed. 

Lexa, for her part, felt an overwhelming sense of being cared for. It was not just the physical undressing but the way Clarke managed every action with such gentleness—it made her feel cherished in a way she hadn’t anticipated in this arrangement. Each kiss Clarke planted on her newly exposed skin wasn't just sensual but comforting, affirming their connection and Clarke’s respect for her. 

As Lexa stood there, with Clarke’s hands skillfully and tenderly ensuring her comfort, she found herself more assured with each passing second. The vulnerability of being undressed was overshadowed by the security Clarke’s demeanor provided. It was a strange, beautiful dichotomy—standing there exposed yet feeling entirely safe. 

When Lexa was finally free of her clothing, Clarke paused, giving her a moment to adjust. She looked into Lexa’s eyes, seeking any signs of discomfort or withdrawal. Seeing none, only a quiet gratitude and trust, Clarke leaned in for another kiss, this one conveying her appreciation for Lexa’s trust. 

They moved together onto the bed, their movements synchronized, a dance guided by mutual understanding and the desire to maintain the emotional connection that had become as vital as their physical one.  

As they shifted together on the soft expanse of the bed, Clarke carefully positioned herself between Lexa's legs. The air around them was thick with anticipation, yet Clarke made no immediate move to continue. Instead, she paused, her eyes lifting to meet Lexa's in a silent, searching communication. The intensity of her gaze was soft but intent, probing gently for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty in Lexa's expression. 

Lexa, feeling Clarke’s gaze upon her, understood the unspoken question hanging between them. The world seemed to hold its breath as she considered her feelings, the warmth of Clarke's body an anchoring presence. In Clarke's eyes, she saw not just desire but a profound care and patience. It was clear Clarke was ready to stop at the slightest hint of reluctance, ready to put Lexa’s emotional well-being above all else. 

Feeling a surge of trust and a deep, affirming connection to Clarke, Lexa reached up, her hand gently caressing Clarke’s cheek. Her touch was tender, meant to reassure as much as to give consent. With a soft smile that spoke volumes, Lexa nodded slightly, her eyes conveying her readiness and appreciation for Clarke’s considerate approach. 

Clarke, receiving the clear, affirmative response she had sought, allowed a relieved and grateful smile to curve her lips. But still, she moved slowly, maintaining eye contact as she gradually resumed closing the distance between them. Her actions were deliberate and unhurried, ensuring Lexa remained comfortable. 

As they lay together on the bed, the world outside the soft cocoon of their room seemed distant and unimportant. Clarke's kisses were tender and deliberate, focusing solely on Lexa's lips with a gentle insistence that spoke volumes. Each touch was filled with the silent communication that had become their language—a language of looks that asked and answered without words. 

Clarke, ever attentive to Lexa's comfort and readiness, made no attempt to escalate beyond their kissing. She was content to explore the contours of Lexa's lips, the soft exchanges grounding and deepening their connection. The slow, purposeful pace she set was like a melody, soft and rhythmic, designed to soothe and affirm. 

Lexa, enveloped in the warmth of Clarke's nearness, felt a blossoming desire to move forward, driven not just by physical need but by the emotional intimacy they were weaving with each kiss. Feeling a growing urgency, Lexa began to gently shift her hips beneath Clarke, a subtle movement but a clear indication of her readiness to deepen their physical connection. Her movements were hesitant at first, testing Clarke’s response, seeking to communicate her desires without disrupting the harmony of their current engagement. 

Clarke, ever so perceptive to Lexa’s cues, felt the gentle undulation of Lexa's hips against her. She paused, their lips parting slightly as she sought Lexa's eyes. In them, Clarke found not just the green light she needed but a spark of deeper desire, a silent plea to bridge the gap between affection and passion. 

Sensing Lexa's readiness, Clarke allowed a moment for them both to acknowledge the shift in their dynamic. She gave a small, affirming smile, her hands framing Lexa's face as if to say she understood, and she was there with her, every step of the way. 

Encouraged by Lexa's clear communication, Clarke deepened their kiss, her movements becoming more assured, more aligned with the rising tide of their desires. Her hands, which had been content to cradle Lexa’s face, now wandered with purpose, tracing paths down her neck and shoulders, mapping the terrain of her skin with a reverent touch. 

Lexa responded in kind, her own hands exploring Clarke’s back, pulling her closer, reducing the space between them to nothing. Their movements became a dance, a give and take that spoke of mutual desire —a dance that promised to carry them forward into the next chapter of their night together. 

As the depth of their connection grew more intense, Clarke remained acutely aware of the trust Lexa had placed in her. With every move she made, Clarke was considerate, her actions measured and gentle to ensure she maintained the sanctity of that trust. When the moment came to deepen their physical connection further, Clarke approached it with a profound sense of responsibility and care. 

With a reassuring look into Lexa's eyes, Clarke sought silent permission to continue, waiting for a nod of assent before proceeding. Lexa's response, a soft affirmation accompanied by a nervous but trusting smile, gave Clarke the green light she needed. Very slowly, Clarke began to slide closer, merging their bodies in the most intimate of ways. 

Clarke's movements were slow, almost painstakingly so, as she carefully navigated this new level of closeness. She was acutely conscious of Lexa's reactions, watching her face for any sign of discomfort or hesitation. As Clarke gradually slid into Lexa, she made sure to control her movements, giving Lexa time to adjust to the new sensations. 

"Are you alright?" Clarke whispered, her voice low and soothing.  

Lexa, feeling the care with which Clarke moved, nodded, her initial tension easing under Clarke's attentive gaze. "Yes," she breathed out, a hint of relief in her voice as she found the sensation different but not unpleasant, her body slowly adapting to Clarke's presence. 

Clarke paused, allowing Lexa a moment to get accustomed to the feeling, her hand gently caressing Lexa's arm in a comforting gesture. The room was filled with a tense but tender energy, each aware of the significance of the moment. 

As Lexa relaxed more, Clarke continued, still cautious, moving in a rhythm dictated by Lexa's responses. Every slight adjustment, every careful motion was made with Lexa’s comfort in mind. Clarke’s focus was entirely on Lexa, ensuring that her experience was as gentle and loving as possible. 

As Clarke and Lexa continued their intimate connection, the intensity of their movements gradually built up. Clarke, ever attentive to Lexa's comfort and reactions, had initially maintained a slow and gentle rhythm, ensuring that every motion was measured and considerate. However, as the moments passed, the natural progression of their physical responses began to drive the pace. 

Clarke could feel the building pressure of her own impending release, a physical response that would soon reach its peak. She knew it was crucial for Lexa to be ready for her knot. This required a careful balance, speeding up her movements to match the escalating intensity while ensuring Lexa was not overwhelmed. 

With a deep breath to steady her nerves and focus her intentions, Clarke began to gradually increase the rhythm of her hips, her movements becoming more deliberate. "Lexa," she murmured softly, her voice a blend of desire and concern, "I'm getting close. Just let me know if you need me to slow down, okay?" 

Lexa, caught up in the rising tide of sensation, nodded, her breath coming in quicker gasps. She placed her hands on Clarke's hips, a silent signal of her engagement and readiness. Lexa's eyes, wide and focused, locked with Clarke's, communicating her trust and willingness to continue. 

Clarke, reassured by Lexa's response, carefully monitored her own body's signals while also watching Lexa's reactions closely. She adjusted her movements, aligning them with Lexa's subtle cues and the increasing demands of her own body. The tempo of her hips quickened in a controlled manner, each thrust deeper and more purposeful. 

As Clarke navigated this critical juncture, her focus was split between her own physiological responses and Lexa's comfort. She was acutely aware of the importance of timing and coordination in this moment for achieving their goal. 

The air hummed with the rhythm of their synchronized breaths, the faint whisper of skin gliding against skin. Clarke felt the imminent onset of her climax, the pressure mounting inexorably. She continued to move with a mixture of urgency and care, prepared to guide both herself and Lexa through the intensity of the experience. 

