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kjiscrawlingbackformore · 2 days ago

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The Dangers of Compromise

Lottie Matthews x fem reader

Summary: Life was finally settling into this perfect rhythm. You and Lottie finally had a place of your own and you were finally in the process of making it unquestionably both yours. Yet when Lottie gets bit by the baby fever bug…compromise takes on a new meaning.

Warnings: some NSFW at the end mdni (strap use, maybe mentions of calling it a cock)

A/N: idk writing jackie as a mom made me think about how much lottie would want to be one 😪💔 also you can thank @natorccios for forcing my hand on writing this lol

There was a weird hum in the vent. You didn’t want to think the worst. No, it was your job to be the optimist. The problem solver-not finder. But the more you investigated the more you were convinced it might be an alive hum problem and not the machinery.

Ever since Lottie bought this place you’d both been deep of the trenches of making it both your home. From the sidewalk, the townhouse looked almost shy.

A quiet facade of pale limestone tucked behind a wrought-iron fence and a pair of neatly trimmed boxwoods. It was the kind of building you could walk past a dozen times without ever suspecting the life unfolding behind its high, arched windows.

Inside was well less pretty and nothing quiet or quaint. It was all chaos, meshing your interior style with Lottie’s had proven a challenge in communication. Lottie wanted more bohemian and functional. While you were very eclectic and maximalist. It was then when a word that was already introduced to the vocabulary of your relationship gained new meaning.

Compromise.

It was one thing to compromise on where to eat. You didn’t care. If Lottie wanted sushi you’d eat it. If she wanted burgers, that’s fine. Now if Lottie wanted to get a weird ass Persian tiger statue she thrifted from the antique mall? Now that..that was not something you wanted to see everyday.

You learned quickly, Lottie didn’t take rejection very well. She shut down, was quieter than normal, avoidant. And when she finally explained tearfully why she felt so passionately about that damn Persian tiger. You agreed that certain compromises were needed.

The Persian tiger lives on the top of her bookshelf in the den of her reading nook. And in came the flood gates of compromises. Tile patterns, colors on the walls, rugs (so many fucking rugs), furniture.

Everything became about compromising. And it sucked at first and sometimes you were stubborn, because that lamp was ugly regardless of how Lottie phrased it. But nothing compared to seeing Lottie beam when you agreed to her pick.

The way she squealed, surged to kiss your cheek, and if you’re lucky your lips. It left this bubbling warmth and joy. Compromising was worth it for that reaction.

This is where you think you might’ve created a monster. Because now…now you think— no you’re convinced Lottie thinks you’ll compromise with enough convincing.

You’re still crouched near the vent, listening for the hum that might be a trapped bird or a dying appliance, when you hear her voice behind you, bright and a little breathless.

“I need to talk to you,” she announces, which is always how she starts when she’s about to drop something life-altering into your lap.

“Is it about the vent?” you ask, hopeful.

“No,” she says, dreamily, “it’s about…well, us.”

You exhale, bracing yourself. You stand and dust your hands off on your jeans. “Okay. What did I do? Or what did we do?”

She shakes her head, dark hair catching the afternoon sun spilling through the tall window. “Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—God, I was at the farmers market on 12th. You know, the one with the fancy bread and that stall with all the ridiculous microgreens—”

“Sure,” you say warily. “The microgreens. What about them?”

“And there was this woman with a little girl,” she continues, and her whole face changes, goes soft and bright in a way that makes your heart do a startled somersault. “She must’ve been two, maybe three. And she had this big floppy hat and these chubby cheeks, and she was holding a little basket like she was going to pick out her own tomatoes—”

“Oh God,” you mutter, because you see exactly where this is going.

“—and she looked exactly like you,” Lottie says, undeterred. “She had your eyes, the color, and she smiled at me—just this huge, shameless, beaming smile—and I swear to you, it was like seeing what our kid would look like. I couldn’t stop staring.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Lottie keeps going, voice a little shaky with excitement. “I mean—your smile. Your nose. She even scrunched it up the way you do when you’re about to sneeze. And I—” She lets out a laugh, like she’s a little embarrassed by herself. “I don’t know, it just…baby it just hit me. Like a lightning bolt. That I want that. I want her. Or, well, someone like her. A little girl with your face.”

You stare at her, stunned. The vent hum forgotten. Your brain can’t seem to form a sentence.

Lottie’s hands flutter helplessly. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re probably…freaked out. But I can’t stop thinking about it. About how incredible it would be to have a baby who has your eyes. Your smile. I mean—can you imagine?”

You can’t. Not really. Your imagination is stuck somewhere between adorable baby in a sunhat and well the sheer anxiety inducing terror of keeping a human alive.

She looks at you hopefully. Like maybe you’ll just say, Sure, why not, let’s do it tomorrow. And despite the shock, despite the mild heart attack currently in progress, you can’t help it. Your mouth twitches. Because it’s so her. So Lottie to stroll home with a baguette and a plan to drastically change your entire life.

You clear your throat. “Lottie,” you say carefully, “you do realize that a baby is…not a Persian tiger statue.”

Her eyes go wide. “I know! But—”

“Or a rug.”

“I know. But—”

“Or even a particularly expensive lamp.”

She sighs, a little exasperated, but still glowing. “I know. But I’m serious. I want this with you. Someday.”

Your heart is still galloping in your chest, but when you look at her—so earnest, so certain—you feel that dangerous softness again. The one that made you agree to the tiger. And the rugs. And the thousand other compromises that somehow made this house a home.

You rub a hand over your face. “Someday. I can do someday. Because I don’t know if I’m ready to be responsible for a whole little human. Even if they’re the cutest thing to ever exist.” you admit, voice low.

“I know,” she says gently. “I’m not asking you to be ready now. Just…think about it.”

And that’s the problem. Because you know you will.

Even as you promise to do just that and climb back down to peer at the vent, your mind is already conjuring it: a small, chubby-cheeked person with your smile. With her stubbornness. Someone you might someday love more than either of you can comprehend.

You sigh, pressing your ear to the vent.

Somewhere in the walls, the hum keeps going. And you can’t help thinking: maybe it’s not broken at all. Maybe it’s just another thing waiting to be discovered.

It was a week later, you don’t even know the day. You’re in the paint aisle at the hardware store, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, studying a wall of sample cards in a way that feels vaguely humiliating, like if you pick the wrong shade of white, the entire townhouse will collapse in on itself.

Your cart is full of things you’re ninety percent sure you don’t need: painter’s tape, a stud finder you don’t remember grabbing, a replacement filter for the furnace you forgot to measure. You’re determined to get in and out without making eye contact with anyone.

Your phone buzzes again, and you answer automatically, half expecting it to be the store texting about a pickup order.

Instead, Lottie’s voice pours into your ear, bright and animated.

“Babe, oh my God—you will not believe what I just found.”

You exhale a laugh. “Please don’t say it’s another aztec flower pot.”

“No,” she says, sounding delighted. “Better. Listen—there’s this antique mall on Orchard I stopped in on my lunch break—”

You roll your eyes, the last thing you needed was Lottie at the antique mall buying something we certainly didn’t need. “Lottie—”

“Just listen. I’m walking past this stall with all these old books and dishes, and there’s this tea set. Porcelain, with little painted violets. It’s so tiny, like dollhouse tiny, but the cups are real. And there were these wooden toys in the next booth—little carved animals and a pull-along duck—and I was just standing there thinking how perfect they’d be.”

“For what?” you ask cautiously, but you already know. Some deep part of your brain is bracing for impact.

“For our kids,” she says, her voice soft but sure, the way it always is when she’s decided something is meant to be. “I mean—someday. You could build them a little playhouse in the backyard, you know? With a porch and tiny chairs. And in the summer they’d have tea parties out there, with the set I just saw. I could paint murals on the walls—oh, or we could pick wallpaper together, something with animals or flowers—”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. A week. You got a whole week of peace before she circled back to this.

“Lottie—”

“—and I was thinking, you’d be such a good parent, you know? You’d be the one making the playhouse perfect, measuring every board twice, probably overengineering the whole thing. And I’d—” She breaks off, laughing a little, almost shy. “God, I can just see it.”

You swallow, throat tight, and your eyes flick over the display of paint chips without really seeing them. Because she’s painting a picture so vivid you can’t help stepping into it: a little person running barefoot across your yard. Lottie laughing. You holding a teacup so absurdly small it balances on two fingertips.

You shake your head, a little helpless letting out a conflicted chuckle. “Lottie…my love, you are so funny. I thought we agreed to thinking about it… the opposite of you know…straight into planning.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all—she sounds flushed with happiness. “I just—can’t you picture it? Really picture it?”

And that’s the worst part. Because you can.

You take a breath, leaning against the cool metal shelf. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I can.”

She lets out this little exhale, shaky with feeling, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft and certain in your ear. “God, I just want that with you.”

And there it is—that dangerous warmth, the one that makes you want to say yes to things you’re not ready for. The one that made you build a life with her in the first place.

You clear your throat. Because as much as you might want that one day. It makes zero sense to have one right now. “I know baby. And you will someday, but we’re not buying a doll tea set today.”

“I know,” she sighs, and you hear the smile in her voice. “But maybe someday.”

“Someday,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

And as you hang up and turn back to the wall of paint samples, you realize, with an almost amused dread, that she’s going to wear you down eventually.

It started to become routine. A few days past and a baby mention. Or suddenly a baby related item appeared. Or a funny joke is made about oh wow babies. You almost were getting used to it. The baby fever that Lottie was clearly so infected by.

That the morning starts like any other.

You’re bleary-eyed in the kitchen, barefoot, trying to remember if you already put the coffee grounds in the filter. Lottie’s still in bed, though you can hear her stirring upstairs—drawers opening, the faint rustle of sheets as she stretches herself awake.

The townhouse is quiet except for the burble of the coffee machine and the birds outside the kitchen window. Sunlight spills across the counter, catching the absurd little ceramic sugar bowl she insisted on buying.

You pour a glass of juice and take a cautious sip, savoring the cold sweetness. For a moment, you think maybe you’ve made it through a whole day—maybe even two—without hearing the word baby.

You hear her before you see her: the soft pad of her feet on the stairs, the muffled yawn. She appears in the doorway, hair tangled, wearing one of your old shirts. Her face is luminous in that way it always is when she’s still half in a dream.

“Morning,” you say, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Morning,” she murmurs, and crosses to you, wrapping her arms around your waist. She smells like your shampoo and the lavender lotion she uses at night.

You press a kiss to her hairline. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

“Mm. Good.” She leans back just enough to look up at you, her eyes bright. “I had the most amazing dream.”

Your stomach dips. You’ve learned to be suspicious of her dreams. They differ from being silly to prophecy around here.

“Oh?” you say carefully, trying to keep your tone neutral.

She nods, practically glowing. “Yeah. We had a baby. She had my hair, all these little dark curls, and my skin. But she looked so much like you.”

You take another swallow of juice, which, in retrospect, is a mistake.

“And I’d just given birth,” Lottie goes on, oblivious, “and you came in carrying her big sister—she must’ve been, I don’t know, five? She had these huge eyes, exactly your color. She was so excited. She climbed up on the bed to see the baby, and you—” Her voice goes a little soft. “You were looking at me like you were about to cry.”

You set the glass down, very carefully, because you’re pretty sure if you keep holding it you will drop it.

Lottie sighs, dropping her head against your shoulder. “It felt so real. Like…like it wasn’t a dream at all. Just…a memory from the future.”

You feel something tighten in your throat. “Lottie…”

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to hear the tremor in your voice. “I can still feel her, you know? How warm she was. How soft her hair was. Like she was really here.”

You reach for something to say, but nothing comes out. Because this isn’t just a passing fancy for her—it’s becoming a vision she believes in with her whole heart.

And you…unfortunately are starting to believe she might be right.

Your hand rests on the back of her neck, fingers sifting through her hair. “You know,” you say hoarsely, “if you keep having these dreams…I don’t know if I’m going to have the heart to keep telling you no.”

She finally looks up, eyes shining with that fierce, tender certainty that always unravels you. “I know,” she says softly. “That’s why I keep telling you about them.”

You try to smile, but it comes out a little wobbly. The coffee machine beeps behind you, startling you both. You turn away, grateful for the excuse to breathe.

When you hand her, her mug, she’s still glowing, still lost in the afterimage of the life she’s certain is waiting for you both. And you stand there, clutching your orange juice, feeling the slow, inexorable shift inside you.

Because you’re not ready. Not even close. But you’re starting to think someday…you might be.

It’s late afternoon when it happens.

You’re out with Tai, who’s known you since college, walking the rows of little shops that have started putting out pumpkins and crates of apples. The air smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon. The sky is that crisp, washed-out blue that only comes at the end of September.

