#but it’s going to be structurally different from the other chapters and take place all in the present day

[vroomian]

Guys. You have no idea how badly I want to write the last chapter of bbp. I have an absolutely heart wrenching scene between Aizen and masa that explains some Werid things a few readers have noticed and my brain is going !!!!!!!!!!! About it!

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 12: "The one when nothing happens" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Emma is in town, and it’s Benny’s birthday. Just a simple night out at the bar���or so you think. But the space Frankie has carefully placed between you stirs something unexpected. WC: 18,6k

Pd: This is for all of us, we lost our husband yesterday so I hope this brings you joy ❤️‍🩹 #ripJoelMiller I will always love you.

A/N: heheh *rubs hands together like a mosquito* Thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comments!!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

You didn’t step back. He did.

The silence between you had always been there, in your dynamic, a familiar presence in the room, but this one carried a different kind of weight. Not heavier, necessarily—just changed. Altered somehow.

The days folded in on themselves. A quiet rhythm took over—early mornings filled with emails and half-drunk coffee, afternoons swallowed by errands, small domestic rituals. No Frankie.

On monday, Bill stopped by. He brought you a cappuccino and a chocolate muffin with a paper napkin tucked under it like it mattered. He told you about an idea he couldn’t shake, a proposal: books in the coffee shop. Not a whole bookstore, just shelves. Corners of stories.

It started with Juliette, apparently—she’d been in one afternoon, tucked into the window seat with a paperback and a mug of hot chocolate, and later at home, she told him, casually, “You should have books. So people can read if they want.”

That one sentence stayed with him. He couldn’t let it go.

So now he wanted your help. What do people like to read while they’re alone but surrounded by other people? What kind of books feel like company without requiring too much of you? Should there be poetry? Cookbooks? Art? He talked about adding narrow shelves along the wall near the tables, maybe even building them in himself. It might take a while, he said, but it was doable. Manageable. And lucky for him, you lived next door.

He asked if you’d make the list. Choose the books. He said he’d buy them from you—of course he would—and he’d pay for your time, too.

“Thinking and curating isn’t free,” he said, when you teased that maybe he could just pay in muffins and coffee. Not that he’d ever really charged you properly anyway.

So you said yes. You kept a notepad beside your computer, filling it with titles in between emails and phone calls, between folding laundry and watching the sun move across the living room floor. You took naps on the couch beside Mr. Darcy, made simple dinners, rewatched old movies where the endings still made you ache.

Still, no Frankie.

Because he didn’t call. And he didn’t write to you either.

And you told yourself it was fine. Normal, even. There was no real reason for him to reach out. Except, of course, there was. A quiet reason. One that lingered in the corners of your thinking, never quite announcing itself, but never really leaving either. At the same time, there was also a reason not to reach out. An equally plausible, equally logical reason. So you chose not to dwell on it. You folded the thought in half and tucked it somewhere you didn’t have to look at.

Another week passed, almost unregistered by your body. No Frankie.

No messages lighting up your screen. No phone calls. No familiar knock at your door. The silence began to feel structural. Built-in.

You saw Santi on tuesday night over dinner. He brought empanadas and a bottle of wine, and you ate on the couch while a movie played behind your conversation. He didn’t mention Frankie. You waited, half-listening, hoping for some accidental update, some passing reference. But it never came.

Instead, he talked about the skydiving. Said he was still stunned you’d gone through with it, and then launched into a long, slightly theatrical complaint about not being invited. You laughed. Promised to go again with him next time. He made you swear it.

Then, more cautiously, he asked about the situation with Frankie. The two of you. The fake relationship.

You didn’t lie. You told him the truth—or a version of it. That things were going well. That you and Frankie had found a sort of rhythm. That you were getting along better now. That was technically accurate.

He looked at you for a moment like he was trying to read between your words, but he smiled eventually. Told you he was glad to hear it.

You almost asked about him. You nearly said, Have you seen him? Has he said anything? How is he?

But you didn’t. You changed the subject. Something about work, or maybe the movie. You can’t remember now.

The rest of the week slipped by in the same quiet way. Bill kept you busy. There were lists to write, catalogues to browse through.

On thursday you met Juliette, finally, at the coffee shop.

She was clever and observant, in that way some people are from a very young age, like they’ve always known how to listen carefully. She had shoulder-length brown hair, and enormous green eyes that didn’t seem to miss much. She had her mother’s sharpness, according to Bill. 

You liked her. She liked you too. That shouldn’t have mattered so much, but it did. There was something grounding about it, as if her approval—casual as it was—validated something inside you that had been unsteady for a while.

Emma arrived on friday. You saw her car pull up in front of your house, the familiar dent on the left side of the bumper, the same soft pop of the door as she got out. You didn’t wait. You ran down the steps and into her arms, almost tripping over the welcome mat in your rush.

She smelled like citrus perfume and coconut shampoo, a scent so distinctly hers that it made your throat catch for a moment. Like summer and high school and safety.

You closed the bookstore a little earlier than usual. Turned the sign, locked the door, didn’t even pretend to feel guilty about it. You both went out for pasta—her favorite place, the one with the mismatched chairs and the faded mural on the back wall. The waiter already knew your order.

You already knew the basics, of course. She’d told you everything over the phone, in a string of late-night calls and voice notes sent during walks to work or while she folded laundry. But face to face, everything hit different. The tone, the pauses, the way her hands moved when she talked. It all filled in the spaces her words had left empty.

She told you about the divorce—not dramatically, just plainly.

Yes, it was real. Yes, it was happening. But no, it wasn’t awful. They were still friends, weirdly. Comfortably, even.

You liked Luca. Everyone did. He had a warm, easy energy and a really nice laugh. Emma had met him on a summer vacation a few years ago—something casual at first, then not casual at all. It had been fast, she told you once, in that breathless way people do when they’re still stunned by their own feelings.

He was kind. Charming. Funny in the kind of way that didn’t try too hard.

But it hadn’t worked out. Not because they fought. Not because they stopped loving each other. But because of something bigger, something she couldn’t control, something neither of them had the language for at first.

Irreconcilable differences, she said lightly, sipping her wine. Then she clarified, smiling in that half-sad, half-resigned way she had: irreconcilable differences being that he fell in love with the Michael, the bartender at the place they used to go to every other friday. The place where he went more often than she did.

It hadn’t been messy, at least not in the external sense. No shouting. No broken plates across kitchen counters. Just quiet revelations and truths that had been waiting patiently beneath the surface.

She said she wasn’t angry. Not really. More shocked than anything. There’d been signs, small ones, that she’d ignored. Not out of naivety, but maybe out of self-preservation. You understood that. Completely.

And when he finally told her—haltingly, kindly, honestly—she had listened. She had nodded. She had said it was okay, even if it wasn’t. Because she loved him.

You took her to one of those rage rooms on the edge of town. The kind where you wear safety goggles and throw ceramic plates against concrete walls. You both paid extra to smash an old television with a baseball bat.

You screamed until your voice cracked. She laughed so hard she had to sit down. It wasn’t therapy exactly, but it helped. It was something.

And that night, when you lay side by side in bed, hair still wet from the shower, your fingers brushing in the dark, she whispered, “I think I’m going to be okay.” And you believed her.

Emma was doing better now. You could see it in the way she moved around your living room, humming absently while waiting for the kettle, not checking her phone every five minutes. Luca had been out of the house for a couple of months, and the divorce, as far as divorces went, was being kind. Quiet. Almost courteous. Like two people respectfully folding their shared history into neat piles and placing it in separate drawers.

He hadn’t said anything about Michael and their relationship status—not explicitly. And she hadn’t asked. That was part of the new understanding between them: leave certain truths alone. Let them breathe in their own time.

His family still didn’t know. She said that with a shrug, like it was someone else’s problem to solve. Maybe it was.

That night, the plan had been to go out for drinks. A real friday outing, just the two of you, reclaiming your twenties like responsible women who still owned good heels. But somewhere between deciding where to go and actually leaving the house, you ended up under a blanket in bed, her phone screen glowing against the sheets. A tiktok was playing softly on her phone—something about baked chicken with cream and garlic—and neither of you moved to pause it. You fell asleep like that. Her phone still in her hand.

The next morning, you woke to a text from Benny.

[Ben]: Birthday celebration. Tonight at Ogham. Last minute, so sorry if you already have plans, Santi told me you'd probably be busy. No worries!!!

You read it aloud while Emma stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like it had personally wronged her. She was wearing a pale blue robe, the fluffy kind that made her look like a very elegant cloud. Her hair was messy but artfully so, a short blond cut that would’ve looked awkward on almost anyone else but framed her face like it had been designed specifically for her cheekbones.

“I think we should go,” she said, without looking up, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

“You think?” you asked, skeptical. “I thought you wanted us to go out dancing. A proper club night.”

“I did. But I think I’d rather go to Ogham now,” she said, lifting her mug toward her mouth, one eyebrow raised. “Frankie’s going to be there, isn’t he?”

“I guess so.”

“Then... let’s go.”

You gave her a look, unimpressed. “I’m not sure.”

“But it’s Benny’s birthday! We like Benny!”

“Oh, you definitely like Benny.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be like that. Can’t a girl look at someone?”

You laughed, opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off before you could.

“And don’t even try to turn this around on me,” she added smoothly. “You��know Frankie’s going.”

“I know. I just don’t know if he actually wants me there.”

“I think he was pretty clear when he told you not to stay away.”

You exhaled loudly, let your head drop back as you leaned further against the counter. The marble edge pressed into your lower back. Something about the discomfort felt appropriate.

“How clear, though?” you muttered. “Honestly, every time I replay the conversation in my head, it gets blurrier. Like, the more I think about it, the less I actually understand.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because he spent most of the conversation listing all the reasons he shouldn’t be near me. And then, like, right after that, he kissed me. Just... he kissed me. And I’m left wondering what the hell I was supposed to take from that.”

Emma closed her eyes and gave a small nod, thoughtful. You’d already walked her through the entire thing the day before, over half-eaten pasta and the last glass of wine. Right after she told you about seeing Luca again—with his lawyer, no less.

“I mean, it sounded like a last kiss,” she said eventually. “Like something you do when you know it’s the last time. Which is kind of romantic, if you think about it in a tragic, messy sort of way.”

“I guess. But I don’t know if I’d call it romantic. It felt more like emotional whiplash. Like... what does he expect from me now? He kisses me, walks away like he’s done with it, and then just vanishes.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but not at you. More like at the general emotional incompetence of the male species.

“I already told you. He’s probably spiraling. I mean, remember how he acted after the wedding? The whole thing where he said he didn’t talk about it because he assumed you forgot? That wasn’t chill. That was full-blown internal meltdown. He’s probably lying in bed somewhere, overanalyzing some ridiculous thing.”

You tried not to smile, but your mouth gave you away.

“Or,” you offered, “he’s just being logical about it. Maybe he’s finally sticking to the boundaries we talked about. Maybe now that we have no excuse to be in each other’s lives—no wedding, no birthday party—he doesn’t see a reason to stay close.”

“I thought he was going to help you with the list?”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Right. The list. You mean the one that includes kissing a stranger and the New Year’s kiss?”

She smirked into her coffee. “That’s the one.”

“Yeah, I don’t see either of those things happening anytime soon.”

“What about the rest of it?” she asked. “The non-kissing parts.”

“There are a few things left,” you admitted. “But we haven’t talked about any of it. Not since.”

“Well, maybe the ‘kiss a stranger’ part is closer than you think,” Emma said, tilting her head toward you, raising her brows with theatrical enthusiasm. “We’re going to a bar tonight, remember? And it’s saturday. Statistically speaking, that place is going to be full of very attractive, emotionally unavailable men.”

You made a face. “Oh, yeah. Everyone's going to be there. My brother’s going to be there.”

Emma rolled her eyes like this was the most irrelevant detail you could have offered.

“Santi’s practically middle-aged, all of them are, and you’re almost thirty. Your knees pop when you stand up too fast. What are you, thirteen? He’s not going to care.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Okay, fair. But still, not happening—”

She cut you off. “That whole thing about Santi? It’s kind of a childish excuse, if you think about it.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The Frankie excuse,” she said, with a small shrug. “The one where he says, oh, you’re his best friend’s sister so it’s all off-limits or whatever. Like, okay, sure. But also, what does that even mean?”

You sighed. “I don’t know. It’s not that it’s bad exactly, but it feels... off. If things went south, it would be uncomfortable. A mess.”

Emma looked at you like she was trying to be patient, but barely succeeding.

“Babe, you guys already hated each other for, like, multiple years. You once threw a dart at his actual head. And now you’re worried it might get awkward? We’ve already been to weird. We set up camp in weird.”

“That was different.”

She smirked. “You two are addicted to excuses. It’s almost romantic in how tragic it is. Like, see, there’s an attempt at honesty. But it’s half-hearted. ”

“Okay, Atticus Finch,” you snorted.

Emma set her coffee down on the counter and turned to face you more directly, her expression suddenly more serious.

“Alright, what if I went out with Santi?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean, hypothetically,” she said, tilting her head with mock innocence. “Say something... unexpected happened. Would that bother you?”

You pressed your lips together, unsure whether to laugh or actually consider the question.

“Well... first of all, he’s engaged.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yes, obviously. I said hypothetically. If none of that were true. What would you think?”

“I—I don’t know. I think it’d feel kind of strange, I guess. You’re my best friend. My person. It’d be like two parts of my life suddenly... touching in a way they weren’t supposed to.”

“Would it bother you?”

“Maybe a little. I think I’d feel... weird about it, at first.”

Emma nodded like she was filing that information away.

“Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. There’s a difference between ‘this would be strange’ and ‘this can’t happen.’ You know?”

“I think so.”

“But you’d accept it,” Emma pressed.

“I guess I would.”

“Why?”

You exhaled, your arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“I dunno. Because I love you both, maybe?” You lifted your shoulders, more in question than statement. “I mean, I’d hate it if you turned into one of those people who completely change when they start dating someone and suddenly start leaking your friends’ secrets over wine.”

Emma gasped, hand to heart. “I would never.”

“I know,” you said, smiling despite yourself.

She tilted her head. “So? It wouldn’t really bother you. You’d get used to it. Eventually. Sooner or later.”

“Yeah. Okay. Probably. But why are we even talking about this anyway?”

“Because,” she said, with the slightly smug tone of someone who had been quietly assembling an argument and had just reached her favorite part, “I think Santi would say exactly the same thing. You two—God help us—you’re very alike. Which is precisely why I think what Frankie said is just a really well constructed excuse.”

“He never actually said Santi would disapprove. He said he felt weird about it. That he didn’t know how to navigate it. And anyway, that wasn’t even the main reason he brought up.” Your voice softened. “There were... other things.”

“I know,�� Emma said, hands up in mock surrender. “And those things are valid, okay? I’m not saying they’re not. I’m just saying... he’s hiding behind the most convenient reason because it’s easier than admitting something else.”

You looked down at the tiled floor, the words catching somewhere between your chest and throat.

“Well,” you muttered, “you’ve made your point.”

“Thank you. I do try.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “I missed you.”

Emma's face softened into something honest and unguarded.

“I missed you, too.” she said. “Good thing we’re friends, and that I’ll be by your side tonight. In fact, I packed a super cute dress that I’m really hoping to wear. It’s got, like, criminal levels of leg.”

“Oh, I’m sure Benny will appreciate that.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Ha, ha. The pot calling the kettle black.”

“Mmm, the old Ogham’s fries,” Emma said as the two of you stepped inside, her hand pressing against the bar door.

The bar was packed. Conversations overlapped in warm bursts, threading themselves into the clatter of plates and the low hum of music playing from unseen speakers. Yellow-gold pendant lights floated above each table like small suns, casting soft pools of light that made everything look a little kinder, warmer. The exposed brick walls were cluttered with vintage beer ads and fading whiskey posters, all half-charming, half-forgotten. 

You hadn’t given much thought to what you were going to wear. Emma had insisted on a few outfits—held them up with dramatic gestures and persuasive arguments—but in the end, you went with a black skirt and a fitted black tee. Simple. Uncomplicated. You did let her do your makeup, though. Something subtle, she’d said, brushing color onto your cheeks. Just enough to bring out your beautiful features.

“They’re in the back,” you said, already looking past the tables, even though the view was fractured—shoulders, raised glasses, blur of motion. You reached out and took Emma’s arm.

“I’m ordering fries the second we sit down,” she whispered.

You walked forward slowly, weaving through the narrow aisles. Benny spotted you first. He lifted a hand in greeting, grin already forming on his face.

“Hey!” he called. “Must be my lucky day.”

You smiled back instinctively, even as your eyes swept the rest of the table. Will was in the corner seat, leaning into his beer. Next to him, Benny, then your brother—who was already rising to greet Emma—and Yov, who met your glance with an easy smile. Tom wasn’t there. You remembered he was out of town for work. And Frankie—no sign of him. You weren’t sure if that absence meant anything. Maybe he was late. Maybe he’d decided not to come.

You gave everyone a quick hello and slid into the empty seat beside Yov. Benny was in rare form, practically glowing. He insisted it had nothing to do with his birthday. According to him, it was the win that mattered.

“Billy Spears,” he said, raising his glass, “talked more shit than anyone I’ve met in a ring. Said I’d be down in the first round. That I didn’t have the heart for it.” His voice curled into something close to laughter.

Will chuckled. “You taught him a lesson. That much I believe.”

Benny nodded, still smiling, his knuckles red and fading to purple at the edges.

“Four rounds,” he said, almost to himself. “Twenty minutes of him trying to take my head off. He didn’t land anything clean. Not once. He’ll think twice before running his mouth next time.”

He kept talking, something about the final clinch or how the ref had almost called it early, but your attention slipped. You rested your chin in your hand, elbow braced on the table, and let the noise of your friends wash over you like static. You weren’t really listening. You were thinking about who wasn’t there—and wondering why it mattered.

“Everything okay?” Yov asked, her voice low. “What have you two been up to?”

Emma shifted closer, the side of her arm brushing yours as she leaned in.

“Talking,” she said, and her eyes flicked between you and Yov. “Talking is never enough. Honestly, I could talk forever and still feel like I haven’t said half of what I meant to.”

Yov laughed, the sound genuine.

“You’re one of mine,” she said, like that explained everything. “How long are you here for?”

“Just until tomorrow. It’s a short visit. I have to get back to work.”

“But you missed Austin?”

“I missed everyone. Family. Friends. I’m not even that far away, but distance does its thing anyway.”

You took a small step back. Yov’s attention stayed on Emma.

“It’s the daily things, right?” Emma said. “Even when the drive isn’t long, it still feels like a whole production. There’s no room for the unplanned anymore.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Yov nodded. “I used to make last-minute plans with people all the time. Now I have to book something two weeks in advance, and even then it might fall through.”

“Yeah, well,” Emma added, mostly to herself, “life tends to get in the way.”

Yov gave a small sigh, like she was admitting something without saying it directly.

“It does. I’ve got a routine now, and I like it, mostly. But sometimes I miss being able to just say, ‘Hey, meet me in an hour,’ and know it could actually happen.”

Santi turned around in his seat at that. “What do you miss?”

You laughed lightly, pushing your chair back in that awkward, careful way people do when they’re trying not to interrupt anything.

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you said, already half-standing. You looked at Emma. “Want me to order your fries?”

She nodded, still smiling up at you from her seat. “Yeah—do you want me to come?”

“No,” you said, your hand already brushing the back of your chair. “Stay. I’ll be back in a second.”

But a second had stretched into something longer. Not dramatically so, just enough that you noticed it. You were still at the bar, your back lightly pressed against the stool, one elbow resting on the counter as you waited—first patiently, then just passively—for your drink and the cheddar fries Emma had been craving.

The place had a menu designed to satisfy people who ordered with beer already in hand. Everything felt intentionally greasy and generous. Good for soaking up alcohol. On saturdays, though, even the kitchen struggled to keep pace. And ever since The Crow had closed for renovations, Ogham had absorbed the spillover crowd. It was louder now, more chaotic. A sort of charming disorder, if you were in the mood for it.

Grian caught your eye from behind the bar. He was mixing a drink with the weary rhythm of someone who's already halfway through a long night. He gave you a look that said “I know, I know” without saying a word. You liked him. He was tall and had pale ocean eyes. He always wore cool graphic tees. Tonight, his shirt read: I hate Woody Allen. 

“Your food’ll be up in a sec,” he said, tone apologetic as he slid your gin and tonic toward you. His smile was almost embarrassed.

You nodded and gave him a small smile in return, dipping your head slightly in that way you did when you were trying not to make someone feel worse for something out of their control.

“No worries.”

You reached for your purse, your fingers brushing the zipper just as the bar door opened behind you. Just a flicker of motion. You didn’t even hear it, not over the music and the voices, but you felt it—a small shift in the room’s atmosphere. Some part of your mind, the part that noticed things before you let yourself notice them, turned toward it.

Your eyes followed a beat later. The door had swung closed again. And he was there.

Frankie.

White t-shirt, dark pants. No cap tonight. No jacket, either. You saw him and then, just as quickly, looked away. Back to the counter. Back to Grian, who was holding your glass a little closer to you now, like he wasn’t sure you were really present.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” You took the drink, brought it to your lips. “Tastes great. As always.”

He grinned at the compliment, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Thanks. Sorry for the wait. I’m on my own tonight. Kat's in the kitchen.” He gestured vaguely behind him, where the chaos of orders buzzed from the kitchen. “Can you believe it? On a saturday.”

“Where’s Bianca?”

“She quit,” he said, grabbing another glass from the shelf. “Had a fight with—”

But you’d stopped listening.

Because Frankie was somewhere behind you now, in the room. And even though you weren’t looking, you knew exactly where he was standing.

“Hey, Morales,” came a voice from behind you. Male. Confident in that casual, too-familiar way. You didn’t recognize it.

You turned slightly, just enough to see. A man, maybe in his forties, with a receding hairline and cool red prescription glasses. He clapped Frankie on the back, and he greeted him easily, a handshake and a half-laugh, like this sort of thing happened to him all the time. 

You turned back to Grian, catching his eye again.

“That’s too bad,” you said. “I like Bianca.”

He made a face—part shrug, part agreement. “Everyone likes Bianca. But Tim's a jerk.”

You raised your eyebrows. Grian, sensing your curiosity, leaned in slightly like he couldn’t help himself.

“She wanted to go take care of her mom. Something in L.A.—family stuff. Last weekend.”

You nodded.

“Tim told her no,” he continued. “Said she had to be here. She told him to fuck off, more or less. He threatened to fire her, so she saved him the trouble.”

You exhaled through your nose.

“Anyway, we don’t get paid enough to put up with this shit,” Grian added. “I’m thinking of just stealing liquor at this point. Like, genuinely. One bottle at a time.”

You laughed. “Start with the Jameson. That one’s mine.”

He gave you a mock salute, but before he could respond, a voice came from just beside you.

“First wine and champagne, now whiskey,” he said, with something like amusement tucked under the words. “You’re turning it into an art.”

You didn’t turn around right away. The voice was low, smooth, unmistakably his. Your pulse jumped once.

Then, slowly, you let your gaze shift, your shoulders following.

Frankie stood beside you. His hand was resting casually on the edge of the bar, the other on the back of your stool like it had landed there by accident. He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close enough that you felt the heat of him in the space between.

His t-shirt clung a little to his chest, and his skin looked flushed from the walk or the weight of the room or maybe something else. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, and under the flickering bar lights they caught the glow—like sparks rising too fast from a match.

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re late, Dante.”

Grian paused to glance between you and Frankie. “Should I get the first aid kit ready?”

Frankie didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on you, the corners creased just slightly. “No, but I’ll take a beer.”

Grian gave a little shrug. “On it,” he muttered, already turning away.

A small exhale left your chest, almost inaudible.

You opened your mouth, ready to ask how he’d been. About his week. About what had kept him busy or distracted or too preoccupied to send a message. But before a single syllable left your lips, he spoke.

“I could smell your perfume when I walked in,” he said, voice quiet enough that only you could hear it.

You tilted your head, intrigued. “I hope that’s a good thing. Some people have very strong opinions about perfume.”

“It’s good.” He wasn’t smiling but his expression had softened. “I like yours.” Then, after a beat, he added, “I smelled you before I saw you.”

You let out a short laugh, raising your glass toward your mouth again. “That sounds like something a well-trained dog would say.”

He actually laughed at that—low, unguarded.

“How long’ve you been here?” he asked.

“Do you mean at the bar or waiting?”

“Both.”

You sipped your gin and tonic again, letting it linger before answering. “I got here nearly an hour ago. Been waiting… thirty minutes, maybe more.”

He took a moment to scan the room. “It’s packed.”

“It is. The guys are in the back.”

“I figured. You came with Emma, right?”

You nodded, smiling now, almost involuntarily. You weren’t sure when his voice had started to do that to you.

Grian returned, setting a beer in front of Frankie. Almost immediately after, a plate of cheddar fries appeared beside you, steaming and glowing faintly in the low amber light.

You stood up, the legs of the stool scraping softly against the floor. Frankie reached for the plate before you could, holding it carefully.

“I’ve got it,” he said, and you looked at him for a second longer than you meant to, then followed him through the crowded bar.

You made your way back to the table, weaving through the mess of chairs and limbs and low laughter. Frankie moved ahead of you, greeting Benny with a hug that involved too much back-slapping to be casual. Emma caught your eye as you approached, her expression bright with unspoken commentary. Her mouth curved up, conspiratorial. You could practically hear the teasing words she hadn’t said yet.

You sank into the seat beside her. Almost immediately, her fingers found your forearm, tapping once, then staying there, her touch unhidden.

Frankie took the seat across the table, one spot over—not directly in front of you, but close enough that you became aware of his presence each time he shifted in his seat or lifted his glass. His gaze drifted past you occasionally, never lingering, never quite settling. Still, you felt the flicker of it every time.

Two hours passed this way. A blur of drinks appearing and being drained, plates stacking up in the middle of the table like lazy little mountains of comfort food. At some point, four more plates of fries had arrived—no one had actually agreed on ordering them, but no one had stopped it either. You were already on your second gin and tonic.

The conversation at one end of the table had splintered into something you only half-registered. Will was explaining something about a car he was working on—something about a part he couldn’t track down, maybe something to do with a carburetor, though you weren’t sure what a carburetor even looked like.

On your side, Emma had shifted her full attention to Yov and Santi. She was asking about the wedding—venue, dress, guest list—and Yov, for her part, answered with the kind of practiced cheer people use when they’ve been asked the same questions too many times. Her fingers played with the edge of her napkin as she spoke, a little nervous.

You leaned in to hear them better, but your mind kept wandering. To the weight of Frankie’s presence at the edge of your vision. To the warmth of Emma’s hand still near yours. To the fizzing sensation in your stomach. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair, letting your gaze wander around the bar, detached from the thread of conversation at the table. There was something soothing about observing other people living their lives—temporary characters in a play you weren’t invited to join. At one table, a woman tilted her head, laughing, her mouth open too wide, one hand resting possessively on the arm of the man beside her. At another, two friends spoke directly into each other’s ears, their voices drowned by the music. Just to your right, a couple was mid-argument—low-voiced and tightly contained, the woman’s expression tight, her hand slicing the air with every sentence.

Your eyes landed on Grian at the bar. He looked mildly distressed, his brows drawn together as he listened to a man gesturing wildly in front of him, as though urgency alone would guarantee better service. Grian’s hands were on the bar, long fingers tapping against the wood, waiting for a break in the monologue.

“... but I know that's because she likes Fish,” Will said suddenly, pulling you back to the present.

You didn’t turn your head right away. Your ears tuned in instinctively to the rhythm of Will’s voice, but your eyes stayed fixed on Grian—on the way he finally reached for a glass, as if grateful to have something to do with his hands.

The guys laughed, that light, familiar cadence of friends teasing each other.

“I told you it was just a matter of time,” Benny added, grinning around the rim of his drink.

“That… that’s not true,” Frankie murmured. The tone of his voice was quiet, uncharacteristically so.

Will leaned forward a little, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I offered to take her home, she said no. But with him? Tam didn’t even blink.”

Something tightened inside your chest. It was so slight, it barely registered—like your body skipped a beat only to recover by beating twice as hard. You glanced toward Frankie. He was rubbing his temple, elbow on the table, eyes trained on Will with a tired sort of focus. Your cheeks grew warm.

“I just took her home, that’s all,” Frankie said. His gaze flicked toward you. A second, maybe less. But it was enough.

“Hers or yours?” Benny grinned.

“Man, fuck off.” Frankie’s voice cracked a little under the weight of it. His face flushed, and he dropped his hand from his temple to fold both arms tightly across his chest. “You always do this.”

Santi was laughing.

“Right, leave him alone,” he said, looking from one to the other, clearly gearing up. “He’s not exactly a free agent anymore, is he?”

Will raised his eyebrows, smiling. “What, is he married to a cockpit now?”

There was a pause—small, fractured—and then Santi just came out with it.

“He’s like, like my brother-in-law now,” he said, tipping his head toward you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “This son of a bitch is dating my little sister.”

Yov’s face lit up with amusement. She turned to look at you, her cheeks tinged pink, lips parting like she was about to ask something—though she didn’t.

Will and Benny burst into laughter, their reactions immediate and slightly performative, like they thought it was a joke. A ridiculous, funny story. But after a few seconds, the sound tapered off. Their faces stilled. The mood shifted by degrees. It was in the way their smiles froze, how their eyes flitted between you and Frankie like they weren’t quite sure what they were looking at now. Was it a joke?

Frankie didn’t say anything. He just shook his head slightly, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes were on you. You didn’t meet them. But you felt them. The way one feels heat even when there’s no visible flame.

You smiled, just a little—tight-lipped, like you were amused in theory but not particularly entertained. You looked at Santi instead, not needing to say anything at all. There was something deeply satisfying about letting the silence stretch.

No denial. No clarification.

Will’s eyes widened gradually, disbelief taking up space in his expression. “Dude. Are you serious?”

"No, he isn't," Benny said, half-laughing. 

Santi raised his glass. “Ask Helena. She’s thrilled.” He drank, and beside him, Yov reached over and smacked his arm, not too hard, but enough to say, what the hell are you doing?

“There’s no way you’re not joking,” Benny said.

“I always knew there was something there,” Will added, pointing at Frankie with narrowed eyes, grinning like he’d just uncovered a well-kept secret. “Right from the get-go.”

Benny looked at you then, frowning slightly. “You threw a dart at him once.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You gave me the dart.”

“I remember the dart,” Will said, shifting in his seat to face Frankie more directly. “You remember the dart, Fish?”

Frankie exhaled hard through his nose and covered his face with one hand. When he pulled his hand away, his cheeks were flushed and there was a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, I remember the dart. Still got the damn scar.” He pointed just above his brow, where the skin had once split open under the wrong end of a bad decision. He glanced at you for a second—not bitter.

“That was the crush,” Santi said casually.

Benny turned to you again, then looked at Frankie, bewildered.

“Are you kidding? That logic—‘if you hate each other, you secretly love each other’—works on tv, right, sure. But not with you two.”

Frankie laughed quietly, without looking up.

“Call my mom,” he said. “Ask her what she thinks.”

Benny shook his head, eyes wide. “No. No way.”

“You want to date my little sister too, Ben?” Santi asked, tilting his head in Benny’s direction with mock suspicion. “You’re starting to sound a little too invested.”

Emma groaned dramatically next to you and covered her face.

“Please don’t take this away from me,” Benny said, leaning forward again, his eyes exaggeratedly mournful. “Watching you tease Frankie is one of the only joys I have left. I’ve got more darts. I can restock.”

“I’m sorry, Benny,” you said, lifting your shoulders in a resigned shrug. “It is what it is.”

“Shit, Fish, tell that to Tam, then,” Will said, his tone flattening slightly as he looked across the table at Frankie.

Tam. You blinked. Who the hell was Tam? Why were they suddenly talking about her? Had Frankie taken her home? Was that what this was about?

The mood shifted just enough for everyone to feel it. Emma pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, and Yov looked vaguely guilty, like she'd laughed a little too long. Santi just leaned back, watching everything unfold with that unreadable look he wore when he didn’t want to interfere but also couldn’t look away.

“What should I tell her?” Frankie asked, his voice light, lips curved in something that looked like a smirk.

Will turned to you then, as if your reaction had suddenly become important.

“I think he’s free to hang out with whoever he wants,” you said, your voice too even. You turned your head, eyes locking with Frankie’s. “As far as I’m concerned, Francisco, you can do whatever you want. That much is clear.”

Benny shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable now. His earlier jokes had evaporated into a fog of uncertainty.

Frankie was still watching you. “I’m not sure about that.”

You let out a short breath. “Ask Tam.”

Benny turned his confusion into a muttered, “I don’t understand this,” directed at Santi.

Your brother raised his eyebrows and shook his head, offering nothing.

“There’s nothing going on with Tam,” Frankie said. His voice was quieter now, but steady. He leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes not moving from yours. “I just gave her a ride home. It was late.”

You tilted your head. “That’s how it starts.”

You didn’t know if it was the gin and tonic, or the music, or the strange heat blooming under your skin, but everything in you was beginning to feel looser, like your words might start slipping past the filter.

Frankie kept his eyes on you. A full second passed, maybe more. Then: “Do you really—”

“Alright,” Santi cut in suddenly. He held up both palms like a referee in a game no one had agreed to play. “We’re done. I take it back. It was a joke, a dumb one. Not true. None of it.”

You let out a laugh and rolled your eyes. You turned toward Benny and Will, who were both watching you now like you were a page in a language they didn’t speak.

But Frankie’s eyes hadn’t left your face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Benny asked, confused, almost indignant.

Will laughed quietly beside him, like he had only just realized he was also confused.

“It’s not real,” you said, your voice lighter now. You smiled. “Frankie and I aren’t dating. We faked it. That’s all.”

Will blinked. “What? Why?”

Frankie leaned back in his seat, his shoulders sinking a little into the booth. There was a hint of a smile on his face, but it didn’t quite hold—it felt more like muscle memory.

“For convenience,” you said, your voice even. “It’s a long story.” You lifted your glass and took a sip that felt like punctuation.

“My family still thinks it’s real,” Frankie added, his eyes scanning the table. “So if you run into any of them, I’d appreciate it if you just… didn’t say anything.”

Benny let out a short laugh, disbelieving. “Right—why?”

“Jesus, man,” Frankie said, exhaling sharply. “I’ll explain later. It’s not some big dramatic thing. It just is.”

Will slumped against the back of his chair with an exaggerated sigh, folding his arms across his chest like a sulky teenager.

“Well. That’s disappointing. I had hopes, you know.”

Santi made a strangled sound in his throat. “You really thought this would actually work out?”

Will gave him a look. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Yov cut in, shrugging as she swirled the last of the ice in her glass. “Unless your only objection is that he’s your friend. Which, okay, fine. But opposites attract, baby.”

Santi narrowed his eyes like he was personally offended by the phrase.

“Not in their world.” He turned toward you then, leveling you with the kind of look only older brothers can get away with—half teasing, half invasive. “Besides, I’m pretty sure your type is more like, like brooding academic or something like that. The ones who look like they teach ethics at liberal arts colleges and that shit.”

You let out a breathy laugh, somewhere between surprised and exasperated. “What are you even talking about?”

Santi was already laughing, his face flushed with alcohol and mischief.

“Come on, you know what I mean. Like your new guy. What’s his name again? That one you’ve been hanging around with lately.”

Emma perked up beside you, clearly enjoying the new direction. “Oh, right. Bill?”

“Bill. That’s the guy,” Santi said, nodding like he’d cracked some sort of code.

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

“He’s not my guy, and he’s definitely not a brooding academic, if that’s what you were picturing.”

You could feel Emma grinning next to you without even looking.

“Well, he’s very attentive,” she said, turning her words to Santi but clearly directing them at you. “And, I mean, he sells coffee. That’s like... ideal, if you’re someone who sells books.”

“I don’t know about ideal,” your brother said. “But his donuts are damn good.”

“Bill who?” Benny asked, glancing between the two of you with genuine confusion.

“He owns the coffee shop next to the bookstore,” you explained, feeling suddenly very aware of how small your voice sounded in the room.

“He’s really cute,” Emma added, despite never having met him. “He’s doing renovations right now, and she’s helping him out.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t correct her. “He just wants to add a little library area. Somewhere people can sit, read and, yeah, just that. He asked if I could help him pick out some books. Maybe design the shelves, that sort of thing. That's it.”

There was a small pause, just long enough for your face to betray you again, your cheeks warming.

From across the table, Frankie shifted. He was half in shadow, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze found you and didn’t let go. There was something unreadable in his expression. Maybe a smirk trying not to be a smirk. You weren’t sure.