Their connection, both physical and emotional, had deepened throughout their encounter, each moment building upon the last to create a profound bond. As Clarke approached her peak, she held Lexa's gaze, seeking and finding the reassurance she needed to let go, trusting that Lexa was with her every step of the way. 

As the crescendo of Clarke's movements reached its peak, the inevitable moment of release washed over her with overwhelming intensity. Her body tensed, every muscle straining under the force of her climax. The world narrowed to the profound connection between them, a visceral link that pulsed with each beat of her heart. 

Overwhelmed by the surge of sensations, Clarke's strength waned, and she could no longer support herself. Gently, she collapsed onto Lexa, her breath ragged and heavy, echoing in the quiet of the room. Her body molded against Lexa's, a perfect fit that spoke volumes of their physical and emotional synchrony throughout this intimate journey. 

After her release, Clarke sought to maintain their closeness, turning her face towards Lexa's neck. She pressed soft kisses there, near Lexa's pulse point where she could feel the rapid beat of Lexa's heart against her lips. Clarke’s breath warmed Lexa’s skin, her exhales becoming slower and more measured as she gradually regained her composure. 

The room was filled with a palpable sense of completion and tranquility, the lingering tension dissolving into a peaceful stillness. Lexa murmured gently into Clarke's ear, her voice low and soothing, "Thank you," a simple phrase that carried the weight of her appreciation for Clarke’s participation in such a profound moment. 

Lexa, feeling Clarke's weight comfortably against her, wrapped her arms around Clarke, holding her close. She responded in kind, her own breathing syncing with Clarke’s as they both relaxed into the afterglow. Lexa’s fingers trailed softly down Clarke’s back, grounding her with gentle, reassuring touches that conveyed her own deep sense of connection and care. 

[archonsoflove]

His love language | part 1

featuring: alhaitham, zhongli, kaveh x gender neutral! reader

{words of affirmation}

Alhaitham is a quiet soul. Late nights are spent with parchment paper illuminated by warm candlelight. And in these quiet moments he finds himself writing letters to you. Your travels to Fontaine for research have left him noticing your absence, carving a space hollow in his heart until your return. 

I can never say it enough, but I adore you, and wish you the safest of travels. Come back to me in one piece. The letter he gave to you before your departure two days prior.

I find myself thinking of you more often once the sun sets. Busy days give way to night, and my mind is no longer filled with work, but of you, and wondering what sights you are seeing without me beside you. This is what he writes this particular evening.

He seals the letter with a wax seal, intricate lettering on the front addressed to the nation across the mountains. If he could write a million more poems, prose and letters, he would, knowing you would read every single one of them. 

•

{quality time}

Evenings with Zhongli are spent walking through the Harbour. Lanterns spill golden light onto your faces, and whenever he catches your eye, his breath hitches, words leaving him completely. 

After years of experiencing and feeling, he is certain you are the love he had been searching for all this time. 

He speaks of legends long gone, and old friends from decades past. And if you could, you would listen to him for as long as he is able to weave stories into being. 

Tea in the mornings is brewed to perfection. You wake to Zhongli puttering in the kitchen, the fresh smell of mint and honey in the air rousing you from sleep. Silk sheets brush against naked skin as you sit down – at his stubborn request – to try his tediously perfected blend. 

The sun leaking through a window leaves him entranced, and he can not help but kiss you tenderly, sweet tea on your lips and between tongues. Peaceful mornings like these, where you both have all the time in the world to bask in each other’s presence is what you love most.  

•

{giving gifts}

Kaveh is sincere and giving to a fault. Silver bracelets, spices and light novels brought home from international projects are the least of your worries now. Returning from a project in the desert with a small desert fox bundled up in Kaveh’s cloak tells you all you need to know. 

This time, his gift is very different and very much alive.

“I know you said we weren’t ready to adopt, but maybe, just maybe….” Kaveh steps cautiously into the living room, handing the bundle over to you tentatively. “Maybe we can keep this little one?”

“Oh, Kaveh…” you sigh in both awe and exasperation. The little bundle wriggles in your grasp and a small head pops out. Tan ears flop out first, before a pointy black nose is nuzzling against your hand. 

“A fox!” You couldn’t contain the smile fighting against your scowl. “Kaveh…how did you even catch this one?”

Kaveh gives you a relieved laugh, a light flush high on his cheekbones. “They followed me home from the desert. I think they lost their mother. I simply couldn’t leave them there!”

“They?” your eyes widen. “There are more?”

Later that evening, Alhaitham knocks on your door, a box in hand. Sure enough there are two more foxes. It seemed your family of two was now five, and you couldn’t help but think that it was just the perfect number.

-------- 》 Part 2

MASTERLIST

[ashmouthbooks]

what kind of man doesn't & better than your best by menocchio, also known as 'road boys' (or it was when it was being posted and I was reading!).

I decided to continue down the design path I took with Tucked!, printing titles directly onto book cloth and using single-colour endpapers. My second project was actually bootstrapping, but I messed up that binding so much I didn't want to share it at first - one day I might cut the text block out of the case, re-do the case and case it in again, to fix all the problems I had. I do console myself with the fact my colour and cover paper choices were on point, at least. check out the mad 80s/90s energy of this, I'm in love. (I'm pretty sure I had a tracksuit in the early 90s in those exact colours.)

what kind of man doesn't and better than your best are a series so I wanted them to match. I chose yellow/orange as the colours for wkomd because of how when I started reading it, the image seared into my mind was that of a hot and golden California sun. for btyb I went with a dark green and blue because it's a kk3 rewrite, and I associate it very strongly with bonsai so I wanted a more down-to-earth colour palette for it. as it happened I had Dubletta (same brand bookcloth as for Tucked!) in those colours so it was an easy choice.

specs and process photos under cut

bootstrapping

Typeset in Charter. Printed on 100gsm 100% recycled eco-craft oatmeal paper and bound in seafoam blue bookcloth of dubious origin (possibly Windsor, a tissue-backed rayon) and paper from designed by Kelly Hyatt 2019 and sold by LAGOM DESIGN, over 2mm boards with Daler-Rowney Canford Fuchsia 150gsm as ends. 254 pages

what kind of man doesn't

Typeset in Charter. Printed on 80gsm 100% recycled Context Natural 80 paper and bound in Dubletta Yellow Orange 3272, a woven cotton on acid-free paper backing, over 2mm boards with Daler-Rowney Canford Buttercup 150gsm as ends. 360 pages

better than your best

Typeset in Charter. Printed on 80gsm 100% recycled Context Natural 80 paper and bound in Dubletta Duck Egg Blue 3267, a woven cotton on acid-free paper backing, over 2mm boards with Daler-Rowney Canford Sky Blue 150gsm as ends. 744 pages

so many things went wrong with the bootstrapping binding, starting with...my printer deciding to do an adjustment thing and me forgetting about this, so when I put in the carefully cut and measured book cloth sheet in, it printed...like this:

I should've recognised it for the Omen it was.

I redid it, and then between measuring and cutting the boards for the case and casing in, the textblock swelled (or I measured wrong?) which meant the textblock was pressing against the insides of the hinges, making them look bulky and gross instead of crisp and square. and also, the cover paper I used didn't take the moisture from the PVA well AT ALL so it instantly wrinkled and could not be smoothed out hard as I tried, so the cover is just. wrinkled now. I also somehow managed to lay it down askew so the cover paper is not parallel (notice the overlap differences between the bottom and top of the front cover).

as if that wasn't enough, the logo on the spine is off centre too! sheesh. not to mention the endpapers! I somehow missed an edge curling over and so it...glued in place like this. and the corresponding corner has a starch paste stain now.