You’re half-listening to Tai talk about her new job, a to-go cup warming your hands, when you see her.

Just a little girl, maybe three years old, standing by the display of gourds outside a florist’s shop. She’s wearing a tiny corduroy pinafore over mustard-yellow leggings. Her hair is a tumble of dark curls, exactly the color of Lottie’s, so thick it forms a little halo around her face.

She has the same wide brown eyes. The same solemn way of studying the world, like she’s memorizing every detail to ask questions later.

And your heart—your heart just…stops.

It’s ridiculous, how small she is. Tiny hands, tiny legs, but so completely a person. So much like a miniature version of the woman you love that you feel something in your chest unspool.

Tai follows your gaze, then glances back at you, puzzled. “You okay?”

You can’t answer. Because all at once, you get it.

You see Lottie kneeling in the garden, tying a sunhat over hair exactly like hers. You see her showing small hands how to hold a watering can, her face soft and patient in the golden light. You see yourself sitting beside them, pretending not to cry because your heart is too full.

You see Saturday mornings with pancakes and cartoons. Bedtime stories in the big armchair. A thousand quiet moments you didn’t even know you wanted until right this second.

You blink, and your eyes are stinging.

Tai touches your arm gently. “Hey…seriously, what is it?”

You swallow hard, staring at the little girl until her mother comes to scoop her up. She buries her face in her mom’s neck, giggling, her curls bouncing.

And you can’t help but think; I want that. I want her. I want them.

The wanting is so big, so immediate, it feels like a wave breaking over you. You drag in a shaky breath, watching as they disappear into the florist shop.

“I—” You stop, because you don’t know how to say it. Because until now, it was always Lottie dreaming this life into being. You were the one pressing pause, the one saying someday.

But now…you can’t deny it anymore. You want to see her be a mother. You want to build that world with her.

And you have no idea what to do with that knowledge, except hold it very carefully inside you, like something fragile and astonishing. Tai is still watching you, brows raised.

You clear your throat, voice low. “I…I think I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where,” you say slowly, the truth sliding out before you can stop it, “I’m going to fucking compromise on another thing for Lottie.”

Tai’s face softens, and she bumps her shoulder into yours. “That’s not trouble. Call it the beauty of loving with a hint of your girl winning 90% of the time.”

You let out a soft chuckle but don’t say anything else. You’re too busy picturing it: Lottie smiling at you over the top of a crib. A sleepy child tangled between you in bed. The quiet, ordinary miracle of making something together…someone together.

You take another breath, and the air tastes different somehow. Like fall. Like something beginning.

When you came home, Lottie was still out and about running errands. And you decided a surprise was in order. You cleaned the house, made sure to light candles. You ordered dinner from Lottie’s favorite mediterranean restaurant four blocks down. Made sure to set the table as beautifully as you could.

All to watch as Lottie’s face goes from confused to surprised to finally beaming. Her smile is electric the way it seemed to jolt you where you stood.

“Baby? What’s the occasion?” She asks with a grin, dropping her bags near the coach.

You shrug, “Oh you know…just wanted to show you how much I love you.”

She paused, giving you a suspicious look before gliding to you. Her arms draping over your shoulders to get a good look at your face.

“Did you break something?” She asks sternly.

You laugh. “Surprisingly no. I’m actually being serious. I just wanted to show the love of my life the way I love her is infinite.”

She softens instantly. That wary little crease between her brows melts away, and her whole face goes tender.

“God,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. “You’re going to kill me with this.”

“Hopefully not before dinner,” you say against her mouth, and she laughs, bright and golden, before kissing you again slow and unhurried, her thumb brushing your jaw.

When you finally pull back, she sighs, eyes shiny in the candlelight. “I love you too. More than I can even say.”

“Come on,” you say, taking her hand. “Sit down before everything gets cold.”

You pour her a glass of wine, then settle across from her. For a few minutes, you eat in easy quiet, the clink of silverware and the faint music from the record player filling the space.

It’s so normal, this moment. So domestic and ordinary. And somehow that’s what makes your heart feel like it’s going to burst out of your ribs.

Halfway through your plate, you clear your throat and pick at a piece of pita bread, trying to sound casual.

“So…I’ve been thinking,” you say.

Lottie perks up, always ready for one of your schemes. “Dangerous.”

“Very,” you agree. “But…you know how we keep talking about finally renovating the upstairs rooms?”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “You mean the rooms full of boxes we keep pretending we’re going to unpack someday?”

“Those ones,” you say, fighting a smile. “I was…well, I was thinking it could be nice to actually start planning them out. Deciding what they’re for.”

She tilts her head, studying you in that way she does when she senses there’s more beneath the surface. “Like what?”

You clear your throat, stalling. “Oh, you know. A home gym. An art studio. Maybe a…taxidermy workshop.”

Her brows shoot up. “A what?”

You shrug, deadpan. “You know. Just in case we ever take up taxidermy. Or, I don’t know, a shrine to that cursed Persian tiger.”

Lottie snorts, rolling her eyes. “Be serious.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent, grinning. “I was also thinking maybe…a library. Or a craft room. Or—”

You hesitate. You feel your heart beat once, hard, like it knows what you’re about to say.

“Or,” you say, voice softer now, “I was thinking…a baby’s room.”

The words hang between you, bright and fragile. Lottie goes very still, her hand frozen around her fork. Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first.

Your own voice is trembling when you keep going. “I saw this little girl today—she looked so much like you. And I just… I got it. All of it. Why you keep talking about it. Why you want it so much.”

Her eyes are shining now, wide and searching your face.

You take a breath, your throat tight. “I’m not saying tomorrow. But…definitely someday…soon. I want that with you. I want her. Or him. Or whoever they are.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then she pushes back her chair and comes around the table, dropping to her knees beside you. Her hands are warm and trembling on your cheeks as she kisses you, slow and sure, like she’s sealing some promise you didn’t even know you were ready to make.

When she finally pulls back, she’s smiling through tears. “God,” she whispers. “You have no idea how happy you just made me.”

You close your eyes and let your forehead rest against hers.

“Actually,” you breathe, “I think I do.”

Lottie hums, and shakes her head. “No, I don’t think you do. But I think I can show you.”

Before you can even question what she means, her lips are on yours in the blink of an eye. Her hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring herself to you.

You respond without thinking, your fingers finding the back of her neck, pulling her closer. The kiss is urgent now—hungrier, deeper. Like something pent up is finally being let loose.

She shifts, rising from her knees to straddle your lap in the chair, and your hands slide to her thighs, grounding yourself in the warm, familiar feel of her.

The kiss breaks only so she can breathe against your mouth, eyes heavy-lidded, voice breathless. “I’ve wanted this. God, I’ve wanted you like this.”

You thread your fingers into her hair and kiss her again slower this time, but just as intense. She melts against you, her body pressing close, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The chair creaks beneath you both, and you pull back with a quiet laugh. “We’re going to break this thing.”

She grins, flushed and wild-eyed. “Good. We’ll burn it for warmth after.”

“Dramatic,” you murmur, already standing, her legs still wrapped around your waist. She squeals softly in surprise and clutches your shoulders, but she’s smiling. Glowing.

“Where are we going?” she whispers against your jaw.

“Where do you think?”

You carry her through the house like she weighs nothing, like she’s something precious. Her mouth finds the crook of your neck. Her hands pull at the hem of your shirt, and your skin burns under her touch.

The hallway is a blur. All you feel is her open mouth kissed and the way she is biting any free real estate of skin. The bedroom door pushes open. You don’t bother with the light.

It’s just you and her now—falling back into the bed, into each other.

Lottie’s lips drag up your neck, and along your jaw. Your hands are underneath her top feelings the warm skin of her waist under your fingertips. When her lips finally find your own Lottie is in control. She leads the kiss into something slower again. More deliberate. Her fingers trail down your side, your arm, curling over your ribs like she’s memorizing every inch.

You kiss her like she’s your answer. She touches you like she already knows. Somewhere between the warmth of her skin and the softness of her voice, you realize this is what saying yes looks like. This is what wanting looks like.

Not just the wanting of now—but the wanting of a future. And for the first time, you feel almost stupid for being afraid of wanting it.

All while being lost in thought Lottie’s hands slip underneath your shirt, trail up your stomach and they reach your boobs. You never wore a bra at home, which tonight Lottie was thankful for. She flicked and then pinched your nipple. And when you moan at the feeling her tongue takes advantage and slips into your mouth.

All you can think is; Well played.

She’s swirling her tongue around yours. Taking the lead in this dance. And you let her. Let her have her way, almost recompense for making her wait so long to agree.

You let her hands pinch and grope you. You let buck into your lower abdomen. You in fact help the rhythm of her subtle grind. She halts suddenly.

Her eyes are wide as she pulls away from you and string of saliva connecting you two. You feel your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. Lottie smiled before removing herself from you completely.

She stands to strip fully. Your breath hitches and your eyes locked on her body. Lottie finally lets out a sweet breathy laugh.

“Baby, you going to strip too or are you going to just watch me? Because personally I’m trying to get a jump on baby making.” Lottie teases.

You feel your face flush red, and you nod your head quickly. “Shit yeah, my bad.” you mumbled.

Sitting up you remove your shirt in sudden motion and you maneuver your pants and boxer off as quickly as you could. And before you could reach back out to your love, she was walking away.

You froze confused, but then your heart picked up when you saw her walking to your shared closet. You knew exactly what she was grabbing. You swallowed hard as she grabbed the strap harness.

She looked at you over her shoulder with a childlike giddy. You couldn’t help the butterflies that seemed to manifest in your stomach at that look. Or the deep desire you had to make her feel everything she needed and wanted to feel.

She motioned for you to come closer. You expected her to put the harness on you. Yet instead she chuckles, “Help me put this on, I always have a hard time with tightening it properly.”

You feel like heart race in realization. You nod and reach out to help her. All while feeling your need triple. Whenever Lottie used that damn strap on you, you weren’t leaving the room until you had at least 5 orgasms, you couldn’t walk, and your voice was hoarse.

And she had this glint in her eye. Her hands were threading themselves into your hair as you finished the last of it. You tapped her thigh lovingly and looked up at her from on your knees.

Lottie looked down at you and her eyes were hooded with desire. “So I have a surprise for you.”

Thats how you ended up, eyes wide still on your knees face to face with a brand new strap Lottie bought. You moved your hands to the base of the strap and started to pump it, licking at the tip.

All while feeling Lottie’s eyes on me. You could picture her mouth just slightly agape. Lottie nudges you closer, and you know what she wants.

You look up at her with a small smile, before taking her tip into your mouth. The rush of pride that buzzed within you when you heard Lottie groan.

Moments like that make it hard to forget she couldn’t feel you really. Lottie never acted or sounded like that was the truth though. She was so fucking vocal, so breathless, so affected by you. It only spurred you on. You took more of her, letting your head bob up and down her shaft.

Lottie took a shaky exhale, her grip on your hair tightening. “Fuuuuck you’re so pretty-f-fuck.” she moaned out.

The more you took the more impatient Lottie got. Thrusting up, into your mouth. Chasing her own high, wanting to hear you gag. Finally when her thighs begin to tremble you tap her to stop.

Lottie jolts to a pause. Her face is twisted in disappointment and concern. Her chest rising and falling, fingertips frozen at her sides. You catch your breath before kissing her thigh.

“Want you inside me.” You explain into the skin of her leg.

Lottie swallowed hard. She was practically dripping at the scene before her. You looking up her so soft. With so much need. Lottie didn’t even understand what she did to deserve this.

She nods, not even trusting her voice anymore. And gently grabs your face in her hands to pull you to your face. Her lips land on your jaw, “Go lie down then,” she mumbles.

You were a mess, “shit lot,” you mumbled breathlessly, as Lottie continues to grind against your folds. Dragging that damn strap all across your entrance spreading your wetness around it. You basically makeshift your own special lube on her cock, the way you’re dripping.

Lottie’s lips kiss you with all the intention in the world. Her hand was tightly gripping your thigh. You kiss her back with soft pants, breaking your rhythm.

“I thought about this so many times. I thought about you like this. That this would—“ She didn’t have to finish for you to know what she meant.

She wanted to be the one to get me pregnant. Actually…truly. Something about that knocked the air out of you.

Finally, she slides into you, and you gasp. This strap was so much bigger than the others. She very slowly but steadily bottoms out. The stretch has you whining in Lottie’s ear. Your arms wrapped around her tightly, her face is buried in your neck. As she gives you time to adjust.

She said it was a surprise. Your imagination had run through various reasons why it would be a surprise. Finally after a beat she moves, snapping her hips back then against yours to slam back into you.