“That’s sweet,” Yov said. “Yup. I get it. I see the appeal.”

“And he has a little daughter,” Emma added like she was dropping the final piece of the puzzle. “She loves to read too, apparently. I mean, come on.”

You exhaled, more sharply than you meant to. “I’m just helping out. That’s all it is.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Well, he’s lovely. And he clearly likes you.”

You shot her a warning look. “Emma.”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

“I’m thinking I’d like more free donuts,” Santi muttered under his breath.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Yov laughed.

“I think Bill is exactly what you need,” Emma said, her voice pitched slightly higher, like she wanted to make sure everyone could hear her.

You turned to look at her, eyebrows drawn together in a way that felt automatic, like your body was trying to shield itself from where this was going.

She went on, undeterred. “A man who knows what he wants. Someone with actual follow-through. Who doesn’t play games. Who’s not afraid to show you how he feels.”

There was a beat of silence—something in the air growing taut, or maybe just your own pulse pressing hard behind your ears.

Frankie stood abruptly. “I’m gonna grab a drink. Anyone want anything?” His voice was calm.

Nobody answered. Or maybe a few people shook their heads, you weren’t really paying attention. He pushed back his chair and stood. Then he turned, and walked off in the direction of the bar.

There was something in the way he moved. A tired walk. You tried not to follow him with your eyes, but you did.

Thankfully, Will spoke up, saying something about Bianca not being there tonight. You latched onto the change of subject the way someone might grab the edge of a table during an earthquake—knowing it won’t help much, but needing something to hold on to. It was obvious he was fishing for sympathy, or maybe absolution. According to what Santi had told you, there had been something between them. Casual, inconsistent, but still something.

Still, your thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Your gaze wandered to the bar. Frankie was standing there, leaning into it with one elbow, his body slightly hunched. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just staring at something in front of him you couldn’t see. Grian, behind the bar, was finally moving like someone at ease, as if the worst part of the night had passed.

You hadn’t seen Frankie in nearly two weeks. Fourteen days where the thought of him would drift in and out —at the sink, at work, just before sleep. You wondered if he’d been working too much. If he was taking care of himself. If Helena had asked about you. If he’d told her anything at all.

And the only thing you’d learned about him in all that time was that he'd apparently been driving Tam around. That—and the fact that Will seemed to think she liked him.

You looked down at your hands, resting in your lap, and suddenly wished you had something to do with them. 

You had no right to feel anything. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a fact, like something printed in a textbook or carved into stone. He’d been clear, hadn’t he? He couldn’t have that kind of relationship. Not with you. And maybe that was the part you’d skipped over—the with you. As if the problem wasn’t in the thing itself, but in the person he might share it with. Maybe it wasn’t relationships he was avoiding. Just the one that included you.

That thought lodged somewhere deep, somewhere soft. It made your stomach feel unsettled, like the air had shifted slightly and now everything was just a little off balance.

You hated that. Hated the way your body betrayed you over something that, by all definitions, was nothing. Because what even was this? It wasn’t real. It wasn’t defined. He hadn’t promised you anything, hadn’t even implied it. And yet here you were, trying not to think about what it would mean if he looked at someone else the way he sometimes looked at you.

Emma’s voice pulled you out of your own head. “Hey, wanna go to the bathroom?”

You nodded wordlessly, grateful for something to do, and followed her through the press of people standing near the pool tables, their voices loud and overlapping like waves hitting the same shore.

The bathroom was cooler, quieter. Emma closed the door behind you with her hip and turned toward the mirror, digging into her purse.

“Why didn’t you go with it?” she asked, glancing at you through the reflection.

“What?”

“Bill. Why didn’t you play along? It was working. You could’ve just said you liked him too.”

You leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely across your chest. “What did you want me to say? That I’m in love with him?”

Emma laughed quietly, smoothing a fresh coat of gloss over her bottom lip. “You didn’t have to lie. Just... lean into it a little. It was making him mad.”

You frowned. “Huh?”

She looked at you through the mirror again, meeting your eyes this time. “Frankie.”

Your chest pulled tight, like the air had been snatched out of the room too fast.

“He looked pissed,” she said, turning to face you now. “Not jealous-jealous, but... you know. Close.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were trying not to feel the thing you were already feeling.

“I don’t think that’s why. He was already upset before the Bill thing.”

Emma frowned, tugging at a piece of hair near her temple. “Yeah? Why?”

You shrugged. “Because of the guys. Because Santi opened his mouth and made the whole fake-dating thing sound like a joke. Tam, probably.”

“Who even is Tam? Do you know her?”

You gave a tiny shake of your head, almost embarrassed by the answer.

“No. Not really.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Well, it shouldn’t bother you anyway,” she said lightly, but then her tone sharpened just a touch. “Still. I know a jealous man when I see one.”

You scoffed, looking down at the floor tiles. “Frankie’s not jealous. He was the one who tried to convince me Bill was into me. When we went skydiving.”

“Okay, but that was before you told him how you felt.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

She let out a small, frustrated sound and rubbed her temples like you’d given her a migraine.

“You are infuriating. Like, truly. I love you, but you make me want to scream into a throw pillow.”

You gave her a crooked smile, something caught between guilt and defensiveness.

Emma checked her reflection again, smoothing down her dress and fixing a small smudge near her eye.

“Come with me to the bar, will you?”

You squinted. “You want another drink?” It wasn’t accusatory, just surprised—Emma wasn’t a big drinker. Two beers, that was usually her limit.

“Yeah,” she said with a grin that felt just a little too rehearsed. “I’m feeling festive.”

You stepped out of the bathroom together. Bowie’s China Girl was playing on the speakers, a little distorted through the sound system. The air was thick with the layered scent of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and deep-fried potatoes.

Emma grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd. Frankie was still at the bar, leaning against it. When he saw you approach, he shifted—barely.

You slipped into the space beside him, Emma sliding in between you.

“Emma,” Frankie said, his voice low and even. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, cocking her head, playful. “Though the sound of your car’s hood slamming shut is still echoing through my skull.”

Frankie let out a soft laugh and made a half-dismissive gesture. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” she said with a smile that softened just slightly. “I hear you’re redeeming yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

Before you could say anything, a voice called out from somewhere behind you, and Emma’s hand was instantly on your shoulder.

“Oh my God, Devon!” she said, and turned toward the voice like it was magnetic. Then she glanced at you, amused and breathless. “Tragic, I know, but I have to go say hi. Order me a beer, okay?”

She winked before disappearing into the crowd, her pace just fast enough to suggest she was escaping something.

You stayed where you were, eyes flicking toward Frankie. He didn’t speak right away, but he didn’t move either. Just stood there, the space between your arms barely an inch. 

Grian came over and placed Frankie’s drink in front of him, the glass catching a glint of amber under the overhead light. You gave him Emma's order without looking up. Just a beer.

“Santi is drunk,” Frankie said. His voice was neutral.

You nodded, fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “I noticed.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment. The bar hummed around you—music, laughter, a burst of ice clattering into a metal bin. You watched the way your nails pressed against your palm, the thin crescent marks they left behind. Frankie exhaled beside you. Not loud, not theatrical. He shifted his weight.

You turned to look at him.

His jaw was tight. Not clenched, but contained. He wasn’t watching you—his eyes were fixed on the bottles behind the bar, neat rows of color and glass and labels. His brows weren’t furrowed, but there was tension in the corners of his mouth.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He glanced down at you then. His eyes dark. “You want to get out of here?”

“What?”

He turned toward you more fully now, eyes scanning your face with something like uncertainty.

“If you want to leave. With me.”

He sounded earnest, a little hesitant—like maybe the words had gotten ahead of him. Your lips twitched with a hint of a smile, the kind you didn’t mean to show. 

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked over his shoulder toward the table where the others were sitting. “Wherever you want.”

You followed his gaze. Santi was leaning dramatically against Benny’s shoulder, mid-laugh. Yov was talking animatedly with someone you didn’t recognize. Will looked tired but was laughing anyway.

“What about them?” you asked.

Frankie turned back to you.

“They’re drunk,” he said simply. “And a little unbearable, to be honest.”

“And you don’t care if they see us leave together?”

“No,” he said, shrugging. “I think they already made up their minds about us. Impossible, they said.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “And Emma? I’m not leaving her here alone.”

His lips curved slightly. “So that’s a yes.”

“What?”

“That you want to come with me.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just turned to look at Emma again, now laughing at something Devon was saying. Her body language was loose, comfortable.

You looked back at Frankie, raising your index finger. “Give me a second.��

He nodded, watching you walk away.

When you reached Emma, she looked up with a knowing expression already blooming on her face.

“So?” she asked. “What did he say?”

“He asked me if I wanted to leave with him.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Go,” she said, waving her hand. “I’m fine. Devon’s driving me home soon. And I have the spare key in my bag.”

You touched her arm. “Text me when you get in?”

“Obviously.”

When you returned to the bar, Frankie was sipping from his glass while Grian spoke to him about a fight that had broken out the night before. He nodded at something Grian said, then turned when he saw you.

“Okay,” you said simply. “I’ll come with you.”

“You have everything?”

“Yeah, just my bag.”

He finished the last sip of his drink and set the glass down. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He pushed off the bar and gave a nod toward the exit. Grian gave you a small, knowing smile. You waved at him, your hand lifting instinctively, and then you followed Frankie toward the door.

Outside, the air had shifted—lighter now, cooler. It wasn’t particularly cold, but it felt cleaner somehow, like a layer of noise had peeled away with the door behind you. Frankie stepped up beside you, his hands tucked into his pockets, close enough that your arms might touch if either of you leaned just slightly to the side.

At the corner, you turned to look at him. The amber streetlights caught in his eyes, making them look brighter than usual. He looked back at you, a tender expression there. Neither of you said anything, and for a moment it felt like those hours in the bar had existed in some other version of reality. This felt like a different moment. Him, here. You, here. No noise. No laughter. No Emma nudging you beneath the table or Santi trying to make a joke.

Out here, he looked different. Or maybe he just looked more like himself. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hand through it too many times. You imagined it would feel soft if you touched it, and then tried not to imagine that.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

You hesitated, but only for show. “Whatever I want?”

“You sound like trouble. Don’t make me steal anything tonight.”

That made you laugh, too quickly. You looked down at your shoes, pretending to consider the question, even though you already knew your answer. The gin still warmed your veins, made you feel bolder than usual, like the version of yourself who didn’t overthink things to death.

You looked up again. “Can we go to your place?”

Frankie smiled—an uneven, vaguely suspicious sort of smile, like you’d just proposed something illegal and mildly intriguing.

“You want to go to my place?”

You nodded, unfazed. “You've been to my place several times. That I can remember. I, on the other hand, have no idea where you live. For all I know, you sleep in your car like a cryptid.”

He tilted his head. “Wow. A cryptid?”

“I said like one. You’re far too clean to be an actual cryptid.”

“Thanks,” he said, deadpan. “Really heartfelt compliment. I’ll treasure it forever.”

"You're welcome."

He laughed, the sound low and genuine, and ran a hand through his hair, which only made it more chaotic than it already was.

“Aha. So this is about fairness,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’re calling me out on a hospitality imbalance.”

“Exactly. Basic domestic justice.”

“Alright. Full disclosure, though—no cat.”

You narrowed your eyes, pretending to reconsider. “That can be arranged. I know a guy.”

He laughed. “You’re gonna get me a cat?”

“I think you should have one,” you said, shrugging. “Otherwise, who do you talk to at 2 am?”

“I talk to my plants.”

You tilted your head, charmed despite yourself. “What do you say to them?”

“Mostly, ‘please don’t die.’ Sometimes I play them old records. I’ve been told it helps. Mai told me, actually.” 

You grinned, already imagining it. Frankie watering plants while Johnny Cash plays in the background.

“Well, I still think the cat’s a good idea anyway.”

Frankie grinned, mouth twitching at the corners like he was trying not to look as pleased as he felt.

“Alright then. Come to my tragic, cat-less apartment and make your judgments.”

“Gladly. But just so you know, if there’s even one lava lamp or a poster of Scarface, I’m walking out.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let you in if I had a lava lamp.”

“Fair,” you said, and the two of you started walking again, your shoulders nearly brushing.

“Don’t fall. Watch out.” Frankie’s hand wrapped around yours as you stepped out of the Uber like he'd done it a hundred times before.

“I’m not going to fall,” you said, frowning at him playfully, though you didn’t pull your hand away.

Then you looked up.

Frankie’s house was—unexpected. Clean lines. Neutral tones. The place stood neat and self-contained at the end of a quiet street. The facade was light wood, almost golden under the porch light, and the gabled roof above it was the color of charcoal. Everything about it looked clean and measured. The symmetry of it was almost uncanny—the central porch framed by white columns, the wide double door with its glass panes catching bits of amber light from inside.

On either side, windows glowed softly, as if someone inside was still awake. But you knew that wasn't true, and that Frankie probably left the lights on to create the false impression that someone was inside. The garage stretched to the left, its doors darker wood, with small square windows at the top like little eyes. The front yard was impossibly tidy. The grass was cut to an even length, the edges trimmed. There were rows of low shrubs and just enough flowers to make it feel like someone cared, but not too much. The path was poured concrete, no cracks, no weeds creeping through.

You stared for a beat too long, and he noticed. “I have a gardener,” Frankie said, his voice close to your ear. You didn’t answer.

He unlocked the door with ease, and then stepped aside to let you in first. You brushed past him, closer than necessary, and he didn’t move.

The room felt too exposed, like something you weren’t supposed to be witnessing. Not because it was messy or chaotic—quite the opposite—but because it was composed in a way that revealed too much. Or maybe it just felt that way because it was Frankie, and you had never really pictured him inside a space like this.

The living room was lit by two lamps, one on each side of a deep gray sofa, casting the kind of glow that made everything look softer than it probably was. The fireplace across from it wasn’t lit, its matte black surface blending into the wall, with a television mounted above it, silent and blank. On the mantel sat two houseplants in identical white ceramic pots, flanking a pair of simple photo frames.

A coffee table, scratched at the edges, stood in front of the sofa. He had left a mug there, half drunk. There was also a book turned face-down and a lighter next to an open pack of cigs. Two armchairs filled the remaining corners of the room. One had a navy cushion, the other black.

The air smelled like laundry detergent, the faint bitterness of old coffee, something earthy and clean. And beneath it, him—his cologne, maybe, or the scent of his skin. It was subtle but persistent. Like if you stayed here long enough, it would cling to you.

“Want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?” His voice came from behind you as he moved toward the kitchen, his steps quiet on the hardwood floor. You didn’t follow him.

“Tea’s fine,” you said, almost to yourself, wandering over to the fireplace. You leaned in to look at the photos. One showed his dad standing alone on a pier, sun hitting his face. He was grinning, the lines around his eyes deep and familiar. He looked so much like Frankie it startled you—same smile, same jawline, same thick, full hair. You imagined his voice would be similar too.

The second frame was filled with women. His mom, his sisters, all of them laughing at something just outside the frame. Frankie wasn’t in the photo.

You kept walking, a little slower now, taking in more than you should have. A sweatshirt tossed over the back of the sofa. Headphones folded carefully on the coffee table. Three plants lined up on a chest of drawers by the window, each one thriving in a different shape of pot. To the left, a piece of mid-century furniture caught your eye. A record cabinet, filled almost to overflowing. A closed record player sat on top, the glass lid dust-free.

You leaned in, reading titles out loud in your head like they were clues: The Stooges. Fleetwood Mac. Busy Bee Starski. Alice in Chains. The Clash. Eagles. Marvin Gaye. T. Rex. The sleeves looked worn, loved, pulled from the shelf again and again.

“Wanna hear one?” Frankie’s voice startled you. You hadn’t heard him come back.

You turned toward him. “T. Rex?”

He grinned. Not smug—more like pleased. He placed two mugs down on the table and crossed the room to join you. You held the record sleeve while he powered up the record player. Electric Warrior. His hands were steady, practiced, and within seconds, Mambo Sun filled the room.

“My dad loved this album,” you said, not really looking at him. “He’d play it on sundays while fixing stuff in the garage. The volume was always too loud.I really love it.”

You rested the sleeve behind the record player carefully and turned around. Frankie was already on the sofa, holding his tea.

“T. Rex in the garage on a sunday,” he said, lifting the mug to his mouth. “Sounds like your dad had his priorities in order. Shit—careful. It’s hot.”

You sat beside him, your hip brushing his just barely. “I like it hot. So hot that one sip burns my heart out.”

You smiled at him then, sideways.

“So romantic,” he murmured, head leaning back against the cushion. 

You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence wasn’t awkward—it felt chosen. Mutual. Like you both knew that if you said anything right then, it might undo the atmosphere you’d stumbled into. So instead, the music filled the space. The vinyl hissed softly beneath the track, that low, velvety warmth that you always loved.

By the time Cosmic Dancer had reached its halfway point, you lifted your mug, took a careful sip, then let it rest in your lap, your fingers curling around the ceramic. You were perched on your knees, your legs folded beneath you, spine tilted just slightly toward him like your body had gotten used to the idea of being near him again. You kept your eyes fixed on your hands.

“I missed talking to you,” you said. “Just a little.”

The words felt like they slipped out more than they were offered.

You felt him turn, could feel the weight of his gaze move from the record player to your face. Your cheeks warmed under it, uninvited.

“You did?” 

You nodded, still not looking at him.

“Just a little,” you repeated, and finally let your eyes meet his, your lips tilting into something that tried not to be a smile but failed.

“Ah, thank God,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch with a kind of theatrical relief. “I was starting to get worried.”

You laughed, soft and breathy, your eyes dropping again to the mug in your lap. There was a pause. Not uncomfortable. You shifted a little closer and rested your head on his shoulder like it was a pillow you’d always used.

“So,” you said, “what’ve you been up to?”

He didn’t answer right away. You could tell he was thinking.

“Work. Rest,” he said finally. “I bought a new coffee the other day.”

“Oh yeah? Is it any good?”

“It is. I’ll give you some.”

“That’s generous of you,” you said, your tone feather-light. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “What else… I went on a few walks. Tried to cut down on smoking. Not sure if I actually managed to.”

Your gaze flicked to the coffee table, where a pack of cigarettes lay in plain sight.

“Uh-huh,” you said, nodding toward it. “There’s your progress.”

He gave a short, stifled laugh that vibrated faintly beneath your ear. “I’m trying.”

You reached over and patted his thigh twice. “Good boy.”

He exhaled a laugh, head turning slightly toward you. “That again?”

“I haven’t forgotten. My theory still stands.”

“It’s a weird theory,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “A praise kink? Really?”

“It’s not weird, actually.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding with mock solemnity, eyes dancing. “It’s not. So,” he went on, “that’s what I did. Oh—helped Will with his car. We spent the whole day on it.”

“A whole day?”

“Well. Two hours, technically. Then we gave up and made ribs in the backyard.”

“Ah. The whole day.” You laughed and leaned into him again. “Two hours.”

He laughed again, then lifted the mug to his mouth. You were about to say something else, maybe something meaningless, but then the thought came back like a door left ajar in your mind, something drifting through.

“So, Tam,” you said, casually enough that it surprised even you. “What about her?”

You felt the change in him instantly. A shift in posture. A tightening. 

“She’s a friend of Will’s,” he said, voice level. “They met a few months ago. She sold him a bike.”

“Oh.” You nodded once, your eyes on the handle of your mug as your thumb traced over it.

You didn’t add anything.

A few seconds passed. He swallowed. “There’s nothing going on with her. I just…” He paused. “I just—”

“Frankie,” you said quietly, lifting your eyes to meet his. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I just drove her home. It was late.”

You smiled. “That was nice of you.”

“Mm.” He shifted again, resettling into the cushions beside you. Your head was still resting on his shoulder, and neither of you moved to change that. “That was it.”

You extended your empty mug toward him, and he took it from your hands with an ease that made something inside you soften. He leaned to place it gently on the small table beside him.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to glance at him from your position. “Do you think what Will said is true?”

“What?”

“That maybe she likes you. Or something like that.”

“Will just likes messing with me. He sees something and runs with it. That’s kind of his thing.”

You reached out, your hand brushing against his arm, fingertips trailing until they found the little freckle near his wrist. You pressed lightly there, then traced the edge of it.

“It was just that, you know?” he said, his voice more certain now, like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed himself to say it out loud. He looked at you, but your gaze didn’t rise this time.

You exhaled slowly. “Even if it was something else, it’s fine. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to explain.”

But still, he reached for your hand, the one that had touched his skin. He folded his fingers around yours, his thumb brushing softly along your fingertips.

“I just got the sense that it bothered you,” he said quietly. “That’s all. I—”

“As far as I know, you’re a single man. And if you meet someone you like, and they’re kind to you… I think that’s your business.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept holding your hand.

Then, “We’ve talked about this already.”

“I know,” you said, your voice even, “but these aren’t things you can always control, right? You can have the whole thing mapped out in your head—what you want, what you’re ready for, what you’ve decided not to touch. You can feel so sure about all of it. And then someone comes along who completely rearranges the blueprint, and maybe you weren’t prepared for that. Maybe it’s inconvenient, maybe it’s terrifying. But what are you supposed to do with that kind of thing?”

You paused. “Sometimes it just... arrives. Like timing that sneaks up on you and lands exactly where it should, whether you’re prepared or not. And honestly, Frankie,” you added, eyes steady, “you shouldn’t feel guilty about that. You don’t have to defend yourself to me. Or anyone.”

He didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing beside you, that quiet rhythm, the way his chest moved beneath your head, like he was sorting through something inside himself. For a moment, you worried you’d said too much, crossed into a space that wasn’t yours to step into.

Then, finally: “I get it. But I don’t like Tam.”

You let out a soft exhale. “I wasn’t really talking about Tam,” you said gently. “I meant anyone.”

Your eyes dropped to where your hands rested together. His thumb was brushing against your skin again, the motion absent-minded but oddly grounding.

“I think it’s just one of those things people can’t plan for. You try, but then it happens anyway. I think it’s okay to take your time, to be cautious, to move at your own pace. But I also think it’s not weakness to let yourself be caught off guard by something good.”

He tilted his head slightly, enough to look at you. “You think that’s possible? That it can be a good thing?”

“I think it’s the most human thing in the world. Letting yourself feel something fully. Letting it lead you. Even just a little.”

Frankie gave a half-smile, not the kind that reached all the way to his eyes.

“Bad things have happened when I’ve done that before. When I’ve let myself get too carried away by what I was feeling.”

You looked at him. “Right, but what were you getting carried away by? What kinds of feelings?”

He let out a short laugh, more tired than amused. “It’s been a long, long stretch of darker ones, baby.”

Your gaze dropped again, back to your joined hands. You studied the place where his fingers still cradled yours.

“Then maybe that’s the difference,” you murmured. “You don’t have to follow the dark ones. Not if there are brighter ones. I mean, it sounds corny but... you know.”

“Uh-huh. Like what?”

“Well, I dunno,” you said, and your voice carried that hesitant tone people use when they’re trying not to sound too sure of themselves. “I know you said you don’t like Tam. But say you did. Say you met someone who made you feel a little more okay just by being around, someone who was gentle, real, not out to ruin your life. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Frankie’s laugh came out a little too fast. “They could absolutely crush me. Like, destroy me. Again.” He tried to make it sound like a joke. “Break my heart. And you... you’re not afraid of that happening again? Not after what Harry did?”

You nodded slowly, still looking down. “Yeah, I am, sometimes. Maybe more than I admit. But I don’t want that fear. I don't like it. I don’t want to be afraid of something as good as love just because someone misused it. Falling in love is... still one of the best things. It's fun, it's nice. I’m not going to let him take that away from me.”

Frankie leaned his head back against the couch. “It usually ends in a disaster, though. It rips you apart. It doesn’t just hurt, it—it just... Yeah, it fucking hurts.”

“I know, I’m not pretending it doesn’t.”

“And you still want it?”

“Still,” you murmured. “Even after everything. And I get it, right? Like, you promise yourself you’ll never be that open again, never leave the door even slightly cracked. But then someone comes along and you find yourself doing it anyway. You stop noticing how carefully you were guarding yourself, and suddenly you’re not anymore.”

Frankie was silent for a beat. Then:

“Someone like Bill?”

You frowned faintly, but didn’t lift your head. “Bill?”

“Yeah. I told you—I could see he was into you. And he seems decent, doesn’t he?”

“I think so.”

“And Emma likes him. And she's your best friend, she knows you better than anyone. If he’s the way she says... I guess I just think—I think—”

“He is,” you said, cutting gently across his sentence. “He is exactly like she says.”

“Right.” He paused. “He is exactly like she says.”

He just sat there, still as furniture, the heat from his side warming yours. Your fingers moved slightly, brushing his knuckles before curling around them—just barely, just enough to feel it. The shape of his hand in yours felt familiar. 

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” You whispered. You waited. He didn’t reply. “He’s not who I want.”

Shit. Shit. The words echoed in your mind long after you said them.

Next to you, Frankie stiffened — not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. Enough to make your body react instinctively. Your hand, still tangled with his, turned cold at the fingertips, and you let it slip out of his. It didn’t feel right to keep touching him.

You adjusted your posture, putting space between your bodies, lowering your feet to the floor as if reclaiming a version of yourself that wasn’t so recklessly leaning into him.

A pause stretched between you. You reached over to your purse and fished out your phone. The screen lit up instantly with a message from Emma, timestamped ten minutes earlier.

[Em🐥 ]: I'm home <3 let me know how everything is going, I'll stay up a little longer

You replied with a few quick words — something casual, enough to reassure her you weren’t unraveling, even if a part of you might have been. You told her everything was fine, that you’d be back soon. You slipped the phone back in your bag, your hands quieter now.

“Um,” you said, eyes trained somewhere around the coffee table, anywhere but his face. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah. Down the hall. First door on the left.”

He hadn’t moved. His back still pressed against the couch, his eyes on you, hand resting exactly where yours had been, like he hadn’t quite registered its absence.

You stood and made your way to the bathroom, maybe a bit too fast. The light flicked on and for a second your eyes narrowed against the brightness. The space was neat — not sterile, just… simple. Everything in its place. No clutter.

You leaned your weight against the wall and exhaled, the sound more fragile than you expected.

Goddamn gin. You hadn’t even had much, just enough to loosen the seams a little. You weren’t drunk — you were just... like this, around Frankie. Words always rushed out like they were being pulled from you. Like he had some quiet gravitational force you hadn’t learned to resist.

And now you’d done it. You’d said too much. You’d pushed him again, out of his comfort zone, out of reach. He’d already been at arm’s length — why did you keep trying to pull him closer? He was probably right to stay there.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. You didn’t look wrecked, at least. Your lipstick hadn’t faded, your eyeliner hadn’t betrayed you. That was something. A small win. Thanks, Emma.

You stayed there longer than you needed to, buying yourself a few more seconds before stepping back into the atmosphere you’d unsettled. But eventually, you knew — you had to take responsibility for what you’d stirred.

You opened the door. The music was still playing, Marc Bolan’s voice floating like a ghost through the room.

Frankie stood by the record player. One hand hovered near his mouth, fingers resting lightly against his lips, the other braced at his hip. He looked like he was studying the motion of the record as it turned or the color of the vinyl.

You stayed where you were, watching his back. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

He didn’t turn fully, just twisted at the waist, his profile barely visible. “Yeah—okay. Or I can drive you, if you’d rather.”

You shook your head before remembering he couldn’t see you. “It’s fine. I’ll get an Uber.”

He nodded once. Not arguing.

You could tell he wasn’t drunk, not really, but you both knew there was just enough alcohol in your systems to complicate things.

He turned back toward the record player and reached forward, stopping it with a practiced motion. Then he carefully lifted the vinyl off it and slid it into its sleeve, his fingertips pressing softly at the edges like he was handling something fragile. He was.

“Thanks for the tea,” you said, watching him. “And for letting me come here. It’s like uncovering a mystery.”

He let out a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a breath—and turned to face you.

“And thank you for showing me your records,” you added.

“You’re welcome. Anytime.”

He looked down at the record in his hand, hesitated, then glanced back up at you.

“I know you don’t have a garage or anything,” he started, “but... here. Take this.” He stepped forward and held it out to you. The record, now tucked neatly in its cover, extended in your direction. “I saw your player. In the bookshop.”

Your fingers closed around the edges, brushing briefly against his.

“Are you sure? It’s yours—”

“You’ll enjoy it more than I do. Really. And maybe you can listen to it at work. Or whenever you want, I mean. ”

You looked down at the cover, letting your eyes trace the artwork, the worn corners. You smiled, and lifted your gaze back to him.

“Thank you,” you said, and you meant it more than he probably knew.

Frankie smiled again. There was peace in his face, but not joy exactly.

“Well,” you said quietly, turning away as your fingers curled around the strap of your purse. “I’ll get a car.” You pulled the phone free, the screen lighting up in your hand. “What’s your address again?”

You glanced up, expecting him to speak quickly, but instead he stepped toward you. Just two steps but enough that the air between you changed. His presence drew up close to yours like heat in a narrow space.

“Um,” he began, eyes flickering down to the phone in your hand. “Two-two-one-one… Hartford—Hart…” He stumbled over the words, his voice catching as if his mind had exited the room entirely. His brow creased, lips parted, eyes still on your screen, but not really seeing it. He ran his hand through his hair, nervous. 

Then he looked at you. You should have said something. You felt it building in your chest, a sentence that never came. You thought, briefly, that you might speak. That you might ask if he was okay, or if maybe—

But you didn’t.

Because he was already there. His hands lifted to your face, gently. And his mouth was so close you felt the first brush of it before you realized he’d leaned in at all.

Your eyes shut instantly. A reflex. A surrender.

His fingers curved along your jaw, thumbs soft at your cheeks, touching you like he was afraid you might vanish. The kiss wasn’t demanding — it was brief, tentative, something barely born.

When you opened your eyes, he was watching you, his gaze darker than you’d ever seen it. Full.

He slipped the vinyl from your hands —carefully— and placed it down on the couch without breaking eye contact. You let your phone fall there too, not bothering to look at it again.

Then his hands were on you again, firmer this time, his grip less cautious. And he kissed you like he’d run out of patience, like he couldn’t talk himself out of it anymore. You met him with the same urgency.

Your heart was thudding, loud and uneven, as if trying to match the rhythm of his. You looped your arms around his neck, pulled him closer, tilted your head to let him in. His tongue slipped into your mouth without hesitation.

You made a quiet sound against his lips, and he responded by pulling you tighter. You reached for his hair, threading your fingers through it, gripping soft strands like you needed something to anchor you to the ground.

You hadn’t even noticed when it happened, not fully — just the subtle shift of his body, the press of his weight, and then the cool firmness of the wall behind your back. One moment you were kissing him like you couldn’t breathe without it, and the next you were pinned, his hands moving down your sides, rough with want but tender with care. His fingers found your hips first, gripped tightly, then slid down, tracing the shape of your thighs, your ass — pulling you into him like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.

Your breathing was uneven, catching at the top of each inhale, and his matched yours. You were flushed everywhere, skin hot and tingling, like something inside you had been lit and was now burning recklessly out of control. The closeness wasn’t enough — not nearly. You wanted more of him, all of him, everywhere.

He broke the kiss and moved to your neck like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His lips grazed the skin beneath your jaw, warm and searching. Then he bit softly — just enough to make you gasp, your hands instinctively clutching at his shirt. The sound you made seemed to light something in him, because he groaned against your throat, low and needy, the vibration of it sinking straight into your chest.

You opened your eyes, breath shuddering out in fragmented sighs.

“Frankie,” you said, barely above a whisper, not even sure if it was a plea or a warning or both. You tugged gently at his hair, needing him to hear you, to see you.

He lifted his head, his mouth deep pink, eyes heavy and full of something that looked like reverence and hunger all at once. His face was flushed and gorgeous in that ruinous way people look when they’ve stopped pretending.

“I don’t know if you want this.” Your voice didn’t sound like yours — it was fragile, shaky, almost not there at all.

His expression shifted, like something cracked inside him.

“I do,” he said, the words scraping out of his throat. “I do,” he repeated, eyes locked on yours. He rested his forehead against yours. “I’ve been thinking about you. Every damn day. I—” He shook his head like the sentence was useless. “Fuck it.”

Then his mouth was on yours again — hard, urgent, no more waiting. He kissed you like he was making up for every second he hadn’t, his hands cupping your thighs as he lifted you without hesitation. You wrapped your legs around him, your arms tightening around his shoulders, everything in you pulling him closer. The wall disappeared behind you. You didn’t know where he was carrying you, and it didn’t matter. Your eyes were closed and your thoughts had blurred into sensation — pure, overwhelming.

You kissed him like you were starving. Like the world outside this moment had ceased to exist. And then, just as the pace of everything threatened to consume you entirely, he set you down. Carefully. Your back met a soft surface — a bed, you realized. Your chest rose and fell, breathless. The room was dim, nearly pitch dark, until Frankie turned and switched on a lamp beside the bed. A small circle of golden light spread over the sheets, over the shape of his body as he looked at you.

You kicked off your shoes in a clumsy rush. You barely looked at the room itself — barely noticed the furniture, the walls, anything. Your attention had narrowed entirely to him.

He climbed onto the bed, over you, his knee sliding between yours. He kissed you again before you could say anything. Your hands trembled slightly as they moved to his belt. You fumbled, but not out of hesitation — out of the sheer urgency coursing through you. You got the button open, then the zipper, just as his mouth moved to your throat again, this time biting with more certainty, less restraint.

The pain flared, beautiful in the way it folded instantly into pleasure. You moaned, head tilting back, hands still on his waist, and thought briefly, this is happening, and thank god.

You reached for him without thinking, but he was already moving, shifting his weight back onto his knees. A frustrated sound broke in your throat at the absence of his body on yours. But then you saw his hands at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head in a single motion and tossing it somewhere behind him, careless with everything but you.

You sat up automatically, drawn forward, and placed your hands on his bare abdomen. His skin was warm, soft under your touch, and you could feel the tautness of muscle beneath the surface. Quiet strength, the heat of him, the way desire seemed to radiate outward and settle in the pit of your stomach like something molten.

He guided you back, pressing you into the mattress again. His palms slid down your body, finding your skirt. You bent your knees, lifting your legs to help him, and he removed it with a practiced kind of ease, the fabric sliding down and away.

You sat up again, wordlessly, unthinking, and peeled off your shirt, letting it fall from your fingers to the floor beside the bed.

Frankie reached for you once more, his hands firm. He pushed you back again, settling over you with a kind of certainty that made you feel both cherished and undone. His face hovered just above yours — eyes dark and focused, mouth curved in the faintest smile — and then he kissed you, briefly, almost teasingly, before pulling back a little.

One of his hands pressed into the mattress above your head, steadying himself, while the other moved to your shoulder, tracing the strap of your bra with his knuckles before easing it down your arm. Then the other. His fingers found the center clasp and worked it down, peeling the fabric away until it rested around your waist, leaving your breasts exposed to the room, to him.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your skin buzzed beneath the sudden coolness, your nipples already tight, your whole body reacting before he even touched you again. He looked at you like he was seeing something private and sacred, something he wanted to memorize. Then, finally, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his weight pressing into you as his tongue explored your mouth with aching intensity. You tasted want and something else you didn’t have words for.

His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbones, across the soft hollow between them. Every part of you he touched felt heightened, more awake. When his lips finally closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching toward him as if your body had made the decision for you.

You reached up and cradled the back of his neck, anchoring him to you, your fingers sliding into his hair as he circled his tongue over the sensitive skin. The sensation pulled a reaction from you so swift, so undeniable, that you barely recognized the sound you made — a moan that felt like it had come from somewhere deeper than your throat.

He moved to your other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, fingers firm and careful, and your body responded again, a rush of heat pooling between your legs. It was impossible to stay still beneath him. 

Frankie let go of you with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet of the room. His mouth trailed lower, over your stomach, leaving behind a warm, glistening path of kisses that made your skin tense beneath him. You felt the brush of his lips against the top of your underwear — the softest press — and yet your hips lifted toward him, needy and instinctual.

His breath hit you there, unsteady and hot. You could hear it—uneven, rushed—against the cotton that separated his mouth from your skin. His hands came to rest around your thighs, thumbs pressing into the softness just above your knees.

And then his mouth was on you. Just the thin barrier of fabric between his tongue and your flesh. The pressure made your back lift off the mattress, your body responding with a gasp. Frankie groaned into you, low and raw, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him and vibrated through your body like it belonged to you.

Your fingers found his messy hair and gripped, not knowing what else to do. He pulled back then, just enough to reach for the waistband of your panties, and you didn’t wait for instruction. You raised your hips, legs bent and ready, and he slid them down your thighs in one clean motion.

For a beat, everything went still.