I was so mad about it all that when I put it in to press, I faced it away from me. think about what you did, asshole

in beautiful contrast, almost* nothing went wrong with wkomd and btyb!

*I accidentally glued the spine piece down to wkomd incorrectly so I had to reprint that book cloth and cut a new spine piece. I tried to gently cut the spine piece off the original book cloth to see if I could re-use the book cloth, but I just cut through the cloth and also left a layer of board on it in places so, no, lol. I did salvage the back and front parts of the cloth to use in other projects and only discarded the spine piece. it could've been a lot worse.

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 9

Trend

Ford’s eyes were level with the workbench, laser-focused on the syringe hovering above a petri dish. With a steady hand, he depressed the plunger, releasing a thin stream of blue liquid into the sample. It spread and mingled with the solution inside in a dance of color and chemistry. Each movement was precise, honed by countless hours of practice—methodical, mechanical. When the syringe was empty, he set it down with a deliberate gentleness, careful not to disturb the delicate array of glass beakers and instruments surrounding him.

Leaning back in his chair, Ford pulled off his latex gloves with a sharp snap, tossing them onto a nearby table cluttered with crumpled notes and abandoned experiments. He rubbed his eyes, fatigue creeping in like an unwelcome visitor, but the persistent hum of the fluorescent lights and the bitter edge of his fourth cup of coffee— or maybe this was the fifth—kept him tethered. The motions of each task had become second nature, a rhythm that promised completion yet led only to more. He reached for the ashtray, retrieving the half-burned cigarette teetering on its edge, and took a quick puff as he scratched a few lines in his notebook, the ink flowing freely from the heavy-weight ball point, smooth like the thoughts racing in his head. Without thinking, he pushed himself back and spun the chair, the metal wheels screeching against the floor, a fleeting disruption in the otherwise sterile air.

Standing, he faced the bulletin board, his index finger absently scraping against the stubble on his chin. His eyes darted over the scattered notes and data points pinned in haphazard rows, each one a thread in the complex tapestry of his research. He lingered on a photograph of the field site before his gaze shifted to a graph detailing the energy readings. “The field anomalies here…” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “They’re still not aligning with the projections. Something’s off.”

He turned, moving toward one of the machines lining the wall closest to his desk, fingers deftly adjusting the dials, each click echoing the mounting frustration in his chest.

“It’s not the data that’s off,” Bill’s voice chimed in, low but steady, wrapping around Ford like a familiar cloak. “There’s a pattern here you’re just not seeing yet. Keep going.”

Ford grumbled, rubbing his temple with his knuckles as he puffed little clouds of smoke through his nose, eyes glued to the graph. He leaned back over the desk, resting his weight on his hands as low, frustrated groan escaped his lips. “I’m looking at the raw numbers,” he replied, the objective tone barely masking the irritation simmering beneath. He swept a few sheets aside, fingers landing on a list of different data points. He tapped the page, muttering under his breath. “The interference spike is too irregular—it doesn’t fit any of the variables we’ve accounted for.”

His foot looped around the bottom of his chair, pulling it under him as he sank back into it, the familiar contours welcoming yet unyielding. He grabbed a different pen from the cup in the corner of the desk, the ink gliding across the page as he scribbled out several points, each stroke of the pen a mix of determination and desperation. The dance of numbers and patterns was his life, but the rhythm had been off all week, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something vital was slipping past his sight.

A faint pressure ghosted over Ford’s wrist, a familiar nudge. Not quite controlling, but enough to make Ford aware of Bill’s presence. The pen in his hand twitched, his grip loosening as if someone else were guiding it to stop his scribbling. “Think broader,” Bill said, his voice calm, instructive. “You’re locking in on specifics too early...”

Ford’s hand moved on instinct, flipping through a different stack of papers he hadn’t touched in over a day. His brow furrowed as he glanced at the notes Bill had directed him toward; a detail of a minor electromagnetic variation he had dismissed earlier. Without thinking, he circled a number with his pen, feeling the nudge once again. “Wait,” Ford muttered, leaning closer to the paper. “This discrepancy… If we adjust the range of interference just slightly—maybe about… three millimeters—” he paused, eyes darting back to the board, “it could recalibrate the field to match the earlier readings.”

“Getting warmer,” Bill replied, his voice steady, edging with approval. “Focus less on the noise, more on the trend. We need those broader parameters to stabilize the field before you get too granular.”

Ford exhaled sharply. “You make it sound easy,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s because you’re the one doing the grunt work,” Bill quipped. “But you’re making progress. Rerun those calculations and let’s see.”

Ford’s fingers danced over the keys of the nearby computer, inputting the data and adjustments Bill had prompted him toward. He didn’t speak for a moment, his focus sharp on screen while the hum of mechanical tabulations fill the room. The lines on the monitor shifted, recalculating the field metrics.

“There.” Ford stepped back, crossing his arms. “We’ve narrowed it down. If these adjustments hold, it might stabilize the entire sequence.”

“There you go,” Bill encouraged. “This is what we needed. Now we just have to maintain control long enough to manipulate them consistently.”

Ford nodded, scribbling a few more quick notes into his journal, the scratch of pen on paper the only sound in the quiet lab. He paused for a moment, his pen hovering above the page as he felt something—an odd pressure, a familiar sensation like a weight leaning against his shoulder. He glanced sideways, a small smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you… using me as an armrest?” he remarked, the amusement in his voice breaking through his earlier tension. His brow raised slightly, eyes flicking to the empty space beside him. “You know I know you’re not actually here, right?”

Bill’s voice was in the same ear, smooth as ever, with a casual indifference Ford had come to expect. “I’m part of this process whether I’m standing next to you or not, Sixer,” Bill replied, his tone nonchalant. Ford could almost picture him—leaning back with that air of superiority, probably examining his nails as he spoke, an idiosyncrasy Ford had noticed—and found endearing.

I’m just takin’ her easy until I’m needed,” Bill said, his voice settling over the room, soft and velvety, like he had all the time in the world. There was an ease to him, a confidence that wrapped around Ford. “You work better when you feel like I’m around—admit it. The semblance of realism? Does wonders for morale.”

Ford didn’t need to see him to know Bill was grinning. It was that slow, sly kind of grin, the one that always hovered just under the surface of his face. “After all, I’m only here to… expedite things.”

Ford rolled his eyes, though the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips. He reached up to adjust his glasses as he leaned back in his chair. “Expediting, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now? Because from where I’m sitting, sounds a lot like backseat driving.”

“Oh please, I’m a regular Lapérouse,” Bill retorted, voice brimming with that sharp, amused edge.

Ford let out a quiet chuckle, a small huff of air escaping his lips as he shook his head. His attention turned and then his chair, his eyes flicking between his notes and entering the data into the computer, the blue light casting shadows across his tired face. A small smile came over him again and he glanced away from the screen. “Didn’t Lapérouse got lost at sea?”

“Watch it, Pines,” Bill warned, his tone playfully threatening. The tone that made Ford straighten up. He could feel the electricity in the air before what felt like the tip of a finger brushed down his cheek, pushing his attention back to the screen. The touch sent a shiver along Ford’s spine. “Save that brainpower for the lab...” he jeered, before his voice lowered to a whisper in Ford’s ear. “I can think of so many better uses for that smart mouth.” he added with a purr. Ford couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face, his lip caught between his teeth as heat crept up his neck, his fingers moving diligently over the keys. 

A softer warmth bloomed in his chest, a strange but welcome sense of contentment. It spread slowly, the steady flicker of a fire catching its rhythm, ignited by the feeling of Bill’s presence, lingering just over his shoulder. Bill was never far away. He wasn’t physically there, but Ford could feel him. His eyes flickered over the chaotic sprawl of the lab—multicolored tubes snaking across the counters, stacks of paper strewn in haphazard piles like scattered thoughts. There was a method to the madness, but only they could see the pattern, the ideas threading together, constellations in a sprawling sky. He turned his focus back to the task at hand, the screen’s pale glow illuminating his furrowed brow as the numbers flickered in front of him.