That was the thing about Lottie, she knew you could take it. She knew you could handle all of her, and she knew you wanted it. So she had no shame in being rough as she pounded into you.

Or maybe she was just desperate for you to feel her. Feel all of her inside you. To have your insides clench and mold themselves around the shape of only her.

She fiddled with your clit, as she rutted into all the right spots. She was just far enough to see your face, gauge your reaction. Know what to keep doing and how much of it to get you to cum.

But she was also just so loud, groaning and panting like she could feel you. Mumbling how good you felt around her. What a good girl you were. How excited she was to see you as a mom.

It was unraveling you by the second. You knew it wouldn’t be long. Lottie could tell by the way your nails dug onto her back hot anger lines. The way your legs were beginning to lock her hips down into you.

You were so close. Fuck Lottie was getting off this so much she was so close. She doubled her efforts, pounding harder and harder. Hoping to get you there faster. Wanting you to be splintered open for her.

She was desperate for it.

You couldn’t even speak mumbling a faint “M so close baby.”

And all it took was one more hard snap of her hips, and you folded. You came hard. Pulling Lottie flushed into you. Lottie rutted her hips trying to fuck you through your orgasm.

And finally as you laid still, she picked up the pace of her thrusts and you start were a mess. “Fuck fuck lot. Baby hold on.” your voice hoarse.

Lottie ignored you, she ignored you kept fucking a harsh pace. Chasing her own high? Dragging another orgasm out of you? You didn’t know. You just knew you were seeing white and the dissent into another orgasm was quick.

Lottie finally rumbled a fuck into your neck and you felt something spill into you. Holy shit? Lottie dumped her release inside you, soaking your slit with herself. The revelation alone pushed you over the edge with her, your eyes squeezed shut.

You were panting for air, your legs trembling and Lottie’s body laid on top of yours. She had a dumb ass smile on her lips. Her strap still inside you. Leaving you feeling so full and…well complete.

“You’re going to look so fucking beautiful pregnant.” She sighed out.

And just like that Lottie won….again.

The backyard smells like charcoal and rosemary. Someone put on a playlist that’s mostly 90s pop, and you’re half-listening to it while balancing a sweating glass of lemonade on your belly.

Your belly.

It’s so fucking insane to you. After several appointments and ivf treatments you were actually pregnant. You’re still getting used to thinking of it that way. That you were casually creating some tiny person in your stomach.

Crazy.

Lottie certainly has no trouble. She’s practically glued to you these days, one hand always drifting absently to the swell of your bump like she needs to reassure herself you’re both real.

You’re sitting on a big striped blanket under the oak tree. Around you, your friends and a scattering of your relatives are chatting, drinking, passing around platters of grilled vegetables. It’s warm, a little sticky with the late summer heat, but you can’t quite bring yourself to complain.

Because Lottie is sitting behind you, her arms wrapped around your waist, her cheek resting against your shoulder. And she is—God help you—telling the story again.

“I swear, it was the little girl at the farmer’s market that did it,” she’s saying, her voice all soft and starry-eyed. She lifts her hand to gesture, nearly tipping your lemonade in the process. “She looked just like her. Same eyes, same expression. And I just knew. I knew if I kept talking about it, you know painting the picture, eventually she’d see it too.”

Your distant cousin Mariah, who you haven’t seen since you were twelve, is nodding politely. “Wow,” she says, clearly not sure what else to add.

“And then,” Lottie goes on, oblivious, “she came home one day and started talking about renovating the upstairs rooms. And I knew—I knew she was going to say it. So when she started listing all these ridiculous ideas, and like ridiculous. She said what was baby? TAXIDERMY?? A goddamn taxidermy room?? Can you believe—”

“God,” you groan, tipping your head back against her. “You make it sound like you hypnotized me.”

Lottie beams and kisses your temple. “Did I?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, but you can’t keep the smile from your voice.

Mariah laughs, shaking her head. “Well, however it happened, I’m so excited for you two!”

Lottie’s hand slides back over your belly, her thumb stroking a slow circle. “We are too,” she agrees softly, her voice almost reverent. “I still can’t believe it. Every morning I wake up and I’m like—we made this.”

Your heart does that dangerous little flip it always does when she talks like that.

You roll your eyes, but you reach back to squeeze her knee. “You’re soooooo disgustingly in love with me, you know that?”

She leans forward so her mouth brushes your ear. “Yeah,” she whispers, grinning. “And I’m never going to stop. Sue me.”

You sigh and take another sip of lemonade, feeling her arms tighten around you, her hand warm and steady over the life you made together.

And for once, you don’t mind her telling the story again. Because it’s yours. Because it’s true. Because you can’t quite believe it either. Or how Lottie Matthews seemed to always win the game of compromises.

#lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews x you #yellowjackets #lottie mathews x reader #lottie yellowjackets #taissa turner #charlotte matthews #yellowjackets x you #lottie matthews smut

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hazard-haze · 2 days ago

Text

I have more Eddie and Volt headcanons. I can't stop thinking about them.

Mild TW for brief mentions of Self Hatred and Harassment. Nothing major or explicit but just thought it was worth a mention.

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-Their bar is incredible accessible. You cannot tell me they did not build that place with the comfort of any object or person with any level of accessibility needs in mind.

-Volt has given Eddie compression gloves. He doesn't wear em' (even though he should) but they are around here somewhere.

-Eddie's favorite color is orange.

-Ooooh we actually have some player ones this time, the homeowner is definitely welcome to hang out before opening and after closing (assuming the friendship or love ending)

-eventually they'd probably give them a key so, as Eddie puts it, they can "make themself useful by locking up for us" but in reality it's just so they can get in even when the 2 are in the back.

-They have all the fixings in the back or at the bar for injuries/disabilities/emergencies. Including but not limited to epi-pens, narcan, good first aid kits, juice/snacks for blood sugar, a fold up wheel chair, free earplugs/noise cancelling headphones, and cots.

-Homeowner will not be served alcohol if Eddie thinks something is up with them. Or at least they will be cut off before they can even get tipsy. Bro is not letting them drown and ignore their problems, usually Volt will end up doing most of the talking to them about whatever is bothering them.

-It's kind of obvious but the hallway closet is very much the hub of the upstairs. And honestly? Most objects hold Eddie and Volt to the same level of respect that they do the mayor, neither of them really realize it but they are pretty integral to the community

-Not a headcanon but I just thought of the funniest shit: Breaker Box Hallmark Movie AU. Featuring the Breaker Box getting shutdown for some reason and through the power of winter holiday magic and love probably it is saved lol. Would anyone read this?

-Eddie inadvertently gets so much tea working the bar. Bathsheba has been begging him to give her some gossip. Eddie refuses every single time.

-Volt cries when he see's cute animal/inanimal videos

-If they got a cat people would assume its name is like Sparky or something but no, Volt is gonna want to name it something really pretty like Eleanor or Anastasia, and Eddie is gonna take one look at it and go: "Uhhhh... Todd." "Eddie she's a girl." "So? Girls can be named Todd!" "..." "Stop assuming our cat's gender Volt!"

-I don't know if he actually would in canon, but I think it would be so fucking funny if Volt just loved calling minor inconveniences homophobic. This includes Eddie. Eddie won't stop working? "Eddie if you don't go to bed your homophobic!" "Wha? I'm ga-!" "HOMOPHOBIA!"

-Self deprecation? In my breaker box? I think not! And by that I mean Volt holds the very strong conviction that no one in his club is allowed to be self hating except for him. I mean he is a flirt, but he is also a sweetheart. He see's someone crying? Absolutely not. Gives you a tissue, tells you your too hot to be crying over anyone and then reapplies your mascara for you.

-Eddie does not play when it comes to patron safety. He will cut you off if he thinks you've drank too much. He is making sure everyone leaving at the end of the night has a designated driver (I don't know if any of them NEED designated drivers seeing as they all live in a house, but its the principal okay?). Harassment of any kind you are gone and banned so fast you won't even know what happened.

----

God this hyperfixation hit me like a truck.

I noticed most of these ones focused more on how they actually run the club. Idk why it just kind of ended up like that. Anyways I'm having so much fun with these let me know if ya'll want more or if anyone has specific hc requests because I CAN cook up more! Hope you enjoyed!

#date everything #volt and eddie #eddie and volt #volt #eddie #eddie watts #did I write most of these because i've been having pain flare up #and want to sit at the bar while eddie and volt work and are just being nice and understanding about it?#yes. yes i did.#who needs romance I need an advil and some company #hallmark #i thought it would just be funny to tag that #headcanons #as always the type of relationship is up for reader interpretation

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laserbobcat · 24 hours ago

Text

Soap box moment but bad world building triggers me, I'm annoying like that.

No shade to people who like these tropes as is, I don't want to shit on your porn with plot, and I believe in well tagged free from judgment content. Policing what people draw or write is step 1 to puritanism and other pleasantries like whole works getting deleted and all lgbt content being bagged in with all that. Fiction is a great way to explore and get things out of your system, and the line between what's acceptable and what's not is too easy to move further and further until it's only squeaky clean right wing approved content. Just don't interact with people you think are weirdos that you don't agree with and keep moving. They're just writing weird shit in their little corner, and you are someone's weirdo in your little corner, you wouldn't want people to barge in and shame you to stop because you're a problem to society. Don't create a line at all. Idk we have bigger problems, like all these motherfuckers who actively go out of their way to interact with as much people as possible and actually changing mentalities IRL with shit like "women should be in the kitchen and men can't help themselves and black people are always angry and the lgbt are annoying they're so out there, subscribe for more wisdom"

ANYWAY

Talking about furry sex and leshycat "lore" stuff :3 It's LONG, I'm way too talkative.

Heats: yeah that's all hot and fun, "Oh no shit happened and now we have to deal with the awkwardness. In my defense you jumped on me and I was a bit drunk. No I'm not angry at you. Idk, do you like movies, do you want to see Fast and Furious 27 with me friday?"

BUT LIKE if most of your characters work like that, your society should be entirely different. Ours work with our biology in mind, which is "Let's assume people are horny all the time and show naked women to sell yogurt" or "There's no such thing as "I couldn't help myself" go to jail" (in theory I mean, not talking about how society fails us you know)

Fun fact, I read LeGuin's book The Left Hand Of The Night before I was terminally online and learned the hilarious unholy existence of ABO and stuff, I'm already picky with worlbuilding and this one definitely upped my standards really high. It's a book about bringing a instantaneous communication technology to another planet, it's really cool. Love this series. People on this planet have the particularity of being sexless unless they're going through a heat cycle. It's very casual, it's just how people work. There's places you can go to get it out of your system and whole different social norms around that. The "Oops I'm stuck with someone while in heat that's embarrassing" thing is there too lol. There's no sexual scenes in it though. The hero is a regular human and it's interesting to see how the two protagonists see each other. Good, book, high recommend.

Love how I'm told ABO and these kind of animal instinct based work are either rough kinky porn with maybe plot, or super detailed commentary about society and the way we view sex, so funny. I like the furry tropes way more because there's no nonsensical anatomy and butt babies. Please no butt babies.

But while I like the chaos that SuperHornyForaWhile™ brings to relationships, I am extremely triggered by lack of consent. It's up to you to change whatever you don't like with tropes, I just make the whole thing softer by taking the "out of control" aspect out. Yes they are desperately horny but no they don't completely lose it. Someone in heat would feel like seeing your super hot coworker tits out "Well great, I'm gonna have to do all their work alone this week while they're at home AND I have a boner now. Fml."

Casual sex is way more common. Though there's a lot of social rules about carefully treading around this to make sure there's no pressure or regrets later. The power of communication. Almost everyone has some embarrassing stories to tell about the subject too, they come out when drunk and oversharing to make everyone laugh.

Maybe monogamy is thrown out the window more often than not "Oh my god I just want to netflix and chill, I don't have the energy for that today, go fuck the neighbor you have my blessing. Tell them to give me back my tupperware by the way."

Everyone has grandma tips and tricks to ease down the whole thing when you just want to wait it out. Most of those tips and tricks are hearsay bullshit, but everyone knows the ones that legit work. Some people don't experience heats at all. And they tend to change depending on age and mental and emotional state.

And like, it's fun to play with the differences between different animals and their perception of the world. Some of them know when there will be an earthquake, or what's the weather will be for the week. Some of them can tell what you ate yesterday by smell alone, and who you interacted with this morning. Again, social rules around that to respect people's privacy.

But the comedy potential. I mean I've seen a lot of it already and I'm never tired of it. "Why do you smell like you slept with that person you say you hate." "Why do you smell like they specifically rubbed on you possessively." "Are you ok? Do you want me to kill them? No?" chef's kiss. Poetic cinema.