Your knees rested lightly on his shoulders, the bones of your legs brushing against his collarbones. He looked down at you, eyes glazed with something heavier than lust. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, chest rising in quick, uneven rhythm. He looked like someone caught between prayer and ruin. 

One hand slid along your leg, palm smoothing over the bend of your knee. The other traced the length of your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of heat. Then, without a word, he opened you. And he saw you.

You watched his face change—eyes widening slightly, mouth twitching. You could feel his gaze on you like contact itself, like pressure, like he was touching you just by looking.

But it wasn’t enough. Your body screamed for more, impatient and pulsing. Still, he stayed there, fixed between your legs, studying you like you were made of something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then he moved.

His hands slid lower, securing your thighs in his grip. He leaned in and kissed the inside of your left leg, just above the knee. His mouth wandered downward, closer and closer, and you propped yourself on your elbows to see him—to see all of him, hair mussed and lashes shadowing his cheeks as he kissed his way down like he was following a map.

And then he reached your core.

There was no hesitation, no warning—just his mouth on you, all tongue and lips and intention. You cried out without sound, your mouth dropping open, your head falling back against the bed. Every nerve inside you lit up, over and over again, as if your body had been waiting for this exact touch your entire life. You trembled under him, every muscle drawn tight, and the sensation rushed through you in waves so intense you weren’t sure whether you could bear it or beg for more.

Frankie’s tongue moved in steady, circular motions, like he had studied you before this moment, like he knew what would make you fall apart. He groaned against you, the sound low and guttural, and the vibration shot straight through your core.

“Oh my God, Francisco,” you gasped, the words tumbling out of you as your head dropped back onto the pillow. Your eyes squeezed shut. You felt almost outside yourself, like you were watching this happen from somewhere else in the room.

Your hips began to shift, restless with urgency, but his grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you anchored to the bed. His breathing had turned heavy, matching your own, and there was something increasingly frantic in the way his mouth moved on you — like he couldn’t get enough, like he wasn’t just trying to make you come, but to taste your undoing, to drown in it.

It had never been like this. You had known pleasure before, of course, but not this kind. Not the kind that seemed to steal the thoughts from your head and replace them with static. Frankie moved like he could feel every nuance in your body, like he could sense exactly where you were breaking, and pushed just a little further.

You felt it rising inside you, a tension that curled tighter and tighter. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, a movement so quick it almost startled him, your hand finding his hair again and tangling there, tugging with a force you didn’t know you were capable of. He groaned again, louder this time, and the sound rattled against your skin, your ribs, your bones.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, a fierce, uneven rhythm. Heat spread through you like fire licking at every corner of your body. Frankie pulled you closer, his tongue moving with a rhythm that felt built for you and no one else. You cried out — not words, just sound — and your head tipped back as the wave overtook you, crashing over your body in a torrent that left you gasping. Every part of you clenched and released, like your body was unraveling and rebuilding all at once.

But he didn’t stop.

Even when your fingers pushed at his hair, even when your body jolted with overstimulation, he kept going — licking, kissing, breathing you in. You whimpered, twisting beneath him, your hand pressing at his forehead until he finally lifted his head, lips wet and eyes dazed.

You were shaking. Completely unmade. Your chest rose and fell in sharp breaths that didn’t feel like enough. And still, he looked at you like he wasn’t finished.

He moved back up over your body, settling on top of you with that same heat still written across his skin. His mouth found yours again, this time soft, almost careful, like he knew you needed a moment.

"You okay?" he asked in a whisper.

You smiled, eyes almost closed. "Yeah. That was... Yeah." You caressed his face, your fingers running over it as if you wanted to memorize it.

Frankie smiled. Then he moved to your neck, kissing the place just below your jaw, again and again, like he knew you loved it. Or maybe he just wanted to stay there for a while.

Your hand trailed back down his chest, each movement deliberate not in pace but in purpose. His skin was warm under your fingertips, the faintest ridge of muscle beneath the softness. You brushed past his navel, past the band of his boxers, and without pausing, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric. The hair there, and then—further down—you found him.

Hard. Large. Hot in your palm.

You opened your eyes. The ceiling was a blur, the room spinning softly around the edges. Frankie let out a sound into your neck and it curled around your spine like a fuse catching fire. The sound did something to you. You didn’t have a name for it, but it made your breath catch and your body ache.

“Please,” you whispered, hoarse, sure what you were asking for. Just more. Just him.

He stilled, his breath uneven. Then he shifted, pulling away from your body with effort, like detaching two pieces of something that had always belonged together. He rose from the bed without saying anything, and you stayed where you were—sprawled across his sheets, boneless and burning—watching him silently.

Frankie bent to remove his shoes, then his jeans. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, as if witnessing this needed the reverence of attention. When he pulled off his boxers, you went still.

There he was. Completely bare. Standing in the amber light of the bedside lamp like a statue half-finished, chest rising with every sharp breath, cock full and thick and impossibly beautiful in the dimness. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you with that expression again—like he was still trying to believe you were real.

He climbed back onto the bed, one knee between your legs, one hand stroking himself with an absent-minded kind of urgency. You felt your mouth go dry and wet at once, your body too aware of every inch of him. The sight of him touching himself in front of you was almost too much.

He opened the drawer on his nightstand and pulled out a foil packet. You sat up, instinctively, and reached for him, your hand wrapping around his length. You moved your palm up and down, gentle, reverent. His breathing fractured.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, the words barely audible.

He tore open the wrapper with shaking fingers. You let go and watched him carefully as he rolled the condom on. You leaned back, your skin hypersensitive, your nipples prickling with the faintest movement of air.

Then he was over you again, his body shadowing yours, arms bracketing your head like he needed to keep you beneath him. His mouth found yours—not ravenous, not frenzied. Just… kind.

He kissed you like he meant it, like he had all the time in the world to taste you. Lips brushing yours with a softness that felt dangerous. Like this could be something more than heat and breath and tension. Like this might break you open if you let it.

And you let it. Because you were already breaking.

You felt him there, right at the edge of you—his body so close it was hard to tell where yours ended. You tilted your hips toward him instinctively, something inside you guiding the movement without thought. Frankie’s mouth brushed yours again, and he smiled—barely, just enough for you to feel it. His left hand planted itself above your head, steadying. His other hand shifted between you, grounding you in a way that felt both gentle and firm.

Your arms went around his neck. You couldn’t help it. You needed to hold him. Needed to feel every inch of him pressed against you.

And then he pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite, each inch of him invading you in a way that made your lungs forget how to work. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just air, caught in your throat. He stopped halfway in, his breath faltering, forehead nearly resting against yours. And then he drew back, not completely, just enough to make you ache, and slid in again. This time deeper. A shiver ran down your spine.

You moaned—soft at first, involuntary. When you opened your eyes, his face was right there. His expression was undone, like he’d broken apart and hadn’t figured out how to reassemble himself yet. He was looking at you, but it wasn’t just about sex. There was something else in his gaze.

Then he kissed you again—messier this time, more urgent, like he needed your mouth the same way he needed everything else. He moved inside you harder, hips shifting into a rhythm that felt like a storm brewing just beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the pressure or the depth—it was the way it built, how it stole your breath more with every thrust.

The noises that came from you weren’t delicate. They were raw, real, rising in pitch as his body collided with yours. The slap of skin, the creak of the bedframe, the heavy breath between both of your mouths—it all blurred into one sound, constant and deafening and perfect.

He groaned into your ear, a low, shaken sound. Your hands clung to his back, nails dragging across his skin as if anchoring yourself to the moment. You felt him respond to the sting of it—his hips snapping forward harder.

He was driving you deeper into the mattress with each movement. You felt it in your ribs, in your thighs, in your soul. The wall behind the bed thudded in rhythm, the room echoing back the chaos you two were making.

Your chest heaved. Your face was flushed. There were tears pricking behind your eyes for no reason you could explain—just too much sensation, too much want. A buzz built beneath your skin, sweet and dizzying, until it filled your whole body like electricity.

You bit him.

You weren’t thinking, not really—your teeth found his shoulder, his neck, like you needed something to hold onto or you might disappear. And he let you. He groaned again, a sound that went straight through your body and took up residence somewhere deep inside.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His moans shifted—deeper now, full-bodied. You opened your eyes and ran your hands over his back, tracing the dip of his spine, the tension in his shoulders, the thickness of his arms. You adjusted beneath him, tilting your hips in a way that made your intent unmistakable. He paused just enough to register it.

So he moved, wordlessly. Rolled off you and onto his back, hands already on your hips as if his body had anticipated yours.

You climbed over him in one fluid movement, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Your center brushed along the length of him and your breath caught like a thread pulled tight in your chest. His hands remained on you.

You pushed the hair from your face and let one palm rest on his chest—warm, firm, rising and falling beneath your touch. Your other hand moved between your thighs, guiding him toward you. And then, with both hands braced on his chest, you sank down onto him.

Your head tipped back. Your mouth opened in something between relief and reverence. He filled you completely. Every inch of him belonged inside you and your body knew it instinctively.

At first, you moved gently—learning the rhythm, feeling every part of him stretch and press inside you. But the pressure built quickly, rising in waves, until your hips began to move with more urgency. Up, down, again, again. The bed shifted beneath you, groaning with each motion. Frankie’s hands slid from your waist to your ass, gripping you tightly as he began to move with you, helping you take him deeper, harder.

You leaned forward, placing your hands on either side of his head. His eyes were glazed with heat. He let out a sound—low, strained—and then bent his head just enough to capture one of your breasts in his mouth. Your hips stuttered. The contact made you gasp.

You were unraveling. Melting over him, against him, around him. Every nerve in your body lit up, overwhelmed by sensation. The room filled with the echo of it all—flesh meeting flesh, your breath hitching and breaking, the slick sounds that made your whole body feel like it was vibrating.

Then Frankie growled—a dark, guttural sound that you felt more than heard. He grabbed your waist and pressed you flush against him, arms aroung you, lifting his knees for leverage. He began thrusting up into you, hard and purposeful, meeting you with a rhythm so perfect it felt like your body had been made for this exact moment.

You pressed your hands to his shoulders for balance and looked down at him.

He was stunning. Absolutely undone. Hair matted to his forehead, his cheeks flushed with exertion, his lips parted, damp and pink. His eyes met yours—dark, shining—and you felt like you could drown in them.

You leaned down and kissed him, a shaky moan caught between your mouths. He was still moving beneath you and it was almost too much. Every thrust scraped against something inside you that made your vision blur.

You broke the kiss and gasped against his cheek. Your fingers dug into his skin, holding on like you might fall apart.

Your mouth found his again, and this time you bit down softly on his lower lip, just as you felt the wave crest. His hips stuttered beneath you, erratic now, almost frantic. You heard the shift in his breath—the sharp intake, the strangled exhale—and then you felt it. His release. The moment his body surrendered entirely, muscles tightening, his grip on you fierce and unthinking.

Your vision blurred as your own pleasure surged alongside his, crashing into you in a way that made your hands clench around his shoulders, your spine arch, your thighs tremble where they straddled his hips. Frankie groaned—gutural and right against your neck—and the sound felt like it was stitched into your skin.

When it ended, he didn’t move right away. Just held you there, still connected, one hand splayed across your back, the other resting on your hip like a tether. You let your forehead fall into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He smelled like skin and sweat and something warm that you couldn’t name but never wanted to forget.

After a few breaths—his still uneven, yours catching on the edge of a sigh—you lifted your face. Your eyes met his in the half-light. It felt impossibly quiet. Like nothing else existed outside that room, that bed, that look.

You raised a hand and touched his cheek with your fingertips. He turned into your palm like it was instinct. You kissed him once, soft and lingering, and then began to shift off him, your body aching in the best kind of way.

But before you could fully roll away, his hand caught your arm. He pulled you gently back against his chest, like he wasn’t ready to lose the weight of you yet. His other hand came up to your face, brushing over your cheekbone with careful tenderness.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was low, raw. Like it had been scraped out of him.

You nodded and kissed him again. “I'm okay. You?”

Your head settled on his chest, and your hand moved across his skin in idle strokes. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, strong and steady, the rise and fall of his breath slowly evening out.

“I’m okay, baby,” he said, barely above a murmur.

No consequence felt significant in that exact moment.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk

(Please let me know if your tag isn't working!!)

[the---hermit]

how I take notes on non fiction books

I recently made a post on my study method, and decided to make a whole separate post on my note taking method. The structure of the notes I write doesn't vary too much from my lecture notes to things I might have to read. A couple of useful informations you might want to know before I start actually talking about note writing is that I am mainly focused on studying history (tho I have had other humanities exams in my degrees), and that I study for oral exams in which the material is mainly composed of non fiction books, but sometimes include articles as well as lecture notes. Somehow I have also failed to mention that I am speaking about HANDWRITTEN NOTES. I only do handwritten notes, I don't work well digitally, so keep that in mind. And with this being said brace yourselves for a very long post. The bullet points I will be making are not really in a specific order and I will be including a few pictures too.

The first step when I am working on the materials for an exam is to figure out in which order I will be reading (and writing notes) the books. This hasn't really much to do with the notes themselves, but it's important to know which of your materials is more general and what other things go more in depth, so that you don't struggle too much while studying. Another plan related thing I always do is to write down each chapter of the book I have to study on my bullet journal and how many pages it is so I can plan my studying more comfortably. If the chapters are very long, and divided in subchapters I sometimes also write those down.

The goal of the notes I write is to fully take the place of the book, so they tend to be very detailed and long. I do this because the very act of writing is part of my study method, and working on things I have written down in my own words is just much better for the type of learner I am. So basically I read the book only once, then it goes back on the shelf and I work exclusively on the notes. This means my notes need to be detailed and well organized.

My method is to read a chapter, underlining important stuff as I am reading, and then right after I am done reading I work on the notes for that chapter before moving onto the next. I do this because it makes the note writing more effortless, I am fresh with informations I just read and I basically just need to skim over what I have underlined.

On underlining, since it is so important. I underline everything I will be including in my notes, it might seem much as sometimes it consists of full paragraphs, instead of key words. But this is okay because my notes I don't just copy and paste.

To create useful notes you need to be re-elaborating the informations. You need to read, understand what you read, and be able to write it down using your own words. That way the notes will be easier to review, they will often be composed of shorter sentences, and by doing so you are also actively making writing part of your studying and not just a mindless activity.

Personally I don't work well with full pages summaries, I need the text to be visually broken into sentences/small paragraphs, and I use a lot of symbols as well as abbreviations.

Symbols and abbreviations are in a way part of your very own language when you are writing notes, you tend to develop these with time, but they are so useful. I personally use different types of arrows, all caps words, position of the text in the page, different methods of highlighting and abbreviations (usually for words that come up often like country names, for example Italy becomes ita, France becomes fr, etc.).

Your notes need to be useful for you, they don't have to necessarily be comprehensible for another person (which means you can and will fuck up sentence structure because sometimes skipping a couple of words makes the notes shorter and still understandable), and they do not have to be pretty. They should be as tidy as possible, but again that might change from person to person, I have some very messy looking notes that make total sense to me. With time you'll learn what works best for you.

I have a visual memory so as I mentioned titles, highlighters, all caps, the placement on the page and other similar things are very important in my notes. I cannot fully exapain some of these things because some definitely only make sense to me in the moment (like the words I choose to write in all caps, or the way I highlight things).

I like to have a clear chapter and subchapter break (so that in case I need to refer back to the book it's super effortless). I like to write those with a red pen, usually the chapter title is in all caps and the subchapter in coursive, but it really depends.

I use only two highlighters in each set of notes yellow for dates, and the colour I associate with the book/the subject of the book (I have synesthesia I don't make the rules when it comes to colours). This of course might change depending your preferences and on the element of your notes you want to focus on. I like to have spacific colour for dates and time periods, because of course while studying history that is a fundamental element. If you are focusing on other subjects you might want to have a specific colour for names, or other elements.

I like to leave a big side margin to add either key words (especially in lecture notes since they might be messier and jump around informations more often), or additional information in a second time (sometimes it happens, after you read another book, or attended a particular lecture you have to add a couple of sentences and I rather have a blank space that never gets used rather than no space at all for emergencies).

I honestly mentioned everything that came to mind right away, but since note writing is now basically a mindless skill I have been practicing for years I surely forgot about something. I might end up adding to this post in the future or write another one. My note-writing method has also changed a lot thought the years from high school to university, it's a skill I have been perfecting for the past decade. This to say that depending on what you are working on things might change, and by experimenting with different things you might find out things that work very well for you. If you have any questions on specific things I didn't mention or that wen't clear my inbox is always open and I am more than happy to help.

Since this post is already very very long I am adding the pictures below the cut

Example of a page of notes before and after highlighting

Example of symbols and structure of the notes and the way I highlight things (in which you'll hopefully be able to understand my handwriting, and in which there might be some spelling errors but alas that often happens in my real notes as well so if there are any it's for the sake of accuracy lmao). If I end up adding informations on the margins I always use a pen of a different color so I can tell which informations I got from what source (ex. main notes from lecture, colorful notes from additional article).

Example of messier notes in which the main text in black are the notes I took during lectures and the additional colorful text was added while writing the materials (I rarely do this, it usually happens when the lectures follow a book precisely, which happens when we have to study books or summaries written by the professor). As you can see I often use post it notes to add more writing space, and sometime I even use them to create visually separated sections. If I end up adding some drawings I also usually like to have them on post it notes so they stand out more (and if you are wondering why the hell would an history student need drawings it's usually either because I need a map or a region/state to mark things out, or when studying for archaeology exams I often needed visual references, for example to identify different types of vases or decorations).

[arcane-vagabond]

Stranger Like Me: Chapter Three

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: From a young age, the animal kingdom had fascinated you, and maybe that's why you chose to pursue that passion. You quickly became a force within the field, becoming the leading expert on ape social structures, which is how you found yourself on an expedition into the African jungles searching for a troop of gorillas. What you weren't expecting, however, was to run into the local wild man on one of your excursions... (Tarzan!AU)

Content Warnings: Language, Suggestive thoughts, Suggestive commentary, Frank being crass, Jack and Boots in their feelings, Jack's horny thoughts, caressing of female body parts. I think that's it, but please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 2.75k

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Writing Info || Blog Rules

You had settled into an easy routine over the past two weeks, the first trying to iron out the different kinks. Dr. Robby had determined that your ankle would take around four weeks to heal if you kept off of it, and as it turned out, Jack was more than happy to assist. You could think of only a handful of times that you had been on your feet, the wild man appearing first thing in the morning to carry you around camp.

Of course, the others had given you endless shit about it, Frank being the loudest. The second morning after your accident, Jack had waited for you outside your tent as you changed, his deep, brown eyes surveying the jungle stoically. He had wordlessly scooped you up in his arms as you hobbled towards the entrance, carrying you effortlessly to where the others were already gathered for breakfast. Victoria had raised an eyebrow in question, but said nothing. Whitaker was too busy going over something with Robby to pay you much mind, the same to be said for the others and their own research. Frank had walked over from his tent at the same time and let out a loud snort at the sight of you.

“Is this going to be a regular thing now?” He had snickered, gesturing to where you clung to Jack. “Is he a taxi service now?”

“I’ve already tried explaining to him that I don’t need him to carry me everywhere,” you scowled at the botanist. Jack placed you gently on the bench before plopping down right next to you, Frank taking up the space on your other side. “He’s just insistent upon doing it, is all.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” he drawled as Mel placed a plate of eggs in front of you, “I’d think you like him carrying you around everywhere.”

You cast him a sideways glance as you shoveled a fork full of egg into your mouth, brow pinched together in indignation.

“I don’t.”

“Sure,” Frank hummed, giving you a knowing look before bumping your shoulder with his. “And jungle man over there also doesn’t get a hard on every time he looks at you.”

“Frank!” You exclaimed, cheeks warming as Trinity cackled and Dana cleared her throat, her own cheeks growing a nice shade of pink at the turn in the conversation along with Victoria and Mel’s. Whitaker and Robby looked over at the two of you, matching shocked expressions on their faces.

“Don’t be crass,” you hissed at the man, swatting at his arm. He rolled his eyes, accepting the plate Mel handed him with a quiet thanks.

“Is it really being crass if I’m telling the truth?”

“Yes,” you snapped, cognizant of the fact Jack had been inching closer to you as each moment passed. Frank rolled his eyes at you, but said nothing more.

The next couple of days had you struggling to figure out how to do various chores around the camp. Cooking was easy enough until you needed to get up and grab something.

The first time you had stood up, Jack’s head had shot up from where he was flipping through one of the sketchbooks Robby had laying about. His honey-colored eyes watched you intently as a frown tugged on his lips, standing when you made to move.

“No,” he said, pushing down on your shoulders gently.

“Jack, I have to-”

“No,” he said again, more firmly this time, eyes intense and brows pinched. “Hurt.”

“I’m not so hurt that I can’t walk the three feet to grab a spoon,” you scowled at him. He raised an eyebrow at you, turning and walking the few, short steps across the eating area to pluck a spoon out of the container and bringing it to you. You accepted it with a huff, not missing the satisfied smirk that appeared on his face at the small victory.

Laundry was done down by the river, an ever watchful Jack sitting on one of the stones beside you as you scrubbed the various articles of clothing. He watched you carefully, an unreadable expression on his face as you worked through your task.

After the first half hour, you began to grow increasingly self conscious once you realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off of you for more than a couple of seconds at a time the entire time you two had sat there.

“Aren’t you bored?” You asked him, wrinkling your nose. “I mean, it can’t be fun to just sit here and watch me do all this. Wouldn’t you prefer to help Dana or Robby or someone else? I’m sure they’re having much more fun than we are.”

Jack’s gaze hardened in confusion. Shaking his head, he shifted slightly, leaning closer towards you.

“Like being with you,” he murmured, the hint of a smile on his lips as he looked at you. The heat on your cheeks had nothing to do with the sweltering jungle heat, and you quickly averted your gaze, pretending to inspect a stain on one of Whitaker’s shirts. Your eyes darted up when Jack crept towards you, and for a moment, you were reminded that this man was raised by apes, not humans. His leg stretched out to rest beside you, the rest of him slinking after until he crouched right in front of you, his nose almost brushing yours. Your eyes wandered down the length of one of his legs, taking in the sight of the various nasty looking scars scattered on his right leg in particular.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you swallowed thickly as he reached a hand up to brush his fingers across your cheek. His eyes darted down, lingering on your lips as they parted. A shiver ran up your spine as his fingers trailed down, running over your bottom lip, and the intense look in his eye became hungry as you let out a quiet gasp. He let his fingers linger for a second before pulling them away and towards a strand of hair that hung in your face. Slowly, he pushed it back behind your ear, letting his palm cradle your jaw as the two of you sat silently watching each other.

The sound of jungle leaves rustling broke the two of you out of your trance, and Jack let out a growl as he positioned himself in front of you, glaring intensely at the spot where the noise was coming from.

“Hey, you two!” Robby called, coming into view with a smile. Jack immediately relaxed back into his spot beside you, but the frown remained. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was annoyed. You cleared your throat, your head still clouded from the intensity of the prior moment.

“Hey, Robby,” you greeted, attempting a smile that you were sure came out as more of a grimace. “What brings you by?”

“Oh nothing,” he grinned. “Just wanted to see if you needed any help with the laundry. It’s very kind of you to offer to do it while you heal up. I know it’s not the greatest chore.”

“I want to feel useful,” you offered, shrugging.

“Well, nevertheless, it’s appreciated,” Robby smiled. “Do you need any help carrying everything back?”

“No,” Jack snapped, leveling Robby with a glare. The researcher looked a little taken aback by the ferocity of Jack’s answer, but recovered quickly, shooting you a brief, knowing look.

“I see,” he hummed, trying and failing to hide his smirk. “Well, if the two of you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the camp. Once he was out of sight, Jack huffed, turning back to look at you.

“What’s got you so grumpy?” you asked him, chuckling slightly. Jack didn’t answer, instead, reaching out to twirl a strand of your hair in between his fingers, bringing it up to his nose and taking a long, deep inhale before giving you another heavy look. Your cheeks heated up once more before you ducked your head down to start the process of scrubbing the laundry once again. You tried not to think about how Jack’s muscles had bulged when he was crouched in front of you or how his intense look made your thighs clench together.

You were sitting in one of the research tents a week later, transcribing some notes for Dr. Robby the following week, having begged the older man for ways to be of use given you were slowly losing your mind doing all of the mundane chores. Jack was perched in a chair next to you, flipping through the rough sketches Whitaker had made of some of the baboons and wrinkling his nose.

“What’s that face for?” You giggled, glancing over at him. Jack huffed and shook his head, giving you a solemn look.

“Baboons are annoying.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as you looked at him fully. Jack’s gaze softened as he listened to you laugh, a tinge of pink coating his cheeks.

“Yeah?” You asked him. “How so?”

Jack straightened up in his seat, rolling his eyes as he thought back to the countless run-ins he’s had with the creatures.

“They scream a lot,” he scowled, lips pursed as he gives you a serious look. “And they steal my food sometimes. It’s hard to catch them because they climb the trees so fast.”

You had quickly grown used to how articulate Jack actually was over the course of the last week and a half. You supposed it was no surprise considering he’d had twenty years of practice, but even Robby had seemed surprised when he walked in on Jack telling you a story one day, the wild man animatedly telling you a story about a trick he played on one of the younger members of the gorilla troop he lived with. Now you wondered if the older researchers even knew if Jack could string together more than a couple of short sentences.

His sentences could still be choppy at times and his answers short and direct, sure, but the more you showed interest in what he had to say, the more he found himself opening up and saying more. Jack found that he liked the way you reacted to what he had to say, and he tried to practice at night once he knew you were asleep. He found himself visiting with Dana and Robby more, asking them questions about different words for different feelings and ideas. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted you to know him, to know what he thought about things and how he felt about the world. Maybe it was because he wanted to know those things about you too and to talk about them with you.

“They are pretty fast, huh?” You asked, leaning forward a little more, unknowingly pushing your breasts together and exaggerating your cleavage. Jack’s eyes flickered down, and he felt a familiar stirring in his groin. He found that this feeling also happened quite frequently around you, and it was often the simplest of things that set it off. It happened when he watched you bend over and dry your hair after a bath one day. It happened when you stretched after sitting hunched over too long, your back arching as you raised your arms over your head. It happened sometimes when you looked at him through your lashes, your bottom lip captured between your teeth.

He shifted in his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from your chest. He felt an overwhelming need to touch them, to touch you. He often found himself thinking of you. How good you smelled. How soft you were. He wanted to touch you, to mark you as his.

The troop leader, Mutubo Robby had named him, had several offspring, so Jack wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of mating, or sex as Robby and Dana called it. However, he wasn’t so sure that his family experienced what he was feeling, at least to this extent. Without thinking, Jack reached out, running his fingertips over the exposed area, his shorts growing tighter as he felt the soft, warm skin.

You sucked in a breath, your cheeks heating and eyes going wide as Jack caressed you. His gaze was intense as he touched you, and you felt a shiver run up your spine when his brown eyes darted up to meet your own. The brown was practically swallowed by black, and you had to muster all of your self control to not throw yourself at him then and there.

“I should, um,” you stuttered after a second, “I should go see if Dana has started dinner yet.”

You stood abruptly, Jack following suit. He moved to pick you up, but you took a step back, shaking your head.

“No, I,” you sucked in a breath, “it’s not that far. I think I’ll try walking there.”

Jack frowned at you, but before he could argue, you beelined out of the tent and into the open air. It was unprofessional to be acting this way, especially with someone who didn’t understand the intricacies of human relationships.

The end of the week brought movie night, and you were giddy when you remembered that it was your turn to pick. Frank and Trinity groaned loudly when they saw your choice. You ignored them, taking a seat on one of the couches Dana and Robby had managed to snag while in the city not too terribly long ago. Jack immediately sat next to you, his thigh pressed against yours, filling you with an odd sense of comfort.

“What are we watching?” Mel asked as he entered the tent.

“The Princess Bride,” you grinned as Frank plopped down on your other side.

“You couldn’t have picked anything with explosions?” He asked, wrinkling his nose at you in mock disgust. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly.

“The Princess Bride is a classic,” you argued. “Don’t be such a guy.”

“I think the Princess Bride is great,” Mel offered, earning dual eye rolls from both Trinity and Frank.

“You would,” Frank threw back at the bespectacled woman with a grin.

“Explosions and gun fights does not a movie make,” Victoria scowled. “It’s good to mix it up every now and then.”

“Exactly!” You exclaimed. “I had to sit through so many hours of Fast and Furious of all things. The least you can do is sit quietly through my movie.”

“Hey, do not knock the Fast and the Furious,” Whitaker warned, raising his pointer finger at you with a serious look. You rolled your eyes once more but let out a giggle.

“I’ll stop knocking the Fast and the Furious when the movies start being good,” you grinned.

“So, never,” Victoria snorted, earning scowls from the others. Before the argument could continue, both Dana and Robby strolled into the tent.

“Oh, The Princess Bride,” Dana grinned, plopping down onto the other couch, Robby not too far behind. “One of my favorites!”

Once everyone was settled, you started the movie, absentmindedly curling into Jack’s side more and more as the minutes stretched on. Jack’s fingers came up to play with the strands of your hair, unknowingly lulling you into a deep sleep.

Jack knew the second you fell asleep, and he smiled softly as he listened to your breathing even out as you relaxed against him. He liked this. He liked how safe you felt with him and how at ease you made him feel. Jack was somewhat paying attention to scenes in front of him, lost in thought as he tried to understand what was going on. There was one thing that stood out to him, though. A word, actually. He had heard Dana and Robby say it to each other on rare occasions, but Jack had never given it much thought before he met you. But, when he saw the two characters on the screen look at each other and say that word, he felt that it might be important. That maybe he should ask them what it meant. You stirred against him, and Jack felt an ache in his chest as he looked down at your sleeping form. His curiosity could wait for now, he thought. He’d make sure to ask Robby and Dana what it meant later. For now, he just wanted to stay by your side.

A/N: I'm going to see Thunderbolts tonight by myself before going with friends tomorrow. Then we're having movie night at my place on Saturday. What are y'all doing this weekend?

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @arcanevagabond-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 27

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know

A.N: You're Welcome :D

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19 • Part 20 • Part 21 • Part 22 • Part 23 • Part 24 • Part 25 • Part 26

• ··········· • ············ •

You opened the cabinets and cupboards to find the plates and glasses while thinking about the sleeping arrangements.

The couch is big enough for him to sleep in, if he sleeps all folded, which would be uncomfortable while he slept and after. You could ask him to sleep on the bed and you sleep on the couch. You’ll be cramped in the morning, but you don’t have screws on your spine. 

A wild thought came into your mind when you placed the last piece of cutlery on the table and peeked inside the bedroom. If you had to guess, a queen-sized bed, enough for two people. Maybe you could share. Both of you would have a decent night's sleep. No harm in asking, right? He did invite you to come to his house...that's forward... You were both fully adults, able to share a bed… The fact that you both seemed to have a massive crush on each other and had been close to kissing twice in a day was just a small, minuscule detail. 

The oven pinged, and you almost jumped out of your skin. You turned around and started to get the food out of the appliance when you heard the familiar gait of the house owner.

“It’s done.” You announced and turned, stopping midway as you watched Viktor.

He had stopped midway to the kitchen to pet Nono, who was now curled up on the sheet couch. His hair was sticking all out around him, humid and untamed; he was wearing a blue robe, open, and a gray cotton shirt with “Tallis lab” embroidered on it. He had switched from the crutch to the cane. However, what caught your attention was the bottom part of his ensemble. Cream and light blue-colored boxer shorts that stopped a few inches above his knee. 

But even that, what really made the air stick in your throat was his hex leg. It looked almost the same, the muscle and skin replaced by a purplish blue sinewy material. But while the other Viktor’s leg stopped there, this one had golden accents, a blue glow shimmering from within. More herald than Viktor. But Herald Viktor was, according to him, a more stable version of the tech. 

“If it bothers you, I can wear something else.” His voice broke you from your thoughts.

“It doesn’t.” You said softly and gave him a sad smile.

“I debated on whether to show it to you or not. But…I thought it would be better to get this out of the way.” He scratched the back of his neck as he limped towards you.

You realized you’d actually never seen his leg in this universe, and he could take your staring in a completely different way. In the end, this was normal to you. Him with his less fatal imperfection. So you shrugged at him.

“I guess you’re just about ready to run a marathon.” You joked while placing the containers on the table as he raised a questioning eyebrow. “New lungs, new leg...”

He sat at the table, and you noticed his shoulders relaxed as if he was expecting something else, another reaction.

“I wish. It’s heavy. Too heavy. Jayce didn’t calculate my lack of muscle structure into the hex core.” 

You blinked. Jayce? Of course. Jayce was in on the hex core's ability to enhance things, and he seemed to have decided to help him. 

“Jayce helped?” was the only thing you managed while trying to look shocked or surprised. The man who sat in front of you poured some water from the jug you placed on the table.

“I was going to do it. He just decided I shouldn’t do it alone.”

“What about side effects?” You tried with all your might to keep a normal intonation.

“I was in the hospital for two months, one week, and three hours.” He looked at his plate, pouring a healthy dose of whatever delicious food Ximena had put in those containers. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s alright. You did want to put it out of the way…” You mimicked his movements and added some rice to the heavenly-smelling food.

“Well…we did the experiment on plants, and those worked. And so I wanted to try it on humans…so I got the first volunteer I found.”

“You.” 

“Precisely. Jayce didn’t want to, but we were getting nowhere. He was adamant even. And well…I was bored.”

“Was no one there to stop you?” You thought of Professor Heimerdinger. It was a very obvious timeline; the small genius wouldn’t have this.

“The council only knew about it when the bills to the hospital came, and even then, they thought it failed.” He chewed his food. “The only one with enough will to stop us disappeared some time ago. Which might have been a blessing or a curse.”

You felt your eyebrows twitch. The old crone was probably still hiding at the Sanctuary in Zaun, playing his little banjo and annoying Ekko.

“So you both geniuses decided to experiment on you and…?”

“I…kind of…” He made a cracking noise and made a line with his fork at his neck.

“Oh…gods…Viktor! What the actual f--”

“Oh, it was just for 2 minutes and 10 seconds. It was expected.”

“Just?!” You leaned your head into your hand and shook it, amazed at the genius stupidity.

“Yes. Jayce was ready, and it all went according to plan. Unlike the heaviness, everything was accounted for.”

“So why the hospital?” You looked up at him, your face still on your hand.

“Pain. Lots of pain. My muscle and skin had been enhanced to some magical material that came out of a very sketchy piece of tech.” The way he nonchalantly talked about it made your mouth hang open. “My body had to get used to the thing. I needed to die so that all of my systems were rebooted, and when they did, my nervous system decided it should warn me that my leg was missing. I was in a coma for most of that time because I couldn’t handle the pain. And then it started to get better.”

“And now?”

“Now I have a lumpy piece of metal as a leg that would be great and most useful if my back wasn’t wrecked and my partner had accounted for me being…well…a stickbug.”

“What about the pain?”

“Still there.” He shrugged and made a face. “Sometimes better, sometimes worse but never gone.”

“Does the brace help with the weight?”

“Yes, and mobility as well. It’s still a sort of metal alloy, so it gets a little stiff sometimes.”

A cartoon image of Viktor dropping oil with a small old can into the hinges of his leg, and you snorted and choked.

Viktor got up from his seat and bent over to gently pat your back. When you calmed down, the scientist sat down, looking at you funny.

“I thought about you oiling your leg like you'd a machine…with a little can.”

He gave you a humorous smile and a mocking look at the ceiling, fingers tapping his chin.

“I might need to try that next time. A drop here and there, and maybe I can do the marathon. Do you think the hospital would let me borrow one IV pole?”

“For the oil?” You almost snorted your food out.

“No…for the pain medication that I would need…” He was joking, but it made you sober up.

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be.” He leaned into the table and placed his hand next to yours, his pinky stroking yours. “This went better than expected.”

“And what did you expect?” You leaned forward as well.

“Most people I bring over find it strange or…are too into it.”

Most people he brings over?!? You unconsciously raised an eyebrow and then remembered the guy didn’t make a vow of celibacy until you got here.

“It’s part of you, so…” You shrugged and leaned back. 

“So?” He mimicked you, stretching his legs under the table.

You felt his legs go around your own under the table, and you nudged the metal one with your foot.

“So…It’s a leg… What do you want me to say? I have two of those too.”

“I’ve noticed…” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“Difference is…” you continued rolling your eyes. “I can go by a mechanic’s store without attracting any magnets.”

His face contorted, and he wheezed, bursting into laughter. You followed suit.

“It’s funny because it’s true!!!” He said mid-laugh. 

“What?!”

Viktor held on to the table for balance as he tried to speak through the laughter.