The air around them always felt charged, alive with possibility. And it wasn’t just the work; endless streams of data and theories and tests that flowed between them. It was the rhythm they had found, effortless and easy. Their banter, their focus—it felt natural, like a conversation they had been having for years, most of it unspoken.

But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? The unspoken part. The other part. The part that kept Ford on edge in ways he wasn’t used to. He’d been alone for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be anything but. No one had seen him without clothes on in…what, a decade? More? Even back then, it had been rare—almost always after a few too many drinks, always fleeting, always forgettable. They’d been one-offs, hollow and meaningless.

Ford hated the idea of going through the motions. It always felt so contrived, so performative, as though he were following a script written by someone else. He’d play the part for a while—let the attraction flicker, let the night stretch into something more, but it never lasted. It was always just an act, and worse than that, it left him feeling emptier than before. Like he’d missed something crucial, something everyone else seemed to grasp effortlessly. So, he’d simply stopped seeking it out altogether.

There was a comfort in that kind of solitude, a predictability. He could rely on it—no expectations, no disappointments. He buried himself in his work, his research, his pursuit of answers that felt more rewarding than fleeting human connection. It was easier to chase ideas, to solve problems, than to keep chasing that feeling, that elusive spark that never seemed to linger long enough to mean anything.

But this? Here, in the lab, in the middle of the chaos he and Bill had created? This was different. Ford wasn’t sure if it was the challenge, or the thrill, or just Bill himself, but there was something about it that made Ford feel like he was in the middle of something bigger than either of them. Something he couldn’t pull away from, even if he wanted to.  It wasn’t an act. There was nothing scripted about this, nothing predictable. With Bill, the push and pull was constant, seamless. It wasn’t about going through the motions; it was about discovery, exploration. Each interaction, every touch, felt like something new unfolding. It kept Ford on edge.

He couldn’t deny the pull, the way their energy—fused together, building on itself—made him feel. Captivated wasn’t the right word. It was deeper than that. It was all-encompassing. It was all he could think about. 

“Let’s see if we can make sense of this,” Ford muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned in closer to the screen. The light reflected off his glasses, eyes scanning the intricately detailed schematic that sprawled across the monitor. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, tapping out a rhythm only he could hear as he adjusted parameters, shifting variables and recalibrating the settings. The feedback loops from their recent tests spiraled before him, and his focus sharpened. “If we tweak the signal frequency here…” he trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. The possibilities stretched out before him like an endless equation, waiting to be solved.

Bill’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the lab, cool and steady. “Don’t forget to account for the variable resistance in the circuit—it gave you some trouble earlier.” Ford pictured Bill lounging casually against one of the machines, watching him with that knowing smile, always a step ahead. “If we can minimize that, I’ll bet you’ll get a more stable output.”

Ford paused, one hand still poised above the keyboard as he raised an eyebrow, a hint of admiration slipping into his expression. “Reading up on electrical engineering, are you?” There was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice, surprised by how Bill seemed to effortlessly slip into every role, offering insight that Ford, despite his brilliance, hadn’t considered.

“A bit, a bit,” Bill replied, amusement threading through his words like a low hum. There was that grin in his voice, that sharp, self-satisfied look he’d grown so used to. “Just trying to keep my seat at the table, y’know?”

Ford’s lips quirked up in a smirk, shaking his head slightly as he turned back to the screen. “There’s always space for you, my muse,” he said, a rare warmth creeping into his tone, though he kept his eyes trained on the numbers in front of him. The excitement began to stir, subtle but undeniable, as he typed in the final adjustments. His fingers moved faster now, confidence building with each keystroke. “Alright,” he murmured, almost to himself, “let’s run the recalibrated simulation.”

His finger hit the enter key with a exaggerated force and the screen lit up with real-time data streaming across it, the numbers shifting and pulsing like a heartbeat. Ford leaned forward, eyes widening as the output began to stabilize, the fluctuations that had plagued earlier tests smoothing out into a steady rhythm. “Look at that!” Ford’s voice was full of barely-contained enthusiasm, his heart pounding in his chest. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, sparkling between him and the data unfolding before them. “The output’s stabilizing,” he continued, his grin widening as the results confirmed what he had hoped for.

Ford felt the thrill of discovery take root, spreading through his veins. “I think we’re onto something here,” he said, his voice tinged with exhilaration. It was a rare moment of validation—one that reminded him exactly why he pursued this work so relentlessly. And even though Bill’s presence loomed larger than ever, Ford didn’t mind. There was something about their partnership, their shared goals, that made moments like these feel even more electric.

Ford could feel it—the low rumble of Bill’s excitement resonating deep in his chest, like a second heartbeat vibrating through him. “Nice work, Specs,” Bill’s voice hummed, rich with satisfaction. Ford could practically feel him leaning in, ever-present at his shoulder, the hint of a grin curling in the spaces between his words. “Told you you’d get it. Just needed a little fine-tuning.”

Ford’s lips twitched into a smile, a rare lightness settling over him. Despite himself, he couldn’t quite hide the pride that slipped into his voice. “Yeah, but this is just a preliminary breakthrough,” he said, his gaze still glued to the glowing screen in front of him. The numbers were steady, smooth, promising. “We’ll need Fiddleford to review the results before we move forward.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, something quiet but undeniable. Ford felt it before he heard it—the way Bill’s presence seemed to shift slightly, the warmth cooling, his tone dropping by a fraction. “Oh, well… didn’t I review it just now?” Bill’s voice was still smooth, but there was something sharper beneath it, something colder, that made Ford pause for just a second.

Ford straightened, reaching absentmindedly for a nearby scroll of readings, his fingers brushing over the rough paper. “Well, yes…” he began, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension he hadn’t realized had built up. “But Fidds definitely should, too.” He kept his tone light, trying to dispel edge had crept into the conversation. “It’s important to get his perspective. Besides…” Ford glanced over his shoulder, half-smiling, “I don’t think our sponsors would accept ‘celestial being in my head’ as a legitimate source of ongoing peer-review.” The joke was easy, a way to smooth over the discomfort, but he could already feel it sliding between them. “Practical application is still the goal,” he reminded Bill, “I mean, all this theory won’t mean much if I can’t turn it into something useful. And Fidd’s is our builder.”

“Right, right…” Bill replied, but the annoyance threaded through his voice was unmistakable now. It was subtle, but it lingered, twisting around the words. “I doubt he’ll have much more to add, anyways. Your math is perfect.”

Ford blushed lightly at the compliment, a quick flush of warmth rising in his cheeks. He glanced down, the faintest hint of a smile still tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Bill,” he said, sincerity breaking through the banter for a moment. Bill’s praise always felt different—more real, more intimate than anything he got from his peers. But there was no time to dwell on it now. Ford ripped another page of printouts from the machine, the paper crinkling softly in his grip, the sound almost soothing.

As Ford reached the top of the steps, he turned into the kitchen, immediately greeted by the warm, inviting glow of the room. Fiddleford was leaning casually against the doorframe, the house phone cradled between his shoulder and ear while his hands moved with practiced ease, deftly rolling a joint. The quiet drone of his wife’s voice filtered through the line, the soft cadence of her words forming a comforting, familiar backdrop to the quiet of the evening. Ford paused for a moment, taking in the scene—the domesticity of it, the contrast between this, and the intensity they shared in the lab.

Fiddleford was dressed in an old T-shirt, the kind that had clearly seen better days, with a faded band logo across the front. The frayed edges of the neckline and hem spoke to years of frequent wear, much like the well-worn jeans that clung loosely to his frame, scuffed and torn from work. The kitchen’s light cast a soft, golden hue over his face, the shadows settling gently across the lines of his expression, blending effortlessly with the cool darkness of the night beyond the window.