Back to Morgan and Leshy

Morgan's well known to be 100% not interested in anything, people think he's legit aroace. Man's so repressed and emotionally unavailable that he's not even horny anymore these days, no more heats. It comes out as aggression, which he has to take out on random monsters in Darkwood. "Morgan's so brave and useful by going on missionary trips regularly" yeah no, he needs that to stay so sweet and polite the rest of the time. Thena teases that it would be easier and less dangerous to just jump someone from time to time and he DoesNotHear. I drew that here btw. Since Leshy's arrival, he gets a lot of steam out by punching each other on the regular. Despite the Denial™, feelings grow and the bottled up drives start to act out. He's incredibly confused about why his body started doing the whole cycle thing again. Very inconvenient, very annoying. No explanation for it whatsoever. Complete mystery. Now he's missing work days too, great.

Leshy has the strongest sense of smell of the whole cult, and did not get the memo about the whole social rules things. He doesn't really care what people do, but he does not really care about their feelings either. "Of course you're moody and nauseous, you're pregnant. What do you mean you didn't know, your scent changed two weeks ago. What do you mean I'm not supposed to say that out loud in front of everyone. What does invasive means, like the plants?" Animals with good sense of smell are very useful to doctors, since they detect a lot of things, but Leshy is the worst person imaginable in terms of communicating it. He finally learns to shut the fuck up though, and when he senses something weird he goes to snitch to the head healer Ilona. Some very perceptive people notice when he barges into the healing tent, talk to her for a while and leave, and then someone's called in for a "random health check up" and ends up with a treatment. Drew that here. Leshy 100% keeps tracks of what his brother is doing and absolutely makes fun of him whenever he smells a bit too much like "The annoying lamb and their annoying spouses." He notices when his brother isolates himself (Ew disgusting, brothers can't have hormones) and he absolutely knows what happened when he eventually comes back to society very relaxed, and still smelling like the trio under all the soap he used to try and hide it. "Woah finally, I hope they weren't too disappointed, I mean it's not like you would be enough for one person, imagine three lol" and there goes the fighting. Cain instinct. Now, about Morgan. There's no denial from Leshy at all, he's been down bad for the cat almost from the beginning. The dumb factor here is "I will not make a move, like, ever" because what if Morgan doesn't want him around anymore, like when he breaks something, but permanently. The horror. It's not that bad since they spend a lot of time together and he doesn't want to date anybody, so at least Leshy doesn't have to kill anyone. Great news. Except that one time when this cute stoat hit on the cat and gave him a hug and was a bit difficult to get rid of, and Leshy had to tackle and wrestle him until the scent was gone. He got his ass kicked but it was worth it, and it's not like he's not asking for it anyway. (I need to draw that) Morgan in heat is HELL. Absolutely impossible to ignore. He has to keep constantly busy/distracted the whole time to resist just knocking on his door -or knocking the door down really. The angel vs demon war in his head is particularly funny because they both argue for and against making a move alternatively but for different reasons. The sanity is gone. Burrowing 20 feet underground and breaking rocks down with his teeth helps.

That was long I talk too much.

#blabla #lore

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demie90s · 9 hours ago

Note

Ask and you shall receive 😌

Kwn - Back of the Club gives me Shuri. Wakanda’s night life has got to be it. Only black people, no problems, and vibranium, they’re having a time. And Shuri has self restraint as reliable as a rubber band 😭 They can’t go back to the castle? lab? idk what its called, so the back of the club and a cigarette is all she’s got. Plus the newfound gay freedom she must have in some sense has to be explored. My wish for Shuri is peace and to get laid. 😂💋

I Want You

Shuri Udaku x Black!Fem!Reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Wakanda’s nightlife doesn’t need clout, it is the moment. Shuri came to disappear into the lights for one night—nothing more. But when she sees you? Yeah. Nah. She’s not walking out untouched.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 3.1k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: club tension, queer awakening, sneaky rendezvous, slow burn turned fast heat, post-royalty problems

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Glitter on your collarbone. Bass in your chest. Her hands on your waist. Just a little taste of freedom she wasn’t supposed to want this bad.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. explicit language, sexual content (fingering, grinding, public play), mentions of queer repression, smoking, tension so thick M’Baku could cut it with a blade

I feel her before I see her.

It’s in the air shift—the kind that makes your skin tighten, the hairs on your arms lift. Wakanda’s nightlife is a thing of legend: glowing streets, gold-threaded silks, bass so deep it could rattle bone. But tonight, it’s her that hums beneath the surface. Not the music. Not the crowd. Just Shuri.

I see her near the DJ booth, chin high, posture tight like she’s bracing for war—but wearing that war in a cropped vest and low-slung pants that don’t belong to any royal decree. Her arms are bare.

So are her eyes. Sharp and soft all at once, scanning the room like she dares someone to name her title.

She finds me. And rolls her eyes. I grin, leaning back against the bar like I didn’t just catch the wind knocked out of me. “Queen,” I mouth.

She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. But her lips twitch. It’s enough.

I don’t go to her. Not yet. Instead, I dance. The floor moves like water, and I let it carry me. Body rolling slow, arms grazing strangers, sweat turning to shimmer under the lights. I want her to watch. And I know she is. Because when I finally drift closer—pretending I don’t notice how the circle parts to let me through—her gaze is molten.

“You’re outside,” I murmur, close enough to kiss but I don’t.

“Only for a moment,” she says. Her voice is low. Careful. Like she’s scared of spilling.

“I missed you.”

Her eyes flick over me like she doesn’t believe that. “You didn’t act like it.”

I shrug. “You had a country to save. I wasn’t about to compete with national security.”

That gets a breath out of her. Not quite a laugh, but something human. Something cracking.

We dance. Slowly at first. Close, but not too close. She moves like someone who’s been away from her body too long. Calculated steps. Intentional distance.

I don’t push. I let her settle. Let her feel me—hips loose, neck tilted, rhythm already pulsing through my spine.

But then I graze her wrist. Just barely. And she exhales like a fault line. Her hands find my waist before her mind does. I feel it. That snap.

Shuri was never shy. But this is different. It’s hunger masquerading as curiosity. Her fingers grip like she’s forgotten what softness feels like.

Like she’s starved for it. And when she pulls me flush, when our chests meet and she exhales against my collarbone like it’s sacred—It’s over.

She doesn’t speak. Just moves with me. We melt into shadow, into sweat, into music thick enough to drown in. Our foreheads touch. Her breath is hot against my lips but she still won’t kiss me. Not yet. Like it’ll mean too much.

“You smoke now?” I ask, noticing the slender silver case peeking from her waistband.

“Not often,” she says. “Just… when I need to remember I’m not a god.”

“Come on.”

I take her hand. She lets me.

Outside, the air bites cool against damp skin. We find the alley behind the club—tucked between stone walls and low vines, gold-lit from behind but dim in front. It smells like sweat and dust and possibility.

She leans against the wall like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“Give me one,” I say.

She raises a brow. “You don’t smoke.”

“I’m mourning something too.”

Her jaw clenches. Then she hands me the cigarette, lights it for me. Her fingers brush my lips as she holds the flame steady. I inhale, exhale. Pass it back.

“I’m sorry I left you,” she says suddenly. Quiet. Unflinching. “I didn’t know how to be anything but… the crown.”

I nod. “You didn’t have to explain. I would’ve stayed anyway.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I left.”

I look at her, really look. And there it is—grief sitting behind her eyes like an old friend. But so is want. Raw. Heavy. Unhidden.

I step in, tilting my head just enough to force her gaze to mine.“You need to be touched,” I whisper.

Her breath hitches. “And I know how to touch royalty.”

She lets out a small laugh, almost a scoff. But I see her hands. They’re shaking. Not from fear. From restraint. That tight coil she’s had to live with for months—maybe years—just to survive. But here, now? There’s no council. No war. No lab.

Just the night. The beat still throbbing through the walls. And me. “Nikupende.” she says under her breath. Voice broken open.

My lips part. “What does that mean?” She finally looks at me like she’s drowning.

“I want you.”

She’s looking at me like she wants to crawl inside my chest.

Like the beat from the club is still in her, pulsing through every nerve. Her body’s taut, jaw clenched, but her hands are back on my hips, and this time—she’s not letting go.

“I want you,” she says again, this time steadier. Firmer. But I don’t move. Not yet.

“You sure?”

She frowns. “Yes.”

I tilt my head. “No, I mean—are you sure? You just came back from leading a war. I know you’re tired. I know you haven’t… touched anybody in a while. I’m not tryna take advantage of that.”

Her face softens just a fraction. Then flattens again into amused irritation. “You think I don’t know what I want?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I think you’re full of grief. I think you’re used to people needing you, not wanting you. And I think you’re about two seconds from kissing me to shut me up.”

Her eye twitches. Then she kisses me. It’s hard. Hot. Immediate. But when we break, I’m still not done.

“You don’t owe me anything, Shuri.”

She groans. “S’thandwa sami. Please.”

My eyes widen. “Did you just call me—”

“Yes.” She drags her mouth along my jaw, then my ear. “And you’ll hear it again if you stop overthinking.”

“But—”

She grabs my face. Kisses me again, softer this time. Then murmurs against my lips, “I want to feel something that isn’t duty.”

That’s all I need.

The alley’s too public. So we don’t go far—just into the private lounge behind the building, past the guards who don’t ask questions, into the space meant for royals and visiting dignitaries. It smells like sandalwood and citrus, and the couches are too soft for anything appropriate.

She drops onto one and pulls me with her, long legs spreading as I straddle her thighs. We don’t rush. I cup her jaw, running my thumb along her cheek like she’s breakable. She closes her eyes.

“I got you,” I whisper. “I swear I got you.”

When our mouths meet again, it’s slow. Our tongues move like we’ve got all night—wet and patient, letting each other taste what we missed. Her hands settle on my back, under my shirt, warm and sure now. Not shaking. Just pulling me closer.

My fingers ghost along her sides. Her breath catches.

“Still good?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

I lean back. “You can say no at any time.”

She actually laughs. “If I didn’t want this, you’d already be gone.”

She spreads her fingers across my chest, like she’s memorizing me. Like she’s grateful. I let her. Let her touch. Let her relearn the world through skin instead of blood.

Her lips find my collarbone. Then the center of my chest. Each kiss is a question and a thank you rolled into one.

“I’ve never done this… like this,” she murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Where it feels like I might cry and cum at the same time.”

I grin. “Then I’m doing it right.”

She moans—low and breathy—as I guide her hand between my thighs.

“Feel how warm I am for you?” I whisper. Her breath stutters.

“You still want this?” She doesn’t answer with words.

Kkeeping my forehead pressed to hers. “Go slow, baby. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

“I don’t want to be,” she admits. “Not with you.”

She notices the dress when I straddle her again—short, sleek, sinful. Black like night. Like secrets. The hem rides up just enough to tease the tops of my thighs, and when I shift, she feels everything.

Her breath catches. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”

“Didn’t plan on needing them,” I whisper.

She lets out a low groan, head falling back against the velvet cushion like she’s praying for strength. Her hands grip my waist and slide down, under the dress, fingertips dragging over skin that’s already burning.

“Do you always come to see me like this?” she asks, voice hoarse.

“Only when I think you might need to forget you’re queen for a minute.”

Her eyes flick up, dark and focused. “And what does that make you? My subject?”

I smile. “Your peace.”

Something shifts in her face. That one hit too close to the truth.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just tilts her head and kisses the inside of my thigh—slow and deliberate. Then again. Higher this time.

Until I’m gasping softly, gripping her shoulders like she might disappear if I don’t hold tight enough.

“You’re already trembling,” she murmurs.

“Because you’re the one touching me.”

Another kiss, this one just beneath the swell of me. Hot breath skating over wet skin. My hips twitch.

She looks up. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Her tongue finally licks a slow line up my center and I shudder. Her hands slide around to grip my thighs, keeping me wide, grounded, spread just for her. There’s nothing messy about it. Not yet. Just lips and tongue and reverence.

Like she’s tasting something holy.

“Mm,” she hums softly against me. “S’thandwa sami. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

I bite my lip. “You eat like you been starved.”

“I have been.”

Another. This one firmer. My back arches.

Her mouth moves with aching precision—like she’s learning me, memorizing me, savoring every moan I give her like it’s the only sound she wants to hear.

She’s slow, intentional, patient with her pressure. And when she locks her lips around my clit, she groans like I belong to her.

Like she’s anchoring herself in the way I taste. I push her head gently, thighs trembling around her ears. “Fuck baby…”

“Shhh,” she murmurs against me. “Let me.”

I fall back, eyes fluttering, dress bunched around my waist, and her mouth still devoted. She holds my thighs open like a job. Like her life depends on it.