“Oh…wait…oh…” he took a couple of deep breaths. “The machines in the hospital stopped working when I got there, and nobody knew why… Why was this expensive material malfunctioning? Turns out…my leg…was magnetized! Jayce found out because he had a gear in his pocket that just…” He clinked a fork on the golden part of his knee and went back to laughing.

“So…one could say…you truly have a magnetic aura…”

You both looked at each other, snorted, tried not to laugh, and failed miserably.

After you calmed your chuckles, Viktor cleaned the dishes while you grabbed the notebooks from your packs.

Viktor rummaged through an old trunk he had in his bedroom and gave you a Piltover map that you spread on the table. For a couple of minutes, you both mapped out your plan for the next day. Going from the people who were furthest away to the ones nearest to the apothecary.

Halfway through your plan, a couple of piano notes come through the open veranda door.

“Oh!” Viktor straightened up and smiled. “Come, I think you will like this.”

You furrowed your brows, curious about what ‘this’ was, although as soon as you stepped into the small balcony, the enigma was revealed. Two young men were setting up a small piano on wheels near the corner cafe. From the balcony, you had the perfect view of it.

“The cafe owner lets them play for a bit at the beginning of the night to attract customers,” Viktor explained, leaning his shoulder into one of the balcony’s iron posts.

“Smart owner.” You leaned your elbows into the rail and looked at the two musicians preparing. “You don’t mind it?”

“No. It keeps me entertained. They are very good. Do you know them?”

“Do you know all the scientists in Piltover?”

“Actually ...yes…” He smiled, and you snorted. 

The young man seated at the piano started to play a sorrowful waltz with a repetitive lilt. It was a simple melody, but when the other man started to sing, it became a beautiful harmony. 

“Do you know what they are saying?” Viktor asked softly. 

The song was in another language that you had studied in one of your many classes at a private school. By some miracle, you remembered what the words meant.

“The poet meets a…mmmm…poor stranger…lover under the moonlight. He’s writing the song in hopes their stranger hears it.” You softly translated the chorus to the scientist. “The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh, while the windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and me.”

Viktor smiled at you and straightened up, giving you his hand, his eyes mischievous and bright.

“Would you…” He cleared his throat, a nervous chuckle coming in. “Would you like to dance?”

“Dance?” You straightened up as well, blinking at him; your eyebrows twitched.

“Well, it would be more of a swaying in place, but the sentiment is the same.” He gave you a bright smile, his hand still extended.

You looked at his hand and made to grab it but stopped shortly before you grasped it. This could either go really well or really badly and end with you having a panic attack on his balcony. You felt your breathing pick up, and after a few seconds, his hand was gone, and you shifted his gaze towards him. Sad, apologetic, but instead of a disappointed look, he had a soft smile.

“I apologize…I forgot…” He blinked, looked away, and when he blinked back, his smile got wider and his eyes shone brighter. “Do you trust me?”

“Nothing good comes from asking that.” You said that even though you nodded.

Viktor took a small step towards you, leaning his weight so his hand grabbed the railing behind you, and then slowly shuffled his feet closer to where you tensely stood, waiting to see what he was doing. He moved carefully, making sure your eyes followed his movements, and when he was standing in front of you, his other hand gripped the rail behind you, effectively keeping you in his arms without his hands touching you.

You leaned away from him slightly, only so he could move to stand comfortably. Your back hit the decorated metal fence when he got even closer.

“If it gets to be too much...please say so.” He whispered, and you nodded, afraid of what sound would come out of your throat. “You can breathe; I won’t move any further.”

Somewhere in the depths of your brain, you were disappointed at that. Until you realized that you were also a fully conscious adult who could, in fact, do something other than stand there awkwardly. Especially after he made his intentions very clear. So…you did.

Your hands came up slowly to his arms before pausing and looking up to him sheepishly.

“It hardly seems fair I get to touch you and you don’t.”

“I’m not complaining.” His voice was soft and smug, and you rolled your eyes, and instead of moving your hands to his arm, you placed them on his chest and pulled him softly towards you. You felt his hands slide closer together, and he took another step, and you were very much trapped between him and the rail.

You looked up at him, and he was smiling down at you. A quiet joy behind it, as if this was going beyond his expectations. You slightly nudged him sideways, and he made an ‘oh’ with his lips and then snorted when he understood you were trying to sway him from side to side.

“Alright, alright…I did ask for a dance.” He mumbled, following your movements as the two men sang on the street.

“More of a swaying in place.” You joked and saw him move his neck to look down at you with an eyebrow raised.

Without thinking much about it, you leaned your head on his shoulder, still swaying. You felt his chest heave with a sigh before he leaned his own head into your own. You stayed like that for what seemed to be hours, but only a few songs went by.

“I’m glad that whatever happened brought you to me.” Viktor mumbled softly after the end; you moved away from his neck to look up at him.

At some point, your hand had drifted towards his neck, and now you pushed it upwards towards his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into your hand.

Oh…fuck it…

You got close to his face, bumped your nose with his, and waited for him to open his eyes. The flicker of golden and brown mixed in his glowing orbs. You looked between them and at his lips, curved upwards into a smile.

With a deep breath, you pulled him towards you. Lips crashing and nose bumping. You felt his smile disappear and reappear as he pushed you further into the fence, his hands still gripping the rail. 

It surprised you, the feeling behind it. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Soft but needy. You had kissed Viktor a hundred times, but this. This was different. Something in your soul knew this wasn’t the Viktor you knew.

This was someone else. Someone new. Someone you cared for independently if he looked like your former lover. Someone who looked so familiar but yet was still his own person.

The coffee was now mint and cinnamon. The dry and chapped lips were now wet and soft. It was tender and slow, not rushed or desperate. It was a long kiss and a dozen slow, gingerly kisses that gave you butterflies in your stomach.

The hand that wasn’t latched to his neck found his own on the railing, and you felt the tight grip he had on it. You slowly pried the hand away from the railing and intertwined your fingers. Awkwardly you shifted your arm so that your hand rested on your lower back, with his inside it.

When you pulled your lips away, the need to breathe became a priority. Viktor chased them, trying to recapture them, his nose brushing yours, and you moved away again.

“Don’t sleep on the sofa tonight.” You asked, not looking at his face.

The fingers intertwined behind your back squeezed your hand, and you looked up to see him give you a tired smile.

“Was this a plot to get me into bed with you?” He raised an eyebrow, and you snorted, rolling your eyes dramatically.

“No…just a consequence of it.” You lowered your hand to his chest, your thumb gently stroking.

“I shall keep it respectful.” 

You raised an eyebrow, and before you could answer, you felt a yawn appearing, and Viktor chuckled.

“I think neither of us has the energy to do anything but…” you replied, and he smiled, taking a step back, his hand leaving yours as he opened the balcony door for you.

“Come then. Let’s rest respectfully.” 

You shook your head and padded inside, making your way to his bedroom, petting Nono on the way, while grabbing the pillow and blanket from the couch.

“I, once again, feel like this was all premeditated.” You heard his familiar gait behind you.

“Well, yes.” You walked backward into the room. “I have been meaning to kiss you for a while now…”

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @kitewa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies @iamfandomnerd @jazzypop-op @jojo-at-heart @deceivethedreamer

[bookcub]

Goose Girl Retellings Rated by Geese (metaphorical geese that is)

because apparently I haven't made one??? spoilers for most of these books but nothing too detailed.

From the princess's perspective:

The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale

The most classic and straightforward adaptation that changes the least from the structure of the Grimm Brothers' version. This reads in many ways like a fairy tale and has a very whimsical style to it. I really enjoyed how her connection to birds was established when she was a child before she worked as a goose girl. The romance was sweet and I liked that her maid didn't use magic to steal her identity but rather had the guards' loyalty instead.

8 out of 10 geese

Thorn by Intisar Khanani

Initially, this was not one of my favorites as I read it near the start of all my goose girls but has actually stuck with me really well and engaged with the older version of the story in such an interesting way, so now is one of my favorites! I liked how identity was handled and the discomfort of living in a body other than your own. I liked how religion was incorporated. It was an important aspect of Thorn's character and not didactic in terms of ideology. I don't love the addition of the sorceress but the tension and relationship between Thorn and the handmaiden was really well done. A little too much going on, but definitely worth reading!

9 out of 10 geese

Bloodleaf by Crystal Smith

This adaptation read like a typical (but enjoyable) YA fantasy. There was a lot of romance in this one, which was nice but not very memorable. There was actually both a maid and a handmaiden who impersonated the princess for different reasons, which was cool, but there was very little focus on them. I really enjoyed how the handkerchief was adapted, it was one drop of blood from three different people who would all die before the princess (like her mother and her bodyguard).

6.5 out of 10 geese

Secret Princess by Melanie Cellier

Honestly, pretty standard YA fantasy retelling, nothing special but fun to read. Even less subversive than Bloodleaf. An annoying aspect is how this is part of a larger series so there were a lot of references to characters I didn't know. The maid's plot and reasoning for switching was really well done. I liked the romance enough. It was decent and cute.

5 out of 10 geese

The Noble Servant by Melanie Dickerson

So this is a Christian fiction book, and it was not subtle with the story's morals. It was like being hit over the head with morality. I read the beginning and skipped to the end after like 4 chapters. Unfortunately, the didactic nature of the book made me unable to enjoy any other aspects of the story. I liked the concept of the prince being in disguise as a lower class citizen/servant, but unfortunately, I was unable to appreciate the execution.

0 out of 10 geese

From the maid's perspective

Little Thieves by Margaret Owen

My favorite of all the retellings!! As a goose girl retelling, it is also awesome. I love that Vanja is a maid and emphasizes the issues of class and abuse of power. The inciting incident is revealed in a flashback and allows both Vanja and Giselle to be established as how this event has changed them before the reader sees it take place. I like that not only does the protagonist is changed from princess to maid, but the prince is changed to a villain as well. Vanja and Giselle also work really well as foil characters, with distinct character arcs. Vanja's reasoning for taking over is also easily understandable and the magic object that allows her to do so makes sense in allowing her. Also, interesting how many goose girl retellings exist as the first installment of a series, isn't it?

10 out of 10 geese

Identity by Camille Peters

I really enjoyed the idea of this but the execution did not take full advantage of the concept. I love that the princess forces the maid to take her place, making her the villian, although I didn't love the slut shaming the narrative put her through. I wish she had been more present as a character. Would have made the story more interesting. This is definitely more of a romance than the other books, although romance is often present. The magical artifact was not great and used poorly throughout. I thought identity was talked about a lot but ultimately, the maid didn't have to sacrifice her personality as much as she claimed it did. I would have focused on the dynamic between princess and maid more and made it a dual pov but alas. An interesting installment in my little journey, albeit unsatisfactory.

6 out of 10 geese

The Tale of the Handkerchief by Emma Donoghue

From a collection of short stories that are fairy tale adaptations, this story evoked a fairy tale feel. I like the switches without magic because I think it shows the power in privilege and position, and how regular lies can destroy lives. I also liked that the princess didn't want to come back, I liked how tedious the maid's position was as a princess. It was great commentary on class and royalty. A short read but a worthy installement in my journey.

7 out of 10 geese

Other perspectives

Stolen Legacy by Cathleen Townsend

This is a free novella I received for signing up to the author's newsletter and I did not do a wrap up or review of this one so I barely remember this one except Falada told it and I didn't really care for this version. According to the summary, Falada is a kelpie and the princess is a siren. . .It was not great.

2 out of 10 geese

The Goose Girl from Black Thorn, White Rose by Tim Wynne-Jones

The prince tells this story years later, after the events take place and he really cared about the maid. I believe it was implied or outright stated that the princess was attracted to women and the change between maid and princess was not forced. Interesting from a new perspective.

5 out of 10 geese

Falada: The Goose Girl's Horse from A Wolf at the Door by Nancy Farmer

Falada is the narrator and he is a fae horse who needs to complete a task in the human world to go back to the fae world. The maid is actually a fae who steals the princess' identity to help build her confidence. It was pretty short, interesting concept but not much happened.

4 out of 10 geese

The Grimrose Girls by Lauren Pohl

SPOILERS AHEAD but I actually hated this book, BUT I really liked how the goose girl was involved. The villain of the whole story (which was a boarding school of fairy tale characters) was the maid from the goose girl, except she was a modern day version AND she killed the "princess" to take over her life which is a great dark twist on an already dark story. Despite hating this book, I was very impressed with how the goose girl story was used in the story. It was the only good aspect of a very disappointing book.

2 out of 10 geese

Imposters

I was told these books were goose girl adaptations. I was lied to.

A Sorceress Comes to Call by T. Kingfisher

This was well written, enjoyable, and only Goose Girl in the aesthetics. As a book, I had a great time with it, great emotional turmoil and a light horror in this fairy tale inspired fantasy. However, as a Goose Girl retelling, there was no identity swap. And with no identity swap, unfortunately, this does not qualify as a Goose Girl retelling for me. There may be a horse named Falada and geese, which are always fun, and while there is an attempt to change social classes (the most Goose Girl aspect of this story), the fact that this is marketed as a retelling, is absolutely wrong.

3 out of 10 geese

Dearest by Althea Kontis

I was told this was Goose Girl. After reading a few chapters, this was proven to be more of a Six Swans retelling. I did not read it after this realization as it was super boring.

0 out of 10 geese

Goose Chase by Patrice Kindl

Same as Dearest, except the prose was actively awful.

0 out of 10 geese

The Goose Girl from Other Ever After by Melanie Gillman

Maybe this is because it was a short story, but I didn’t mind that this was called Goose Girl but was not anything like the story structure I expected. It was also in a anthology of other queer fairy tales, so my expectations of being a loyal adaptation were low. I liked that this was queer, I liked the comic format, I liked that the characters were portayed having dark skin. I loved the commentary on social class, a key question at the center of a good goose girl in my opinion. One of my two favorite short stories, despite being an In Name Only adaptation.

7 out of 10 geese

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | LA Introduction | Nine.One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 14.4k Requested:No | Yes Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments A Few Quick Notes: 🎵 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any platform. Please respect my writing. 🌴 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 🏠 Requests: Open

Author's Note: The LA chapter is here!

After the electric tension of Vegas, we follow Joe and Riley as they land in LA and step into her world together for the first time. From the moment they touch down on the tarmac, everything shifts to something quieter, more intimate, yet infinitely more consequential.

This chapter explores what happens when those carefully constructed walls continue to fall away completely. In the sanctuary of Riley's Laurel Canyon home, Joe discovers a different facet of her - not the soulful, haunted New Orleans Riley he first fell for, but equally vibrant and alive in her own way. As she tells him, "My house in Louisiana is where I go to hide. This one's where I go to make noise." Cold chicken on the floor, candlelit baths, and whispered confessions create a space where vulnerability isn't just allowed but embraced.

But the real revelation comes at Sad Banger Labs, where Joe witnesses Riley in her creative element - commanding the room, solving musical puzzles that stumped everyone else, and laying herself bare through her music without hesitation. For a man who's built his life on control and calculation, watching her surrender completely to the creative process forces him to confront his own carefully maintained boundaries.

As eccentric friends arrive bearing ridiculous drinks and endless questions, Joe finds himself at a crossroads: retreat back to the safety of his structured world, or lean fully into the beautiful chaos that is Riley's life? The decision he makes might just reveal more about his feelings than he's ready to admit.

Thank you to everyone who’s been following along—this chapter’s a big one. We’re deep in it now, and I’ve loved writing Joe and Riley as their separate worlds start to merge in ways that are both messy and intimate. The moments get quieter, the stakes get higher, and what they’re building starts to feel like something they can't live without.🏡🎸✨

Drop me your favorite moments, your thoughts, your theories - I want to hear it all!

Taglist: @wickedfun9@starsyoongi@amiets2@palmettogal508@throwaway12356123@lilfreakjez

---

The wheels touched down with a soft screech, and the familiar lull of Los Angeles warmth met them before they’d even stepped off the plane. It wasn’t the same dry burn of Vegas—this was softer, saltier. The sun hung low, washing the tarmac in amber as they deplaned—gilding everything it touched the gleaming handrails, a technician's distant silhouette, sunglasses propped carelessly on heads as they stepped into California light.

The buzz of Vegas still clung faintly to them—perfume, exhaustion, something unspoken—but the mood had shifted. Calmer now. Quieter.

Riley stepped off first, sunglasses already in place, her overnight bag slung across one shoulder. Joe followed behind her, duffel in hand, gaze flicking between the hangar and her back like he was still adjusting to the light.

Pete, Andy, and Haley followed behind in a slow, shuffling formation—less a cluster, more a collective hangover in motion. Still warm with each other, still easy, but moving like the last couple of days had wrung them out.

“Jesus, it’s aggressively sunny,” Pete muttered, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Feels like punishment.”

“I’ll take it,” Haley mumbled, yawning into the crook of her elbow. “Better than the blacked-out casino void. My soul needs a green juice and a nap, in that order.”

Two black SUVs waited just beyond the hangar, idling in the heat. A driver opened the rear door of the first one, and Haley immediately beelined toward it, Pete and Andy flanking her like sleep-deprived bodyguards.

“I call window,” she muttered, sliding in without pause.

Andy followed with a grin, Pete tossing his bag into the back before ducking in after them. There was a faint chorus of complaints about the sun, hydration levels, and the tequila from the night before.

Joe didn’t have to say anything. One glance passed between them, enough. Riley gave the slightest nod.

They peeled off from the group wordlessly, stepping into the second SUV, the door clicking shut behind them with the soft finality of a bubble sealing shut.

The AC hit sharp and cold. Riley leaned back with a sigh, legs tucked slightly to the side. Joe set down his duffle and slid into the seat beside her—close, but not quite touching.

The silence held between them, not awkward, just full. Weighted in a way that felt like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

“You good?” she asked, without opening her eyes.

“Yeah,” Joe said, after a second. “Just tired.”

“Same.”

But neither of them reached for their phones. Neither turned away. They just sat there, quiet, as the SUV pulled away from the hangar and melted into LA traffic—together, finally, without the noise.

The SUV moved smoothly through traffic, LA rising around them—billboards and palm trees blurred by late sunlight. Outside, the city was loud. Inside, it didn’t need to be.

Riley shifted slightly, curling her bare foot beneath her. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, not looking at him when she said it. Like it was just a truth. Simple and steady.

Joe glanced over, taking her in—the tangle of bracelets at her wrist, the sun catching in her hair, the faint crease between her brows she always got when she was tired.

“Me too,” he said, voice low.

She turned her head then, resting it lightly against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath and leaned in, his temple brushing hers for a moment.

Her fingers brushed against his on the seat between them. Without thinking, he turned his hand over, let her find his palm.

They stayed like that the rest of the drive.

As the SUV curved up through the hills, the city slipped away behind them. Things felt quieter up here—not silent, just different. The noise fell back. Trees took its place.

Joe sat forward slightly as the car pulled into a narrow driveway tucked between ivy-covered stone and wild brush. Riley’s house emerged slowly, not all at once. Like it didn’t care about being seen.

It wasn't what he expected. Not the sleek, modern glass box most LA musicians seemed to favor, but something with character. The gray-shingled house nestled into the hillside, surrounded by lush greenery and mature trees that offered privacy from the road below. Curved stone steps wound up from the driveway to the main entrance, the landscaping artfully wild rather than manicured—drought-resistant plants interspersed with strategic lighting that would illuminate the path at night. 

He didn't say anything as they approached the black privacy gate, but Riley caught the look on his face—part impressed, part curious, all Joe.

"She's got good bones," Riley said with quiet pride, nodding toward the house as she punched in the gate code. "Built in the 70s, but I've been fixing her up room by room." 

Joe took in the details as they walked up the steps—the warm lights glowing from inside, the glimpses of canyon views between trees, the thoughtful balance of security and serenity.

 "It feels like you," he said finally, and she could tell he meant it as a compliment. Not flashy or trying to impress, but authentic and unexpected in the best way.

Joe paused at the top of the steps, taking in the view that stretched out below them—a slice of the city visible between the trees, golden in the late afternoon light. 

She shot him a crooked little smile as she unlocked the door. "Welcome to Laurel Canyon."

Inside, the temperature dropped a few degrees, the house cool and shaded despite the LA sun. It smelled faintly of orange peel and old record sleeves, layered with something smokier—maybe an overworked candle or the last stick of nag champa she’d forgotten about halfway through burning.

Riley dropped her bag in the entryway without ceremony and kicked off her shoes. The hardwood creaked beneath her steps as she moved into the kitchen, already opening cabinets like she needed movement to unwind.

Joe stepped in more slowly, taking it all in.

The space was a riot of color and texture—plants hanging from every available hook, mismatched rugs layered across the floor, bright vintage posters sharing wall space with framed polaroids and setlists. A neon sign shaped like a cherry glowed softly above the archway that led into the living room, where a velvet couch in deep gold sagged under a pile of patterned throw blankets.

It wasn’t like NOLA. It wasn’t like anywhere he’d ever lived.

And yet.

“You okay?” Riley asked from the kitchen, her voice softer now.

Joe looked over, still holding his duffle. “Yeah,” he said. “Just… taking it in.” His gaze swept the room—vibrant colors, mismatched furniture, open windows letting in golden canyon light. “It’s different than New Orleans. Less haunted. Less… dead things.”

Riley snorted softly, not quite laughing. “Yeah. I leave the taxidermy to New Orleans.”

“You hungry? I think I’ve got leftover Thai, half a rotisserie chicken, or we can order something. I also have tequila, a watermelon La Croix, and two bites of a weed brownie that’s definitely past its spiritual expiration date.”

Joe smiled faintly, finally setting his bag down by the door. “Let’s start with water.”

She grabbed two bottles from the fridge and tossed one gently over her shoulder. “Catch.”'

Joe caught it without looking, cracked the cap, and leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter, eyes still tracking the space. He took a long sip, the cold hitting the back of his throat, then exhaled like it grounded him.

“This place feels like your brain,” he said finally, glancing at her over the bottle. “In a different way than New Orleans.”

Riley arched a brow. “Messy and loud?”

“Creative,” he corrected. “Alive. Like it’s got a rhythm I don’t understand yet.”

She tilted her head, like she hadn’t expected that. “It’s a lot,” she admitted, “But I like it. My house in Louisiana is where I go to hide. This one’s where I go to make noise.”

Joe nodded slowly. “It fits.”

There was another pause—comfortable this time.

“Okay,” Riley said, straightening. “We can nap. Or shower. Or sit on the floor and eat cold rotisserie chicken with our fingers like raccoons. Dealer’s choice.”

Joe didn’t answer right away. Just stepped past her to the fridge, nudging her gently aside with a hand on her hip like he’d done it a hundred times. He grabbed the chicken and a La Croix, popped the can with a hiss, then headed toward the living room.

“You coming?” he tossed over his shoulder halfway to the couch.

Riley laughed, caught off guard. “So eat like raccoons’ it is, then.”

Riley sank onto the rug beside him, folding her legs beneath her. The rotisserie chicken was cold, straight from the fridge, and neither of them seemed to care. Joe tore off a piece with lazy ease and held it out to her.

She took it without hesitation, popped it into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully, watching the last of the sun bleed through the gauzy curtains.

“This is the life,” she said, licking a bit of salt from her thumb.

Joe raised an eyebrow, grabbing another piece. “Cold chicken on the floor?”

She smiled, slow and a little sleepy. “Cold chicken on the floor with you.”

He didn’t say anything to that—just handed her another bite, a quiet kind of agreement in the gesture.

They didn’t talk much after that. Just passed pieces back and forth, eating with their fingers, the container between them, sunlight stretching gold across the rug like it had nowhere better to be.

They finished the chicken without fanfare, fingers greasy, mouths full. Neither of them said much. There was nothing that needed to be said.

Eventually, the container was empty save for a few bones and scraps, and Riley set it aside with the ease of someone who’d done this before. She stretched out a little on the floor, back hitting the rug, arms overhead. The sun was almost gone now, just streaks of honey-colored light cutting through the living room, casting long shadows across the mismatched furniture.

Joe watched her for a second, then stood—slow, quiet—and offered a hand. She took it without asking why. He gave a gentle tug, guiding them toward the couch without a word.

The couch sagged beneath them as they sank into it. Riley curled up first, legs folding easily, back nestled into the cushions like they knew her. Joe sat beside her, unsure if he should move, but she didn’t give him the chance to overthink it—just tugged gently at his arm until he shifted down beside her. She fit herself against his side like it was second nature, cheek resting on his shoulder, one hand tucked between them.

It was quiet for a long time. 

Joe felt her breathing slow, the weight of her body softening with sleep. Her hair tickled his jaw. One of her rings pressed lightly into his side. 

He stared up at the ceiling, barely seeing it. Not because he was lost in thought—but because he wasn’t, for once. Because everything he needed to think about was already right here.

She murmured something in her sleep—nothing he could make out—but her fingers curled against him like she was trying to hold on even without realizing it.

Joe stayed still long after Riley had dozed off beside him, her breathing soft and even against his chest. The house had gone quiet around them—no music, no city noise filtering in from the canyon. Just the creak of wood as the sun shifted and the distant hum of someone’s sprinklers kicking on a few hills over.

It should’ve felt peaceful. It did, in part.

But under it—threaded just beneath the comfort—was something tighter.

He didn’t know how to hold this.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He wanted this version of her—barefaced and barefoot, curled up in his arms with trust in her bones. He wanted this room, this silence, this stretch of time where everything felt suspended, like the rest of the world didn’t get a vote.

But then he thought of everything waiting outside this house.

Of what it meant to stay.

Of the way she looked at him sometimes—like she was searching for a version of him she wasn’t sure would show up.

And underneath all of it, the quiet truth he didn’t know how to say out loud: She scares the hell out of me.

Not because she was chaotic. Not because she was loud or wild or famous or fiercely herself.

But because she saw him. And she expected something of him. Not performance. Not perfection. Just… real.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever learned how to give that.

He glanced down at her, watched the way her lashes fluttered when she shifted in her sleep, how her hand stayed curled against his chest like she was still holding onto something even now.

He wanted to keep her.

But some part of him—deep and old and brittle—kept whispering, What if you can’t? What if you try, and it’s not enough?

Joe exhaled, careful not to wake her. Let his head rest against the back of the couch.

And for now—for this quiet, late-afternoon breath of peace—he let himself keep holding her.

* * *

The room had gone dusky, golden light bleeding into blue. Riley blinked awake slowly, eyes adjusting to the shifting colors. For a moment, she didn’t move. Her cheek was pressed to something warm—Joe’s chest, rising and falling in steady rhythm beneath her ear.

She shifted slightly, just enough to glance up. He was asleep, jaw slack, hand still loosely resting on her lower back. It looked like he hadn’t moved at all.

Her gaze softened.

“Hey,” she whispered, barely louder than a breath. “You awake?”

A pause. Then a low, gravelly murmur: “I am now.”

She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice was thick with sleep. “Could’ve stayed like that for a while.”

“We did. We crashed.”

“Dreamed you made me share the couch with a haunted taxidermy squirrel.”

Riley snorted. “Bold of you to assume that squirrel wasn’t real.”

Joe finally turned his head toward her, elbow propped beneath him. “This is gonna sound dumb.”

She looked over. “Try me.”

“I think that might’ve been the best nap I’ve ever had.”

That made her smile—tired and real. “Not dumb.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a simple, instinctive thing. “You make it easy to stop moving.”

She didn’t say anything to that, but her hand found his under the blanket, fingers slipping between his.

After another beat, she murmured, “Want to take a bath?”

Joe blinked, brows lifting slightly. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “I’ve got a clawfoot tub. Big enough for two. I light candles and pretend it’s romantic.”

He looked at her for a long second, something tender passing through him.

“Do I get music?”

“Obviously.”

His hand squeezed hers. “Then yeah. Let’s do it.”

Riley stretched, bones clicking lightly as she sat up. “Give me two minutes to make the bathroom slightly less terrifying.”

Riley padded into the bathroom, flicking on the small overhead light—then immediately turning it off again. Too harsh. Too sterile.

Instead, she struck a match and began lighting candles—one on the counter, a cluster on the floor near the tub, a few balanced on mismatched saucers along the windowsill. Fig and vetiver. Tobacco flower. That one she’d bought at a flea market labeled Sunday in June that just smelled like warm linen and something smoky.

The room shifted with each new flame—light softening, shadows stretching and curling up the tile like they were settling in for the night.

She turned on the water, twisting the antique brass handles until steam began to rise. The tub, deep and clawfooted, groaned slightly as it filled. She leaned over the edge, trailing her fingers through the stream. Warm enough. She tossed in a bath soak that turned the water cloudy with milk and lavender, then set her phone in a little ceramic dish on the shelf and scrolled for a playlist. Something soft. Something old. Something that wouldn’t demand attention but would fill the room.

By the time Joe appeared in the doorway—shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes still heavy from the nap—the bathroom was glowing.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “This feels like a spell.”

Riley smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then mission accomplished.”

Joe stepped in slowly, eyes tracing the edges of the space. “Do I need to know the safe word before I get in?”

She laughed under her breath, grabbing two towels from the shelf. “It’s ‘rotisserie.’”

He huffed a quiet laugh, toeing off his socks. “Noted.”

Then, after a beat, he looked up at her, deadpan. “Wait—did you say rotisserie?”

Riley grinned. “I sure did.”

Joe shook his head, smiling to himself. “Jesus.”

Joe pulled his sweatshirt off in one easy motion, letting it fall wherever it landed. Across from him, Riley was already shimmying out of her pants, her shirt tossed somewhere near the sink, her hair coming loose from where she’d tied it up earlier. Neither of them said anything—they just moved, unhurried, peeling away the layers of the day like it was instinct.

Some song she’d queued up earlier spilled softly from the Bluetooth speaker—slow and warm, something with a steady bass line and lazy vocals, the kind of track that made your bones feel heavy in a good way.

She slid her underwear off last, then stepped carefully into the tub, water sloshing slightly as she lowered herself in. Joe followed a breath later, the hot water biting at first, then easing into something almost too good to speak through.

She leaned forward to make space and he settled behind her, legs bracketing hers, his arms resting gently along the rim of the tub.

Neither of them spoke.

There wasn’t a need.

The steam carried the layered scent of her favorite candles—amber, patchouli, and something citrusy—and the bath soak she’d clearly gone heavy-handed with. The air smelled like crushed flowers, spice, and something unplaceable, like the color pink if it had heat. Heady, a little overwhelming, but not in a bad way.

Riley let out a slow exhale, her back softening against his chest. Joe adjusted slightly to fit around her better, one of his knees bumping hers beneath the water. She didn’t flinch. Just leaned into it, like this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. Like it was normal.

His hands, still damp, drifted to her thighs—light, not suggestive, just grounding. One stayed there. The other lifted, fingers dragging lazily through the condensation on her arm, tracing a line he didn’t even realize he was drawing.

Riley’s voice came after a long beat.

“You ever do this before?” she asked quietly. Not teasing. Just curious.

Joe made a low sound in his throat. “You mean sit naked in a flower-scented cauldron while… whatever this is plays in the background?”

She smiled, eyes still half-closed. “That’s the one.”

“No,” he said, brushing a thumb across her damp skin. “But I’m not in a rush to get out.”

“You?”

Riley turned her face slightly toward his, not quite looking at him. “Not like this.”

He didn’t press. Just shifted a little closer, his chin finding a place against her shoulder. His breath was steady now. Slowed. Her breathing matched it.

The song changed.

Neither of them noticed.

Joe’s fingers drifted lazily along the inside of her forearm, his touch featherlight, like he was tracing something only he could read.

Then, after a long stretch of quiet-

“Tell me something about you nobody knows.”

Riley’s eyes opened, just barely. “Like what?”

“Anything,” he said, voice low, close to her ear. “Something you’ve never said out loud. Doesn’t have to be big."

She let the silence stretch again. Let it breathe.

“I used to write letters I never sent,” she said finally. “To people who hurt me. To people I missed. Sometimes to versions of myself I was trying to kill off.”

Joe didn’t respond right away. Just nodded slowly behind her, his hand finding hers beneath the water.

“You still do that?”

“Not lately,” she said. “Lately I’ve just been trying to live in the parts I used to write about.”

He pressed his mouth to her shoulder—soft, careful. “That’s the most Riley Carter thing I’ve ever heard.”

She smiled faintly. “Your turn.”

“What, a secret?”

“Something real.”

He was quiet for so long she thought he might deflect. But then—

“I’m scared I won’t know how to be happy when this is over,” he said. “Football. The noise. The structure. I don’t know what version of me exists without it. Or if I’ll even like him.”

“I’ve spent my whole life chasing this thing—training for it, sacrificing for it, building my entire identity around it. And then one day it just… ends. And I don’t know what happens after. What I’ll do. Who I’ll be. How will I be happy when the thing I’ve given everything to is gone.”

Riley shifted slowly in the water, the soft slosh breaking the silence as she moved to face him fully. Her knees slid to either side of his hips, the space between them closing until she was straddling him—chest to chest, steady and close, the water rippling gently around them.

Joe’s hands found her thighs on instinct, but there was no rush in his grip. Just connection. Curiosity. Like he was letting her take the lead in something unspoken.

“You don’t have to know who you are without it yet,” she said softly. “You just have to be open to finding out.”

Her hands cupped his jaw, fingertips damp against his skin, grounding him with their warmth. “I’ve rebuilt myself more times than I ever wanted to. After Ethan. After label shit. After losing myself trying to be what other people needed. But I always found my way back. Eventually.”

Joe didn’t speak, just watched her—eyes steady, something fragile and raw flickering behind them.

“I’m not saying it won’t suck sometimes,” she added, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “But it’s less scary when someone’s willing to walk through it with you.”

He exhaled, like the weight of her words cracked something open inside him. His hands slid up, resting lightly at her waist.

“Would you walk through it with me?”

Riley’s expression softened, her eyes dark and steady as she leaned in until their foreheads touched.

"Yes."

They didn’t move for a while.

Riley’s forehead rested against his. Joe’s hands traced lazy patterns on her thighs beneath the water, slow and unhurried. The candles flickered, music low and unfamiliar, the kind that hummed beneath your ribs without demanding attention.

He kissed her—not hungry, not desperate. Just once. Soft and sure. Like a promise whispered into skin.

And when the water started to cool and her fingers wrinkled, they rose without speaking, drying off in the quiet hush of candlelight. Joe handed her a towel like he’d done it a hundred times. She bumped his shoulder with hers on the way out.

Riley padded out of the bathroom, towel wrapped lazily around her torso, still drying her hair with the other as she moved barefoot through the soft glow of the bedroom. The air was cooler out here—her skin prickled as she passed through it, but she didn’t rush.

She paused at the edge of the bed and sat, letting the towel fall slightly lower on her thighs, fingers idly combing through damp strands. The room was quiet except for the low hum of city life beyond the windows and the faint thump of Joe’s footsteps approaching.

When he finally appeared, it was slow—towel slung low on his hips, hair damp, jaw shadowed, eyes already on her like he’d been waiting for this moment since they’d stepped out of the tub.

Riley watched him cross the room, her gaze unapologetic. “Come here."

Riley watched him cross the room, her gaze steady, unapologetic.

“Come here,” she said, low.

Joe didn’t answer. Just tilted his head, towel still clutched in one hand, like he was considering something. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Her breath caught—but only for a second. She’d seen him before, had him before, but he still managed to knock the wind out of her in quiet, deliberate ways.

Then he stepped toward her, bare except for the towel, calm and unhurried. He stopped just close enough that her knees grazed his thighs, the space between them charged and humming.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice quiet and amused.

"I am. "

Her hands slid up his sides—slow, deliberate, reverent. Thumbs grazing just under the towel at his hips.

“Baby,” she murmured, voice warm and sure, “let me take care of you.”

Before he could answer, she rose—still damp, towel clinging to her curves—and guided him gently by the hips, turning him until he sat at the edge of the bed. He let her, muscles loose, gaze locked on her like she was the only thing holding him together.

Riley stepped between his knees, palms gliding up his chest, fingertips brushing water from his skin like she wanted to remember every inch of him this way—soft, quiet, unrushed.

Joe’s hands found her waist instinctively, but she didn’t settle in his lap. Not yet.

“Let me,” Riley whispered, and there was something in her voice—firm, tender, steady. She kissed him once, slow and lingering, then lowered herself to her knees in front of him.

His breath hitched.

She didn’t tease. Didn’t draw it out like a performance. This wasn’t about power or control—it was about care. Her hands moved with quiet confidence, fingertips tracing the lines of his thighs, her mouth warm and sure as she took him in. Joe groaned, head tipping back, one hand sliding into her damp hair. Not guiding—just grounding himself. Like he needed to touch her to stay tethered.