“Uh-huh… I understand, Em,” Fiddleford murmured into the receiver, his voice low, almost distracted. “Well, I’ll call there tomorrow when we’re done in the lab, and—” His words trailed off, punctuated by a long pause as he listened to whatever Emma Mae was saying on the other end. “Well, no… no, I don’t think it does…” he rambled, his tone patient but tinged with a quiet sort of fatigue.

Ford stepped closer, the papers still clutched in his hand, the numbers and results burning a hole in his palm. His mind was racing, filled with the breakthrough he’d just made downstairs, his enthusiasm bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to spill out. He raised the papers slightly, trying to catch Fidds’ attention, his mouth already half-open to launch into an explanation.

Fiddleford glanced up just as he brought the tightly rolled joint to his lips, his sharp, knowing eyes meeting Ford’s. For a split second, there was a flicker of understanding between them—Ford’s anticipation, Fiddleford’s quiet acknowledgment. But before Ford could say a word, Fidds lifted a finger, silently gesturing for him to wait. He pressed the joint against his lips, licking the edge of the paper to seal it as he turned his attention back to the phone, balancing the conversation and the ritual with the same ease Ford had always admired.

Yeah, I know it’s been a long week,” Fiddleford continued, eyes still trained on the joint as he ran his thumb along the seam, perfecting the seal with his practiced, unhurried motions. His voice had taken on that easy, teasing cadence Ford knew so well. “You think I haven’t had a long week too? C’mon, Ford never gives me a break.” He glanced up, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looked at Ford, amusement dancing in his eyes. “He’s staring at me right now, holding something in his hands. The guy’s a damn machine… Say hi, Ford.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, Fidds angled the phone toward him, already shifting his attention to sparking the joint, the tiny flame from his lighter flaring for a brief moment. Ford felt his jaw tighten. The weight of the papers he’d been so eager to share suddenly felt cumbersome, like an afterthought.

“H-Hello, Emma Mae,” Ford muttered, the words forced from his mouth. His voice, usually confident when it came to his work, held a strained reluctance. The syllables felt foreign, awkward on his tongue—a reminder of the world outside their bubble, one that always seemed just out of sync with his relentless focus.

“Hello, Ford!” came Emma Mae’s voice through the crackling line, warm and full of a sincerity that clashed against the tension still simmering under Ford’s skin. He forced a tight-lipped smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He wasn’t annoyed with her, not really—it was more the interruption, the way it felt like someone had yanked him out of the current just when things were flowing.

Fiddleford, catching the shift in Ford’s demeanor, turned slightly, his back now angled toward him as he cradled the phone again between his ear and shoulder, the joint hanging loosely from his lips. With a slow, deliberate breath, he took a drag, the smoke curling lazily in the air, hazy tendrils rising and mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the kitchen clock. The scene felt like something out of a dream—calm, ordinary, even—but beneath it all, Ford’s excitement still bubbled, restrained, waiting to break through.

“Yeah… yeah, he’s been down in the lab all day,” Fiddleford continued, his voice dropping into that same half-distracted tone he often used on the phone, giving Ford just the barest acknowledgment with a sideways glance. The smoke drifted between them, thick and earthy, a backdrop to the ongoing conversation Ford wasn’t part of—at least, not in the way he wanted to be.

Ford shifted his weight, his fingers tapping the edge of the printouts in time with the seconds slipping by, the eagerness bubbling just beneath his skin. He leaned in a little closer, giving Fiddleford’s shoulder a light tap, trying to pull him back from the phone, even for just a moment.

Fiddleford didn’t turn right away, his attention still hooked by the soft murmur of his wife’s voice through the receiver. “Just a second, Em,” he said, his voice gentle, but his eyes a little wider as he glanced back at Ford. His shoulders lifted in a familiar, exasperated shrug, his palm turning up to the ceiling. What? The question hung there, unspoken.

Ford bit his lip, holding up the papers, tapping them faster, a quiet insistence. But Fiddleford just blinked, his gaze sweeping over the pages for all of two seconds before turning back to the phone, still distracted.

“Emma, baby— j-just hold on,” he murmured, pressing the phone to his chest, his voice dropping as he gave Ford another look. “Ford, please, just one minute, alright? One minute.”

But Ford could feel his excitement slipping into frustration, the urgency in his voice sharpening as he leaned in. “You need to see this now. It’s about the waveform patterns. We’re onto something—”

“Ford,” Fiddleford snapped, still keeping his voice low, but the irritation was there, clear as day. “I’m on the phone!” His lips moved more than his voice, each word a sharp hiss as he pressed the phone harder against his chest. It was clear he wanted Ford to back off, but Ford’s jaw tightened in response, his fingers tightening on the stack of papers.

“Yeah, well, it’s important,” Ford shot back, his whisper now edged with impatience. He crossed his arms, the weight of the printouts digging into his palm, the excitement from earlier now simmering with irritation.

Fiddleford’s face tightened, his eyes narrowing as he spat back, “I’ve been cooped up in that lab all day, Stanford! It’s nine o’clock!”

“Oh, alright you can roll a joint while chat on the phone?” Ford fired, the sarcasm dripping, biting, and completely unfiltered. “But reading a few numbers is just too much, huh?”

Fiddleford’s face flushed red, his irritation spiking. “You bast—” He stopped himself, gritting his teeth, lowering his voice to a sharp whisper. “We’re supposed to be off the clock, Ford! I’m talkin’ to my wife, you maniac!”

Their voices dropped further, the space between them tight with frustration, each of them trying to outdo the other, whispering fiercely, as if whispering would somehow make it less ridiculous. Ford’s heart was pounding now, the sharpness of their exchange cutting through the earlier high, until—

“Daddy?”

The soft voice filtered through the phone, cutting straight through the tension between them.

Fiddleford’s entire demeanor shifted, the frustration that had been so palpable just a moment ago melting away in an instant. He shot Ford a look—sharp, full of warning—before turning his back and brightening his voice for the call. “Hey, hey, kiddo! How’s my little tater tot?”

Ford stood there, fuming, the printouts still clutched tightly in his hand. Fiddleford waved him off, mouthing a sharp fuck off before slipping into the next room, the phone cord dragging behind him, leaving Ford standing in the dim light of the kitchen, his heart still racing, the papers in his hand crinkling under the pressure.

Ford threw his hands up in exasperation, his breath escaping in a groan that echoed through the stairwell. “Fine! I’ll be in the lab…” His voice dripped with annoyance as he stomped down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last—a physical manifestation of his growing frustration. When he finally plopped into his chair with a thud, it was less of a seat and more of a battle ground. Crossing his arms defiantly, he stared blankly at the cluttered desk, the jumble of papers and scattered printouts morphing into a chaotic mess that felt more suffocating than inspiring.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he redirected that simmering energy into his notebook, grabbing a pen with a renewed sense of purpose. Scribbling furiously, he tried to capture his thoughts on the waveform patterns that had consumed him all week, pouring out equations and sketches with the ink scratching against the paper in a rhythm that echoed the quickening pace of his thoughts. It was a frantic release, a way to organize the chaos swirling in his mind.

“So… how’d the ‘legitimate source of ongoing review’ like your work, smart guy?” Bill’s voice bubbled through the air, playful sarcasm lacing his words, a hint of amusement threading through his tone.

Ford let out a frustrated breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms tightly over his chest again, as if to shield himself from the impending disappointment. “He’s got other priorities at the moment,” he replied, the irritation evident in his voice, a biting edge that spoke volumes. Biting the inside of his cheek, he felt the familiar sting of disappointment welling up within him, a nagging sensation that wouldn’t quite fade.