It does. Just a little. Because with every flick of her tongue, every hum, every praise she whispers into me like a prayer, I feel her unraveling. The tension bleeding out of her, replaced with heat. With want. With need.

“You feel so good,” she moans. “You’re so soft. So warm. You’re mine tonight.”

I cry out. My hips grind down. She growls. Then I’m close. Closer than I should be. But it’s her voice—deep, honeyed, reverent—that pushes me over.

“That’s it, baby. Let go. I’ve got you. I need to have you.”

I do. Shuddering. Fingers curled in her hair, legs locking around her head as I fall apart against her mouth.

She stays there. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t stop kissing me even as I come down—soft licks, gentle suckles, tiny praises between breaths.

“You’re incredible,” she says, voice wrecked. “You’re—” She kisses the inside of my thigh. “More than I should ever touch.” Another kiss. “But I’m going to keep touching you.”

I hum, breathless. “Then keep going.”

She looks up at me with wet lips, flushed cheeks, and something dangerous in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me that,” she says. “I’ll make you come again.”

I smile lazily, pulling her up by the collar.

“I’d love that.”

She’s still panting when I pull her up from between my thighs. Lips slick. Eyes hooded. My dress is still hiked up around my waist, but I don’t care. I let her sit back on the couch, catching her breath like she didn’t just try to taste her way into my soul.

But it’s my turn now.

She doesn’t even have time to speak before I swing my leg around, straddling her again. I press soft kisses to her neck, her jaw, just behind her ear. Her hands rest heavy on my thighs, but she doesn’t guide me. Not yet. She lets me move.

“You good?” I whisper.

She nods, eyes fluttering. “Better than good.”

I grin. “Still gonna ask.”

She opens her mouth to sass me, probably. But I shut it with a kiss. Deep. Slow. I taste myself on her tongue and moan into it. She groans, fingers digging into my hips.

When I pull back, I whisper, “Lay down for me.”

Her eyes darken. “You sure?”

“You just made me come on your face,” I say with a soft smirk. “I’m very sure.”

She chuckles, but there’s heat there—surprise, too. Like she’s not used to being handled. Not like this.

I guide her down, slow. Kiss her the whole way. Hands on her ribs, then her sides, then her waistband. I don’t rush. I drag her pants down like I’m unwrapping something rare. Something forbidden.

She lets me. Lets me kneel between her legs, lets me push her thighs apart, lets me kiss the inside of her knee, her inner thigh, the curve of her hipbone.

I look up. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I do.”

Her breath catches. Her hips twitch under my hands.

I kiss her again—lower this time. “You need this, don’t you?” She nods, barely.

“Say it.”

“I need it,” she whispers.

“Who you need?”

“You.”

“Good.”

Then I dive in. No teasing now. No light licks or shy kisses. I eat like I’m trying to make her forget. Like her pussy’s the last meal I’ll ever get. I suck on her clit like I own it. Sloppy, messy, loud.

My tongue slides everywhere—inside her, around her, circling like I’m drawing constellations between her legs. She gasps—back arching, hands flying to my hair. “Fuck!”

That’s right. Fuck.

She tries to stay quiet. Royal. Controlled. But I don’t let her. I moan against her. Suck harder. Grip her thighs and pull her closer like I’m drowning in her and loving it.

“Shit—baby, wait,” she pants. “You—you…”

I hum against her. “Mmm?”

“Fuck”

I chuckle. Keep going. Faster now. Sloppier. My face is buried so deep I’m not even coming up for air. Her slick is everywhere. All over my chin, my nose, my cheeks. And I love it.

She’s shaking. Legs trembling.

“You gone come for me?” I murmur against her clit, flicking my tongue just the way she needs.

“Yes—yes, yes, yes!”

Her back arches off the couch. Her thighs clamp around my head. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Not when she’s like this—voice cracking, body twitching, mouth open in something between a sob and a moan.

“Shit—don’t stop!”

She falls apart. Hard. Wet. Loud. My name stumbles out of her mouth like she can’t hold it in anymore. I keep licking through it, swallowing everything she gives me, moaning into her like I want her to feel me from the inside out.

When she finally relaxes, boneless and dazed, I press one more kiss to her clit—gentle now. Then her thigh. Then her stomach as I crawl back up.

Her chest is heaving. Face flushed. Eyes glassy.

“Still good?” I whisper.

She nods slowly, then pulls me into a kiss that says everything. Her tongue tastes like herself now. Like she wants more. Like she might not ever let me go.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” she breathes.

I smile against her mouth. “That’s the plan.”

She’s still breathing heavy when I tuck a kiss beneath her ear. Her body’s relaxed under me, but I can feel the tension curling back in—not stress, not grief, just the heat of need. Still humming through her bloodstream like she ain’t even halfway satisfied.

I stroke her side. “You okay?”

She nods slowly, then turns her face toward mine. Her eyes are lazy, warm, and hungry.

“Not here.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“I want to take you home.”

It’s not even a question. It’s barely a whisper. But it hits like a full-body chill.

I smile. “Yeah?”

She nods. “This couch too small. These walls too public. And you…” Her voice drops. “You make me greedy.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

She exhales a laugh. “You just sucked the strength out my legs and kissed me like we were married. I’m already in too deep.”

I grin, cheeks warm. “Say less.”

I help her up—she wobbles a bit, grabs my waist for balance, and mutters something sharp in Xhosa that makes me laugh.

“See? Weak in the knees.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. “Wait ‘til I get you horizontal. I’m reclaiming the throne.”

“Oh, I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

We don’t waste time. The guards are still outside, but she waves them off with a sharp flick of her hand. One glance at her swollen lips, at the way I’m clinging to her arm in this little black dress, and they know better than to ask questions.

The hover transport is quiet. Smooth. She keeps one hand on my thigh the whole ride—thumb stroking soft circles like she’s grounding herself, like she needs to touch me to stay upright. Her other hand eventually slides up, fingers weaving with mine.

“You okay?” I whisper, squeezing her palm.

She nods once, eyes locked on mine. “For the first time in a long time.”

The palace glows under the moonlight—slick and elegant, but cold in the way royal things always are. Until we walk in, and she leads me past the halls and empty corridors to her private wing. Her room smells like sage and sandalwood.

The bed’s massive. The lights adjust to her mood the second the doors close. That’s when I see it.

Her shoulders drop. Not in defeat. In release. She’s safe now. And she brought me into it.

I step in front of her, reaching up to tug her shirt over her head. She lifts her arms wordlessly. Then kisses me slow. Deep. No rush. Just home.

“Shuri,” I whisper between breaths, “you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” she says, thumb brushing my bottom lip. “I’m tired of holding back. Tonight, I want to feel everything. With you.”

My heart thumps. “Then let me make you feel it again.”

Her mouth finds mine once more. We fall into bed, tangle ourselves into the sheets, and this time, we don’t need to be quiet.

In the morning, the crown will still be hers. But tonight she’s just mine. I plan to keep it that way.

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khuzena · 12 hours ago

Text

The Perfect Notation

𐙚 PAIRING: Phainon/gn!Reader

𐙚 SUMMARY: In a modern AU, a reserved, math-obsessed student (you) prepares for the prestigious Nationals math competition, slowly forming a quiet, unexpected bond with the ever-cheerful yet enigmatic Phainon. And while your world revolves around formulas and precision, Phainon watches you from the sidelines—curious, drawn in, and gradually learning to understand you through the language of numbers. As the competition nears, tension builds. You begin to ease your strict routines, letting Phainon into your life, unaware of how much he’s learning—not just math, but you.

𐙚 C.W: Depression, Academic pressure, Kinda happy ending, Angst

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I'm so fucked. I crammed this so bad................. I onl wrote this as an offering for Phainon. Idk man. Goodluck to me. WE WILL ALL GET PHAINON AD HIS LC!!!!!!!!!! MANIFEST MANIFEST!!!

𐙚 W.C: 8.5k

Anaxa didn’t even glance up from the monitor when he announced it.

“Top rank. Regional champion. You,” he said, sharp and almost lazy. “Congratulations. Nationals is in two weeks. Don’t embarrass us.”

There was a scattered beat of applause from the others—half-hearted, short-lived. Not because they didn’t respect you. They did. But you’d won too many times already. You didn’t smile. You never did. Just gave a small nod and turned your eyes back to the problem set you’d brought with you, already thinking ahead. Everyone else looked relieved that it wasn’t them expected to carry the weight of Nationals.

Phainon clapped a little longer than everyone else, even if he did it mostly out of instinct. Maybe also to see if you’d look up. You didn’t. You just adjusted the mechanical pencil between your fingers and started writing. No celebration. No smugness. Just a clean transition from victory to preparation, like your mind had already sprinted two weeks ahead without you.

He waited until the others filtered out of the room before sliding into the seat next to yours. Your notes were out, as usual—lined graph paper, faint sketches of triangle spirals in the corners, a few barely readable side equations that looked like your personal shorthand. You were midway through a set of recursive relations, flipping your pencil over and shading tiny regions of an imaginary shape you hadn’t finished sketching.

"You’re incredible, you know that?" he said, keeping his voice soft. Friendly. That usual tone that never quite gave away how hard his heart hit the inside of his ribs when you were this close.

You didn’t glance over. Just mumbled, “There’s still nationals.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You pressed the side of your pencil against your temple. “I didn’t study to impress people.”

“Good,” he said. “Because then I’d be very, very out of my league.”

That got him a brief exhale—almost a laugh, maybe. He smiled quietly to himself. It was always like this with you. No dramatic sparks, no confessions in the hallway, no big rom com moments. Just subtle shifts. Only barely there smiles. There's this slight change in your voice when you explained something and thought he was actually paying attention

He was. He really was.

"You’re still doing number theory this week?" he asked, nodding to your notes.

“Number theory, and complex optimization. The nationals committee has a history of using constraint based problems in the first round. And… including linear programming with edge cases. I’m trying to account for unusual variables.”

“You make that sound fun.”

“It is.”

There was something gentle in the way you said it, even if your tone didn’t change much. He liked hearing you talk about math more than he liked math itself—maybe that was the problem. You were fluent in this language. You thought in it, breathed it. And he didn’t. He was still stuck in the shallow end, watching you swim through vectors and primes like it was nothing. In his eyes, you were something else entirely.

But he was trying. You didn’t know that. Maybe it was better that way.

Later that night, in his room, he stared at the scanned copy of one of your old solution sets. You’d let it slip into his notes by accident. Maybe on purpose. He didn’t know. The paper had your name scribbled in the corner in small block letters, and the answer space had margins filled with diagrams no professor would ever require: loops within loops, a staircase of ratios descending inwards. Not just working out the solution—mapping it emotionally, too.

There was something about the way you thought that felt like art. You once solved an entire probability challenge backward just to demonstrate a flaw in its framing. He didn’t even understand the flaw. But he remembered how calm your voice was as you explained it to the class, as if you weren’t constantly carrying the pressure of being everyone’s expectation.

He wasn’t sure when it happened. When the fascination turned into something heavier. When your quiet concentration became something he’d seek out in every room. When your silence started feeling warmer than most people’s words.

Phainon didn’t tell Mydei about it. Not really. But Mydei knew something, of course—he always did. Once, when they were walking back from the library together, Phainon had grumbled something about being “math fucked” and “losing brain cells over logic gates.” Mydei had just looked at him, unreadable, then muttered, “You don’t like math. You like them.”

Phainon hadn’t denied it. Just kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and said, “What’s the difference if I’m learning for the right reason?”

Right now, the right reason was sprawled in the library’s farthest corner, buried under mock test printouts and three different pens. You were tracing something across the page—he couldn’t tell what from this angle. He hesitated by the doorway before walking over.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light.

You didn’t startle. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says who?”

“You’re not even in the nationals roster.”

“I’m studying vicariously,” he offered, flashing a grin.

You gave a small sigh, but didn’t ask him to leave.

He sat across from you, watching as you marked a value in red. Constraint minimization, he realized—probably some kind of modified simplex method. You liked visual cues, always highlighted in different shades. Red was for discardable outcomes. Blue for fixed values. Green for hypotheses. He’d memorized the palette without trying.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” you murmured, still focused on your work.

“Do what?”

“Follow me around. Pretend this is your thing.”

He hesitated. The grin faded a little.

“I’m not pretending,” he said finally.

You stopped writing. Not looked at him yet, but still.

“I don’t care about the numbers the way you do,” he admitted. “But I care about why they matter to you. And... that’s worth trying to understand.”

That got your attention. You looked up slowly, not angry, not even surprised. Just quiet. Tired, maybe. Tired of people trying to get something from you. Tired of always being the brain, the standard, the benchmark to beat.