She moved slowly, deliberately, eyes flicking up to his face, taking in every stutter in his breath, every twitch of muscle. He was quiet, but his body told her everything—how close he already was, how much he was holding back.

When she felt his thigh tense beneath her hand, she pulled back, her palm wrapping gently around him.

“Come here,” he said again, voice wrecked and reverent.

This time, she rose without hesitation, crawling into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. His hands gripped her thighs, eyes dark and open, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

She straddled him slowly, eyes locked on his. There was no coyness, no need to perform. Just that same quiet certainty that had settled between them like steam.

Joe’s hands slid up her back, wide and warm, fingers pressing into her damp skin like he needed to feel every inch. Her hands framed his face for a beat, her thumbs brushing over the faint shadows under his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Especially right now.”

She kissed him again—longer this time, slower. Letting it deepen as she shifted her hips against him, both of them gasping at the friction, the heat, the way it felt like something they’d been moving toward all day.

Riley reached between them, lining him up. Joe’s breath caught in his throat, and then she sank down, inch by inch, her eyes fluttering shut as he filled her.

They both stilled.

Her hands rested on his shoulders, his forehead pressing to hers. The air between them pulsed with heat and silence—so full, it felt like it might burst.

“Bird,” he said, barely more than a breath. “I feel like I’m… in over my head.”

His eyes met hers, unguarded in a way he rarely let himself be. “Like I’m gonna drown in this.”

Riley didn’t look away. Her palms slid slowly up his chest, steady. “Then hold onto me.”

She pressed her lips to his, soft and sure, her movements slow and grounding. “I’ve got you, baby. Just stay here with me.

Joe’s eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his jaw softening as her rhythm steadied them both. One hand slid up her back, needing to touch more of her, like proximity alone might be enough to keep him from unraveling.

Riley leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, breath mingling between them. Her voice was a whisper, barely there. “You’re right here.”

His lips parted, a soft, broken sound escaping as she rocked against him again, slow and sure. “You feel…” he started, but didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know,” she breathed.

And she did.

Every inch of him. Every tremble in his breath. Every place he was still learning how to be held.

They moved like that for a while—quiet, close, tethered. Nothing urgent. Nothing loud. Just breath and skin and the slow recalibration of two people trying to meet in the middle of something that scared them both.

Joe’s head dropped to her shoulder as she rolled her hips again, slow and precise. A low, unfiltered sound rumbled from his throat—raw and grateful. Riley felt it in her chest more than she heard it, the vibration sinking deep.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, brushing her lips over the shell of his ear. “We’re okay.”

His grip tightened at her waist, not to control, but to ground. She was guiding this—had been from the beginning—and he let her. Needed her to.

Riley’s breath hitched when he kissed her neck, open-mouthed and reverent. There was no angle, no performance. Just need. Just closeness.

“I don’t want to come yet,” he murmured, the confession wrecked and boyish against her skin.

“You won’t,” she said softly. “Not until I say so.”

Riley kept her pace slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing every flicker of tension in his body and smoothing it down with each movement. Her hands slid into his hair, anchoring him to her chest as she moved—steady, patient, unwavering.

Joe breathed her in like it was oxygen. His hands traveled up her back, over her ribs, fingers splayed like he needed more surface area just to hold on.

“Bird,” he rasped again, quieter now, voice thinned out with feeling. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled into his hair. “Then I’ll go with you.”

That broke something loose in him—a soft sound caught halfway between disbelief and devotion. His arms wrapped fully around her, holding her flush against him as she moved, his mouth finding the swell of her breast, her collarbone, the center of her throat. Kisses more like thank yous than anything else.

The pace picked up, barely—but enough. Enough for the heat between them to start cresting. Enough for her to feel his restraint start to slip.

“You close?” she asked against his jaw, lips brushing his skin.

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, voice wrecked. “Yeah.”

Riley kissed him—deep and full and grounding—and said, “Then give it to me.”

Joe groaned, low and guttural, the sound punching out of his chest as his grip tightened. His hips bucked up into her once, twice, before the rhythm broke entirely. He buried his face in her neck, body jerking beneath her as he came hard, breath ragged against her skin, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

She didn’t stop moving—not until he softened, until the tremor in his arms settled, until she felt the shudder in his breath ease into something gentler. Only then did she slow, easing them both back down.

They stayed like that for a while. His arms still around her. Her head bowed, forehead resting against his. Their breathing fell in sync again, like it always did.

Eventually, Joe let out a long exhale. One hand came up to brush her hair back behind her ear, fingers lingering at her jaw.

“You okay?” she asked softly, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, looking up at her with something quiet in his expression. Something raw. “Yeah. Just…” His thumb brushed her cheek. “I’ve never been that far gone. Not with anyone. And I feel like that every time—with you. Like it can’t get deeper… but it does.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I feel it too.”

Her voice was steady, but her gaze wavered—just for a second.

“That’s what scares me, Joe,” she admitted, her voice low but steady. “Because if it keeps getting deeper… what am I gonna do if you wake up one day and decide I’m too much? Or this is?”

She didn’t pull back. Just looked at him, raw and open, like the truth was safer here than anywhere else.

“You’ve seen how I am. The chaos. The noise. I don’t come quiet. “I don’t come quiet. And I see you struggle with that. We’ve been in this bubble—yours and mine, just us—but what happens when it bursts?

Joe didn’t flinch. He didn’t deflect or try to talk her down.

He just looked at her—really looked—and said, “Then we don’t let it burst.”

His thumb brushed along her jaw. “Or if it does, we ride it out. I don’t want perfect, Riley. I want real. And this? You? This is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”

A pause. Honest. A little scared.

“I don’t always know how to carry it. But I’m trying. Because I want you. Not the version that fits neatly into my world. The real one. The wild one.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed to hers. “I’m not letting go. Even if I have to figure out how to hold on better.”

Riley’s voice was barely a whisper. “Help me hold onto this, Joe.”

He stilled, forehead still resting against hers.

“Remember this,” she said, her fingers curling lightly around his wrist. “Remember how we are here. That’s what matters when the noise comes. This—” her breath hitched, “—this is what matters.”

Joe didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her in until there was no space left between them.

“I’ll remember,” he murmured against her skin. “I swear to God, I’ll remember.”

* * *

Joe woke first.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft silver of moonlight spilling through gauzy curtains. The air still held traces of the bath—amber and patchouli, floral spice, something citrusy clinging to their skin like a memory. It smelled like her. Like comfort. Like something sacred.

Riley was curled against him, one leg tangled between his, her hand resting warm and open over his chest. Her breathing was slow and even. Steady. Joe didn’t want to move. But then—

His stomach growled. Loudly.

He glanced over at the clock. 12:08 a.m.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

Riley stirred, her voice rough with sleep. “You okay?”

“I think I’m starving,” he muttered. “Like, actual survival-mode starving.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “Should’ve eaten more chicken.”

“You inhaled it.”

“You’re the one who fed me the chicken, babe. Should’ve saved yourself a piece.”

Joe groaned softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Baby, let’s go raid the kitchen. I’m starving.”

Riley sighed dramatically. “You had your chance with the chicken.”

He chuckled, wrapping an arm tighter around her waist as he sat up. “And I gave it to you. Like a gentleman.”

Fine, Joseph,” she said, letting him pull her up. “But lower your expectations—there’s not much left in there.”

They made their way to the kitchen, bare feet soft against tile, the mood lazy and warm.

Riley popped open the fridge and held up a takeout container triumphantly. “Leftover pad Thai. Look at us winning.”

She hopped onto the counter, settling in with an exaggerated sigh as Joe peeled back the lid.

Without saying a word, he reached in and twisted his fingers into the cold noodles, pulling out a small tangle and holding it up to her mouth.

Riley raised an eyebrow—but didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, lips brushing his knuckles as she took the bite, chewing slowly.

“Still good?” he asked, already reaching for another.

She swallowed. “Cold. Slightly tragic. Perfect.”

Joe grinned, took a bite for himself, and groaned. “Okay, I know I’m starving, but this is good as fuck.”

Riley nudged his arm with her knee. “Okay, don’t hog it. Give me more.”

He smirked, twirling another bite around his fingers with exaggerated care. “Say please.”

She leaned in, all mock sweetness. “Feed me, baby please.”

He popped the noodles into her mouth, laughing under his breath. “So demanding.”

She chewed, grinning around it. “You’re into it.”

Joe stepped in closer, close enough that his knees brushed the cabinet, and wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb—gentle, unthinking.

“I am,” he said. “I’m into all of it.”

His hand lingered for a second, thumb brushing just beneath her lip before falling away. His voice lowered—not heavy, just honest.

“I don’t want this to be undefined,” Joe said, voice quieter now. “I know we haven’t said what we are, and maybe there isn’t a perfect word for it, but… I’m in it. With you.”

Then her mouth curved, slow and a little shy. “You’re in it, huh?”

Joe nodded once. “Yeah. All the way.”

Riley set the container down beside her, legs still swinging gently from the counter. “You sure? Because this”—she gestured vaguely between them, the kitchen, the lingering scent of candle smoke and bathwater on her skin—“is easy when it’s just us. But it won’t always be like this.”

“I don’t know what the other parts are gonna look like,” he said, stepping between her knees, voice low. “But I know I want to figure it out with you. That part’s simple.”

Riley searched his face, quiet for a beat. “So what are we calling this?”

Joe’s lips twitched. “I don’t know. Feels a little high school to say ‘girlfriend.’”

She snorted. “Please don’t.”

There was a pause—just a flicker of hesitation, something tender folding in beneath the teasing.

“I want you to be mine, Riley,” he said, voice low. No performance. No bravado. Just truth.

Her expression softened. “Then I’m yours.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “And I’m yours.”

The air between them felt quieter after that. Like something had settled. Like something that had been floating finally landed.

They didn’t talk much after that.

Just passed the container back and forth between bites, too lazy and warm and full of something softer than hunger to do anything else. Riley licked sauce off her thumb like it wasn’t the most distracting thing he’d ever seen. Joe fed her the last clump of noodles with his fingers, and she let her head drop against his shoulder like that’s where it belonged.

They cleaned up half-heartedly—leftovers back in the fridge, lights dimmed, bare feet brushing on tile.

And then, back in bed, it was easy again. Familiar. She curled into his chest, one leg tossed over his hip, her breath already slowing. Joe lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other around her waist, thumb sweeping lazy circles against her spine.

His thoughts weren’t loud. Just… steady.

I don’t want to leave this.

I don’t want to lose her.

I think—I think I’m falling for her.

The realization landed quiet. No fireworks. Just a certainty that settled deep in his chest like it had always been there, just waiting for him to notice.

He blinked at the ceiling for a long time, then let his eyes close.

And finally, everything went still.

* * *

The sun was already filtering through the windows when Joe stirred, the kind of hazy, late-morning light that made everything feel slow and forgiving. Riley was still curled beside him, one arm draped across his stomach, her breath warm against his side.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to process the fact that this—whatever this was—felt different than anything he’d ever known to want.

Eventually, Riley blinked awake, her voice low and scratchy with sleep. “What time is it?”

Joe reached for his phone. “Almost ten.”

She groaned into his skin. “That’s early.”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s really not.”

She shifted, stretching against him, the sheet slipping off one shoulder. “You getting up?”

“Yeah,” he said, but made no move to go.

She tilted her head up, eyes still heavy. “Shower with me?”

It wasn’t a question that came with expectation. Just one that said I want you close a little longer.

Joe brushed a hand down her back, slow. “Yeah. Okay.”

It was late morning and already warm, light pouring through the frosted bathroom window in lazy stripes. Riley twisted the faucet, steam rising quick, curling into the space between them.

Joe didn’t say anything—just watched her for a beat, then followed.

They stepped into the heat like it was a continuation of everything they hadn’t said aloud but both knew now. No tension, no nerves. Just that quiet, grounded thing between them. The one he’d finally named.

He stood behind her, arms loose around her waist, chin tucked to her shoulder. The water ran over both of them, washing away whatever sleep still clung to their skin.

It was late morning and already warm, light pouring through the frosted bathroom window in lazy stripes. Riley twisted the faucet, steam rising quick, curling into the space between them.

Joe didn’t say anything—just watched her for a minute, then followed.

They stepped into the heat like it was a continuation of everything they hadn’t said aloud but both understood now. No tension, no nerves. Just that quiet certainty between them. The one he’d finally named.

He stood behind her, arms loose around her waist, chin tucked to her shoulder. The water ran over both of them, washing away whatever sleep still clung to their skin.

He kissed the back of her neck. She reached for the shampoo.

They took turns like that—wordless. Her lathering his hair, fingers massaging slow while he tipped his head into her touch. Him dragging a soapy palm down her spine, rinsing away bubbles with a tenderness that made her throat ache.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t try anything. Just pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes.

It was quiet. Easy. Safe.

By the time they stepped out of the shower, the mirror was fully fogged, steam curling toward the open door. Riley wrapped herself in a towel and disappeared into the bedroom, and Joe followed, padding barefoot toward the corner where his duffel sat slouched against the wall.

He crouched down, pulling it open and sorting through the contents without much thought—muscle memory from years of travel. Hoodie, black tee, soft cotton boxers. Familiar.

By the time they stepped out of the shower, the mirror was fully fogged, steam curling toward the open door. Riley wrapped herself in a towel and disappeared into the bedroom, and Joe followed, padding barefoot toward the corner where his duffel sat slouched against the wall.

“Hey,” he called, digging through it. “You mind if I throw some laundry in later?”

“Not at all,” Riley said, already rifling through a drawer. “Give it to me now and I’ll put some on.”

Joe looked up. “You don’t have to—”

“I need to do some laundry anyway,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Toss it here.”

Joe handed over the bundle without a word. Riley took it, already walking backward toward the hallway with lazy purpose, towel slung over her shoulder, hair still wet and dripping down her back.

She didn’t bother with clothes—just wandered barefoot to the laundry room in black panties and a faded bra, the kind that looked well-worn and lived-in, like it had survived more than a few wild nights and late mornings.

He watched her disappear around the corner, the quiet hum of normalcy settling into the space she’d left behind.

A second later, he heard the click of the washer lid and the muffled thud of clothes hitting metal.

Then the low hum of water filling the machine. The soft squeak of her footfalls on tile as she padded back toward the bedroom.

As she passed, Joe reached out—just a light brush of his fingers along her hip. No reason. No words. Just the instinct to feel her in motion, to keep her close in the quietest way.

Riley didn’t pause, but her mouth twitched like she felt it, like maybe she’d been waiting for it too. She disappeared into the closet.

She came out of the closet mid-step, tugging her Nirvana tee down over her ribs, the checkerboard pants already on. A blue cardigan hung open and loose around her shoulders, and her hair was still damp, tucked beneath a worn trucker hat that read bad decisions club in hot pink.

Joe glanced up from tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything—not because he was shocked, but because he was looking. Really looking. Like he was filing it away. Color and confidence and something else quieter beneath it all.

“That what rockstar casual looks like?”

Riley smirked as she adjusted a stack of bangles on her wrist. “Something like that.”

He didn’t say anything else, just let his eyes linger for a beat longer than necessary—like he wasn’t in a rush to look away.

She adjusted a stack of bangles on her wrist, head tilted as she looked over at him. “You ready? Because not for nothing—I’m starving, and I want to hit somewhere before we go to the studio.”

Joe stood, smoothing a hand over his shirt. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The Bronco sat in the the garage, black and dusty in a way that made it look lived-in, not neglected. Like it had seen canyons and coastlines, late-night getaways and gas station snack runs. Joe recognized the type instantly—rugged, low-key, not flashy. It suited her.

He rounded the passenger side just as Riley tugged the door open and tossed her bag inside. “Don’t judge the crumbs,” she said, climbing in. “I basically live in this thing.”

Joe just grinned and shook his head, settling into the passenger seat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The engine rumbled to life with a satisfying growl. She backed out of the drive one-handed, flipping her sunglasses down with the other.

They didn’t talk much on the drive—just a comfortable quiet, the windows cracked to let in the breeze, Riley’s playlist low in the background. Something jangly and warm with a fuzzy guitar line.

As they hit a red light, Riley grabbed her phone from the console and fired off a quick voice text.

“Scout, can you do a grocery run for me? Like, actual groceries. We’re running on fumes here.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “‘We?”

She didn’t look at him. “You ate cold chicken on the floor and Pad Thai straight out the fridge. You live here now.”

Before he could respond, she turned the wheel sharply and slid into a small parking lot tucked between two buildings with graffiti-covered walls. The kind of spot you only knew about if someone cool told you.

Joe started to unbuckle, but Riley touched his arm lightly.

“Stay here,” she said casually, already climbing out. “I’ll be back with the goods.”

He watched her go—checkered pants swishing, vintage tee half-tucked, powder blue cardigan catching the breeze.

The Bronco door slammed shut and Joe looked up just as Riley rounded the front of the car, arms full of brown paper bags stacked nearly to her chin.

“Did you rob the place?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“No,” she said, setting the bags down between them. “You look like you can eat a pretty good bit. Plus, I gotta make sure my boys are fed.”

Joe leaned over, already eyeing the containers. “What’d you get? Can I have first pick?”

“Absolutely, baby,” she said without hesitation, unlocking the top bag like it was a treasure chest. “Knock yourself out.”

She started listing casually, wrist-deep in takeout bags. “Couple breakfast burritos, sweet potato hash, banana bread, something called a ‘moon muffin’ I didn’t ask questions, and—oh—there’s a tub of fruit because I guess I felt guilty.”

Joe leaned over the bags. “Pass me a burrito?”

“Good choice,” Riley said, handing one over and grabbing one for herself. “These are like, barely legal, they’re so good.”

He unwrapped it as she pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other keeping her burrito steady in her lap. The Bronco rumbled down sun-drenched side streets, canyon air filtering in through the cracked window.

They drove in silence for a bit, the kind that didn’t need filling. Just chewing and sunlight and the crinkle of foil.

They drove in silence for a bit, the kind that didn’t need filling. Just chewing and sunlight and the crinkle of foil.

“How far’s the studio from here?” Joe asked, glancing sideways as he peeled back another layer of foil.

“Not far,” Riley said, mouth full. She took a swig from her iced coffee and wiped her hand on a napkin. “Daniel texted me while I was inside—he’s already there.”

“Daniel—drummer, right?”

“Yup,” Riley said, flicking on her blinker. “You’re gonna love him. He reminds me of you, actually.”

Joe glanced over. “Yeah?”

She nodded, eyes on the road. “Not the loudest guy in the room, but he notices everything. Doesn’t miss a beat. Literally and metaphorically.”

Joe took another bite, glancing over at her. “So basically… you hijacked a metal band and made them do pop?”

Riley grinned. “Yup. Dragged ’em kicking and screaming into the light. Now they pretend to hate it, but you should see how seriously they take synth settings.”

Joe looked over at her, a corner of his mouth tugging up. “Can’t decide if that’s impressive or terrifying.”

Riley shrugged, unapologetic. “Why not both?”

Riley cut the engine with a soft click. Joe took a long look around, his eyes scanning the place. The tall trees and the sprawling driveway gave the property a quiet, serene vibe. It looked like it belonged in a magazine spread—sleek, modern, but with a lived-in warmth. Pete’s got taste, he thought.

Riley caught his gaze. “Wait till you see the studio,” she said, smirking. “It’s a vibe.”

They made their way up the short path to the studio. Joe couldn’t help but be curious. As they approached the entrance, he spotted a sign hanging over the door in bold letters: Sad Banger Labs.

Joe stopped in his tracks, eyebrows raising. “That’s what SBL stands for?”

Riley grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Yup and the studio in Louisiana is called the Swamp of Sadness.”

Joe’s mouth dropped open. “WTF?”

She just shrugged, her smile mischievous. “You gotta have a name with a little character, right?”

He shook his head, half-laughing, half-shocked by the absurdity of it all. “Only you would have a studio called the Swamp of Sadness.”

“Well,” she said, pushing the door open, “there’s a little sadness in every banger.”

Joe followed her inside, the door swinging shut behind them, and immediately, he was hit with the sounds of what could only be described as organized chaos. The space was a mix of eclectic furniture, instruments strewn about, and a wall of windows that flooded the place with natural light. A low hum of conversation, some distant laughter, and the soft scratch of a guitar greeted him as they stepped further in.

“Welcome to Sad Banger Labs,” Riley said, a touch of pride in her voice as she gestured around the room.

Joe smiled, feeling the energy of the space. “This is… wild,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “In a good way.”

Riley nodded, clearly at home here. “Yeah, I think so. You’ll see. It gets better when everyone’s around.”

As they walked further into the studio, Joe couldn’t help but wonder how he had ended up in this world—so different from his own, yet somehow exactly what he needed.

* * *

Riley stepped into the studio with the food bags in hand, her steps light but purposeful. The atmosphere was warm, filled with an easy kind of energy, a comfortable chaos. Pete and Daniel were already there—both sitting around, their heads turned toward her as she entered.

Daniel, ever the easygoing guy, was the first to greet Joe with a wide grin. “Hey, man,” he said, standing to extend his hand. “Glad you could make it. We’re all pretty stoked to have you around.”

Joe grinned back, shaking his hand firmly. “Appreciate it, man. Riley’s told me a lot about you guys.”

Riley tossed her bag onto a nearby counter, then pulled out a couple of the food containers. “I come bearing snacks. You’re welcome for my service.”

Pete greeted Joe warmly. Joe nodded in appreciation, looking around. “This place looks really cool, man.”

Pete smiled, without even looking, grabbed a breakfast burrito from one of the bags, and stuffed it into his mouth. He swallowed quickly, wiped his hands on his pants, and turned to Joe. “Thanks, man. I spent a lot of time getting it right. Being on the road so much, I wanted to come home to a place that felt like peace. You want a tour?”

Joe chuckled, still surprised by how laid-back everything felt. “Yeah, man, I’d love that,” he replied, accepting another burrito from Riley.

Pete grinned. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Joe followed Pete out of the studio, still holding his burrito, and took in the rest of the house. The walls were a mix of raw, exposed brick and polished wood, with colorful rugs scattered across the floors. Plants in all sizes and shapes lined the shelves and corners, adding a touch of life to the space. There was an easy, lived-in vibe to it, the kind of place you didn’t just visit—you became a part of it.

As they walked through, Pete pointed out different sections of the house. “Over here’s the kitchen,” he said, waving toward an open space with a butcher block island, shelves of mismatched dishes, and an espresso machine that looked like it cost more than Joe’s first car. “Pretty simple, but it gets the job done. Not much of a chef, but I know my way around a grill.”

Joe took it all in, nodding as they moved into a cozy-looking living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that led out to a back patio. There was an old record player in the corner, with a couple of vintage albums stacked nearby. The whole place had a soft, earthy feel to it, like it was made for someone who loved both comfort and style.

“I like this,” Joe said, offering Pete a smile. “Feels… real. Not trying too hard.”

Pete gave him a knowing look. “That’s the point. I’m not into the whole ‘perfect’ vibe. I’m want to feel something when I walk through the door.”

They continued through the house, and when they reached the back patio, Pete pointed to a fire pit surrounded by mismatched chairs. “This is where the magic happens. Can’t tell you how many nights I’ve sat out there after a session, just chilling. You get a nice breeze through the canyon, too. It’s… well, it’s home.”

Joe stopped and looked around, impressed by how everything fit together so effortlessly. “I get it,” he said quietly. “It’s like this place has its own heartbeat.”

“Exactly,” Pete said with a grin. “So, what do you think? You feel the vibe?”

Joe nodded, still processing the calmness of it all. “Yeah, I do. It’s got something.”

They headed back inside, where Riley was already chatting with Daniel, her energy just as easygoing as the space they were in. Joe felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the atmosphere wrapped around him like a blanket. The low hum of music filled the background, blending seamlessly with the sound of Daniel showing Riley something on the drum kit. Their laughter floated through the room, light and unhurried, as they shared a moment of musical discovery. It was a comfortable, lived-in feeling—nothing rushed, nothing forced.

Riley looked up, catching his eye as he stepped back into the room. Her smile was soft, knowing, like she’d already figured out how he’d be feeling here. She gave him a subtle nod, like this place had a way of settling things without saying much at all.

“You wanna hear something we’re working on?” Andy asked, a spark of excitement in his voice.

Joe nodded, intrigued. “Yeah, man. Let’s hear it.”

Riley glanced over her shoulder, her smile widening when she saw him. “It’s totally different from anything we’ve ever done,” she said, her voice filled with anticipation.

Daniel leaned forward, glancing up. “Play the one we just finished, Riley.”

Riley turned her head slightly, just enough for Joe to catch a brief look—calm, but with a depth that told him this song was different. Her fingers hovered above the controls, then she pressed play.

The first chords hit softly, and Riley’s voice, raw and unguarded, filled the room.

I spent years becoming cool

And in one single second, you can make a decade of my efforts disappear…

Joe leaned forward slightly, the words sinking into him, like she was speaking directly to him. There was no doubt that Riley had been here before—wounded, torn down. The pain was real, and it hurt to hear it come from her like this. But it wasn’t just her ex anymore. It was bigger than that—it was about vulnerability, about the fear of giving all of yourself to someone and getting nothing in return.

I’m just waiting at the bar, and you rip open all my scars

By saying something like, ‘Didn’t know you were here.’

Joe’s chest tightened. The words didn’t leave him. They clawed at him, reminding him of the times when he’d distanced himself, built walls just so that he wouldn’t have to feel that same vulnerability. He wasn’t sure if Riley realized it, but she had written this for herself—and for him, too. She was singing it like she had nothing left to hide, nothing to lose.

I always knew I was a martyr and that Jesus was one too

But I was built from special pieces that I learned how to unscrew…

The words felt heavy, like she was dismantling herself piece by piece, for the sake of something bigger. And for the first time, Joe realized how much she had already given, how much she had sacrificed, and how often he’d held back. Could I ever be as brave as this?

And I can always reassemble to fit perfectly for you

Or anybody that decides that I’m of use

Lonely is the muse.

Joe couldn’t breathe for a second. Lonely had been her muse. Maybe it had been his, too, but in a different way. He built his walls, turned inward, shut himself off from anything that might make him feel too much. He had always thought that would keep him safe, but now, hearing this, he realized how much he’d been running from—how much he hadn’t let himself feel, because feeling made him afraid.

Riley’s voice was steady, but he could hear the cracks in it, the parts of her that had been broken wide open, laid bare. What had he been doing?

I’ll be a wind chime in the window, catching life you throw around

And I will tear apart your bedroom, I’ll call you in the night

I will exist in every second just to decorate your life.

She was in pieces, but she was still there—still giving, still offering everything to someone who would take it. And here he was, holding back from the one person who might understand all the parts of him he kept hidden.

And when you’re done, you can discard me like the others always do…

And I will nurse my wounds until another artist stains me new.

He wanted to say something, to apologize or to make it right, but the song wasn’t about that. It was about how she had always been the one to give, to share, and still came back for more, only to be tossed aside. Had he been doing that to her, too?

The song wound to a close, and the silence was thick in the air. Riley didn’t move, and neither did Joe. He wanted to say something—he needed to—but he couldn’t quite find the words.

The song wound to a close, and the silence was thick in the air. Riley didn’t move, and neither did Joe. He wanted to say something—he needed to—but he couldn’t quite find the words.

Pete, who had been listening quietly, was the first to speak, breaking the tension. He looked over at Joe with a wry grin and said, “Now you see why we call this place Sad Banger Labs.” He shrugged, giving everyone a bit of brevity, like the weight of the moment had to be lifted somehow. “Some of these songs aren’t just bangers—they’re real damn sad.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, but not the kind of tension that dismissed the seriousness of the moment. It was like the air had just been cracked open—enough room for them all to breathe again.

Joe chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he turned toward Riley, his gaze holding a mix of gratitude and something deeper. She met his look without hesitation, understanding something unspoken, something that was still unresolved, but now felt a little less heavy.

Riley smiled at him, a little softer now. “Yeah. But it’s the only way to get anything real out.”

Joe gave her a quiet nod.

The door to the studio swung open with a bang that made Joe flinch. Andy Fox burst in, a whirlwind of energy and color, his hair pulled back in a messy bun with random strands escaping around his temples.

"Sorry I'm late, but I brought reinforcements!" he announced, dropping his guitar case with a thud.

Behind him stood a striking figure—tall, elegant, with skin that gleamed like polished bronze under the studio lights. They wore a flowing kimono-style jacket covered in intricate embroidered birds over a simple black tank and leggings.

"Dex, babes!" Riley called out, her face lighting up. She crossed the room in quick strides, throwing her arms around the newcomer.

"Riley Carter, you absolute vision," Dex replied, voice rich and melodic. They held Riley at arm's length, studying her face with narrowed eyes. "You look... settled. It's disturbing."

“Joe, this is Dex. One of my best friends since high school, current fashion terrorist, eternal drama queen.”

"And spiritual advisor to these lost souls," Dex added, sweeping a graceful hand toward the band members before turning the full force of their attention on Joe. "So this is the quarterback who's been stealing our girl away."

Joe stepped forward, extending his hand with an easy confidence that surprised even him. "Joe Burrow. Nice to meet you."

Dex shook Joe’s hand—firm, brief—then took a step back and looked him over.

“Well. I see what you meant about the jawline,” he said to Riley. “You didn’t oversell it.”

"Dex, stop terrorizing him," Riley laughed, but there was no real warning in her voice.

Andy had already positioned himself on the couch, legs sprawled out as he tuned his guitar. "Ignore Dex. We all do. Though they're right about your face."

"I'm just saying," Dex continued, finally taking Joe's still-extended hand and giving it a firm shake, "I approve. And I don't approve of most things."

Pete snorted from behind the mixing board. "The highest compliment. You should be honored."

Joe caught Riley's eye across the room—her expression half-apologetic, half-amused. But there was something else there too: a quiet pride, like she was pleased to see how easily he seemed to fit into her chaotic world.

"I'll take it," Joe said with a subtle nod, feeling strangely at ease despite the theatrical energy swirling around him. "Though I'm still waiting on Riley's official review."

Riley's eyes widened slightly, a delighted surprise crossing her face at his playful comeback. She bit her lip to hide a smile, but failed.

“Oh, I like him,” Dex said, glancing at Riley. “He’s got more going on than the press lets on.”

Daniel, still focused on his drumsticks, said without looking up, “Dex, chill. You’re gonna scare him off.”

“Please,” Dex said, waving a hand. “He can handle it. Now, who's going to catch me up on what we're doing today? And where is Nick? He promised to bring those pudding cups I like."

"Somebody help me with this shit before I drop it all over the driveway!"

Pete groaned and pushed off the mixing board. "Every time," he muttered, heading toward the door.

Joe followed, partly out of curiosity, partly to be useful. Outside, a beat-up Jeep with faded red paint was parked haphazardly, its back hatch open. Nick was awkwardly balancing two trays of drinks while trying to grab a stuffed paper bag.

"Jesus, Nick, did you buy out the whole place?" Pete asked, taking one of the trays.

Nick shrugged. "Everyone texted their orders after I was already there. What was I supposed to do, say no?"

Joe smoothly took the second tray and the overstuffed bag before Nick could argue.

Nick gave him a once-over, then nodded. “Nick. You must be Riley's new man.”

“Joe.”

“Cool.” Nick didn’t elaborate. “Thanks for the assist.”

They carried everything inside, where the drinks were immediately swarmed by waiting hands. The trays held an absurd variety—green juices, coffee drinks topped with foam art, something blue that glowed almost unnaturally, and several plain iced coffees that looked out of place among the designer concoctions.

The rest of the room descended on the trays. There were vibrant green juices, layered smoothies in glass jars, protein balls in wax paper, and an alarming blue drink no one wanted to claim.

“Mango turmeric?” Riley called, not turning from the drum kit where she was talking with Daniel.

“On the counter,” Nick replied. “Labeled RC with a heart, because I’m emotionally available like that.”

Nick looked at Joe.

“Figured you were more of a clean-eating type of dude, so I got you a green juice. This one’s actually got apple in it, so it’s got a sweetness to it.”

Joe took the bottle, fingers curling around the condensation. “Thanks for thinking of me, man.”

Dex was already halfway into their drink when they glanced up, deadpan. “Did you get my chia pudding?”

Nick reached into the bag without looking and handed over a small container. “Yeah. Right here. Calm down.”

Around them, the room started to refocus—sound swelling back into motion. Pete was back at the board, head tilted as he fine-tuned a mix. Andy crouched beside his amp, twisting knobs until the feedback softened. Daniel tapped out a rhythm on the edge of his snare, loose and instinctual.

Riley moved easily through the space, all muscle memory and unspoken direction. A hand on Andy’s shoulder. A glance over Pete’s screen. A soft laugh shared with Dex. She was the current that tied it all together—chaotic, alive, grounding.

Joe caught her eye from across the room. She raised her brows in silent question. You good?

He nodded, green juice in hand, shoulder braced against the couch like he’d been there a hundred times. Somehow, even with the wires and the noise and the ridiculous drink orders—it felt…right. 

* * *

Riley was on the floor beside Andy, legs crossed, bass resting against her thigh, notebook open in front of her. Her blue cardigan had slipped off one shoulder, the Nirvana tee beneath it soft and threadbare. The checkered pants bunched at her ankles, Converse kicked halfway off. She looked relaxed—but focused, eyes flicking between the page and Andy’s hands like she was chasing something in real time.

Andy strummed a sharp progression, jagged and fast. Riley gave a nod, tapping the neck of her bass lightly in time. “Little less crunch on that last bar,” she said.

Daniel, already behind the kit, jumped in with a driving rhythm—snare hits landing crisp and fast, setting a pulse that pushed the room forward. Pete adjusted a level on the board without comment.

Riley didn’t speak again—just leaned in and started to play, fingers moving with instinctive precision. Then her voice came in—no mic, no cue, just raw and unfiltered.

“One eye open and one eye closed,” she sang, the line hitting like a confession more than a lyric. “’Cause I’ll hang myself if you give me rope…”

The room leaned into it, the track building itself around her. Andy followed her rhythm, layering guitar over the bassline, while Daniel’s snare kept pace with the storm of it. Riley’s voice climbed, fierce and unflinching:

“I lost all my faith and lost all hope / That everything means anything at all—”

Joe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched as something unspoken pulled itself from inside her and filled the room.

The music swelled—messy, emotional, loud. And she didn’t flinch from it. She owned it. A gut-punch of a chorus with too much truth in it to be anything but real.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

The last note hung in the air for a heartbeat before Andy let out a victorious shout.

"Holy shit! That actually worked!" He spun toward Pete with wild eyes. "Tell me we got that."

Pete was already nodding, fingers flying across the board. "Got it. That bass line finally locked in with everything else." He shook his head, something between disbelief and admiration in his expression. "Three weeks we've been stuck on this."

Riley set her bass down with a satisfied grin, the instrument still humming faintly from her final note. "Funny how it just took the singer to figure out the bass part," she teased, quirking an eyebrow at Pete.

Pete rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smile. "Yeah, yeah. Never gonna hear the end of this, am I? Riley Carter saves my bass line."

"Put it on my tombstone," she replied, already scribbling something in her notebook. Her voice had filled the room moments before—not for recording, just working through the melody as she played, letting the words find their place in the new arrangement. Raw, unfiltered, laying herself bare without hesitation.

Daniel tapped his drumstick against the rim of his snare, a quiet punctuation to their breakthrough. "It's the right feel now. Everything's breathing together."

The celebration spread through the room—Pete's grudging admiration, Andy's uncontained excitement, Daniel's understated approval. They'd been chasing this sound for weeks, and somehow, today, Riley had unlocked the missing piece.

Joe remained still, caught in the afterglow of what he'd just witnessed. The music had stopped, but he was still hearing it—feeling it—like some part of it had burrowed beneath his skin. The way her voice had wrapped around those bass notes, the way her fingers had found a pattern that transformed everything else...

This was Riley—familiar and still not. The one who curled against him on the couch, laughed over cold Thai food, who dozed off in the bath with her foot pressed to his thigh. That version lived in him now—intimate, familiar. But this? This was something else. She was all sharp edges and instinct, commanding the space without needing to try. Solving creative puzzles in real time while the rest of them scrambled to catch up.

Joe had spent his entire life in locker rooms, in huddles, watching elite athletes find solutions under pressure. He'd seen the triumph of execution up close. He knew what focused expertise looked like.

But this was different.

Riley didn't just perform or execute. She invented. Every note pulled from somewhere deep and intuitive, offered up without the safety net of certainty. The confidence in her voice as she sang, the way her fingers moved with both precision and abandon—it wasn't just talent. It was liberation.

A kind he'd never allowed himself.

On the field, Joe calculated. He mapped trajectories, analyzed defenses, made split-second decisions based on years of disciplined study. Even in the most chaotic moments, he maintained control. His greatness came from never fully surrendering to the moment.