Swiveling in his chair, he cast a glance at the scattered papers on his desk—the fruits of his labor laid out like a chaotic testament to his relentless pursuit. “It’s just frustrating,” he admitted, the hardness in his voice softening slightly as he opened up. “I finally made some headway, and he’s too wrapped up in…whatever domestic crisis is going on.” The words tumbled out, laced with an undercurrent of longing for understanding, as if sharing his burden could lighten it just a little.

“Who are you talking to?” Fiddleford’s voice drifted in from behind him, echoing softly off the lab’s walls as he descended the stairs. There was a skepticism laced in his tone, a gentle probing that felt familiar.

Ford glanced back, his frown deepening as frustration tightened the corners of his mouth. “No one… just myself,” he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. The heaviness of the evening pressed down on him, and he felt that familiar surge of annoyance rising, making his shoulders tense and his posture rigid.

Fiddleford stepped into the lab, arms crossed, resting his weight on one leg, his eyes searching Ford’s face for something—understanding, perhaps, or a glimpse of the easy camaraderie they usually shared. “Well?” he prompted, a simple word that hung in the air, charged with expectation.

Ford grumbled in response, rising abruptly from his chair as if the air in the room had become too stifling. He thrust the stack of papers toward Fiddleford, his frustration bubbling over, spilling out like an overboiled pot. As he brushed past, he avoided Fiddleford’s gaze, not wanting to confront the energy he sensed crackling between them. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension.

Fiddleford accepted the papers into his hands, flipping through them with a practiced eye. His brow furrowed as he absorbed the data, and his expression softened as he scanned the findings, the weight of the moment pulling at the lines on his face. He let out a long sigh, a sound of resignation mingled with relief. Turning to Ford, he found him with his back turned, fiddling with the dials of one of the machines, lost in thought yet vibrantly aware of the unsteady pulse between them.

Fiddleford bit his lip, tapping the paper against his palm, weighing the implications of what he held. “The sequence… you cracked it?” he asked, his voice tentative, like stepping onto thin ice. There was a cautious hope in his words, an attempt to draw Ford back into the warmth of their collaboration.

Ford turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at Fiddleford, irritation mingling with a flicker of pride in his gaze. “Yeah… the one I’ve been working on all week,” he replied, his tone heavy, each word laden with the burden of sleepless nights and relentless focus. It was a small victory, a fragile moment of connection, but it felt overshadowed by the swirling emotions between them, the air thick with a need for understanding that neither of them seemed ready to articulate.

Fiddleford blinked, a flicker of guilt crossing his face as he recognized his earlier inattentiveness. “Jeez, Ford, I—” he began, fumbling for an explanation, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture betraying his discomfort. “Look, Emma Mae had this thing at work, and she really needed to talk about it…”

Ford frowned, narrowing his eyes, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Yeah, well, I’ve had something too—right here,” he muttered, gesturing to the papers sprawled across the desk. “But I suppose a groundbreaking advancement in our work isn’t as pressing as… what does she do again? Clerk? Or… something?”

The jab landed with the weight of a stone thrown into a still pond, and Fiddleford sighed, visibly torn. “W—Ford… c’mon,” he began, his voice laced with exasperation. “I still have a life, you know. There’s gotta be some kind of balance, right? I mean… I have a wife… and a son.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken responsibilities that lingered between them, the desire to connect battling the reality of their fractured focus.

Ford’s shoulders tensed, the muscles coiling tight as he dropped his gaze to the floor, biting back a wave of emotions. He appreciated Fidds’ support, but this moment felt like being cast aside, the flicker of resentment igniting in his chest. “Yeah, I get it. You’ve got a whole world outside this place…” he trailed off, bitterness creeping into his tone, each word like a slow drip of poison.

Fiddleford, catching the undertone, shook his head. “Ford, don’t do that. Don’t twist this into me not caring,” he said softly, the tenderness in his voice contrasting sharply with the tension that filled the room. “I do care. You know that.”

“Do I?” Ford’s voice was quieter now, tinged with defensiveness, the walls around him thickening as he spoke. “Because sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying to keep the momentum going here.”

Fiddleford stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking, an plea for understanding hanging in the air. “You’re not alone,” he insisted, his voice earnest, each syllable weighted with sincerity. “I’m here. I want to be here. But I can’t just neglect everything else. It’s not sustainable. It doesn’t mean I care any less about what we’re doing. You just let me catch up sometimes.”

Ford’s gaze flickered back to the papers, the equations now feeling like a weight. “It just feels like you’re losing sight of what matters,” he murmured.

“L-Losing sight of what matters…?” Fiddleford let out a laugh of disbelief, a sound that hung in the air between them like a challenge. “I’m—I’m losing sight of—” he caught himself, biting back the rush of frustration that threatened to spill over. He set the papers aside, turning to face Ford fully, grounding himself in the moment. “Ford, you’re pushing yourself too hard, and it’s not healthy,” he said, his voice firm now, the kind of steadiness that made the ground feel solid beneath them. His hands pressed against his hips, a posture of determination. “You don’t sleep, you barely eat, and you’re blowing through almost a pack a day—” He paused, watching Ford glance away, the moment heavy with unspoken truths. “You’re always muttering to yourself under your breath,” he added, his voice softer but no less pointed.

Ford raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the desk, crossing his arms defensively. “I’m just… focused,” he shrugged, as if the word could shield him from the weight of Fiddleford’s concern. “It helps me think.”

Fiddleford’s eyes softened, but he held his ground, unwilling to back down. “It’s more than that, Ford. You’re burning out. I mean, just a little while ago you almost died trying to get those damn readings, and you barely gave yourself time to heal before running down here to run a whole panel… even now, you’re acting like there aren’t still bruises and scabs on your ribs.” His voice rose slightly, an urgency creeping in. “But ya got a little limp when you walk, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Fiddleford emphasized, the concern weaving through his words like a thread binding them together. “You can’t keep running on fumes like this. It’s making you irritable.”

“I’m irritable?” Ford questioned, his voice clipped, defensive. He seized on that last part as if it were a lifeline, desperate to redirect the conversation. “I’m not irritable, I’m just… just dedicated—like you said.”

Fiddleford met his gaze, giving him a hard look that spoke volumes. “Dedicated, yes. But at what cost?” The words lingered between them, heavy with implications. “I know you’re passionate about this, but you’ve gotta pace yourself or it’ll chew you up.”

Ford sighed, brushing off the concern with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not a child, Fid. I can manage myself.” The defiance in his voice was a thin veneer over the underlying unease, a need for control that felt increasingly tenuous.

“Managing yourself doesn’t mean ignoring your limits,” Fiddleford countered gently, the tone of his voice shifting, softening like the light filtering through the lab’s dusty windows. “I get it—this work is everything to you. But it’s also okay to step back, to breathe. You’re still human, Ford, and you don’t have to shoulder this alone.”

The warmth in Fiddleford’s words cut through the cool air of the lab, wrapping around Ford like a warm shroud, but it only stirred the tempest within him. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand,” he snapped, though the fire behind his words felt more like a flicker, as if he were trying to convince himself just as much as Fiddleford. “I can handle it.”

“Sure, but I’m telling you, you’re not managing as well as you think,” Fiddleford pressed. “I mean… I’m dedicated too, but I can’t live in the lab 24/7. And, Ford, you need to take some time away from this, too.”

Ford frowned, his gaze shifting to the cluttered desk, the swirling thoughts in his mind reflecting in the chaos around him. “I appreciate the concern, but this is bigger than some 9-to-5. I need to be here. This is my life…”

Fiddleford softened his tone, stepping closer, the warmth of his presence grounding. “I get it, I really do. But you gotta listen to me here—you’re not invincible, Ford. This work won’t mean much if it breaks you down before you can even finish it.”