He wished he could explain it better. That he wasn’t trying to win anything. He wasn’t chasing your answers. He just wanted to be near the questions that made you come alive.

“...I used to think people only noticed me when I solved things fast,” you said, almost too low to hear. “Like I didn’t matter outside of that.”

“You do.”

You blinked at him.

“I notice you even when you’re not solving anything,” he added, a little softer.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, pen still between your fingers, like you weren’t sure how to factor this variable in. Like you hadn’t expected honesty to be part of the equation.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. You just turned back to your notes and pushed a blank page toward him. Handed him a pen.

“Try this one,” you said. “I’ll walk you through it.”

And you did. Quietly. Carefully. Like you actually wanted him to stay.

He didn’t solve it perfectly. Not even close. But you didn’t correct him harshly. You just crossed out one step, rewrote it, and said, “Closer.”

Closer. He could live with that

Twelve days before the competition, you stopped staying for lunch.

Phainon noticed it gradually—first the empty seat, then the unfinished water bottle left behind, then the absence of your voice during roll call. You were always quiet, but you were never gone. Now, you disappeared between periods, emerging only for tests and drills, vanishing again like a scheduled ghost.

He caught sight of you once in the third-floor study room. You were sitting with your hoodie drawn halfway over your head, glasses fogged slightly, hair pushed back in a way that looked unintentional. There were seven books stacked beside you, two calculators, three different notebooks open to wildly different problems. Your eyes didn’t even blink between lines. You were writing in loops, as if time itself bent into circles around your wrist.

He stood by the door for maybe thirty seconds before turning away. He hadn’t meant to interrupt. Hadn’t meant to hover. But you were so deep into it—into your world of vectors and bounds and proofs with ugly constants—that he didn’t dare step inside.

That evening, Mydei said, “They’re going to burn out.”

Phainon looked up from the practice sheet he’d half-filled with mistakes. He hadn’t realized Mydei was paying attention. Then again, Mydei always paid attention to things no one else bothered to watch.

“I know,” Phainon muttered. “I just don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything.”

“You’re not,” Mydei said, and went back to his own book.

Still, he couldn’t shake the image of you hunched over the desk, barely moving except to flip pages or change pens. It was the kind of focus that was a little frightening. Not because it was obsessive, but because it was clearly the only thing keeping you anchored. You didn’t trust the world, not entirely. But you trusted a good equation.

The next day, he brought a small coffee to the study room and left it by the door. Nothing fancy. Just the kind you always ordered—plain, warm, no sugar. He didn’t write his name on it. You probably knew it was from him, but if you didn’t, that was okay too. He left it anyway.

You didn’t acknowledge it when you passed him in the hallway two hours later, but you also didn’t throw it away.

That counted.

By the tenth day, you looked like you were made out of pencil lead and fraying patience. Your eyes were slightly red from staying up too long. You had a cough. Your posture had changed—slouched inward, like your spine had curled into itself to conserve energy. When you walked past the windows, you didn’t even glance up at the light. Your hands were always busy, twitching slightly when you solved problems mid-step, mouthing integers like incantations.

Phainon watched you from across the room during study hall. He wasn’t subtle, but you weren’t paying attention. He always saw when you were working through something—something with matrices, maybe, or Lagrangian optimization. You crossed out two full lines, rewrote them, circled a variable twice, then pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes like the numbers were starting to hum behind them.

It was as if he wanted to say something. Not something dramatic. Not some big motivational monologue. Just—you can breathe, you know. You don’t have to prove it all the time. But even that felt like too much.

Instead, he passed by your table on his way out and dropped a small eraser beside your book. You always borrowed one. Always forgot it. This one had a tiny sun drawn on it with a blue pen. You didn’t say anything, but you moved it closer to your notes and kept using it.

The next few days, he kept studying on his own. He didn’t bother pretending he liked it anymore—he’d moved past that phase. He liked understanding parts of it. Not the math itself, maybe, but the logic. The way you treated problems like puzzles, always finding the most efficient path from question to solution. He kept a folder now, filled with problems you’d solved in front of him. Sometimes he redid them with your steps beside his, trying to see where his mind wandered and yours didn’t.

He also started noticing your habits. You tapped your pencil three times before starting a proof. You wrote every square root without simplifying, unless explicitly told. You skipped the final boxed answer until you double-checked the sign of every constant. When you got stuck, you tilted your head to the left—not right, never right—and frowned as if disappointment were just part of the process.

He wondered if you even knew how many systems you carried in your head at once. How many variables you managed, even outside math. You rarely spoke unless asked. You never sought help. You moved through school like someone who knew how fragile time was and didn’t want to waste a second pretending to be someone else.

Eight days left. Phainon joined your review session by accident—or maybe it wasn’t an accident, but he pretended it was. Anaxa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, which was either mercy or mild curiosity. You were already there, surrounded by open binders and highlighted theorems.

He asked one question. You corrected him quietly, barely glancing up. But then you passed him a page with an easier version of the same problem. No comment. Just... passed it to him like it wasn’t a big deal.

He kept that page.

Six days before the nationals, it rained. He found you sitting near the vending machine, hair damp, hoodie too thin for the wind. You had a small bag of crackers beside you and your notebook flipped open to a new page. This time, no spirals. Just equations. Dense ones. Partial differentials and strange notation. The kind that hurt his head if he looked too long.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said, handing you a dry napkin.

You took it. “Didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“You okay?”

“I have to finish the integration methods tonight. That’s the only thing I keep slipping on.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You didn’t answer, but your jaw tightened slightly. The crackers stayed untouched. Your hand shook a little when you wrote something—he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from exhaustion.

“Can I sit?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just sat with you while the rain hit the windows and the world outside got blurred into noise. You solved two problems. He solved one and a half, badly. But you didn’t mock him. You just corrected a sign with your red pen, circled a line, and nodded.

“Closer,” you said.

He felt warmer after that.

Not because of the math. Not because of the rain.

You sneezed. Quiet, quivk, like you were trying not to draw attention to it. Your pencil paused mid equation, fingers curling tighter around it. Then another sneeze followed, this time a little sharper, less contained. You didn’t say anything, but your shoulders tensed slightly, and your hand brushed under your nose before you kept writing like nothing happened.

Phainon watched you from the corner of his eye. You didn’t look sick, not exactly, but you were definitely running warm. Your hoodie was bunched at the sleeves, collar loose, and there was a slight pink flush at the tips of your ears that hadn’t been there yesterday. It wasn’t dramatic—just off. And that was enough.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice light.

“I’m fine,” you said, and that would’ve been the end of it, if you hadn’t swayed a little when you leaned back to check your notes. Just a blink’s worth of hesitation. Your hand moved to steady your balance, fingers briefly flattening against the desk before you continued writing like nothing had happened.

“You’ve sneezed three times,” he added. “Statistically, that’s a pattern.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Another sniffle. You finally lowered your pencil and pinched the bridge of your nose like it was starting to hurt.

“I don’t have time to get sick,” you mumbled.

Phainon leaned his chin into his hand. “Pretty sure your immune system doesn’t care about your schedule.”

He saw it—the falter. The hesitation in your lips before you pressed them together. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that caffeine doesn’t touch and focus can’t compensate for. Your notebook was filled with clean solutions, but the eraser marks had gotten more chaotic lately. Your last proof had a correction line that ran through four variables like a frustrated scrawl.

You looked like you were trying to hold the world together by sheer force of will. Phainon had no idea how you hadn’t collapsed already.

“Let’s go out,” he said suddenly.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Come on. Just for a bit. Stretch your legs, walk, grab a snack. There’s a convenience store two blocks down.”

“I have to review,” you said automatically, already glancing back at your notes.

“You’ve been reviewing for seven straight hours.”

“Exactly.”

Phainon tilted his head. “You’re burning out. Your handwriting looks drunk. You just sneezed into your own shoulder. I am—scientifically—concerned.”

You stared at him. Not offended, not irritated—just confused, like you didn’t understand what he was trying to get out of this. And maybe you didn’t. Most people left you alone. Phainon hadn’t.

You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “I’m not in the mood to hang out.”

“It’s not hanging out. It’s tactical energy recovery.”

You raised a brow.

“I’ll buy you a snack,” he offered. “Any one.”

That made you pause. Not because of the snack, probably. Maybe because it sounded easy. Normal. Like something someone who wasn’t constantly calculating would say.

“I’m not changing out of this,” you said, gesturing to your hoodie.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

You stared at him another few seconds. Then, finally, with a long, quiet sigh, you capped your pen and closed the notebook. You stood without a word. Phainon followed.

The wind had gotten colder since earlier. You pulled your sleeves down and kept your hands in your pocket, head ducked slightly. Your steps weren’t fast, but they were steady. Still, your shoulders moved a bit more than usual, like you were trying not to shiver.

“Your nose is pink,” he said gently.

“So is yours,” you shot back.

That made him laugh, surprised. “Wow. You do have a bite.”

You sniffled again. Didn’t reply. But you didn’t walk away either.

The convenience store’s lights buzzed softly when you stepped in. It smelled like microwaved curry and floor wax, comfortingly familiar. You wandered first, gravitating toward the drinks aisle with a slow shuffle, while Phainon trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets.

“You like those jelly cups, right?” he asked, nodding toward the bottom shelf.

You didn’t answer right away, just crouched slightly and picked one up. Held it in your hand like you were deciding whether it was worth it.

“Get two,” he said. “You can pretend I earned it.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Your eyes were dull from the fatigue, but there was something flickering just under the surface—confusion, maybe, or something softer. He wasn’t sure.

“I feel kind of hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

“You’ve probably got a mild fever,” he said. “Here.”

He stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to reach out, hand slow and open. You flinched, barely, but didn’t move away. His palm touched your forehead, fingers brushing against your temple. He expected to feel awkward. He didn’t. Just warm. Human.

You were, indeed, running warm.

He let the contact linger for a second longer, then lowered his hand.

You looked off to the side. “I should be reviewing.”

“You can review tomorrow.”

You shook your head, but it was weak. Your fingers squeezed the jelly cup just slightly.

He walked toward the checkout. You didn’t stop him.

He paid for both snacks, plus a bottle of ion water, and handed them to you outside. You took them, slowly. The sky had gone from pale blue to soft orange—late afternoon bleeding into early dusk. Your breath fogged a little when you exhaled.

“Just one night,” he said. “Don’t solve anything tonight. Don’t even open a notebook. Just... recharge.”

You looked down at the bottle in your hand. Read the label. Then, with no ceremony, you opened it and took a long drink.

“You act like you’re not smart,” you said.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“You figure me out fast,” you added, quieter. “That’s not easy.”

He smiled. Not widely. Just enough. “I study you more than math.”

You exhaled through your nose, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. But the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly. You walked beside him all the way back without pulling away, even when your sleeve brushed against his.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ruin it.

You didn’t either.

That night, when you got back to the study room, you didn’t open your notebook. You just sat there, hood over your head, sipping your drink slowly. Phainon leaned back in his chair and let the quiet settle.

One night off.

The table’s surface was warm from the overhead light. Your arm pressed against it as you leaned forward, eyes locked on the scratchpad. The problem had three variables and an error margin no greater than ±0.05. So this was the kind of equation meant to eat hours: a balance model with variable-bound inequalities.

(your messy notes)

x₁ + 0.6x₂ + 1.4x₃ = 42, where 8 ≤ x₁ ≤ 14, x₂ ≤ 2x₁, x₃ ≥ x₂ – 3.

You’d written that down ten minutes ago and hadn’t spoken since.

Phainon shifted beside you, eyeing the margin of your notebook. There were no doodles this time. No arrows or metaphors or messy little tangents. Just the problem. Just you.

You’d stopped talking much three days ago. You still showed up, still reviewed, still scribbled on his printouts without asking. But your answers came slower. Less confident. Less sharp.

He didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

You pressed your palm to your forehead and muttered something under your breath. The pencil in your right hand twitched.

“You want to test boundary values?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “What’s the point? It’s unstable no matter where x₁ lands.”

“It stabilizes at x₁ = 10,” he said. “If x₂ = 18 and x₃ = 15, the equation balances at—”

You were already writing it.

10 + 0.6(18) + 1.4(15) = 10 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 41.8

He saw your jaw twitch.

“Too low,” you muttered. “It needs 42 exactly.”

“Try rounding x₂ up to 20.”

You scribbled again.

x₁ = 10, x₂ = 20, x₃ = 17 → 10 + 12 + 23.8 = 45.8

“Too high.”

You exhaled sharply and sat back. The chair creaked beneath you.

Phainon didn’t speak for a moment. He watched you crack your knuckles, flex your neck to the side. You were tired again—he could tell. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a snack or a nap. The kind that settled under the skin. The kind that had you burning out in silence.