But Riley surrendered completely. And somehow came out stronger for it.

He watched her high-five Andy, laughing as Pete promised revenge for showing him up on his own instrument. She was completely at ease in this space of creation and breakthrough. How did she move so fluidly between vulnerability and confidence? How did she dare to fail, to experiment, to reveal herself so completely—and then shake it off like it was the most natural thing in the world?

Something uncomfortable stirred in his chest. In football, improvisation was a last resort when the plan failed. Here, it seemed to be the whole point—the willingness to try, to be wrong, to look foolish in pursuit of something authentic.

Riley glanced up then, catching his eye across the room. Her smile was radiant, triumphant—she was riding the high of creative breakthrough. Instead of questioning his silence, she simply blew him a kiss, confident and playful, before turning back to demonstrate the bass line again for Pete, who watched with focused attention.

Joe felt the corner of his mouth tug upward in response, automatic and genuine. But beneath it, the questions remained. In his world, perfection was the goal. In hers, perfection was the enemy of the real. And he wasn't sure he knew how to bridge that gap, even as he found himself desperately wanting to try.

The front door creaked open, and a familiar voice called out before she even stepped inside.

“Don’t stop the magic on my account.”

A second later, Haley strolled into the studio, sunglasses still on and iced coffee in hand like she owned the place.

She held up the drink like a trophy. “I heard y’all finally broke through?”

“We nailed the bridge we’ve been stuck on for weeks,” Riley said, accepting the coffee with a grateful sigh. “It’s still rough, but it’s there.”

Haley dropped into a chair, tucking one leg underneath her. “Play it for me.”

Riley glanced toward the soundboard. “Pete?”

Pete gave a low whistle as he cued it up. “Get ready to be impressed. Fucking Riley nailed the bass.”

The track rolled through the studio, low and pulsing—still raw around the edges, but undeniably alive.

Riley crossed the room with unhurried ease and settled into Joe’s lap like it was second nature. He didn’t flinch, just adjusted to make space, one hand slipping instinctively to her waist.

When the final note faded, Haley tipped her coffee in Riley’s direction. “It’s the bass for me. Dark, heavy, perfect. Makes the whole thing crackle.”

Riley smirked. “What can I say? I’m clearly a better bass player than Pete.”

Pete didn’t look up. “Keep talking like that, and I’m retiring.”

Andy smirked, tuning a string. “Can’t wait for the tell-all where Pete admits you’ve been ghostwriting his bass parts for years.”

Haley took a sip of her iced coffee, giving them a lazy once-over. “Y'all are disgusting.”

Riley smirked but didn’t move from Joe’s lap. “You say that like you didn’t take a redeye from Vegas just to be part of it.”

Haley took another sip. “Okay, but if you start feeding each other, I’m out.”

Joe didn’t miss a beat. “That ship sailed.”

Riley just smirked, leaning into him. “Should’ve left when you had the chance.”

Haley rolled her eyes but smiled into her coffee.

Across the room, Dex looked up from their phone, eyes gleaming. “I just texted everyone. Told them we’re doing an impromptu takeout potluck tonight.”

Riley blinked. “You what?”

“They’ve been dying to meet your man,” Dex said innocently, locking their screen with a flourish. “Figured we’d make a night of it.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “A potluck?”

“With takeout,” Dex clarified, as if that made all the difference. “Everyone just brings their favorite spot."

Riley turned to Joe, her voice dropping so only he could hear. "Hey, we don't have to do this," she said, her eyes searching his. "We can go home. I will totally understand."

There was genuine concern in her expression—not pity, not worry, just a simple recognition that this wasn't what he had signed up for. Her fingers brushed his arm lightly, a silent reassurance that whatever he chose would be okay.

Joe glanced around the room—at Dex already thumbing through delivery apps, at Pete and Daniel debating Thai versus pizza, at the casual chaos of it all—and found himself hesitating. This wasn't his world. These weren't his people. This wasn't how he'd planned to spend his first night in LA.

And yet.

"Do you want to?" he asked quietly, meeting her gaze.

Riley's brow furrowed slightly. "Do I want to what?"

"Go home." His voice was steady, curious rather than pressured. "Because if you want to go, we'll go. But if you want to stay..." He shrugged, the gesture small but significant. "I'm good either way."

Riley studied him for a moment, like she was trying to read between the lines. "They can be a lot," she admitted. "And they're definitely going to ask you awkward questions and probably try to embarrass me with stories I'd rather you never hear."

The corner of Joe's mouth twitched. "Sounds like my kind of night, actually."

A slow smile spread across her face—part relief, part something warmer. "You sure?"

"Yeah." He nodded, more certain than he'd expected to feel. "I want to see this part of your life. Meet your people."

Riley's expression softened. "Okay," she said, her voice carrying a note of quiet pleasure that made his chest tighten. "But the second it gets weird—"

"We can reenact a fire drill and flee the premises," Joe finished for her.

She grinned, nudging his shoulder with hers. "You're learning."

Across the room, Dex called out, "Riley! Tell Joe we need his food order. And don't let him get away with something boring like plain chicken."

Joe reached for Dex’s phone, scrolling through the Thai menu they had pulled up. He glanced at Riley, then back at the screen. “I know we just had leftover Thai last night,” he said, “but I think I want the drunken noodles. Thai hot. And maybe those crispy pork ribs.”

Dex’s eyebrows shot up. “Thai hot? Not ‘American hot,’ but actual Thai hot?”

Joe gave a casual shrug. “I like when my food fights back a little.”

“Respect,” Dex nodded, adding it to the order. “That’s how I order it too. Most people can’t hang.”

Riley leaned against Joe’s shoulder, peeking at the screen. “Add an extra order of spring rolls. And some of those chili-lime wings.”

“Done and done,” Dex said, fingers tapping efficiently. “Nick’s getting sushi from that place on Sunset. Pete’s getting pizza. Daniel says he’s ordered something mysterious he won’t reveal, and Andy’s predictably handling dessert.”

“By ‘handling dessert,’ you mean he’s got those weird mushroom chocolates, don’t you?” Riley asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Among other things,” Dex replied with a slight grin. “Don’t worry, I made him promise to clearly label everything this time.”

Joe raised an eyebrow at Riley.

“Long story,” she muttered. “Involves Haley thinking she was getting a regular brownie and instead spending four hours convinced her houseplants were judging her life choices.”

“They probably were,” Pete called from across the room without looking up from his phone.

Daniel’s quiet laugh drifted over from the drum kit. “To be fair, it was the best mix session we’ve ever had. Got three tracks done that night.”

Riley shook her head, but her eyes were bright with amusement. “See what I mean about stories I’d rather you never hear?”

“Too late,” Joe said quietly, just for her. “I’m already taking notes.”

While they waited for the rest of the food and the slow trickle of friends Dex had summoned, the studio settled into a kind of anticipatory lull. Dex had migrated to the couch, legs tucked under them as they scrolled through delivery updates. Pete adjusted something at the board. Daniel spun a drumstick between his fingers, aimless.

Andy, mid-stretch with a guitar across his lap, glanced over at Riley. "Hey, why don't you lay down some vocals while we wait?"

Riley tilted her head, considering it. "Which track?"

"The one we just fixed," Andy said, already strumming softly. "I want to hear it with actual lyrics, not just your mumbling."

Riley rolled her eyes. "I wasn't mumbling. I was workshopping."

"Workshopping," Andy repeated with exaggerated air quotes. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Daniel tapped a quiet rhythm on his knee. "I'd like to hear it too. With the real words."

Riley glanced at Joe, something almost shy crossing her face—not embarrassment, just a flicker of awareness that this was different territory. He'd never really seen her work like this, seen the process unfold in real time.

Joe gave a small nod of encouragement. "I'd like to hear it."

Riley studied him for another beat, then slipped out of his lap with an easy grace, smoothing her cardigan back over one shoulder. “Okay,” she said, voice lighter now. “One take. It’s still messy.”

Joe watched as she crossed the room toward the mic, the whole energy of the studio subtly shifting with her.

Riley stepped up to the mic without fanfare, slipping the headphones over one ear. Pete gave her a quick thumbs up from the board, but she was already adjusting the mic height herself, flipping a few switches on the preamp without asking. Muscle memory.

Joe sat back on the couch, watching as she pulled her hair into a quick twist and tucked it behind her collar. No hesitation. No nerves.

Just Riley in her element.

The track cued up low in her headphones, and she waited through the instrumental lead-in, eyes closed, hand tapping silently against her thigh to stay with the rhythm.

Then—she began.

“One eye open and one eye closed…”

Her voice wasn’t showy or slick—it was textured. Raw in a way that made the lyrics feel lived-in, like she wasn’t reciting them but rememberingthem. Every note felt intentional, even when it cracked slightly on a breath. Especially when it did.

When the first verse faded, she pulled the headphones off and turned to the board. “Nick, take the second pass I just did and lay it under the lead—low mix, a little left pan.”

Nick nodded, already moving. “You want any delay on the back end?”

“Yeah. Real light. Just to give it a little float. Let it catch on the ‘you liar’ line.”

Pete adjusted a few levels, eyes flicking between her and the board. “You stacking harmonies?”

Riley was already nodding. “Give me one more pass—I’ll ghost the chorus and then layer a harmony behind the second verse.”

She was still barefoot, still wearing those slouchy checkered pants—but she commanded the room like she owned it. Because she did.

Joe watched her move through it like second nature, her hands shaping the air as she gave quiet direction, layering takes like brushstrokes. This wasn’t a performance. It was construction. Precision built out of chaos. Emotion built on intention.

He’d never seen anything like it.

And in that moment, he wasn’t thinking about football. Or press. Or the noise.

He was just thinking,  She’s the most capable person I’ve ever met.

Riley pulled her headphones off and stepped back from the mic, stretching her arms overhead with a quiet exhale.

“That’s a start,” she said, half to herself.

Pete tapped a few keys, looping the last few bars. “I liked the grit on that second pass—felt lived-in.”

“Yeah,” Riley murmured, already moving toward the board. “Double that line in the pre with the low octave and shift the last chorus up a half-step—see if it breathes better in the high register.”

She leaned in beside Nick, pointing to the waveform with her pinky. “You can pull the reverb here but keep the delay tail—it’s too clean otherwise.”

Nick adjusted without hesitation. “Got it.”

Joe watched from the couch, quietly stunned. Not by the music, though that was good too—but by the way she moved through it. Fast, clear, in control. She wasn’t performing. She was building something. Like her brain ran on rhythm and instinct and messy, brilliant order.

It wasn’t lost on him that she hadn’t looked over since stepping behind the mic. Not in an avoiding way—just fully locked in. Present. He kind of loved that.

The door creaked open behind them and Dex’s voice floated in.“Guests incoming. Pete, it’s your house—help get the food laid out.”

A second later, voices started trailing in—new people, laughter, the unmistakable rustle of takeout bags and the clink of too many drinks. The studio’s quiet hum gave way to something louder, looser. The night was about to shift.

Riley pulled her headphones off again and looked across the room, eyes locking with Joe’s—bright, flushed, lit from the inside with that post-creation glow.

She crossed to him without hesitation, barefoot and easy, the space folding around her like it belonged to her.

 She leaned in, bracing a hand on his knee as she bent to kiss him—soft, unhurried, nothing performative about it. Just hers.

Then, with a half-smile against his mouth: “You ready to meet my friends?”

Joe looked up at her, thumb brushing instinctively along the edge of her wrist. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I am.”

[moirasdolly]

˚ ⋆ﾟ୨୧ Vampire Heart ୨୧ ˚ ⋆ﾟ Arlecchino x Fem Reader

Synopsis: Running away from an arranged marriage seemed like it was the only option for you, so you set out in the middle of the night only to stumble across a mansion deep in the woods. A beautiful stranger opens the door for you before you plead your case to seek shelter in her home. You faint as the harsh conditions from the night catch up to you and you awaken in a bed that ain’t yours with the same beautiful stranger tending to you. There’s something off about her though…

Contains: NSFW (men and minors dni), graphic depictions of blood sucking, hurt/comfort (only slight angst).

Listening to ♪ ིྀ: Minerva - Deftones

Notes: I’ve been wanting to write a vamp!arle fic since FOREVERRRR and i’m finally getting to it!! This is just a quick intro so that I could get some ideas flowing ^_^ I don’t have exact plot points for what I want to happen, butttt i have a few ideas. There will definitely be a sexy blood sucking chapter though… so be prepared

❤︎ Chapter 1: Feverish

Shivers racked your body as you stumbled through the deep forest. A thick fog was beginning to settle, and it was just your luck that rain started to pour down as well. “S-Shit…” You mumble out, raising your hands above your head in a futile attempt to shield yourself from the drizzles of rain rolling down your body. By now you were soaked straight to the bone and it was getting harder and harder to trek through the foliage. Your limbs felt heavy and your limbs grew tired as you pushed on the best you could.

You were beginning to think that maybe running away from home was not the greatest idea in the world. Sure your parents wanted to marry you off to some guy twice your age just for riches and status, but in your delirious state, you thought to yourself that you would have taken that situation over what you were going through now. Your fingers were numb from carrying heavy bags full of clothes, other necessities, and a small amount of food and water to make it on your own. You weren’t quite sure where you were going when you left in the middle of the night, and you definitely didn’t have any sort of plan, but in the moment you just couldn’t take it anymore.

The hope of finding a place to rest for the night dwindled down by the second. That is until you stumbled into a large clearing, revealing a huge mansion. It was breathtaking… Black bricks made up the facade and gold accents were sprinkled throughout the building. The rooftop came into steep gables, signaling the different rooms in the house. There were few windows though, most of them dark, but a few of them emanated a soft yellow glow. You assumed someone must be home, but you wondered what they were doing awake this late at night.

The dark architecture filled your vision, and you knew it was shady, but you were willing to take the risk. You just missed the feeling of being warm, cozy, and most of all, dry. You were willing to stay in a place like this even just for the night, as long as you had shelter from the harsh outside conditions.

As you approached the intimidating structure you could have sworn you saw a figure in the window of the highest floor. The figure disappeared just as quickly as you saw it though. A sickening feeling was beginning to settle into your stomach as you made your way up to the door and wrapped your frozen fingers around the large, intricate door knocker. You knocked three times, the sound of rough iron clanging against the door echoed into the cold night. Moments later, you heard shuffling behind the door and the sound of heels approaching. The door creaked open, revealing a tall woman with a slender figure dressed in a grey, black, and red suit. You found it odd considering it was the middle of the night and she was still fully dressed, but you pushed that thought away before opening your blue-tinged lips to speak.

“I know, it’s the middle of the night, and I’m a stranger…” you started, “but I’m in dire need of somewhere to stay and-“ You couldn’t even stay upright any longer. You fell to the floor with a loud thud before you could even finish explaining yourself, and the last thing your fuzzy brain could remember was being lifted into the arms of the beautiful stranger.

Your eyes fluttered open groggily as you looked around the dark room you had been situated in. It was clear this wasn’t your own room, but you couldn’t remember anything that had happened. The last thing you remembered was fainting at the doorstep of the large castle-like home you had encountered.

Soft, cloud-like pillows were placed beneath your head and you were enveloped in silky blankets that cascaded over your body. Somehow you had been changed into dry clothes as well. The soft scent of roses wafted through the air and you almost felt like you were in heaven. At least that’s what you would have thought if a headache wasn’t brewing from the rough night you had. You tried to lift your tired body up with shaky arms before falling back into the bed again.

“Ah, you’ve awoken.” A deep voice calls to you from the shadows. Too tired to move your head in the direction of the voice, your eyes scan the room before landing on the woman whose home you were in. “What time is it?” Your voice was raspy and sore, you knew it would turn into a full blown fever in no time. “A little past 4 in the morning, you were out for some time.” The woman answered before swiftly moving to the bedside.

She pressed a cold, gloved hand to your forehead and it almost offered a bit of relief to your growing fever. She clicked her tongue before standing up straight again, “This is no good. You’ll have to stay here until you’re better.” You felt guilt bubbling up in your stomach as she offered you a place to stay, you had originally not even planned to stay past the morning, but she insisted. Your protests just fell upon deaf ears because she was not listening to a single word you said.

You gave up a while ago once your words had just become babbles of incoherent thoughts. Your feverish state began to catch up to you and you were weaving in and out of consciousness. The whole time, the woman beside you hadn’t budged though. She stayed glued to the bedside in a big comfortable chair she moved to be closer to you. If you asked her why she was seemingly so attached to you she’d brush it off and say she couldn’t watch someone be so sickly in her presence without doing anything about it, but in the back of her mind it was because she felt a flutter in her heart every time she looked at your sleeping figure. She couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was though. Perhaps it was your full, blushing cheeks, or your pouty lips, or your soft hands that tugged at the blankets to pull them closer as you tossed and turned in your sleep.

She snapped out of her thoughts as she heard you shuffling around, you were growing restless due to the fever that had worsened in just an hour. She retrieved a cool wash cloth and placed it over your forehead in an attempt to cool you off before soothing your hair down gently. “At least try to sleep soundly, dear.” She spoke in a low voice, not wanting to wake you up fully. You weren’t sure if you were hallucinating or not, but when she spoke you saw the glint of sharp fangs in her mouth. And if you looked closely, you could see the soft glowing of red whenever your eyes met hers.

Everything was a bit weird to you, but you didn’t question it due to your feverish state. The last thing you could recall before falling back asleep for the rest of the morning were the two little dots that resembled a bite mark on the right side of her neck. If you didn’t know any better you would have thought she was a blood-sucking creature that you had only heard about in folk tales.

“Sleep well, dear.” The beautiful stranger hummed before standing from her seat and making her way out of the room. She vanished from the room swiftly and you were left with nothing but sleep to consume you in no time.

[yanderedrabbles]

I’m a new writer, can you tell me about your writing process? Are you a planner or a pantster?

welcome to the fold child, here be much editing and rewriting and possibly also dragons.

I'm DEFINITELY a planner. Usually I'll start my stories off with whatever inspired me but as soon as I get a handle on the idea, I jot down plot points to direct the story.

I'm also all over the place when I write. For example, I'm currently working on a Wild West noncon with multiple characters. I've been bouncing around from one section to the other as the ideas come. The trick is to try and neaten it all up in post lmao

Since you're asking a bit more about the writing process, here's where I'd recommend starting:

My favourite books on writing:

Voice by James Scott Bell. It's pretty short but there are so many exercises to practice voice and style. It's that little extra thing that really pushes a piece from good to great. For example, Stephen King has one of the most distinctive styles I've read and I gobble it up every. Single. Time.

Save the Cat Writes A Novel by Jessica Brody. This one is THE guide to novel and plot writing. It's fun to read, easy to reference and it breaks different genre tropes down into much more digestible tips. It's also the best guide for plotting, and really runs you through how to structure a story. Even if you aren't working on long, multi-chapter stories, knowing the different story structures is a must. If you take away one recommendation from this list, let it be this one.

My favourite writing YouTubers:

Jenna Moreci. She's funny and no nonsense. She's also got a writing book out called Shut Up and Write The Book that's on my tbr. She dives into common tropes, discusses when they work and when they're cliche, and some of the best ways to subvert them.

Alexa Donne. A romance and YA author, she's absolutely incredible when it comes to newbie writing mistakes. She's also really great at helping you edit and plot your stuff. She weighs in quite a bit on the plotters vs pantsers debate too.

Obviously, the creative process is going to look different for everybody. The key is to just try different approaches and see what works best for you. Some authors like to have all their background info down pat before they start and others can't write well unless its all happening in the moment. Some people like to do huge writing sprints while others aim for a little every day. It's all trial and error to find what works for you.

My biggest trick as a writer is to literally jot down my ideas as soon as they pop up. Sometimes they'll be little snippets, little pieces of dialogue that sound good, scenes that just pop into my head. I have so many notes just dedicated to compiling these ideas. It doesn't matter that I might not use them in my current fic, I always hold onto them for later.

I'd recommend looking at some famous author writing routines and pulling ideas from there too. Personally, I try and write a little everyday and then do at least two rounds of editing before I post.

I've still got a TON of room for improvement, but those are kind of the seminal works that got me to this point.

That's all. Have fun babe! May the words always come easy, may the editing be ruthless and may the readers be cool as hell. 💕

[jainydoe]

Delirium

summary: She’s an angel, he’s a dog. Or, the confessions of a white tenured male.

tw: smut, mentions of death, violence

In his dreams are mausoleums. Rows sky high of those he’s trounced. Boys and girls from Schoolyard’s Past. A stranger from a conference who murmured about his adornments - Volkarin is just so … tragically nouveau riche. 

Johanna. With her hair and her laugh, laid dead with a frozen smile.

He keeps them all. Collected. Strolls along the cool, clean corridors and considers their carcasses. Malleable. Under his thumb. Under his spell, should he wish. Ripped from rest and compelled to answer any inquiry that may flit across his mind. He’s built a recent wing. Young men and women and. Taashes. Tucked neatly and filed amongst the masses. 

Then there’s her. 

For her, he’s built an atrium. A private temple where she’s kept in glass. Perpetually moonlit. Preserved. Perfected. In his dreams, he lifts the top of her enclosure open, rushes a breath across icy cheeks. Hours pass and he stares. Confesses secrets. Fears. Wants and desires. He thinks of the different ways she could die and how each would draw and quarter the soul until he’s scattered so distantly, he’d be impossible to make whole. Her, hung in a frozen suspension. Mouth agape and rigor mortis set in. His face would slot so carefully under her breasts, and he’d keep her there, midair, just to ache and sob into her ribs. Or her, burned and charred, body fruitlessly attempting to stay with him. Resisting the path to ash. He’d grip the air, magic rising the fire higher and higher, screaming into its lashings in a jealous rage. That it could consider itself worthy enough to touch her. To take her. Consume her. It takes a few weeks of knowing Rook before he’s begun desecrating the other crypts in his dreamscape. Every gentleman, lady and tramp who accost her with their gaze, with their booming want, earn a place in the Hall of the Damned. He keeps them in an area far from her tomb. The moonlight doesn’t grace their nameplates. When he imagines their spirits pleading in the dark, scared and confused, he sleeps like a babe. 

The waking hours are cruel and unusual. At home, every chapter of the day is one to celebrate. The mornings, ripe with expectation and promises. Brunches. Afternoons of discussion and lounging and napping and laughing and dinners overflown with debate and passion. He misses conversation. The type that leaves you buzzed and amped. He catches it sometimes with Bellara or Neve, but Rook leaves him itchy and ready in a way he hasn’t been since his boyhood. If she were a girl in a club and he were a boy with two drinks, he’d give her that smile that always works and kiss her hand to go the extra mile. He’d tell her he knows a spot in the Memorial Gardens and play the gentlemen who won’t offer to fuck her right away because modesty will have her gagging for it. But this is the real world and he’s pushing fifty. The closest he can get to romance is pouring her wine at the dinner table and laying on the pet names like he’s got plenty to spare. He’s started pampering himself. On days where she’d rather have the company of the boy or the other boy, he spends hours rubbing creams on himself, languidly dressing, steps out onto the balcony in his room and thinks about what she’d say if she saw him in just his dress socks, hair ungelled, five o’clock shadow shading his bone structure in that way he’s been told is haunting. He hopes the look he’d give her would haunt her. Etch itself into her memory and burrow into the marrow, to the point where she couldn’t ever feel pleasure again without thinking of his. Remembering the way he’d whisper her name before coming undone at the seams.

Tonight isn’t anything special - not in the grand scheme of things - but he lets the perfumed oil drop onto the paper-thin dip of his inner wrist, taking a deep, deep pull of the leather-booze-sweat-and-musky combo that he knows will drive her mad. He watches her in marketplaces, eyes running over the twinkling bottles of imported goods too precious to touch. Curved glass, inviting and seductive, begging to lay on flesh. She has caked blood on her chest and makes sure her steps are less heavy, presence less imposing. The salespeople offer, nonetheless, smiles wide and hands outstretched, and he feels his shoulders tighten as she wipes her hands along her armor, picks at her skin, begins the fruitless endeavor of trying to dig the last bits of dirt from under her nails. 

Sorry, I’m afraid we can’t afford anything today. 

A lie, though one she might not realize she’s telling. She’s a scrounger. A scrappy, makeshift trader. He wants to ask how she can keep affording all the sleekest, strongest armor and charming home adornments, things that make their situation less of a shit-fuck and more of a happy-accident, but he knows she’ll never tell. I’ve got to keep some secrets, she’d smile, impish and nymph-like, an invitation for him to peel off all her layers and share a secret he’s kept for this whole entire time. One that’ll keep them whispering to each other all night. In the darkest hours, he lets the mind wander to flushed lips, reddened limbs, reddened teeth from the caked blood he’s licked her clean of. She’d be disgusted and he’d be drunk, covering her in every shiny thing of his he has to offer. 

Marketplaces are a dangerous setting for him. Tempting in their quick releases. I saw this and thought of you, and I saw that and thought of you, I’m practically always thinking of you, do you think of me, how often, how deeply, how about you show me, right here, right now, before either of us have a chance to think twice. 

Wearing the oil is the little thing he allows himself, a pathetic tether to the fantasy he’s let play out. The Rook he’s created from stolen glances, lopsided conversations, dinner jokes and morning tea and midnight-solo-hand-fucks where he can ramble all the things he loves about her and it isn’t unwanted, it makes her cum - that Rook would smell the fact he’s wearing their scent, and make a point of having his sheets smell only of her for the next week. She’d be furious. She’d be deliriously in love. He should make his way to dinner, already. He’s expected. Who will ask questions no one wants to answer if Emmrich is spiraling all on his own?

“So, after all that, what did you do?”

They’re trading adventures amongst themselves, this medley of gritty, young things. Stories of near-death and past lives they’ve left behind - it helps distract from the. Well. Emmrich doesn’t share much because when you work in death long enough, you learn only the other people who work in death care to talk about it. He’d hoped Lucanis would be a shoulder to gab on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He makes a note to visit the Necropolis soon and only realizes the table has gone silent when Rook is all cheeks ablaze and girlish hair-tucking. Her eyes dance around the table, avoiding Emmrich, entirely. He probably would, too. People who don’t contribute don’t get the benefits of worthwhile attention. A lesson he teaches his students all too well. There are too many other, more important things to fail at here, though. Oil and restriction are the two indulgences he’ll allow, he’s decided. And another glass of wine. Dalish? Huh. Good for them. 

“Well,” she continues, “there’s more than one way to convince a guard you’re better off unchained.”

Harding’s guffaw shakes the table and he almost lights a necrotic pool on her chair. Taash is slapping Rook’s back and Neve is laughing into her glass. By the time he’s back in his body, aware of the room, of his senses, Rook is the only person sitting at the table. He can picture it so clearly. Her, chained. Stretched. Arms above her and belly exposed, a deceptively innocent cross of one leg over the other. A pretty please and an I promise I’ll never commit another crime ever again, I swear. He thinks about gripping the hair at the top of her neck and asking how she can be so cavalier about life, constantly toeing the edge. When she regales the dinner table with stories of old friends, people she used to know, he’d imagine meeting them, bringing a bottle of shockingly Dalish wine, something local and real and so down-to-earth. He’d turn up the charm, make them all laugh and later that night spread her legs, his chest against her back as his fingers dipped down, tracing the edge of her underwear, asking if he’s performed to her satisfaction. It’s miserable. It’s juvenile. The fact that the thing that drives him over the edge is imagining himself as a fixture in her life. Her charming companion. Her smart and funny guy that buys her chocolates and treasures and knows that when he touches her right there, she has to shut her eyes because he’s just too much. He’s taut. He’s on edge. And it’s because he knows she’s lying. 

“Heading to bed, Emmrich?”

He smiles, rising from his chair and crossing over to the fireplace. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out the gold cigarette case he’s kept on deck, nowadays. Smoking used to be something he considered a young man’s game, reserved for the insanity one feels only in their twenties. He’s realised that feeling is a long-forgotten acquaintance whose not only decided they’re moving in, but that they’re marrying Emmrich and pregnant with twins - Starvation and Enslavement. It’s too late to do anything about it. The nursery’s all picked out. 

He crouches down on one knee, inching closer to the fire until the flames nearly kiss him and he can puff out a bit, igniting. “Forgive me, my dear. Forgot my lighter on my desk.” He can lie, too. For a moment like this. He knows what he looks like, sharp and wolfish and the fire paints him a dashing devil instead of a foaming beast. This little move is one of the few tricks he learned from the only other girl who invoked The Acquaintance. Come on, Volkarin, don’t be such a coward. Fucking popinjay. “That’s quite a tale you told, earlier. The one with the guard and chains.”

Her eyes are on him as he rises and leans his shoulder against the mantel, controlled and poised like a former ballerina.

“I’ve lived an exciting life, I know.” 

He grins. “Remind me, what did you say you did, exactly?”

She knows he knows. Years of training students keeps one’s finger on the pulse of casual deception. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin in the particular way she does when she wants to appear leader-like. “I blew him. And while he was seeing stars I locked him back in my cell and got away.”

He twitches. His nose burns. “Charming, as always, but I’m afraid that’s not quite what you said earlier. You said,” he uses the cigarette to point at her, “that you took him on your cot and locked him onto it. I remember for two reasons. The first,” he inhaled, “I found it puckish and creative. The second,” he exhaled, letting the smoke twirl away from them both as the tip of his thumb started tracing his mustache, “I know for a fact they don’t keep cots in those jail cells. Too comfortable. A distraction from contrition.” He looks at her shoes. Her hands. Rolls his gaze up to her eyes. “Did you really have to sleep your way to freedom, or was that just a show for our more easily entertained party members?” 

She’s enraged and embarrassed, but not too much to point out the obvious. “I don’t know, Emmrich. For a guy who remembers to bring a handkerchief to battle, I highly doubt you happened to forget your lighter on your desk.” In a flash of nerve and steel, she slaps his chest, feeling into the pocket of his vest and slipping out the matching, gold zippo. “Do you think I’m someone easily entertained?”

He looks at her nose, her chin, the bottom of her eyes, counting each lash as he counts his breaths. Lets himself smile. To relax her. To challenge her. To beg her. “I’m afraid if the likes of prison guards and roguish younglings can keep your attention,” he sighs, tossing the rest of the cigarette into the flames, watching it become engulfed, “then I couldn’t possibly attempt the conquest of your favor.” He knows what he’s just admitted. Feels it in the tips of his fingers as he wills them not to dance along his thighs or itch at his neck. Be calm. Be kind. Be careful. 

“What would that look like? If you,” she’s shivering, “If you did attempt?”

“Likely frightening.” That makes her laugh. He’d do anything to make her laugh again. But he’d really do anything to shut up that laughter, afterward. Spin it into something breathy and relentless. He wonders if this is what it feels like once your mind is lost. Thinks of cellars and bugs and the stench and rot of insanity. He’d look so perfectly appropriate in creamy cotton, pulled tight, all to keep him from the frenzied need to keep touching himself, no matter how much it hurts, because the ghost of her memory is most present when he’s wanton and weak. It’s not a bad outcome. He would gladly take the isolation of the fractured mind, shattered glass reflections all of Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

over the pounding loneliness he’s known all too well. 

He watches as she looks at her hands, dirt chunking from under her nails, and she smiles something light and tempting. Maybe she wasn’t lying about that guard, after all. Who wouldn’t unshackle a maiden so sweet? He doesn’t care if she’s a siren. He’ll hold his breath until he chokes. “Truth be told, my dear,” here goes nothing, “to vie for your affections, I’d probably pester you with questions, act a fool and ignore any indication you might feel the same in the hopes you’d eventually leave me to perish in peace.” It breaks his heart to watch her frown. Don’t pity him. Don’t look at him. He’s not a wilting lily, he’s a dying ember who only needs the air from her lungs to lift him back to life. He was making peace with death, before her. It’s something he’ll never forgive her for. 

She lifts a hand to his jaw, delicate and rough, thumb running under his cheekbones. “Well, if I were to be in a similar position, perhaps I’d darken your doorstep every day, lose my nerve if I catch your eye too long and fashion myself an expert lover in the hopes it’d catch your attention.” 

She wants him and he’s a makeshift dragon tamer. Scrappy. Scrounging for any hint of interest. His desire is an archdemon he’s been holding back with shoelaces. “My dear, if your intentions are sincere, I fear what may become of me.” 

A girl possessed, the blacks of her eyes blow wider as the sharp of her teeth begin glinting in the firelight. He’s choking. “You should be afraid.”

Once they’ve crossed the threshold of his door, she pushes him against the slab, lips shiny and breath shallow. Her fingers are clumsy with youth and he’s bumbling out apologies for the mess, for the cold, for anything that might make her leave. He wants to bring her by the fire, warm her up, take his time with his meal. He hears a rip in his dress shirt and considers offering a proper spanking, but before he can assume the position she declares “Get on the table.” He cocks a shoulder and tilts his head. Smiles. Mind blank. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Her strength should come as no surprise and he regrets his yelp when his thighs scrape against the stone. He’s in briefs and briefly wonders if this is where she kills him. Lets him bleed out, a martyr, her sacrificial lamb. He’d keep his eyes on her as the lights go out, glad he could finally perform to her satisfaction. When she yanks the last bits of cover off of him, the cold much more biting and mocking, he nearly crosses his legs and asks if she’d like to join him for dinner sometime. 

“Lie down and spread your legs.” He laughs. The look on her face says to shut up. 

If she’s impressed by his figure she makes no show of it, stripping herself down and, like a lightning rod, gaining electric power with every item she removes. Once she’s as bitten by the cold as he is, puckered and goose-pimpled, she steps up onto the stone, between his legs, staring down at him. His mouth waters. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Darling-”

“Say it.”

He feels himself getting harder. “I need you.” “I’m going to kill you tonight.”

“I know.”

“And when I’m finished, you’re going to thank me for it.”

“I will.” 

She wastes no time warming him up. Her mouth is boiling on the tip of him and he angles to scrape the back of her throat if just to put her on the back foot. In response, she grips his hips, nails digging into the bone as she lowers and lowers and lowers until his toes curl and throat tightens. She’s a harlot and a harpy and his heartbeat is pounding through his head. Hands are pathetic and past conquests no match for her pretty little mouth. Her drool is dripping everywhere and he’s parched. “Let me taste you.”

“No.”

She scratches at his inner thighs, the soft little points where he’s hairless and shallow and the chills running down his scalp make him feel almost feverish. Good. He hopes he infects her. He hopes the little bit of poison that’s soon to fill her cheeks will spark delirium, binding her to him, his kiss the only antidote. Her hair is so shiny and he’s seeing stars. “Kiss me.”

She pops off and grips him like it’s a weapon. “No.” The back of his head thunks in anguish. 

“Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, please, my darling, if I could just,” With a final lick he cums, shiny and sticky on his stomach, matting his hair. She leans over him, commanding and resolute. A demon. A creature of evil. A girl who will haunt him forever. 

“Take me to dinner.”

“I will.”

“Buy me something nice, too.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll fuck you when you prove you’re better off unchained.”

“Thank you.”

That night, he dreams he’s trapped in a glass casket and she sits in the pews, smiling at him. He’s never slept better.

[giulliadella]

Speculative Biology of Euclydeans (and Bill Cipher) part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Euclydean society and Bill Cipher's disability

Reading the first part is highly recommended before reading this one, since in that part I explained how Euclydia functions as a dimension.

This part is going to talk about disability, discrimination and eugenics of geometric shapes, so tw if you're sensitive to that.

Society

Euclydeans were intelligent, sapient organisms that lived in a complex society. From Bill directly, we find out that they had schools, jobs, families, social structure and developed medicine. This makes them seem very much like humans here on Earth.

We know that Bill had a family, his mother and father, however, we don't know whether those two were married. So I can't tell you whether the institution of marriage even existed in Euclydia. Bill never talks about marriage, so I'm inclined to believe that they didn't really have wedding vows, but rather, a pair would stay together because they loved each other and for their children.

However, Bill does talk about divorce. He sees his falling out with Stanford as divorcing, so it's pretty clear that Euclydean "marriage" consisted of a pair being together and deciding to spend their life together, but if they wanted to break up, that was called a divorce and they probably had disputes over who gets house and kids.

And when we're speaking of love, Bill claims that he can't see the difference between love and fear in humans. This is kind of true: both intense feelings of love and fear activate the sympathetic nervous system which causes the heart to beat faster, deepens and quickens the breathing and makes us all sweaty and flushed. Love in humans causes the same things to happen as fight or flight response and Bill is too dense to accept that there is a difference.