For a fleeting moment, Ford’s expression wavered, and he exhaled, his eyes flicking toward the machines that buzzed softly around them. He didn’t want to admit that Fiddleford was right, that the sleepless nights and long hours were starting to seep into his bones. But stubbornness held him silent, as if voicing the truth would shatter the thin thread keeping him upright.

Fiddleford sensed the shift, leaning in just a bit closer, his voice lowering to something more intimate. “You could use a shave, my friend,” he teased, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes, an attempt to bridge the growing distance.

Ford felt a smile tugging at his lips despite the heaviness of the moment. “You first,” he shot back, the deflection bringing a hint of levity.

Fiddleford faked a dramatic gasp, curling the tips of his mustache with exaggerated flair. “What? This is a work of art… a culmination of years of precision and effort! Yours, on the other hand, looks like you’ve been locked in a basement for a week—oh wait.”

Ford huffed a short but hearty laugh, the tension uncoiling slightly. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, shaking his head. “Actually, I was going for the ‘tortured genius’ look,” he replied dryly, a smirk creeping onto his face. “No good?”

Their shared laughter floated in the air, lightening the atmosphere, allowing a moment of connection amid the whirlwind of worry. Fiddleford reached out, placing a hand on Ford’s back, giving it a firm, encouraging pat. “Stanford, go to bed… please?” he asked, his tone a mixture of concern and genuine affection, like a brother urging another to take care.

Ford exhaled slowly, the weight of the day crashing over him like a tide, as if the mere mention of sleep had unraveled the careful facade he had maintained. A yawn crept up on him, his body betraying its exhaustion with an inevitable insistence. He blinked a couple of times, suddenly aware of the heaviness weighing down his eyelids, like lead anchors pulling him into the depths. “Okay… you win,” he mumbled, the words softening as they left his lips, a reluctant concession that felt less like defeat and more like surrender. But truthfully, he didn’t mind. There was always something waiting for him in his dreams, something more than mere rest. Something exciting.

As he made his way to the stairs, anticipation stirred beneath his weariness, a flicker of light in the darkness. The lab, the endless equations, the chaos of papers and data—they were never really left behind. The sheets were a welcome relief against his tired skin. He rolled onto his side, seeking a position that eased the persistent ache threading through his ribcage. The mattress sank beneath him, cradling his body as he settled in, the pain subsiding just enough for him to breathe.

In the depths of slumber, the boundary between reality and dreams melted away. Ford would find himself back in a vast forest, the trees towering above like ancient sentinels; or sometimes it was a living room, atop a bear pelt next to the roaring fireplace; or another time, a strange yet comfortable bed, the silk sheets cool against their skin. There were endless places Bill could take him—places that felt both familiar and disorienting. And Bill would be there; maybe this time he was shorter, or more human, his eyes softer, his features sharper, or his voice quieter. Maybe his form shifted in ways that defied explanation—sometimes more like a shadow, other times something tangible, solid. But it was always unmistakable. Always Bill.

[Previous Chapter][Next Chapter]

[bakingtherapy]

Just Keep Baking #5 German Apple Cake

Sul Sul, Gerbits. Today we are going to be making an apple cake from Germany. This is by far the most unique apple cake that I have made as of yet. The cake itself tastes almost of an apple strudel. 

This recipe is very different from other recipes, because it comes from a German Cookbook, and it has some ingredients that I had to go search on how to make, or what to substitute it with. 

The recipe will be in the description down below. 

You will need three different sets of ingredients. One for the pastry, one for the filling, and one for the brushing. 

For the Pasty you need:

flour

baking powder

sugar

vanilla sugar; for this I just put some white sugar into a bowl and added a little vanilla extract.

You are also going to need

1 egg white,

½ of an egg yolk; yes! Half of an egg yolk

Milk or water

butter, a lot of butter, or margarine.

For the Filling you need:

Apples

sugar

raisins

the recipe calls for “a few drops of Oetker rum flavor” and I just substituted vanilla extract. 

For the brushing you need:

the other ½ of the egg yolk

milk.

Now according to the recipe, you are going to “preheat for 5 minutes at VERY HOT, and you are going to bake it at moderately hot.” Not anywhere on the recipe does it have temperatures. Which was kinda hard to figure out. So, I had to do a little bit of a search and figure out if someone knew what temperature “very hot” is and google said it was about “375 degrees fahrenheit.”

You are going to want a clear spot to work. This recipe gets really messy. But it tastes really good.

The first thing you are going to do is put together the pastry. 

On a pastry board you are going to sieve the flour and the baking powder. Yeah, this recipe doesn’t have you put the pastry into a bowl. It’s just like, put it directly on your pastry board. If you don’t have a pastry board. You can use a cutting board and parchment paper. 

Now we are going to make a well in the center and carefully pour in the sugar, vanilla sugar, the egg whites, the ½ egg yolk and the liquid. Be careful of putting everything in the well at the same time. You may have a mess on your hands like I did. I will admit, I was worried about this recipe. Because I have never seen a recipe like this, and it kinda scared me. 

The ingredients need to be mixed until a smooth paste with flour drawn in from the sides of the well.

Cut the butter or margarine into small pieces, on top of the paste, cover with more flour and work from the center knead all of the ingredients together into a smooth pastry. 

Add more flour if the dough is sticky.

Divide the pastry into two, and roll out one half to the size of a baking sheet, which is about 12 by 16 inches. 

Trim it with a pastry wheel and set on one side. This is the top of the cake.

Roll out the other piece of the pastry to a size 2 inches larger all round than the baking sheet. 

Cover the greased baking sheet with this larger layer; so that it comes up on the sides of the sheet to form a rim. 

The easiest way to do this is to roll the pastry onto the rolling pin and then unroll it onto the baking sheet. 

Now that we have the pastry ready for us to use, we are going to be making the filling. 

If desired, you can peel the apples, and then you will have to core the apples, slice them and stew them slowly with 2 oz or a ¼ cup of sugar and the washed and drained raisins or currants, stirring all the time. Because you don’t want them to burn or caramelize. 

Season to taste with more sugar and add the flavoring, which in our case is the vanilla. 

Leave it to cool. 

Spread the cold filing onto the layer of the pastry on the baking sheet. 

Brush the edge of the pastry with the egg. 

Put the second layer of pastry onto the filling, brush with the egg yolk, mixed with milk and prick it with a fork. 

Place the baking sheet fairly high in the oven.

Bake for 20 to 30 minutes at 375 degrees Farenheight.

And then wait for it to cool a little bit before serving.

This recipe was very intimidating for me. But I feel like I accomplished it. When I brought it out of the kitchen, it wasn’t sent back in. So that is a positive. I love doing these apple recipes from around the world, it is very interesting to see the differences in apple recipes. 

I hope that you are enjoying these apple recipes. Don’t worry for those of you who don’t like apples, the next recipe that I am going to do is not an apple recipe. Feel free to check the description down below for the recipe. Vadish, Dag Dag. 

Show the original author some 💖💖💖 Robby's Cookbook Collection

Printable version of this recipe: on the blog

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[redninjaoutfit]

i want to understand: why ship tad and peanut?

I've been gathering my thoughts on this topic for such a long time because I have so so many but its so hard to articulate them sometimes. THEY ARE SO NEAR AND DEAR TO MY HEART YOUR HONOUR MY ANGSTY SONS

More under the cut cause it's gonna be a whole lot of words

For starters, I just enjoy the enemies to lovers trope in general. I think seeing someone else's flaws to the point of considering them annemesis and still managing to move past that and fall in love with them down the line is very poetic. Having to battle through hate, one of the most misguided and complex emotion one can feel towards other people and coming out victorious, conquering the concept you have of someone and replacing it with an image so dissimilar to how you perceived them before... I get a lil kick out of it. It takes incredible maturity and willingness to cooperate on both sides of the relationship to move past hard feelings, to find common ground and build something substantial and amiable on that very ground. The former enemies actively heal and grow as people alongside one another, it's a very beautiful concept.