He looked back at the numbers. “Hm… Try interpolating? Let’s find x₂ that fits given x₁ fixed at 11, I think.”

You hesitated.

He nudged the pencil toward you. You didn’t take it.

“What’s the point if I’m just guessing?” you muttered.

He sat straighter.

“Hey,” he said, more level now. “You don’t guess. That’s not what you do.”

“I used to not guess,” you said. “Now I’m just throwing numbers until it fits. That’s not solving, that’s flailing.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but it was the most emotion you’d shown all week. And it settled between you like heat.

Phainon tilted his head, frowning faintly. “You’re still solving. You just don’t trust yourself when it’s slower.”

“I don’t have time to be slow.”

That silence again. The kind that dared someone to argue.

He didn’t. Not directly.

Instead, he pulled the notebook toward himself and began testing values. Small, controlled substitutions. Not to prove you wrong—but to try what you wouldn’t let yourself do. Try without crumbling.

x₁ = 11 x₂ = 17 x₃ = 14 11 + 0.6(17) + 1.4(14) = 11 + 10.2 + 19.6 = 40.8

Closer.

“Try x₂ = 18,” you muttered suddenly.

He adjusted.

x₂ = 18 → 0.6(18) = 10.8 x₃ = 15 → 1.4(15) = 21.0 Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 42.8

“Over,” you said. “Lower x₃ to 14.5.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re allowing floats now?”

“It never said integers only.”

Phainon adjusted again, writing as you dictated.

x₃ = 14.5 → 1.4(14.5) = 20.3 11 + 10.8 + 20.3 = 42.1

“Almost.”

You took the pencil from him. This time, your hand didn’t shake.

x₃ = 14.2 → 1.4(14.2) = 19.88 Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 19.88 = 41.68

“No,” you whispered. “Too low again.”

He watched the way your brows furrowed. Not in frustration—but focus. Like the real you was re-emerging, inch by inch, from a long, silent retreat.

You scribbled one more:

x₃ = 14.4 → 1.4(14.4) = 20.16 Total = 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Phainon leaned closer. “That’s within the error margin.”

“±0.05,” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “That’s close enough.”

The tension in your jaw didn’t release. Not right away. You just kept staring at the page, calculating again. Double-checking. Reducing. Making sure you weren’t wrong.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “That was a good solve.”

You exhaled, still not smiling. But your grip on the pencil eased.

Phainon didn’t push the moment further. He didn’t say anything reassuring. He just leaned back in his chair and looked at you—not expectantly, not with pity. Just... looked.

He’d watched you shift like this for days. From sharp precision to burning out. From holding yourself too tightly to finally slipping. Not in a way that made you fragile—just quieter. And he hadn’t realized, until now, how carefully he’d started tracking it. The rise and fall of your moods. The way your sleeves drooped past your wrists when you hadn’t slept. The way your eyes moved faster when your confidence returned.

He hadn’t meant to notice so much.

But he had.

And now, with the answer in front of you and your hands stilled, he didn’t know how to look away.

You finally broke the silence. “I haven’t studied properly in days.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

You stared at the solution again.

“You going to tell me I’m screwing up?” you asked.

He thought about it. Then: “No. You already know when you are.”

You looked at him. And for once, didn’t look away.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was.

Eventually, you stood. Packed your things slowly. Left the notebook open on the table. Phainon didn’t move, didn’t speak. He waited.

As you reached the door, you paused.

Then you left.

And he watched the half-solved page for a long time after, hand twitching once over the final line of the equation you’d both earned.

The day before nationals, you were staring at problem seventeen.

The question wasn't hard. Just dense. It was a nested inequality, no diagrams, three lines of conditions, and you’d already seen the structure before—maybe two sets ago, maybe last year’s regional finals. But your hands weren’t moving.

Your eyes dragged across the page. Back. Then again.

Nothing stuck.

Not the phrasing, not the shape of the functions, not even the constants. Every time you tried to scan it, it broke apart into noise—like reading with cotton in your ears. Like thinking through static.

The solution was probably two steps. Three, at most.

You couldn’t even start.

Someone knocked.

You didn’t look.

The knock came again—softer this time, a kind of hesitation behind it. Then the door clicked, and you heard it open anyway.

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Don’t,” you said, not even loud.

There was a pause.

“I’m just—”

“I said don’t.”

A beat.

Then footsteps.

Not retreating.

He stepped into the room anyway. Phainon, silent. Probably still in that same hoodie he wore when he didn’t want to draw attention. You didn’t turn your head. You just stared harder at the paper, as if concentration could be forced by spite.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly.

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched too long. You hated it.

“You think showing up is helpful right now?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your pencil scratched a line across the page, but it was aimless. More like a heartbeat line than math. You flipped to the next page.

Blank. Just grid lines.

You tapped the pencil three times, then pressed it to the paper again. No questions. No prompt. You just drew a symbol. Something meaningless. A circle with a line through it.

Your jaw locked.

“Go home, Phainon.”

Still nothing.

“You think being here does something? That it makes me feel less like I'm falling apart?” You laughed, hollow. “If you’re waiting for some last-minute wisdom to come out of this, don’t bother.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what?”

Nothing.

He just stood there, behind your shoulder.

You grabbed your binder and closed it, too fast. The snap echoed.

“Look, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want eye contact. I don’t want you sitting there acting like your presence is comforting. It isn’t.”

“I know.”

Your throat tightened.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you said, still not looking. “How everything slowed down the past two weeks? How I stopped keeping up with my logs, stopped doing three sets a day, stopped treating this like it mattered?”

“That wasn’t—”

“I let myself breathe, and now I can’t focus. I’m sitting here and I can’t even move past a two-line problem. Nationals is in the morning, and all I want is silence.”

Your voice was low. Sharper than you intended. But honest.

And you meant it.

Phainon shifted. A quiet inhale. Then nothing.

For a second, you thought he might say something. Some vague, clipped version of comfort dressed up as logic. Something he could pass off as neutral.

But he didn’t.

Because you’d made it clear you wouldn’t hear it.

You stood, moved to the far side of the room, pulled open your bag with fingers that wouldn’t stop twitching. You took out another mock set. Unopened. Pages pristine.

You didn’t sit. Just held it like it would matter.

Phainon hadn’t left yet.

You said, with your back turned, “I’ll delete your messages if you send any tonight.”

Silence.

And finally—finally—you heard him step back.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

No goodbyes. No dramatics.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. There wasn’t time for that. You sat down and opened the mock test like nothing happened. Like you weren’t seconds from snapping. Like tomorrow wasn’t the only thing waiting for you, bare-fanged and watching.

The first question blurred. You blinked. Read it again.

Then started solving.

Because that’s all you had left.

The bus ride was too quiet.

You’d brought your binder. Everyone did. Open sets, annotated diagrams, clipped formula guides taped to the back of laminated ID cards. You used to do the same. You used to flip pages just to feel sharp, to stay in rhythm. But today you just held it in your lap. Your thumb brushed the edge of the cover, but you didn’t open it.

Someone laughed two rows down. Probably a teammate. The coach said something about breathing and pacing yourself and trusting what you already know.

You didn’t hear most of it. Your ears buzzed. Your head was full, but not of numbers.

You blinked and the venue arrived. High ceiling, clean rows of chairs, dry ass ac that immediately made your eyes sting red. In the room, they had labeled placards on the desks and printed IDs with barcodes. Everything looked exactly like it had last year.

You were in the front row this time.

Not that it mattered much.

You sat, hands on your lap, knees stiff. Your legs wouldn’t stop bouncing. Your pen was already uncapped. You kept uncapping it, then recapping it again. Five times. Six. You didn’t notice until someone tapped your desk to hand you the test envelope.

You said “thank you” without making eye contact.

Then it started.

Booklet flipped. Timer started. You read question one.

And felt nothing.

It was combinatorics—one of your favorite categories. The kind of problem you used to eat for warm-up. The first half was trivial: inclusion-exclusion, pigeonhole principle, standard case count. But your brain tripped on the wording.

You read the same paragraph twice.

Then a third time.

The logic was familiar. The numbers weren’t. You tried sketching something, but your pencil felt heavy. The lead snapped halfway through your first diagram. You paused to sharpen it, fingers tight, breathing shallow.

You looked at the clock.

You’d spent nine minutes on the first item.

You flipped to number two. Then three.

Then back again.

The room was silent—pages turning, pens scribbling, the occasional cough.

Your pen hovered above the paper. You wrote half a line of working for problem one. Then scratched it out.

It wasn’t even wrong.

You just couldn’t focus.

Your stomach churned.

By the time you finished the first page, it had been twenty minutes. Your hand hurt. You weren’t writing fluidly anymore. You weren’t even calculating. Just stumbling between guesses and second-guessing every instinct you used to trust.

Problem four was geometry.

It was clean. Symmetrical. The kind of shape you’d usually smirk at.

Now it made your head throb.

Midway through the proof construction, you forgot why you were solving it. You blinked and realized you'd written a congruence that didn’t apply. Your triangle labeling was inconsistent. You had to rewrite half the setup.

Thirty-five minutes gone.

Only two questions answered—poorly.

You wiped your palms against your pants. They were damp. You hadn’t noticed.

You looked around.

Everyone else was working. Focused. Calm.

You stared back down at your paper and told yourself to just breathe.

One step.

You just had to think.

Just had to trust your training.

Just had to—

Your vision blurred for half a second. Not from tears. From sheer cognitive fatigue.

You closed your eyes.

This isn’t me.

That voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to a version of you that hadn’t already spiraled.

You used to feel alive during competitions. You used to get high off the logic. Used to finish before the timer. You’d lean back and double-check the whole thing just for fun. You used to walk out of the room with a grin.

Now you couldn’t even lift your head.

You wanted to quit.

Not the competition—just the moment. Just stop existing here. Just vanish from the desk and leave the half-scratched paper behind. You wanted to crawl out of your own body and sleep for a week.

You looked back at the clock.

Fifty-eight minutes left.

You hadn't solved more than two problems.

Your hands shook.

You flipped to the next page anyway. You didn’t want to—your body just moved on instinct. A functional equation. Weird domain restriction. You could see what it wanted you to do. Transform. Isolate. But the working wouldn’t come.

You wrote a line. Crossed it out.

Wrote a second. Scratched over it.

You felt your chest tighten.

This is a joke.

You stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not breathing. Then you looked down and forced yourself to pick up the pen again.

It didn’t matter how slow.

You weren’t going to leave it blank.

Even if everything felt like it was slipping sideways, even if you knew—knew—you’d fumble this set, you couldn’t walk out knowing you hadn’t tried.

So you solved.

Not well.

Not fast.

And then, the announcement came four hours later.

They posted the results on the auditorium wall, in clean rows under the school banners. It took less than a minute for the cluster of students to gather. Someone whooped when they saw their name. Another dropped to the floor in disbelief, grinning at their teammates

You didn’t move.

You stood farther off, half in the shadow of the hallway, arms crossed too tightly across your chest.

You already knew.

The one with the modular constraint and inverse evaluation. The one that was practically made for you. You'd caught the structure immediately—cyclic groups, reduced residues, classic residue pairing. It was clean. Direct. Elegant.

You’d known before they even collected your paper.

You knew the second you circled back to problem nine.

But you hadn’t notated your base step.

You skipped it.

You proved the process but didn’t state the root value.

No mark.

You lost five points for that.

Five points.

You walked up to the sheet anyway. Just to see it.

The margin between first and second place?

Five.

Your name was there. Clear as day.

National rank: 2nd Place Total: 91 / 100

People were already murmuring. A few were surprised. A few weren’t. Some were still talking about how you "looked out of it" during the morning set, how you’d "sat still for too long" during the first page.

First place had 96.

Third had 89.

You didn’t respond.

You’d never placed second before.

You read the number again.

Ninety-one.

Not once.

Not since the beginning.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying.

You just stood there, tired. Your legs ached. Your hands felt like they weren’t fully yours.

You heard someone approach behind you. The footsteps were familiar. Lighter than Mydei’s. Too careful to be Anaxa. You didn’t turn.

Phainon stopped beside you.

He didn’t say anything.

You didn’t either.

For a moment, the results just... existed between you.

It should’ve been perfect.

That one line.

That one symbol.

That one stupid omission.

The logic was right. The reasoning was solid. It was the kind of solution they’d print in post-competition reviews. But it was incomplete. Technically correct, formally flawed. The judges hadn’t been harsh. Just consistent.

You exhaled, slow.

“You already knew?” Phainon asked, voice low.

You nodded.

“I left it blank.”

“You didn’t leave it blank.”

“I left it unanchored.”

Silence.

You didn’t want consolation. Not even from him.

Because this wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a failure.

It was worse.