This, however, tells us that in Euclydeans, feelings of love do not activate their equivalent of fight or flight. Bill is a person very prone to angry outbursts at slightest provocation. But Ford can do a lot more to him than any other person before he gets angry. This means that love in Euclydeans is a soothing feeling. Love makes them feel calmer and safer. Hell, Stanford's mindscape was Bill's safe space. Now, of course, love in Euclydeans isn't all about calm - they also get excited. Excitement upon seeing the one you love, but expressed as happiness, with most likely slower heartbeat. Again, loved ones in Euclydeans are seen as a safe space, a little lighthouse in a stormy sea to hang onto.

Euclydeans also express love in a similar way to mammals: they bring gifts (Bill catching rats and arranging them to form Ford's name), they want attention from the other person and their affection, they share food and drinks and overall want to spend time and have fun with their companion.

But when it comes to anger, fear and joy I don't see any significant differences between humans and Euclydeans. Sadness is a tough one, because Bill expresses it by not expressing it. This man is in so much denial that he could flood the Nile. However, distress in Bill is more or less the same as in humans. He also gets drunk after break up and acts as a drunk person would. This tells me that sadness is expressed somewhat similarly in Euclydeans as in humans with maybe some tweaks here and there.

Bill is obsessed with The Great Gatsby, so much so that he dedicated a chunk of his book to literally citing the second chapter of it. This is a very concerning behavior (but, to be fair, most of his behaviors are). However, I believe that his obsession comes from a feeling of nostalgia and familiarity. When I look at Bill's attire I see a guy wearing a fancy hat and a bow tie which were a staple for evening dress of 1920s gentlemen. He also sports a cane, which they also wore. I can't remember much from The Great Gatsby and I'm too lazy to read it again, but it does take place in 1920s America. So, maybe the society Bill was born into resembled that time period.

If that was the case, the societal structures and certain expectations would have been rigid. Euclydia is very much based on Abbott's Flatland and, while that world is a critique of 1800s Britain, it depicts a very sad and bleak society where everyone has to fit in a role that was determined by their shape. In Flatland, Triangles were the lowest class, with isosceles being the lowest of the low and used as slaves and soldiers, while equilateral Triangles (like Bill) could rise in the society and perform the roles of merchants. Scalene Triangles were considered abominations and were killed as kids.

I don't think that Euclydia was exactly as Flatland. However, some Gravity Falls material point towards triangles being lower class citizens. I sadly don't have Journal 3, but I know about the page where Stanford goes to a second dimension and he talks about how Triangle people are low class citizens and Circle people are high class citizens. This is very similar to Flatland, but what about Bill?

Well, Bill was probably from a lower middle class family. Him wearing oversized shoes that were probably bought on sale or given by someone whose child had grown out of them, speaks about them being kinda poor. Bill was also bullied by his peers at school, but notably by rhombuses and trapezoids. These shapes were one class above him, because they had four sides. Better off kids bullying a poorer, disabled kid is a tale as old as time.

The eugenics policies in Euclydia were probably much less strict than in Flatland. However, if they were anything like laws controlling disabled people in 1920s USA, then Bill and his mother were probably forcibly sterilized because of his mutation.

2. Bill Cipher's disability

Bill was born with a disability - well, to be fair it was more akin to superpower - of being able to see into the "third dimension". Bill could see outside of Euclydean borders because he had his eye placed on the front of his face and not on the side, like other Euclydeans. This allowed him to see the stars of the surrounding universes. (please check part 1 of this analysis where you have detailed sketch of Euclydia in relation to other universes).

However, because of his mutation, even though he had much broader view of the universe, Bill was considered legally blind by his peers. Because his eye was on the front and he could move only sideways, Bill was seeing his home dimension only with his peripheral vision. He could make out basic shapes and colors, but not the details. He probably draws his parents as blue and red triangles because that's how he saw them. He could never see the details of their faces. He could, of course, recognize them by touch, smell and voice, but he could never see them as they could see him.

Bill also behaves a lot like a person with ADHD. Now, I have ADHD and I got that diagnosis when I was SEVENTEEN. My early school years were hell. If Bill does have ADHD, he was probably a problematic child at school and that just added more fuel for his bullies. The lack of control over his emotions and his special interest in stars were definitely a reason for him to get bullied, maybe even more than his disability. There were no schools for special needs children in 1920s USA, which doesn't mean that they didn't exist in Euclydia. But, since little Bill was from a poor family, he didn't get to go those schools if they existed.

Another quirk of his mutation in Euclydia meant that Bill had problems feeding himself. Since Euclydeans use their eye as a mouth, Bill had to eat sideways. Imagine if your mouth was on your back and you had to reach behind to feed. Bill was lucky that his eye was much bigger than other Euclydeans which made his mouth bigger as well. His parents also accommodated his needs - his mom was removing crust from his bread and he was also given his medicine in liquid form.

I made art to explain this more easily:

So, with Bill being bullied and rejected by his society because of his disability (and likely neurodivergency), there was no wonder he wanted to somehow prove himself. Talking about stars and the existence of something outside of Euclydia was considered illegal, but why? Well... stick around for part 5, where I will explain how I believe Bill Cipher accidentally destroyed his entire dimension. It will be fun ;P

@ok1237 and @unoriginal-starwalker I hope you'll enjoy this =D

PS: I hid Dipper and Mabel in the art! Can you find them?

[helenofsparta2]

I think Percy Jackson and Will Solace were friends before, during and after The Last Olympian

Warning: this post has absolutely zero right to be as long, as it ended up being, and is, at times, quite chaotic and not as well structured as I would like it to be.

A take that I’ve seen in this fandom in the past few months, both on TikTok, and on Tumblr, is that Will and Percy have a strained relationship after the battle of Manhattan, and specifically, after Michael Yew died during the battle at the Williamsburg bridge.

Now, I understand that Michael's death adds complexity to their relationship, and that it offers a lot of potential for angst, especially in terms of creating a tragic connection between Will and Nico. I'm not trying to invalidate that interpretation of Will. Since he’s a minor character in the original series, everyone naturally has their own take on him and his emotions. So, this is not a claim to the truth, this is simply me providing a different interpretation, in which Percy and Will have a more positive relationship, because I absolutely adore the possibility of their friendship.

(Considering the fact, that Will had very little screen time in The Last Olympian, this will involve a lot of speculation, and comes obviously from a biased view, even if I try to mostly base my interpretation on the text, that we do have about him.)

There are four aspects I want to primarily focus on:

The relationship Percy and Will might have had before the battle of Manhattan

The incident at the Williamsburg bridge & the circumstances surrounding Michael Yew’s death

Will’s characterization shortly after that incident

Will’s possible view of Percy during and after The Last Olympian

The relationship Percy and Will might have had before the battle of Manhattan

Now, Will’s first appearance in the PJO universe was in the last Olympian. So, this point is obviously mostly speculation, and based more generally on the relationship Percy has with the rest of camp, and less on Will as an individual character.

But based on that, I personally think there are two facets to their relationship.

Will and Percy being friends

Percy being generally seen as a leader of Camp Half-Blood

Friends:

To understand the relationship Will and Percy have, I think it’s important to consider the dynamics in camp half-blood at the beginning of the last Olympian. This was a group of around 45- 50 kids and teenagers, who had no place else to go, who faced discrimination everywhere else in the world, who already lost friends and siblings and who fought in at least one major battle together.

They grew up alongside each other, they fought together, they died alongside each other and they buried their friends together. They might have not always gotten along perfectly,, but it’s pretty safe to say, that they probably trusted each other more than anyone else in the world. There is a strong bond connecting all of them, Percy and Will included.  

Despite this, it’s obviously still possible, that Will and Percy had a more neutral relationship and didn’t interact much. That calling them friends would be a bit of a stretch, and that the only thing connecting them is this deep sense of comradery, which no matter how strong, didn’t accumulate to an actual friendship.

However, we do know, that Percy at least considers the rest of camp, Will included, his friends. He calls them that on multiple occasions all throughout The Last Olympian:  

As I looked at their faces—all these campers I'd known for so many summers—a nagging voice whispered in my mind: One of them is a spy. But I couldn't dwell on that. They were my friends. I needed them. (The last Olympian, chapter 9)

She wore the same kind of simple brown dress as she had before, but she was a grown woman now. I bowed. "Lady Hestia." My friends followed my example. (The last Olympian, Chapter 9)

I turned to my friends. They looked stunned and scared, and I couldn't blame them. (The last Olympian, Chapter 10)

I could have stabbed it, but I hesitated. This is not Mrs. O'Leary, I reminded myself. This is an untamed monster. It will kill me and all my friends. (The last Olympian, Chapter 11)

Too many of our friends lay wounded in the streets. Too many were missing. (The last Olympian, Chapter 15)

I looked at Pandora's jar, and for the first time I had an urge to open it. Hope seemed pretty useless to me right now. So many of my friends were dead. (The last Olympian, Chapter 17)

Grover and I cared for the wounded, and once the sky bridge re-formed, we greeted our friends who had survived. (The last Olympian, Chapter 20)

I thought about my friends from camp: Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard, so many others who were now dead. (The last Olympian, Chapter 20)

I specifically want to focus on this quote, which takes place during the battle at the Williamsburg bridge:

"Retreat!" I told my friends. "I'll hold them.'" (The Last Olympian, Chapter 11)

Here, he specifically addresses the Apollo cabin. No one else is present except for them, Percy, and Annabeth.

Obviously, we don’t have Will’s POV, but I personally see no reason to think this friendship wasn’t mutual.

Leader:

I’m going to keep this point rather short, because there is not much room for debate about the fact, that Percy was seen as a leader at the time ‘The Last Olympian’ takes place. He has accomplished a lot of incredible feats, and no one disagreed with him leading them during the battle of Manhattan. So, Will probably saw him the same way.

"But you're our leader." He smiled. "I am your trainer, your teacher. That is not the same as being your leader. I will go gather what allies I can. It may not be too late to convince my brother centaurs to help. Meanwhile, you called the campers here, Percy. You are the leader." I wanted to protest, but everybody was looking at me expectantly, even Annabeth. (The last Olympian, chapter 9)

The battle at the Williamsburg bridge

Now, to focus on the battle at the Williamsburg bridge, and especially Will’s POV during it. This was certainly an emotionally charged situation. A popular interpretation here is, like I said, that Will’s and Percy’s relationship would become strained after this battle, and more specifically after Michael’s death.  I actually argue that the opposite is true. I think, that Will's opinion of Percy improved after this battle.

Let me explain.

Will was, I think, around 13 or 14 years old during the battle of Manhattan and probably terrified.

(Please take his age with a grain of salt. I have this information from the fan wiki, which likes to be wrong at times and on top of that, we can never truly trust Rick Riordan’s timelines and character ages.)

It was his first battle in that book. And a really bad one at that.   Will was at the Williamsburg bridge together with the rest of his cabin, and they were completely overwhelmed. Roughly 10 campers were up against an army of 200 monsters. They didn’t have their flying chariot. They had already shot most of their arrows. Hope was dwindling and at least one Apollo camper had already gotten killed by a hellhound.

Then, in their hour of greatest need, Percy and Annabeth arrived.  

I really want to try to get into Will’s head here, and think about what kind of impression Percy must have made on him during this battle.  

There are two aspects, which I think are really important to consider:

The first one is the fact that Percy always fought at the front lines, and even told the Apollo cabin on multiple occasions to stand back, while he faced the enemy alone or only with Annabeth.

The first thing Percy did when he arrived at the battle was to tell Michael to form a defensive line, while he fought alone against the minotaur, and then later against 199 enemy monsters (. I'll distract the monsters. You group up here. Move the sleeping mortals out of the way. Then you can start picking off monsters while I keep them focused on me. (The Lats Olympian, Chapter 11)

Later, when Kronos arrived, Percy told them again to retreat, while he and Annabeth held off Kronos, and his guards, consisting of around 40 demigods and 20 monsters (The Titan lord's men drew their swords and charged. The hooves of their skeletal horses thundered against the pavement. Our archers shot a volley, bringing down several of the enemy, but they just kept riding. "Retreat!" I told my friends. "I'll hold them.' (The Last Olympian, Chapter 11))

Because Percy did this, and risked his own life, no other Apollo camper died on that bridge, aside from Michael. He saved the entire cabin with that strategy, and seeing Percy face the enemy army alone must have really invigorated a sense of trust in him from Will and his half-siblings.

The second aspect, would be Percy’s fighting abilities

I don’t think I can reiterate enough how absolutely insane, Percy must have seem like to his fellow campers in this battle alone.

He easily,and I mean easily, defeated the minotaur

Because we have already seen Percy kill the minotaur when he was 12, and because we see how fast he defeated him now, it’s easy to forget that that beast is still the minotaur. One of the most dangerous monsters in greek mythology, which has already killed several other halfbloods at this point in time, and probably also at least one Apollo camper. (Tied around the base of each blade were lots of bead necklaces. I realized they were Camp Half-Blood beads—necklaces taken from defeated demigods. (The Last Olympian, chapter 11)

He fights 199 monsters, and demolishes them without receiving a single scratch

I sliced through armor like it was made of paper. Snake women exploded. Hellhounds melted to shadow. I slashed and stabbed and whirled, and I might have even laughed once or twice—a crazy laugh that scared me as much as it did my enemies. (The Last Olympian, chapter 11)

He goes toe-to-toe against Kronos himself

He dismounted, his scythe glistening in the dawn light. "I'll settle for another dead demigod." I met his first strike with Riptide. The impact shook the entire bridge, but I held my ground. Kronos's smile wavered. With a yell, I kicked his legs out from under him. His scythe skittered across the pavement. (The Last Olympian, Chapter 11)

He destroys the bridge, forcing the enemy to retreat

I stabbed Riptide into the bridge. The magic blade sank to its hilt in asphalt. Salt water shot from the crack like I'd hit a geyser. I pulled out my blade and the fissure grew. The bridge shook and began to crumble. Chunks the size of houses fell into the East River. Kronos's demigods cried out in alarm and scrambled backward. Some were knocked off their feet. Within a few seconds, a fifty foot chasm opened in the Williamsburg Bridge between Kronos and me. (The Last Olympian, Chapter 11)

I think the psychological effects of seeing Percy in action here are really underrated. Before this moment, Will probably started to believe they had no chance of winning the war. But this battle marks a turning point. Yes, the titan army had a huge advantage in numbers, legendary monsters like the Minotaur, and actual titans on their side. But in this battle, Will and the other campers must have realized what it really meant, that they had Percy Jackson. That they had someone who could go toe to toe with the strongest of the titan army and come out victorious. Someone who would come when they called for help. Someone who seemed impossible to kill.

However, afterwards, this whole fight gets overshadowed by Michael’s death.

Michael’s death:

Obviously, Will grieved for Michael. He’d already lost Lee the summer before, and who knows how many other half-siblings. Seeing his brother die in such a way could definitely lead to resentment, no matter how unfair that resentment might be. However, the key word here is could. It's important to consider the context of this scene. One point that often gets overlooked is that Will also saw Percy’s reaction to Michael’s death—and everything leading up to it.

He heard Michael tell Percy to break the bridge. ("Percy, the bridge!" he called. "It's already weak!"(…) "Break it!" Michael yelled. "Use your powers!" (The Last Olympian, Chapter 11))

He heard Percy yell at Michael to get out, before following through with his plan (The remaining Apollo campers had almost made it to the end of the bridge, except for Michael Yew, who was perched on one of the suspensions cables a few yards away from me, His last arrow was notched in his bow. "Michael, go!" I screamed. (The Last Olympian, Chapter 11))

He saw Percy search the wreckage of the bridge for Michaels body afterwards (I turned to thank Michael Yew, but the words died in my throat. Twenty feet away, a bow lay in the street. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. "No!" I searched the wreckage on my side of the bridge.( The Last Olympian, Chapter 11))

He heard him scream out in pain after not finding Michael. (Nothing. I yelled in anger and frustration. The sound carried forever in the morning stillness. The Last Olympian, Chapter 11)

He heard Percy tell the rest of his cabin to continue searching for Michael, despite the fact, that they could be needed in other battles, for the slim chance, that Michael could still be saved, or at least buried properly (I grabbed Will Solace from the Apollo cabin and told the rest of his siblings to keep searching for Michael Yew. The Last Olympian, Chapter 12)

Obviously, it’s still possible, for Will to blame Percy. Grief makes people act irrationally. Especially kids, who are already traumatized and fighting in a war.  However, Will’s actions and characterization afterwards make me personally doubt that.

Will’s characterization afterwards:

Shortly, after Michael’s death, Percy and Will drive together to their base to save Annabeth’s life. This is how Will acted once they arrived:

Will and I pushed through a crowd of Athena kids. Will unwrapped Annabeth's bandages to examine the wound, and I wanted to faint (…) Will Solace exhaled with relief. "It's not so bad, Annabeth. A few more minutes and we would've been in trouble, but the venom hasn't gotten past the shoulder yet. Just lie still. Somebody hand me some nectar." I grabbed a canteen. Will cleaned out the wound with the godly drink while I held Annabeth's hand. "Ow," she said. "Ow, ow!" She gripped my fingers so tight they turned purple, but she stayed still, like Will asked. Silena muttered words of encouragement. Will put some silver paste over the wound and hummed words in Ancient Greek—a hymn to Apollo. (The Last Olympian, Chapter 12)

From this bit, we can say that Will seems completely focused on healing Annabeth. He doesn’t bring up the battle or Michael, and he doesn’t react in any way badly to Percy. He simply tries his best to save Annabeth’s life.

I especially want to focus on this little sentence:

“Will Solace exhaled in relief. “It’s not so bad Annabeth.”

This sentence shows us, that Will himself was worried about Annabeth. That Will wanted to heal Annabeth.  He wasn’t some paralysed, poor kid, whom Percy forced to leave his siblings behind and heal Annabeth. He was a healer, who pushed down his own emotions to prioritize helping and healing his fellow campers, and who consciously decided to focus on the battle and problems at hand, and deal with his grief later.

His behavior afterwards supports this characterization. Even after he made sure, Annabeth survived (and completely exhausted himself with that effort, might I add), Will continued to focus on how to best treat his fellow campers.  

The healing must've taken a lot of his energy. He looked almost as pale as Annabeth. "That should do it," he said. "But we're going to need some mortal supplies." He grabbed a piece of hotel stationery, jotted down some notes, and handed it to one of the Athena guys. "There's a Duane Reade on Fifth. Normally I would never steal—" "I would," Travis volunteered. Will glared at him. "Leave cash or drachmas to pay, whatever you've got, but this is an emergency. I've got a feeling we're going to have a lot more people to treat. (The Last Olympian, Chapter 12)

Aside from that, I would also like to shortly consider Will’s POV regarding Percy during the rest of the war.

I imagine that for a healer, like Will, who saw one injured demigod after another, seeing Percy completely uninjured, fighting and fighting and fighting, killing hundreds of monsters all on his own, barely allowing himself to take a break, while attacking a drakon, and fighting enemies like Hyperion, must have been like a beacon of hope in a way. Like a reminder, that they could actually win. That he wouldn’t lose all of his friends. A sign to not give up.

Percy’s promise from the gods:

Another thing, which I think is quite consequential to consider to judge the relationship between Percy and Will, is Percy’s demand from the gods.

I could see Will becoming bitter, had Percy wished for something for himself after they had won the war. If Percy had become a god, while the rest of camp received no prize whatsoever and if the death of his siblings had meant nothing in the long run, I could see Will starting to resent him.  

However, Percy wished for nothing, which solely benefitted himself. Annabeth received the chance to redesign Olympus, Grover became a lord of the wild, Tyson received a weapon, but Percy received nothing like that. The only thing he wanted was the reassurance that the war, Will has lost so many of his siblings on, and which had forced him to grow up so fast, could never repeat itself. The reassurance, that Lee’s and Michael’s and everyone else’s sacrifice was not in vain.

No one can tell me that this did not mean a lot to Will and only strengthened their relationship to each other.

 Post The Last Olympian:

My last point is this moment from the beginning of the lost hero:

“Annabeth!” A guy with a bow and quiver on his back pushed through the crowd. “I said you could borrow the chariot, not destroy it!” “Will, I’m sorry,” Annabeth sighed. “I’ll get it fixed, I promise.” Will scowled at his broken chariot. Then he sized up Piper, Leo, and Jason. “These are the ones? Way older than thirteen. Why haven’t they been claimed already?” “Claimed?” Leo asked. Before Annabeth could explain, Will said, “Any sign of Percy?”  (The Lost Hero, chapter 3)

Will was the first person to ask about Percy out of everyone else present and didn’t even wait for Annabeth to answer Leo’s previous question.  That doesn’t really sound like a person asking about a guy he resents, or feels neutral about. To me at least, it sounds like a guy who is worried about a friend.

That’s at least my interpretation of their relationship, up until this moment. (Though again, I am quite biased, because, I really love their friendship potential)

[harleyquilt]

Misreading Touka (Tokyo Ghoul Meta)

For some reason, I've been seeing more dung being thrown at Touka's characterisation in the series, and since I've been wanting to write a meta for a while now, I decided to do a short one addressing some of the criticism I've seen around. This won't go into everything, of course -- the series is far too dense with analytical potential and I am a busy bee. Just know that I do want to dive deeper into Touken/Kanetou at a later point.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Touka is not reduced to a simple, meaningless housewife, and I do not understand why this perspective is used to undermine her character so often in the fandom. For the sake of this argument, I will be mostly focusing on her characterisation in ;Re, as that is where this criticism is mostly rooted. Yes, she is less active in the first part of the second series, but between all the other characters, events, and plot points, it is bizarre to me that people see so little in Touka, despite all that she does. 

I could dive into how Touka as a whole symbolises key themes throughout both series, and how that relates to Kaneki’s development, but I think I will save that for a separate meta. For now, I just want to discuss how Touka is positioned in the second series, and how it does not weaken the characterisation Ishida set up in the first. 

Following the end of the first series, which set its tone as a tragedy, Touka opens the ;Re café to act as a refuge for ghouls, just as Yoshimura did beforehand. To clarify, Yoshimura saved Touka from her miserable life on the streets, giving her the chance to live with some semblance of normalcy following the tragic consequences of her childhood. And now, as an adult, and with Yoshimura gone, Touka strives to recreate that environment once more. There are those that think she has done this for Kaneki and Kaneki alone, but that is clearly not the case, even if she does hope for Kaneki’s return one day; she allows Nishiki to take refuge there while he tries to find Kimi, she saves Tsukiyama after the Rosewald operation, and before anyone argues that she was still not directly involved in either case, she actively takes part in Ayato’s mission to save Hinami. It is there that she then sees Kaneki and allows him a place to stay too, following his battle with Arima. She even provides Akira and Amon a place to stay, reconciling their differences in the process, (underrated chapters, I think).

Up until this point, Touka has been forced to ‘live while losing’, and whether she decides to fight or not, it is an unavoidable outcome when it comes to war. She is simply trying to do what she can without trying to kill herself in the process – a flawed sentiment she has seen in her father and Kaneki before, and even to some extent, Ayato and Hinami.

She fights when she can, runs if she has to. She is forced to make this choice again and again, especially when the underground ward is attacked, and for the sake of her unborn child and other weaker ghouls, she must retreat if she doesn’t want all of them to needlessly die. 

That said, it is not as if she leaves without trying to fight first, she just isn’t stupidly overpowered like her opponents, (and that isn’t a jab at Ishida, I’m simply clarifying that she can’t defeat these foes with just Hinami at her side). Even then, she manages to stand her ground for a long time, despite the pregnancy and her hunger. Moreover, her kagune has developed since the first series, and like Ayato, she’s able to create more advanced structures with her ukaku. You just have to read in between the lines to see that Touka has never allowed herself to grow soft in the years Kaneki was away, and that only now, during this battle, can you see more of her capabilities.

And when Kaneki is trapped within Dragon, she finally decides that she cannot lose him – she refuses to lose him, because to do so would bring on too much despair. Just as Kaneki has prioritised Touka, Touka, too, will prioritise him, and so, even with her exhaustion, she battles against Mutsuki, digs through the Dragon’s flesh until her fingers and nails break, and almost succumbs to grief at the thought that he was already lost to her. The chapter is overlooked far too often, her desperate determination conveying to the reader the importance of love as a driving force.

Again, we saw this with Kaneki, who pushed himself past his limits in hopes of reaching Touka. Whether you like it or not, love is a powerful thing, and that has been shown throughout the series with many, if not all the characters. And for Kaneki and Touka, their love is their hope, and to lose that love is to lose their hope. So they fight, again and again, for each other and the light they bring into each other’s lives. 

Now I can argue all day about how Touka is far more active in the series than people care to admit, but I do not think that is why Touka is labelled as a housewife. I’ve been in the fandom for a long time and this label has been around long before their relationship was canonised, and I think it’s to do with the fact that Touka is clearly more feminine in ;Re. 

I’ve already explained that in terms of action, Touka still has plenty of moments to speak of, and personality-wise, I really don’t think she’s as different as people claim her to be. Yes, she’s calmer, but that shouldn’t be seen as a bad development. She’s an adult now, and with adulthood comes maturity, (or it should, anyway). She doesn’t need to fight anyone and everyone to prove herself, that is simply a childish perspective to take. Besides that, she’s still curt in the way she talks, is sarcastic and blunt, though not as harsh as she was before, and she still carries herself with plenty of pride and dignity, which was what was so appealing about her in the first series. Ffs, she confronts the whole CCG and tells them to eat shit because their arguments were annoying her. It’s ridiculous to me that people think she is a shadow of her former self, when there’s plenty of great moments involving her. 

As for her more maternal depictions, that is also something that has always been present, if you take a moment to connect the two series together. She was forced to grow up quickly when she became responsible of Ayato, and she effortlessly took Hinami under her wing after the death of her parents. This is an attribute that she continues to exhibit throughout ;Re, watching over the children and trying to comfort them. It’s a touching image, one that circles back around to her pregnancy. And to deem this progression as detrimental is rather…strange to me. In a time when we see women as strong and powerful for everything we represent – our hardships, both physically and emotionally, as well as our strengths – why is it seen as weak when female characters are utilised to represent the strength of womanhood. Because she’s a woman married to a man? Don’t be so childish. If you respect her characterisation at all, you will acknowledge how she continues to exhibit her strengths as an adult, whether that be in battle or beyond it. 

After all, Ishida could have easily written it so that she is no longer involved in anything past the discovery of her pregnancy. Except he doesn't, and instead, she fights even more, even harder, in spite of her pregnancy. Because of her pregnancy. And yet, this is somehow weakens her character? She is quite literally going beyond her limits to fight for her future, I see nothing weak in that.

It might be that readers dislike how she changes aesthetically, and that’s fine, but from that comes arguments that excuse why they don’t like her character. I could argue against every little argument I’ve seen about her, but at the end of the day, I feel like most of these points are made just to excuse a personal preference. And that is not an effective use of critical reading. You can’t make the story something it isn’t, and you can’t assume Touka was going to be a character she wasn’t written to be. If you don’t like that or disagree, then maybe this series isn’t for you and it’s time to move on. For now, at least, please give her characterisation the respect she deserves. Her role is so much more than the shallow labelling this fandom tends to give her.

[yatagarasuhonyaku]

Chapter of the Fireflies: Those Who Yearn

Disclaimer: This is a fan-translation japanese-english of the original novel. This is a short story originally written for a japanese magazine and later compiled in one of the Ravens' Hundred Flowers books.

Blog version

For other translations, you can find them HERE

Timeline: Midway of Raven of the Empty Coffin, after the Chihaya chapter

Characters (in order of relevance): Masuho no Susuki, Akeru, Sumio, Yukiya, Hamayuu, Nazukihiko, Chihaya, Shigemaru.

Synopsis: During Yukiya's second year at the Monastery, he takes the lead role during the Boys' Festival celebrations at Cherry Blossom Palace. The inciting incident to a strange proposal...

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

Those Who Yearn(1)

It all happened during the Boys’ Festival(2).

At the time, the mountains were full to the brim with new leaves, all sparkling like green jewels under the dazzling sunlight, but in Cherry Blossom Palace none was more splendid than Sakura no Kimi, the Crown Prince's wife. 

An aroma so strong it was almost overbearing came from the ornamental scent bags hanging around the place. They were made with mugwort and iris, and decorated with freshly cut flowers and five-colored strings that were now swaying in the blowing wind. For the first time in three long years, the Horse Racing Ceremony was to take place at the riding grounds in front of Cherry Blossom Palace.

Within Yamauchi, the Boys’ Festival was, for the most part, structured to take two days. During the first, Medicine Hunting(3) took place, and Horse Racing was scheduled for the second.

As for Medicine Hunting, just like the name implied, the term originally referred to a religious service(4) consisting of the picking of medicinal herbs and the acquisition of deer antlers. The first day was, in fact, the most important part of the event. It was when the Golden Raven, the chief of all Yatagarasu, would perform a ritual known as ‘Antler Knocking’, in which he would retrieve the antlers of a nine-colored deer(5) raised by the Bureau of Medicine.

However, in modern days, real deer hunting had come to take place simultaneously with the ritual at one of the hunting grounds on the Center's property. The attendees were mostly young noblemen, purposely for the sake of building up their stamina in preparation for the coming summer, who would later go on to present their acquired prey at the Court. The second day's Horse Racing Ceremony was intended as a reenactment, showing off their performance during the hunt itself.

For the Yatagarasu, who possessed both the form of a human and a three-legged giant crow, to employ another member of their own race as a ‘horse’ and ride it was an act requiring permission only given to a limited number of privileged. So, during the event, the young noblemen who took part in the hunt rode outstanding giant crows, all specially chosen for the occasion, and shot an arrow each towards an earthenware deer statue as they flew towards it.

There were multiple potential riding grounds in the Center, so the one used for the festivities was chosen by the priests after seeking Lord Yamagami's divine will. That said, for the one by Cherry Blossom Palace to go unchosen for three years was unheard of. After all, there was in truth another altogether different criteria than divine will playing a hand in the events. 

On the sides of the cliff where Cherry Blossom Palace stood, there were covered paths built to bridge the different buildings. Thin bamboo screens had been placed on them, making it impossible to look at whoever hid within them. There sat the Ladies in Waiting under the service of Sakura no Kimi, the edges of their kimono visible from underneath the curtains. Peeking from underneath the green bamboo were colors as vivid and pleasing to the eye as the peonies and azaleas that decorated the many ornamental scent bags around.

Masuho no Susuki, the head of Sakura no Kimi’s Ladies in Waiting, watched over such a scene with the indifference of an onlooker. She was standing on top of a stage which overlooked the roofed paths where the others were waiting in line.

To the opposite side, at the halfway point between the stage and the mountain, a tall rock protruded upwards with a red deer statue on top of it. Giant crows flapped their dark wings as the young noblemen on their backs approached the statue one after the other, mimicking the act of shooting their bows.

While they all feigned indifference, they kept giving curious glances at what hid behind the bamboo blinds—most likely, picturing in their minds the ladies’ beauty through their lovely clothes. Something that the women within were very well aware of. They had, in fact, gone through great lengths to look their best for the day. Aware as she was of their hard efforts, Masuho no Susuki looked warmly over the scene from underneath her long-handled parasol.

The Ladies in Waiting serving at Cherry Blossom Palace were often young, beautiful women—and their chances to meet the sons of the nobility were quite scarce. Many of them ended up marrying someone just for their families’ sake without ever meeting face to face with their husband before the fact. Hence, it had become custom to use the Horse Racing Ceremony as an excuse for a bachelor line-up.

The number of successful marriages among the nobility went noticeably up every year the Ceremony took place at Cherry Blossom Palace compared to the others. Some young men had even gotten the chance to successfully rise up in standing after a high-ranking princess fell in love with them at first sight, so none were more psyched up during the day’s exhibition than those of the low nobility.

Just a few years ago, as Masuho no Susuki calmly realized, she would have been the most concerned with the beauty of that barely visible kimono edge. Yet now that her plentiful waving locks had been replaced with the hairstyle of a nun, the only thing she felt was utter disinterest.

The highest of the nobility, besides the Golden Raven, who stood at the top of Yamauchi’s hierarchy, were the Four Houses, who had all been entrusted with the ruling of the territories in each of the cardinals—the Eastern, Southern, Western and Southern Houses. Each Region had their own unique produce and crafts they specialized in, and their best goods and talent were all henceforth sent to the Imperial Court. In doing so, the economy at Yamauchi’s Center stayed in motion.

Masuho no Susuki had been born as the first princess of the Western House, which held craftsmanship as its regional specialty and, until not that long ago, she had been one of the candidates to become the wife of the Crown Prince—Wakamiya.

Masuho no Susuki’s beauty had been without equal at the time, even compared to the other beautiful princesses sent by the Four Houses to Cherry Blossom Palace as prospective wives. There had been no doubt she would be the one chosen and yet, in the end, it wasn’t her but a lady of the Southern House—the West's political rivals—who became Sakura no Kimi.

Ever since infancy, Masuho no Susuki had spent her life with the conviction that she would be chosen as the prince's wife. She had longed for Wakamiya—who had grown into quite the attractive young man, a perfectly matching picture to the memories of those moments in her youth spent together—more than anyone else. A fact that had driven her to believe that, in the unfortunate and unlikely case she went unchosen, it would be the end of her. That she wouldn’t be able to live on.

Reality, however, couldn’t have been more different from her imagination.

The moment Masuho no Susuki actually met Wakamiya during the consort selection process, she came to discover that the attraction wasn’t there at all. He even told the candidates—of all things to say—that ‘he didn't particularly like them, and there's a possibility he may end up betraying them in the future.’ That ‘if they didn’t mind that, he would make them his wives.’

His arrogance was plain for anyone to see as he stomped all over the love the princesses held for him. Masuho no Susuki was a prideful woman and this wasn't something she could ever overlook. In fact, she had been so worried about the Southern princess, who had actually gone and accepted such terms, that in the heat of the moment she became a nun and a Lady in Waiting serving her.

Those of the Western House had been beside themselves with disappointment, apparently, but Masuho no Susuki saw the instant she cut down the same hair she had prided herself in as being freed of something possessing her. From that point onwards, she had lost all interest in romantic love.

She learned afterwards that Wakamiya's circumstances were what left him with no other option but to be realistic to a fault like that. While it gave her a newfound respect and admiration for the Southern princess, as she had chosen to become his wife with full knowledge of the brutal circumstances she was embroiling herself in, she still couldn't picture herself as Wakamiya’s wife at all from that day onwards.

She had never expected to find such a side to herself, but she had come to discover that she liked this version of herself—someone who kept her dignity and pride—much more than the woman drunk on love she had once been. So, what alternative did she have?

——An hour or so had passed since the start of the ceremony.

The last shooter should be about to arrive at the scene. This star shooter, unlike the other young noblemen taking part in the event before him, didn’t have to feign the act—his role was to shoot an arrow and actually hit the deer effigy. Successfully taking it down brought good fortune and failure brought misfortune, or so the story went, which made it an important duty to bear.

Ever since that tiny boy had left to train to become a high-ranking military officer, Masuho no Susuki hadn’t had much of a chance to meet with him—would he be actually capable of successfully fulfilling the task?

Suddenly, the sound of bells ringing resounded in the distance.

“He's coming, Lady Masuho no Susuki,” the Lady in Waiting waiting beside her announced nervously.

It wasn’t the shooter ringing the bells, but the herald. Ting-ting-ting. A giant crow led the way, the bells producing their shrill sound as it moved forwards. It flew much, much faster than any of the young noblemen had before. In fact, Masuho no Susuki couldn’t help but wonder with a touch of fear whether it was too much speed.

Yet, right behind the heralding giant crow came the shooter—and he proved to be just as swift. The rider, laid down on top of his steed, lifted his body all of a sudden with smooth, graceful movements as the sleeves of his cool light blue kimono—embroidered with silver—flapped in the wind, the gold of the stirrups sparkling under the sun.

The shooter, with his back now fully straightened as if he were unfolding, clung tightly to his mount's back using just his thighs while he gracefully drew the bow.

A woosh, and the arrow came loose with a sound not unlike a high-pitched whistle, piercing the deer effigy as if it had been sucked in. The effigy immediately crashed down with a clatter, giving no time for the bell to ring to indicate the shooter had successfully hit the target.

The spectators cheered, and the shooter dropped his speed. He then drew a loose arc in the sky, flying towards the spot where Masuho no Susuki awaited him. In the process, he passed by the roofed paths and their excited occupants but, unlike the other young men taking part in the ceremony, he didn't pay them even a single glance. The other young men, who had been on standby right underneath the stage, flew up and positioned right behind him.

The star shooter—a scion of the Northern House, once Wakamiya's close aide and a boy Masuho no Susuki regarded as her own little brother—smoothly landed on the stage where Masuho no Susuki stood with the spectacularly dressed young noblemen right after him.

Actually, no—calling him a ‘boy’ didn't feel right anymore. The young man had now dismounted with ease and approached Masuho no Susuki with a broad smile on his lips.