HATE AND LOVE ARE NOT TWO SIDES OF A SPECTRUM!! They're standing next to each other, separated only by a thin sheet of paper which is so easy to rip through once you move past the issues which divide you.

For Tad and Peanut, the obvious and unavoidable source of conflict is their allegiance to their respective cliques. The Preps and Greasers are supposed to despise one another out of principle which they very much do. Consequently, as of the events of the game, neither have any possibility to openly display their many compatible characteristics around one another. Hence why the animosity festers.

When I talk about the many compatible characteristics of Tad and Peanut I mean MANY. SO MANY. You might notice I did not say similar as I don't find they are carbon copies of one another, their lives are very different, however, their very cores slot with each other perfectly. It all falls into place.

Peanut, as I'm sure everyone already knows, has a painfully and one-sidedly dependent relationship with Johnny who is assumed to have saved him in some way, judging by the contents of his character quotes. He's fiercely loyal to his leader to the point where it's overwhelming and he actively fears disappointing Johnny in any capacity (not aided by the fact that he's implied to have feelings for Lola). Not to mention, as a second in command, he's got big shoes to fill, shoes he doesn't deem himself good enough to fill. Though he seems content with being trapped in Johnny's shadow he does show a sense of longing for freedom and a deep self-consciousness about his abilities.

Tad on the other hand is not second in command, quite the opposite, he's at a disadvantageous position in his clique with his newcomer status. Yet the expectations he has to meet at the forceful request of his father are just as if not more ambitious than Peanut's. With how prominently Mr Spencer's abuse towards his son altered his character and mindset, Tad is thus trapped in the role of the usurper, exactly what he feels (and knows) his clique-mates see him as. His opinion of the topic is largely apathetic though the apathy seems forced and learned.

His destiny as his father's extension has been set in stone, as has Peanut's servitude to Johnny. Neither feel they can do anything about it.

Both deem themselves worthless and void of purpose when they are not of use, not going along with whatever demands have been put onto them. They convince themselves (Peanut moreso than Tad) that their prison is a comfortable one, that the end goal of their struggle will be satisfactory yet know deep down all they want is freedom.

In this way they are very compatible, enough that they see a bit of themselves in the other which is part of the reason their bad blood runs so deep, especially on Tad's part. They see the collars hanging heavy around their necks and tug on them in hopes the other won't notice the perpetrator's own. It's easier to depersonalize yourself from your own issues than to face them head on.

I can definitely see them snapping on one eventful occasion - a supernova of unspoken emotions ready to surface - their reconciliation would not be a serene, drawn out ordeal of slow acquiescence. They fire each other up to the point of accidentally creating a spark which leads to a flame. A common flame between them in whose glow and light they can finally see each other's true colours, which will not burn them like it usually does but rather provide warmth, much needed after the long years spent in their cold, oppressive jail cells.

They would be like two dogs chained to a tree and left for dead tasting food again and rediscovering the comfort of a plush pillow - striving to maintain the warmth of mutual understanding conceived on that very day and would no doubt cultivate it to the best of their inexperienced ability. They both know by then the other is a novice in terms of... well, everything when it comes to being appreciated.

They rediscover love together and that's why I think they are so very beautiful and compatible as a pair!!

THAT'S IT... UM SORRY FOR RAMBLING AND THIS BEING MUSHY AS ALL HELL THEY JUST MAKE ME SOB AND WISH FOR THEM TO HAVE A BETTER LIFE. THE POTENTIAL IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS IMMENSE AND I WILL NOT BE SILENCED ABOUT IT. THEY CAN HEAL EACH OTHER LIKE NOONE ELSE CAN!!!

[beevean]

If NFCV were a well written show, I would praise the design of N!Hector's Styrian uniform, and what it conveys.

N!Hector's original uniform is a simplified version of Hector's, but due to them being very different characters, the details don't fit him.

Every detail of this uniform conveys something precise. The armor on his chest and boots make him look combat-prepared, as well as the arm guard and the single glove on the hand he uses to wield weapons. He wears dark colors and a general bat motif to tie him to Dracula. Then, there is the sash, a bright spot of red that breaks his dark palette: not only that is Isaac's color, tying the two together, but it can be seen as symbolizing Hector's brash, emotional personality. He's not a "true" Blue Oni like his appearance would suggest, after all. A nice visual cue.

The sash was kept on N!Hector, and for some reason, it was made a very important part of his design. While N!Isaac also has it, suggesting at first that it's part of their not-uniform, N!Hector is nevertheless seen with it in the past:

No matter what, he has to wear that bright spot of red.

Why so? N!Hector has very little of Hector's personality. He certainly isn't nowhere near as belligerent as our Hector in CoD. But more than the blues, more than the bat motif, he has to be associated with the sash.

The Devil Forgemaster uniform ill fits N!Hector as a character: he's not a fighter, he's not combat ready, N!Isaac wears a completely different and even darker uniform which makes N!Hector look only messy. However, I'm willing to salvage the sash for this reason:

While being naive, Hector is stoic in the face of hardships that befall him. Lenore found it nice that even "beaten down a dozen different ways," Hector doesn't give up on himself.

It was... terribly, awfully, incompetently conveyed, but there is a kernel of truth in Lenore's manipulation here. N!Hector has the spine and moral compass of a wet sheet of paper, but he doesn't cry or wallow in misery, and there have been very rare times where he fought back. In S2, while N!Dracula and N!Isaac were so close to dropping the R-slur on him, N!Hector was working with Carmilla behind their backs to pursue his goal: sure, he was being manipulated by her, but he was the one who decided N!Dracula wasn't good for him and he would rather save himself. And, of course, his background is that he set his own parents on fire as revenge for their abuse, and he accepted to put humanity into pens as more or less punishment for how he was treated.

Again. Too inconsistent to be seen as an intended character trait. But very generously, one can see N!Hector as being smarter and more willing to fight back than people assume of him. And it can be seen in the choice of him wearing a red sash ever since he was a child.

All of this preamble to finally reach his Styrian uniform in S4:

That is a very nice, elegant uniform, that keeps the original silhouette (look at the pointy shoulders) but removes all the clutter that doesn't fit N!Hector. He has two gloves! He looks protected, but also looks like a smith, not a knight!

But notice the palette.

He's black, with dashes of blue and silver. Silver? Well, Styria's livery is black with white trim. It fits, but silver doesn't quite stand out like gold did.

He also lacks any sort of red on him now.

Red is a bold color that represents strength and vigor, and for how nice his uniform looks, N!Hector is still supposed to be a slave - or worse, a pet. He's meant to look meek, demure, blending in. Professional, but lacking any sort of personality: the role N!Hector was tricked and beaten into. A subtle humiliation in his comfy living conditions.

Which, of course, works to the advantage of someone who is once again plotting behind his jailer's backs :) N!Hector still holds onto that splash of red inside him.

... But I'm putting way too much thought into this. We all know how rushed and slapdashed S4 was, and how N!Hector at the end of the day has zero personality and his plan wasn't even for himself, and how the writing refuses to remember how N!Hector was abused into slavery. The idea was that N!Hector is stronger than he seems, but the reality of the writing is that he's a weak-willed victim who did everything in his power to crawl back to the people who hurt him.

Let's be honest: we all know the real reason he wears blue and black without red now.

In S3, Lenore wore a full black dress with blue trim and white fur, which was meant to make him look like a "winter princess" or a "princess in mourning", but really didn't fit her at all, much like her character is basically three concepts stitched together. For S4, she changes into a quite cute blue and black dress that better goes with the idea of her being a melancholic princess.

You don't need a master in cinematography to get the Symbolism™. Lenore is N!Hector's only characterization, after all.

(funnily enough I could also point out N!Isaac dressing in bright blue in S4. But it's a completely different symbolism, for him: get it, he has found peace.)