It was that knife’s edge between greatness and flaw. The kind of mistake you can’t even be mad at. Just live with. Just swallow. Just remember when you look at your own name in second place next year and wonder how much tighter your grip has to be.

Someone asked to take a photo with the medalists.

You didn’t move.

Your hand twitched slightly when your name was called, but you stayed behind until the crowd thinned.

Phainon stayed with you.

Still silent.

It wasn’t a terrible ending.

You still placed.

You still qualified.

But when you finally walked outside—medal in your pocket, sweat dried cold on your back—the world felt too loud. The cars too sharp. The sunlight too white.

You’d done almost everything right.

Except the part that counted.

You didn’t wait for the team photo.

You stepped down from the auditorium steps, medal still boxed in your pocket, shoes hitting the concrete too hard. The sun was brutal. The wind made the sweat on your neck feel sticky. You crossed the street with no destination—just motion. Just away.

Someone called your name. You didn’t turn.

You heard the footsteps speeding up behind you. Rubber soles scraping pavement.

“Wait—” Phainon’s voice, breath catching.

You didn’t.

You kept walking until your throat started burning from how tight it was clenched. Until your fists were hot from how hard you were holding onto nothing.

He caught up anyway.

Of course he did.

“Can you—can you just stop for a second?”

You did.

But not for him.

You stopped because your legs were shaking.

You spun around.

“What.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

You didn’t wait.

“No, really. What do you want, Phainon?” you snapped. “To say it’s okay? That I still did great? That I should be proud of second place?”

His expression shifted. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Because I don’t want to hear it.”

You stepped closer.

“I don’t want your version of understanding. I don’t want your... your weird quiet ‘I’m here’ look like that does anything for me. You know what I want?”

He didn’t move. Just stared.

“I want to go back two hours and slap myself for being so goddamn stupid.”

Your hands were shaking. “I missed one notation. One. You know how easy that base statement is? It’s mechanical. It’s an instinct. And I missed it because I was so fucking fogged I forgot how to write.”

Phainon said nothing.

You hated that.

You hated that he still wouldn’t argue.

“You knew,” you accused, voice low. “You saw me falling apart this week and you said nothing.”

“I tried—”

“You watched me. You followed me. You sat in that room and you knew I wasn’t in the right state, and you still didn’t stop me from spiraling.”

“I wasn’t going to control you.”

“Maybe you should have!”

It echoed off the buildings.

You took a shaky breath, but your lungs wouldn’t fill right. You swore your heart was in your throat.

“I don’t lose,” you whispered. “I don’t.”

Phainon’s brows knit. “It’s one mistake.”

“To you.”

“Not just to me.”

“Well, I’m not you!” you snapped, voice cracking.

Pedestrians crossed the street behind you. None of them looked your way.

“Do you know what they’ll say?” you asked bitterly. “That I choked. That I got distracted. That I got lazy. That the math kid finally cracked because they stopped grinding and started... I don’t know. Socializing.”

Phainon flinched. Barely.

Your breath caught.

And then, softer: “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You stepped back, blinking hard, jaw locked.

“I was supposed to win. Cleanly. Not because I’m gifted, not because I’m smart—because I fucking worked for it.”

Phainon’s voice came quiet.

“You still did.”

“Don’t,” you warned.

You weren’t ready to hear anything from him. Not validation. Not warmth. Not that irritating, careful silence he kept bringing like it was supposed to help.

You didn’t want him to understand.

You wanted him gone.

So you said the one thing you knew would stick:

“I can’t stand being around you right now.”

He froze.

You didn’t take it back.

You turned.

You walked.

And this time, he didn’t follow.

It had been a week. Maybe longer.

You didn’t care. You didn’t count anymore. The calendar with Nationals circled in red was still on the wall, but you hadn’t looked at it since the results. You kept the lights dim. Didn’t open the window. Didn’t answer your messages. You couldn’t. Every ping made your skin crawl. The medal was still in its case, unopened. Your fingers had touched it once, briefly, by accident when reaching for a pen, and your body recoiled like it was hot iron.

You didn’t deserve to hold it.

You sat hunched over your desk again, notebook open to the same damned problem—the same sequence from that day. That warm-up with Phainon. The one you couldn’t solve cleanly. The one you laughed about, once.

You hated that memory now.

You ran through it again.

You hated how close you’d been.

You hated that it showed up again. You hated that you froze. You hated that you had been the one to say “it needs 42 exactly” out loud—and still blanked.

x₁ = 11, x₂ = 18, x₃ = 14.4 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Almost.

You wanted to punch something.

But you didn’t. You just kept tapping the lead of your pencil to the desk. Over and over. Like that would make the numbers change. Like if you rewrote them enough, your score would shift backwards in time and undo the second place.

Your door creaked.

You didn’t look.

You already knew who it was. He kept doing this now—once a day, maybe twice. Quiet steps, paper bag rustling, some drink left on the corner of your desk. He didn’t say anything. You liked that. No words meant you didn’t have to scream.

But this time was different.

Phainon didn’t leave.

He sat beside you.

Not at a distance. Not lingering behind you. He sat—right there—on the edge of the desk like he belonged, like you weren’t halfway to a breakdown, like he wasn’t the last person you wanted to see right now.

You didn’t tell him to go.

You just snapped.

“I fucking had it.”

Your voice cracked on the first word. You didn’t care.

“I solved this. Two weeks ago. I said the answer out loud. I knew the spread. I knew the constraint.”

He didn’t speak.

“I said 42. I said it needs 42 exactly. I even adjusted the values with you. We got 41.96 and laughed because we were close, remember?”

You stared at the paper.

“You know what I got in Nationals?” You didn’t wait. ��A time warning. I blanked. I hyperfocused. I optimized the wrong case, and then—then I panicked, Phainon. I panicked.”

Your throat clenched.

“I missed five points. Five points I could’ve solved in my sleep.”

The pencil snapped in your hand.

You stared at the broken lead, then the paper, then your own shaky fingers.

“I don’t get second place. I don’t choke. I don’t choke. I was the kind of person who didn’t choke. Who wrote the neatest notation. Who finished with five minutes to spare. Who got asked to coach others, because I was always sharp, always clean.”

You bit your lip.

“And I blew it. Over one question I’d already seen.”

The silence pressed against your ears.

“I ruined it.”

Still no reply. Just breathing. Just presence.

Your fingers curled, trying to keep steady.

“I hate this. I hate being this person. The person who peaked early. The person who was promising and then lost.”

Your voice dropped.

“I hate that it’s me.”

You felt your chest cave in a little—like air was too much to take in.

“And I can’t stop going over it. I can’t stop. My brain won’t shut up. I wake up thinking of equations. I stare at the ceiling and count backwards. I solve this problem again and again and it never changes.”

You let the pencil fall.

“I lost. I lost. And I can’t even scream because I don’t want anyone to hear how broken I sound.”

The tears came hot. You didn’t wipe them.

You closed your eyes. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning anymore.”

Then—

Warmth.

Not words. Not footsteps. Just arms around your shoulders, sudden and too human, too solid.

Phainon pulled you in.

No announcement. No breathy confession. No stupid I’m here for you monologue.

Just a silent, firm hug like the air had decided you’d had enough and finally let you collapse.

Your fists clenched weakly against his sleeves.

You wanted to scream again.

You didn’t.

You just stayed there, held in a silence you didn’t know how to break, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering, eyes blurry, voice too small when it came again:

“…I’m still solving it.”

And he said nothing.

Just held you tighter.

You stared at it for so long you forgot to breathe.

You’d seen the variables before. The shape of the function, the weighted coefficients, the margins for error. You’d memorized every possible spread that week before Nationals. Burned it into your skull, dreamed of the numbers like they were prophecy. You knew the bounds. You knew the behavior. You knew what was optimal.

And yet you’d missed it.

Your finger hovered over the line again:

x₁ = 10.3, x₂ = 18.6, x₃ = 14.7 10.3 + 11.16 + 20.58 = 42.04

Exactly what you needed. Balanced. Minimal error. Clean notation.

You swallowed.

This was what it looked like when someone else solved your problem.

Not the kind of problem written in a book.

The kind of problem that defined your life.

You didn’t say anything at first. What was there to say?

That he used your notation?

That he probably went through your old scratch paper?

That he even wrote like you now—left margin wide, decimals aligned, iterations clearly marked?

That the one thing you hadn’t gotten right, the one thing that shattered your momentum and your pride and everything you thought made you worth something—he solved it in your language?

You pressed your palm to your face.

The tears didn’t come this time. Just heat. The kind that made your eyes sting and your ears burn.

You weren’t angry at him.

You were angry that it still mattered this much.

He said nothing.

You finally spoke.

“…You used my margin system.”

A pause.

Then, low and hoarse: “It made the most sense.”

Your hand trembled as it dropped to the desk.

“I gave up on this.” You stared at the page like it was some kind of curse. “And you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have to perform in front of a panel,” he said.

You bit your lip.

“I still blanked. Even though I knew the spread. Even though I had this. I still choked.”

Silence.

“I don’t choke,” you muttered again, voice smaller.

Phainon didn’t argue. He just sat beside you, fingers loosely laced in his lap, expression unreadable.

You hated how quiet he was being.

You hated that he wasn't trying to fix you.

You hated how real it made everything feel.

“I thought I could… I don’t know. Rebuild it,” you muttered, eyes flicking across the page again. “Like if I solved this, just this one… if I got it cleanly, then maybe I could forgive myself.”

He glanced down.

“I didn’t solve it for that,” he said quietly. “I just… kept seeing you staring at it.”

You laughed under your breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just tired.

“It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not.”

Your voice cracked. “It is. It’s one number. A decimal shift. And it’s been clawing at me like—like the loss means I’m less. Like if I didn’t get it, I don’t deserve anything I had before.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Everyone says I’m gifted. That I was made for this. That I was ‘born for precision.’ But what kind of genius blanks on a number they said out loud two weeks before the exam?”

He turned his head, just slightly.

“You.”

You froze.

Phainon’s voice didn’t waver. “You did. You blanked. You panicked. You lost.”

You didn’t move.

He continued, gently:

“And you’re still you.”

That pierced deeper than any sympathy would’ve.

Because it wasn’t comfort.

It was truth.

You looked at him for the first time.

He didn’t look triumphant.

He looked exhausted.

Like he’d carried the weight of that number for days—not because it was hard, but because you were.

Because watching you disappear into yourself was worse than not knowing the answer.

You didn’t realize how tight your grip had gotten until the edge of the paper started to crumple in your hand.

You set it down.

“I still lost,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

The tears stung again.

“I hate that I care so much.”

He didn’t respond this time. Just leaned back slightly, letting the air between you return. Not out of cruelty. Just space. Like he knew you needed it.

You glanced down at the scratch again.

There it was. Your ghost of a victory. Written in handwriting that wasn’t yours. Solved by someone who wasn’t onstage. Who wasn’t panicking. Who hadn’t been trained for this the way you had.

“I was supposed to be better,” you muttered. “Than them. Than this.”

Phainon tilted his head. “Than me?”

You looked away.

“No,” you admitted. “Than myself.”

The words fell flat, bare, real.

You stared at the final boxed answer. The clean, round 42.04.

“That’s the score I needed.”

“It is,” he said softly.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to gather something like breath.

Your chest still felt tight.

But not crushed.

You weren’t okay. Not even close. But your hands had stopped shaking.

And for the first time in over a week, you weren’t reciting the question in your head. You weren’t counting factors on your fingers. You weren’t spiraling through iterations.

You were just sitting. Still. Quiet.

Beside someone who had gotten there, when you couldn’t.

Beside someone who didn’t offer forgiveness, because they knew you weren’t asking for it.

Phainon shifted, about to speak—

—but didn’t.

You reached forward.

Picked up the paper.

Folded it once.

Then tucked it into the corner of your notebook like a scar.

A reminder.

A truth.

The perfect notation you forgot, and someone else remembered.

a/N: BEFORE YALL COME AT ME YES THIS IS LINEAR WEIGHTED OPTIMIZATION. THE IDEA AROSE WHEN I REMEMBEERED THE GUY I LIKED AND I WANTED TO LEARN MATH BS HE MADE IT SOUND FUN:((. This ENTIRE formula was something I did wayyy back. Idek remember the process but when I dug my old notes, I saw my tiny comments step by step. If the math is wrong.......... feel free to tell me. pls bro I based this off an old scratch paper GIVE ME A BREAK. WE ARE ALL GETTTING PHAINON. I'm so sorry if this was rushed dawgggggggggggggg

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr fluff #honkai star rail angst #honkai star rail x you #hsr angst #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #phainon fluff #phainon #hsr headcanons #honkai star rail phainon #hsr

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