“It’s been so long, Lady Masuho no Susuki.”

His friendly voice was unfamiliar to her ears, somewhat hoarse as it was so characteristic of teenage boys. Masuho no Susuki was taken aback.

‘Who is this?’

Of course, she knew his name. Asking would be stupid, she realized that much. Still, and despite having met so many times before, the man in front of her looked like a completely different person in her eyes.

“Are you… Yukiya?”

“I am, yes. I've come to bring this year's Boys’ Festival's medicine to Sakura no Kimi.”

After giving his face a long, hard look, Masuho no Susuki could in fact tell those were without question Yukiya's features, but he had changed so much that it was almost a guarantee to confuse him for another.

His cheeks, once round like a baby's, were now lean, giving him the distinctive look of a warrior, and the outline of his face was that of a young man, firm and defined. His skin had a healthy tan to it and his somewhat light-colored eyes sparkled. To top it all off, he had become noticeably taller compared to their last meeting—it was now Masuho no Susuki who had to look up.

It actually felt like a fox had disguised itself to deceive her.

“Lady Masuho no Susuki?” Yukiya called out to her, perplexed.

After finally coming back to herself, a panicking Masuho no Susuki proceeded to respond as custom demanded. “You did a good job coming here. Sakura no Kimi must be no doubt overjoyed as well.”

“There's no bigger honor than that,” Yukiya courteously bowed his head and signaled behind him with his eyes. The moment he did that, a number of warriors—all fully clad in black—briskly stepped forward from the group and proceeded to place in a line the medicine, deer meat and antlers they had brought, all loaded on small offering stands.

Once she verified that everything in the checklist was accounted for, Masuho no Susuki nodded in approval. “Everything has arrived safely indeed.”

“Please, send my best regards to Her Highness.” A pleasant, refreshing smile later, Yukiya nimbly jumped back onto the giant crow's back. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Masuho no Susuki bowed slightly at him and Yukiya gave her a firm last greeting back before taking off. The flashily dressed young noblemen, who had been looking over their exchange with keen interest, followed after Yukiya this time as well—although they were clearly reluctant to do so.

Their group flew away, in the direction of the Imperial Court, as Masuho no Susuki watched over them. With them gone, all that remained on the stage was the ‘medicine’ sent for Sakura no Kimi, the Ladies in Waiting and a small number of warriors who had stayed to help carry the delivered goods to Cherry Blossom Palace.

It was among those warriors that Masuho no Susuki found the face of someone who wasn’t even supposed to be there. Her eyes went wide open. “Sumio, is it really fine for you to be here?"

Sumio had a dark complexion and a somewhat small build for a warrior, and he was always found by his Lord Wakamiya’s side as his bodyguard. His lord, always keen to abuse his infamy at the Court as a ‘fool’, had no qualms to indulge in his bad habit of skipping ceremonies and, to make matters worse, Sakura no Kimi, his wife, didn’t reprimand him—she instead went as far as to willingly help him on occasion. All in all, it was a pain to deal with.

Just the day before, Sakura no Kimi had actually gotten news of Wakamiya secretly escaping from the Court and had left for Sunrise Palace—where Wakamiya had been supposed to be—to act as his literal body double. She wasn't even supposed to ever come out from Cherry Blossom Palace.

Masuho no Susuki had waited with bated breath ever since, hoping her absence went unnoticed by everyone, but the situation had to have somehow resolved itself. Otherwise, Sumio wouldn’t have been there at the event. He ran towards her with a slight, wry smile on his lips and stopped some distance away from her.

“I know we've caused you much worry, but Wakamiya has now returned to Sunrise Palace. Sakura no Kimi should be back here as well tonight—she's at Sunrise Palace right now,” Sumio announced to her in a whisper, low enough that nobody else but Masuho no Susuki could hear him.

“I see.” Masuho no Susuki let out a sigh of relief.

Every single time, it was Sumio and Masuho no Susuki's job to clean up whatever mess Wakamiya and his wife caused by acting irresponsibly. She had gotten quite used to it—a feeling she actually found terrifying when she stopped to think about it, although there was little to no point to complaining after being at it for so long.

The weight on her shoulders now lifted, her mind couldn’t help but to turn towards the events that had just transpired. “Still, what a huge surprise. I knew that Yukiya would be taking on the role of the star shooter, but—”

“I know what you mean…… He has grown up a lot, hasn't he?”

“I mean, yes, that kid was shorter than me last time we met.”

Masuho no Susuki's actual little brother had joined the Unbending Reed Monastery—the same training facility for military officers Yukiya attended—at the same time as Yukiya did. Despite their circumstances, Masuho no Susuki had gotten the chance to meet with her brother from time to time, but his growth rate hadn’t been nearly as dramatic as Yukiya.

“It's as the outer books say, right? ‘If you don't meet a young man for three days, pay attention’(6),” Sumio responded as he smiled wryly.

Masuho no Susuki, on the other hand, quietly muttered, “Seeing him grow makes me happy, but… It does make one feel a bit lonely……”

The source of her turmoil was, most likely, a gnawing feeling of loss. Whenever she thought about how that innocent boy was gone from this world—even if she technically knew it was a good thing and she should be glad for his growth—the sensation that overtook her was one beyond description.

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

After finishing up the matters at Cherry Blossom Palace, Sumio flew right back to Sunrise Palace. There awaited the young men who had just recently joined him in the ranks of Wakamiya’s bodyguards. Their nerves were plain on their faces, but their expressions shifted to ones of relief the very second they saw Sumio return. 

Well, not like Sumio could blame them for that.

Their Lord and his wife were found within the annex they were guarding, but the couple didn’t obey common sense and dealing with their sudden whims was still a bit too heavy a task for the new guards. Apparently, they had been trembling with fear at the possibility of receiving some ridiculous order during Sumio's absence.

But Sumio was here now and the young Guards let him pass inside.

“I'm back,” Sumio opened the door and announced his arrival with a very familiar tone—something usually unthinkable from a servant. There, in front of a desk facing the window, was a young couple, their appearances remarkably similar, drinking tea with complete ease.

“Good job out there. How were things at Cherry Blossom Palace?” The handsome young man who asked the question was none other than Sumio's childhood friend and the Lord he had sworn his loyalty to—His Highness Wakamiya. His straight hair was tied at his nape and fell over his light purple kimono. He was dressed casually, with no hakama.

“It all went without a hitch. It may go without saying, but nobody noticed Sakura no Kimi's absence.”

“How was Yukiya?” Sakura no Kimi—Princess Hamayuu, who was dressed in the exact same outfit as her husband, asked with clear amusement. Dressing gown or not, that outfit probably still qualified as male attire, yet it was quite the perfect fit for the tall princess, who was constantly taking the role of Wakamiya's body double.

“That too went without issue. However, I brought a message with me from Lady Masuho no Susuki for Sakura no Kimi—’For all of the world, please, let's not have another ceremony take place in your absence ever again. Also, please, return as soon as possible.’”

Sumio replied to Hamayuu with some degree of respect, but the oddly-dressed princess just cackled in answer. “She doesn't learn her lesson either, huh? She should have figured out by now that I won't listen no matter how many times she asks.” 

“I guess she can't hold herself back from trying,” Sumio spoke a tad emotionally—he felt exactly the same way as her after all. The young couple was, unfortunately, impervious to his tame attempt at sarcasm.

“Anyway, now that Masuho no Susuki has shown her face in front of those noblemen, we'll have quite a commotion awaiting from here on.”

“What do you mean?” Wakamiya asked his wife.

Hamayuu let out a snort. “Isn't it obvious? I mean there’ll be marriage proposals aplenty.”

“I see…” Wakamiya’s eyebrows lowered. “But Lady Masuho has become a nun, so it shouldn't be too much of a problem…”

“Quite the opposite. She let down her guard because she's a nun now and showed her face, and I'm convinced that's going to backfire on her.”

Sumio couldn't help but to agree with Hamayuu’s argument in his mind. Masuho no Susuki had never cut corners when it came to her appearance when she had still been a candidate to become Wakamiya's wife, always dressed in tremendously splendid outfits.

However, ever since she had decided to serve Hamayuu as her Lady in Waiting, she had come to prefer plain outfits with subdued colors. But she wasn’t the princess renowned as the most beautiful in Yamauchi for nothing. Far from diminishing her appearance, it had actually come to highlight her own natural charm and in turn made her stand out even more than before.

The events of the day had been no different in that regard. The young noblemen's eyes had been hopelessly glued on her the entire time as they passed on the medicine, however brief a moment it had been. 

“It's at my discretion as her master to decide whether she returns to secular life or not, after all. Wait for it, I assure you there'll be letters arriving nonstop to Cherry Blossom Palace from tomorrow onwards,” Hamayuu declared as her lips curved upwards.

Wakamiya tilted his head with an ‘uhm’. “And looking at you, it seems you're more than eager to receive such proposals for Lady Masuho?”

“Of course I am! It's Masuho no Susuki we're talking about! To make such a beautiful and good-natured woman waste her life away serving me is no hobby of mine. It would be such a shame, who could do that?” Hamayuu yelled at him. “That said, I have no plans to give her away to some no-good noble. To marry Masuho no Susuki is to quite literally gain the Western House as your ally. There should be someone, right? Someone ready-made for her, in need of the Western House's influence.”

Wakamiya, who had seemingly realized where the conversation was going, grimaced. “Hey……”

“It's a good opportunity. I've told you this many times before, but you really should be taking Masuho no Susuki as your concubine.”

Wakamiya, faced with his legal wife's keen glare, sighed. He was clearly sick of it. “And I've told you this many times before. As nice as gaining the Western House as my ally sounds, the West-affiliated nobles will undoubtedly get carried away if I do that.”

“Do you really think you have the leeway to say that in your current situation? You barely have any allies and, to make matters worse, you have political enemies everywhere. Shouldn't you secure your position first, even if that means turning a blind eye to those who use their lineage to throw their weight around?”

“And I’m telling you that's absolutely not a problem I can turn a blind eye to. This is a topic that concerns the future course of the Imperial Family, I must not cheap out on my methods.”

“You say that, but where's the meaning in that if you get killed for taking things too slowly?”

The conversation had gotten to a point beyond the realm where Sumio could even dare to open his beak. And so, under their bodyguard's watchful gaze, their very un-couple-like argument kept escalating further and further.

“Don't fuck with me, what's even your problem with Masuho no Susuki!? That girl will certainly be a good mother. If I were a man, I would have taken her as my legal wife without hesitation! Are you freaking blind?” Hamayuu picked Wakamiya up by the collar.

“Your logic is off. It's not like I have any problem with Lady Masuho.”

“Of course you don't! If you had said otherwise, I would have had to do you the favor of destroying your sorry ass here and now.”

“Wait a moment. What even are you to Lady Masuho?”

“I'm Masuho no Susuki's master and your wife. It's me of all people who's telling you it's fine to go with it. What other issue can you have to not take her as your concubine?”

“It's nothing but issues. Anyway, I’m not taking Lady Masuho as my concubine, I won't back down on this.” 

While he didn't resist Hamayuu's grip, Wakamiya remained otherwise unyielding. Hamayuu finally clicked her tongue and, all of a sudden, dropped him. Sumio took some newly poured cold brewed tea and quietly placed it in front of them. 

——The exchange had been a bit violent, but Sumio knew very well that, for this oddball couple, it was just some form of play.

Hamayuu promptly accepted the glass teacup and drank it all in one go. That done, she stared at Wakamiya with squinted eyes. “...... I’ve realized as much, you know? That the Western House's Lord and Heir must be begging you to take her as your concubine. Won't it become a problem for you to disregard their wishes like that?”

Wakamiya, who had been quite a bit more well-mannered while drinking his tea, left the translucent cup on the floor with a clink. “Even if that's the case, my stance is the same. I can't take Lady Masuho as my concubine, given how it will affect power dynamics.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

Hamayuu’s face was one of disappointment—and it most definitely wasn't an act on her part. “Then, what are you planning to do? To keep Masuho no Susuki as a nun is just too much of a waste.”

This time around, Wakamiya nodded in agreement. “I feel the same, yes. If possible, I would want her to play a role in strengthening the ties between the Four Houses.”

Hamayuu's expression changed as she focused on giving him an earnest proposal. “Are there any suitable young noblemen among the Four Houses, though? At least for ones that come to mind now, there's only Aotsugu from the East and Kiei from the North, but……”

“Both of them must already have legal wives, and there's no way I'm sending Lady Masuho away as a concubine.”

“Then we are left with no option but to extend our criteria to branch families. That said, that comes with a problem—finding someone with a high enough status to fit in with the Western House.”

Both of them groaned as they wondered what to do. Sumio, who had been listening to the conversation in silence until then, cleared his throat lightly.

“Sumio, what's wrong?”

“Do you have any good ideas, perhaps?”

They both turned towards him with the same exact expression on their faces. Sumio smiled wryly. 

“...... I don't know if it's a good idea, but—I do have a suggestion.”

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

Green rain fell ruthlessly all over the Unbending Reed Monastery's roof tiles, but the rain drops dripping unceasingly from the building’s eaves were clear and its interior remained isolated from the grey world outside the walls.

“Sorry, Yukiya, you shouldn’t have to help me like this,” Shigemaru said with a frown, his big body hunched over. Yukiya, however, laughed lightly in response.

“It's fine. We’ll take care of this in just a minute.”

Due to the rain and at the Instructors’ convenience, the day's practical courses had been replaced instead by theory and, while Yukiya himself had finished the assignment quickly, he had chosen to stay to patiently explain everything to his best friend, who was as compassionate as he was bad at theory subjects. 

To become part of the organization in charge of the protection of Yamauchi's rulers—the Yamauchi Guard—you had to first enter its training facility, the Unbending Reed Monastery. It required the recommendation of someone influential and enduring three long years of training, so it was a grueling process and dropouts were a matter of daily life.

They had to learn not only arts like swordsmanship or archery, but other practical skills like horsemanship—where they learned how to ride horses and how to fly themselves—and theoretical subjects like Etiquette and Law as well. This methodology was known as the Six Arts, Four Techniques and Two Studies.

They had plenty to learn about theory during their first year at the Monastery, but their studies were much more focused on the practical from the second year onwards. In other words, the evening was essentially a break for the trainees, at least once they were finished with their mostly meaningless assignment, and had in consequence mostly gone on their merry ways to relax as they pleased.

Class was almost over by the time Yukiya and Shigemaru had managed to clean up the latter's assignment barely enough to be above reproach. They had just stood up, planning to get a snack from the kitchen, when someone else interrupted them.

“Hey, Yukiya! I've heard you have gotten quite popular lately, right?” One of their fellow trainees called out to them.

Yukiya turned towards him. “Wait, popular? What do you mean?”

“Oh, don't play innocent!”

“We heard about it, you know? That you've been getting love letters nonstop ever since the Boys’ Festival happened.”

“They must be from the girls working at Cherry Blossom Palace, aren't they?”

The group of boys looked at Yukiya, all wearing sarcastic smiles. “Well, what can you do? An esteemed nobleman like the star shooter at the Horse Racing Ceremony isn't like the rest of us mortals.”

——So they were jealous and wanted to tease him, huh?

At least then the discussion wasn’t likely to be that serious. Realizing that, Yukiya's lips curved into a wry smile. It wasn’t him who answered their provocations, however, but Shigemaru. “He has rejected them all, though, so I don't think ‘popular' is the right word for it, really.”

Still, Shigemaru’s nonchalant explanation was met with shocked screams. “You gotta be kidding me!”

“What are you? An idiot!?”

“Why would you even waste such an opportunity!?”

“Why become the star shooter if you’re going to do that then!?”

With everyone around snapping at him, Yukiya retorted with disgust. “I didn't really become the star shooter because I wanted to, you know. There just wasn't anybody else who could take on the role, so it fell on me in the end.”

At the moment, a certain young man was reading a book at a corner of the dining hall. His shoulders twitched uncomfortably the second Yukiya spoke, but none of the boys gathering around Yukiya noticed that. Instead, they let out a collective and overdramatic sigh of aggravation. “What a waste.”

“You could have, I don't know, met them at least once?” Despite not being the actual recipients of the letters, they all acted as if it were a personal offense. It was annoying beyond belief.

“But it would be a problem if I did that and they got actually serious about me,” Yukiya hastily argued back, and the mood of the entire hall noticeably dropped.

“This bastard……”

“You piece of shit……”

“You better pay for what you just said one day! And as painfully as possible, I hope……”

Everyone cursed him, their words full of resentment. Among them, only Shigemaru glanced at Yukiya's expression with clear curiosity. “Then, what kind of girl would you actually consider dating?”

“Huh? Shige, are you curious as well?”

“Sure I am! You never talk about these things.”

Faced with his best friend's unexpected interrogation, Yukiya scratched his cheek. “Uhm, well—She must have a birth family to rely on in case something happens to me. Her social status must be similar to mine, and the marriage must be politically advantageous in some shape or form. Plus, she must be able to assess situations calmly and to promise me she won't ever drag romantic feelings into the relationship no matter what. If it were someone like that, I would at least consider it. A bit.”

As far as Yukiya was concerned, his answer was simply serious and sincere, but the looks on everyone’s faces had all simultaneously gone stiff. “That—wasn't what we meant, you know?”

“It wasn’t anything that serious! Just say you like fair skin or a big chest or something.” 

What the hell was wrong with these guys? This entire conversation was now genuinely pissing Yukiya off. “Who even cares about appearances? Everyone ages and gets wrinkles, so it doesn’t change anything? To embrace a beauty, just go to the Red Light District?”

Among an otherwise deafening silence, a low groan escaped from the lips of one of Yukiya's fellow trainees. “...... If I ever run into any girl daring to say that Yukiya is cool or something like that, I’ll just do her a favor and stop her right then and there. No matter what it takes.”

“Same here.”

“Oh, really? If my little sister said she wanted to date Yukiya, I wouldn't actually ask her to reconsider—”

“What the hell, Shige? You’re way too soft on Yukiya!”

“Aren’t you sorry for your sister? Because I sure am now!”

Everyone found themselves at a loss for words as Shigemaru gave Yukiya a somewhat troubled look. “Still, you would be marrying her, why forbid romantic feelings between each other? That’s such a lonely way to live, I feel.”

Yukiya laughed at that. He knew very well how cold-hearted he sounded, and his expression made it obvious.

“Sharing your life with someone just over some ephemeral passion won’t ever make you happy. Once the heat of love dies down, all that remains is a cold, hopeless reality.” That being the case, to not ever drag such feelings into the agreement was much more preferable. Those were Yukiya’s genuine thoughts on the matter. “Besides, politics are going to play a part in any wedding a noble like me could have. There's nothing lonely or fun about it. I don't want anything out of this hypothetical woman—and if she wanted something from me, then that would only trouble me.”

The ruckus surrounding him had been replaced with uncomfortable silence. Shigemaru, meanwhile, looked at Yukiya with pity in his eyes and murmured to him in a quiet and confidential manner, “I wonder, what kind of girl would make you actually fall in love……?”

“I don’t believe such a person will ever appear, and it's not like I want it either.”

Suddenly, a loud thump resounded across the hall. The young man reading, who had remained silent until then, had slammed the book against his desk and stood up in a rage.

“Akeru? What's wrong?”

Akeru, however, didn't pay any mind to the confused trainees questioning him.

“Chihaya!” he raised his voice with clear irritation. “The rain is but a drizzle now. Come with me, I’m going to train.”

In response to Akeru’s calling, Chihaya opened one of his eyes with clear annoyance—up until then, he had been leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. 

Those who didn’t know the finer details of how they had met often concluded that Chihaya was Akeru’s attendant or something of the sort, given he was a lowborn and he attended the Monastery thanks to the support of the Western House, Akeru’s family; but the Unbending Reed Monastery was a meritocracy. The truth was very different—a genius like Chihaya couldn’t stand to watch as Akeru fumbled due to his tendency to lag behind in practical courses and so he curtly looked after him.

While Chihaya would have usually retaliated and poked some fun at Akeru for giving him orders like that, he didn’t this time. He seemed to have an inkling of why Akeru was so upset. His expression instead stuck on resignation, Chihaya followed after Akeru as he left the dining hall without ever opening his mouth.

Although there was rain, the drops didn’t have much strength and the sun was out with no wind.

The determining factor of a horse’s speed wasn’t so much its quality but rather its rider’s skill. Akeru sat on Chihaya’s back, who had transformed into a crow, and flew as fast as he could towards the shooting range. The wind howled as it slammed against his face. Once they reached the landmark Akeru used as a guideline, he lifted his body and drew the bow—but his aim was off and the arrow failed to hit its mark.

“Dammit!”

They passed by the target and Akeru raised his voice again. “One more!” But the giant crow didn’t caw in agreement, instead aiming to head back to the ground. “No, Chihaya, wait! Where are you going!?”

Chihaya glided down and threw Akeru to the ground with a shake once they had almost reached the ground.

“Ouch! What are you doing!?”

“Now, calm down.” Chihaya returned to human form mid-air and smoothly landed right in front of Akeru, who was lying on his butt. That done, Chihaya said matter-of-factly, “Rushing it won’t get you anywhere. Or do you want to fall off a horse again?”

As childish as he knew it was, Akeru couldn’t help but to pout in answer. “But…… If I stay like this, I may not even be capable of taking the Trial of Mist……”

“And you have more than half a year left before that. That’s not why you’re panicking—it’s Yukiya, right?”

Akeru couldn’t argue against that—Chihaya was right on the mark. After all, the first candidate proposed for the role of star shooter at the Boys’ Festival hadn’t been Yukiya, but the scion of the Western House and Masuho no Susuki’s younger brother—Akeru.

It was only once Akeru proved incapable to hit the target no matter what he tried that, left with no other alternatives, the role fell on Yukiya, who originally had no intention whatsoever to participate in the event. For Akeru, it had all been beyond vexing. So much so that he hadn’t even attended the horse racing event altogether, as the idea of acting as Yukiya’s opening performer together with the other noblemen was too much for him to bear.

Yukiya’s social standing wasn’t as high as Akeru’s, but he was still directly related to the current Lord of the Northern House and hence a proper member of the high nobility. However, he had grown up among the rural nobles of North, famed by their warrior clans, and so he was leagues above Akeru at skills in arms. Akeru hadn’t paid much mind to this difference back when they had first joined the Monastery, but the more time passed, the more obvious and wider the gap became.

“There’s no point in comparing yourself to Yukiya. If I had to guess, his eyesight is just that good.” Chihaya was usually a man of few words, so why did he have to become all talkative only at times like these? Or so Akeru inwardly thought in anger. Not like that stopped Chihaya from talking. “And that’s something you’re just either born with, or not. It’s not a problem that hard work can somehow fix.”

After they advanced to their second year, Akeru had gone through a growth spurt that had thrown off his sense of balance. While the same had happened to Yukiya—in fact, he had grown a lot more than him—he had seemingly surmounted the issue with ease. This wasn’t just a matter of eyesight—Yukiya’s talent was, no matter how one looked at it, superior to Akeru’s.

Chihaya sighed at Akeru’s silence. “Don’t you sulk like that. You may be worse than Yukiya at physical skills, yes, but at the very least you still have the better personality.”

He had a serious expression on his face, which actually made it harder to tell whether he truly meant his words or it was all just a joke. Quite the sloppy consolation.

“Thank you, I guess,” Akeru replied bitterly.

Then, Chihaya frowned. “Wait a minute….. Is there something else?”

“...... Nothing in particular.” Akeru looked away in a pointless attempt to avoid Chihaya’s gaze, knowing he could be strangely perceptive. Chihaya, meanwhile, glared at him in question, seemingly unwilling to back off that easily. “—Ah, fine! But you have to keep it a secret for now, got it? The truth is that my sister has gotten some marriage proposals.”

“Oh?”

“And the main candidate as of now is—Yukiya, apparently.”

Chihaya’s eyes went wide open.

“...... Now, that’s—” His words died down there, but Akeru could feel Chihaya’s condolences clear in the air. “To have that as your brother-in-law is……”

“It’s a humiliating prospect, but that’s still fine. But you heard how cruel he was when talking about a prospective wife…”

If his sister were to actually marry Yukiya, Akeru genuinely believed that she would lead a horribly unhappy life. However, his sister wasn’t yet aware of it and the ones actually moving the proposal forwards were their families, so Akeru couldn’t even protest. Hence, he ended up essentially running away.

Chihaya crossed his arms, apparently having grasped the subtext of Akeru’s words. “So that’s why you acted like that before.”

“Childish, right?”

“I do get why, though.”

Akeru, still on the ground, held his head in despair. He hated this entire situation. “What should I do if Yukiya and my sister end up actually engaged……?”

Chihaya was watching Akeru with pity in his eyes as he groaned pathetically when someone else joined the conversation. “—Well, you have no more need to worry, it seems.”

The voice came suddenly and out of apparently nowhere. Akeru raised his head in surprise. There, under the shade of the training hall’s building, he found a familiar face.

“Sumio!” He was an alumnus of the Unbending Reed Monastery. Despite his lowborn status, he had graduated as the first of his class and entered service as His Highness Wakamiya’s bodyguard. Sumio approached them, raising his hand in greeting as Chihaya did the same with his eyes. Flustered, Akeru stood up. “Sorry for my rudeness. Uhm, still, why are you here?”

“I was searching for you, actually. As I said just a moment ago, this concerns your sister’s marriage. It was canceled.”

“Eh—?” A screech escaped Akeru’s lips. “Canceled? What the hell happened?”

Sumio scratched his head bashfully. “Well, about that. We thought that Yukiya wouldn’t go against it as long as it was an order, so the matter was first brought up to Masuho no Susuki and—she absolutely hated the idea.”

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

Much like they had expected, letters written by the many young noblemen who had fallen in love at first sight with Masuho no Susuki arrived like a veritable storm to Cherry Blossom Palace. Everyone would ask for her to return to secular life and for being given the honor of taking her as their legal wife. 

While Masuho no Susuki herself paid none of them any mind whatsoever, a request to discuss the matter from her master, Sakura no Kimi and Wakamiya was a different matter altogether. Apparently, she had meekly listened to their talk about marriage in complete silence at first. Her behavior, however, shifted the very second Yukiya’s name came up as the prospective husband.

“You have to be kidding me! Why else would Yukiya’s name even come up here?” Masuho no Susuki asked them with her big eyes wide open, as dumbfounded as she was furious. “And here I was wondering what prompted a formal discussion! I was willing to go through with it if it was all like, a huge issue coming up among the Four Houses with my marriage as the only real way to solve it. But, no! You’re telling me it’s with Yukiya of all people! Are you messing with me!?” Masuho no Susuki screamed, boiling with anger. “This is a pointless marriage, no matter how you put it! What were you even thinking to propose it?”

Sakura no Kimi had apparently not expected such an explosive reaction, as her bold and fearless self was nowhere to be seen. She was unusually pale. “Well, but you see, Masuho no Susuki! You’re at the peak of your beauty. I can’t bring myself to keep you here sequestered at Cherry Blossom Palace, so……”

“And that’s none of your business!” Masuho no Susuki spouted with anger, very much unlike her usual self as well. “I became a nun very much willingly, thank you, and yet you’re ignoring my wishes altogether and moving this entire thing along without me!?”

She glared at Hamayuu, her red, glossy lips twisted into a grimace. This time around, Wakamiya, with a somewhat troubled look on his face, tried to appease her instead. “Please, do at least try to look at it from the bright side instead. It’s because this isn’t a matter of necessity that we didn’t plan to move things forwards any further without your approval. We just thought that maybe, if it was Yukiya, you wouldn’t be wholly against the idea…”

The second Wakamiya said that, however, Masuho no Susuki’s expression went blank. “...... What did you say?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Who suggested such an idiotic thing?” she asked in a quiet voice. It made it all the more terrifying.

Even Wakamiya, ignorant as he was of the intricacies of romantic love, seemed to have realized how bad the situation was, albeit belatedly. He immediately closed his mouth, but his eyes wandered and, for a second, pointed in Sumio's direction. Masuho no Susuki turned around violently and glared at Sumio, who had been waiting on the side in silence.

“I see. Now that I think about it, you would be the only one in a position to say such a thing.”

Resigned to his fate, Sumio nodded lightly in acknowledgement. “My apologies, I have no excuse.”

“Why?”

“Your eyes were following Yukiya around during the Boys’ Festival.”

“That’s—I mean, yes, he did an impressive job as the star shooter, but I was moved seeing him all grown up as one would a little brother, not… it most definitely wasn’t like that. So you better keep all those vulgar suspicions off your mind!”

The more Masuho no Susuki spoke, the more she got worked up. Her lips were trembling and her eyes, the deep color of amber, were glistening.

“...... I’m extremely sorry. I jumped to conclusions.”

“I’m not forgiving you. This is an insult to both Yukiya and I.” Masuho no Susuki, who had just been taking slow breaths in an attempt to calm herself down, stood up in a fury as she pointedly glared at Sumio. “I’ve thought this for a while, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer after this. I have nothing but disdain for that side of yours, don’t come close to me ever again!”

After crying out those last few words, Masuho no Susuki shed a tear and left Cherry Blossom Palace.

“Hey, wait, Masuho no Susuki!” All flustered, Hamayuu went after her. Wakamiya and Sumio were left behind in an uncomfortable silence.

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

“—And that’s what happened. Masuho no Susuki made Wakamiya and Sakura no Kimi promise they wouldn’t ever again push anything marriage-related on her without permission, so I don’t think there will be any more engagements coming for the time being.”

Akeru couldn’t stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief. “I see…”

His heart broke for his sister—to think that she had hated the idea to the point of crying. Still, it was a much more preferable experience than to have such an undesired marriage actually happen. His mood lifted knowing the whole talk was no more, but he found that the anguish was now replaced by resentment towards Sumio, the very source of the problem. 

“Still, why did you even think Yukiya was right for my sister? He’s a cold-hearted bastard—he said one of his conditions for a wife is to not bring love into the marriage. There’s no way he would ever be a good fit for her, right?”

While his tone came out slightly accusatory, Sumio didn’t seem at all bothered by that. Instead, he gave him a weak smile. “I know that’s what Yukiya says.”

“Then, why?”

“Well, it’s precisely because he says those things that I thought it would work out……” 

Incapable of comprehending what Sumio was trying to tell them, Akeru looked at him dumbfounded.

“What do you mean?” Chihaya asked instead, and Sumio groaned in answer.

“Well, you see, if we’re talking about Yukiya’s harsh manners—in a manner of speaking, to me it feels like the logic at work is the same as Wakamiya’s when he asked Sakura no Kimi in marriage.” According to Sumio, when Wakamiya asked Hamayuu to become Sakura no Kimi, his words were tremendously cutting. “‘I’ll never be a good husband for you and it doesn’t mean I’m in love with you. Depending on politics, I may have to take on a concubine or I may have to betray you. Despite it all, you won’t be allowed to complain. If you’re still fine with it, then I’ll take you’—so he said.”

“Now that too is… quite the love confession.”

After hearing such a thing, what woman would gladly accept the terms? None, as far as Akeru was concerned. He couldn’t fathom what Princess Hamayuu was even thinking when she agreed to that.

“Well, it’s a terrible way to say it when you look at it from outside, right? But I knew the situation Wakamiya was in when he asked her that, so to me those words were just him being fully honest with her.”

Wakamiya had plenty of enemies at the Imperial Court and a change of government could happen no matter how much Wakamiya fought back and, regardless of his wishes, he could well find himself in a situation where his only real option was abandoning his wife. In fact, Wakamiya could easily be the one to die first. As a ruler, he could be in a position where calling someone special, whispering his love, was not allowed to him.

——‘Even then, would you still be my wife?’

“In those circumstances, promising her certain happiness would have been the same as deceiving her.”

‘It will be hard going, but I still want you by my side. I want you to choose me fully knowing where we stand’.

“Personally, I can place my trust much more easily on someone like that than on some irresponsible guy willing to spout sweet words he doesn’t mean. And as far as I see it, Yukiya is the same,” Sumio said quietly. “There were apparently some very difficult circumstances surrounding his birth and, on top of that, he swore his loyalty to Wakamiya. He has made his peace with not knowing what may happen to him tomorrow, but to not make a spouse unhappy means being careful like that.”

Akeru was left speechless. Meanwhile, Chihaya just watched Sumio intently with an unreadable expression.

Sumio sighed sadly. “Besides, and this is between you and I, I was there as Wakamiya and his wife thought of marrying Masuho no Susuki off without even the slightest concern for her own opinion on the matter. I wasn’t fine with that, as you may guess, so I just wanted things to at least go in a slightly better direction for her, but……”

It had, by all appearances, the opposite effect.

Still feeling conflicted after Sumio’s explanation, Akeru timidly spoke, “My sister must be of a mind to only be with someone she loves, so…… of course she would be angry at being paired with someone willing to say such horrible things, someone like Yukiya. Even if he has a proper reason for it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Sumio murmured, frowning ever so slightly with his gaze distant, lost somewhere else. “...... And yet, the look in Masuho no Susuki’s eyes when she looked at Yukiya was so intense.”

He must have been looking at her a lot, Akeru suddenly noticed. Before he could follow that line of thought, however, Sumio raised his head and gave them a bright smile, full of energy. “Anyway, I just came to tell you that. You won’t need to worry about your sister for a while.”

“You have my heartfelt gratitude.”

“But now that I’m here, I guess I may as well watch you train,” Sumio announced cheerfully.

Before Akeru could say a word, Chihaya answered, “We’ll be in your care then. Could you give him an example of what to do?”

“Sure thing. Are you fine with being the horse?” Silently, Chihaya transformed into a crow. Sumio looked at him with satisfaction and nodded. “Good. Then, let’s get going.”

Chihaya, with Sumio on his back, flew high into the sky. He took quite the long detour, putting so much distance between him and the training spot that it was almost overdoing it. Akeru found himself thinking about how they must have gotten quite far when, suddenly, the blurry shadow of a bird came into his sight. He let out a gasp.

While Akeru had seen Chihaya fly as a crow innumerable times during training, it was the first time he had seen him speed up like that. From what he was seeing, it had to be about as fast as his top speed without anyone riding him. It had to be too much—how was Sumio even going to shoot a bow while riding that fast?

The rider and mount approached Akeru by the minute, but Sumio was leaning towards Chihaya’s back so perfectly he was virtually melded into it, making it impossible to tell he was even there. Right as Akeru realized that, Sumio lifted his body from his mount, as light as a feather dancing on the wind.

In a matter of seconds, Sumio pulled out an arrow and shot it. It was so fast that Akeru couldn’t even tell how he had done so in the first place—his eyes couldn’t follow the motion. By the time he processed what had happened, Chihaya and Sumio had already flown past him like a storm, and an arrow adorned with white feathers had landed right in the middle of the target. Sumio was terrifyingly quick and precise.

“Did you get to see it properly?” Sumio asked as he and Chihaya returned and the latter relaxed his wings, but Akeru just stood there dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen.

“...... I didn’t quite get what I saw.”

Sumio jumped off from Chihaya’s back, and the latter immediately returned to human form. “No wonder. It’s the first time I managed to fly that fast when ridden.”

“Well, appearances aside, I’m part of the Yamauchi Guard, you know? It would be an embarrassment if I lost against a mere trainee,” Sumio laughed well-naturedly.

“You were even better than Yukiya. You could have well taken the role of star shooter at the horse racing ceremony instead!”

“Me? No way! I’m not a noble, remember?” Sumio retorted without hesitation and Akeru’s chest tightened as if someone had clutched his heart. “Hey, Akeru. I know Yukiya is brilliant, so I understand why you’re panicking. But some things people are just born with or without. There’s nothing more futile than to compare yourself and envy others over something like that, something you can’t hope to fix. So, don’t you think it would be better to consider what you can achieve with what you actually possess instead?”

——Most likely, the man in front of him felt the truth of those words much more acutely than Akeru ever did.

Akeru remained silent as Sumio watched over him—his eyes were so gentle. “Chihaya and I are above you as far as talent as a warrior goes, but no matter how skilled we are, when it comes down to politics, we have no footing whatsoever to stand against the men at the Imperial Court.”

“That’s……”

“You know what I mean, right? We don’t have the status.”

In politics, Akeru was acknowledged just by virtue of his birth. But being told so just made him feel like Sumio was mocking him. “But that’s—!”

“You were born as a noble here in Yamauchi and it’s fine for you to use that as your weapon. We have our bodies and you have your status, what’s the big difference? The problem here is what you use that weapon for, don’t you think?”

It felt like Sumio’s keen eyes were piercing him. Akeru, still unconvinced by his arguments, refused to answer.

“I think that it would be a waste for you to get greedy and attempt to do too much at once, coming out the other side achieving everything by halves and mentally crushed. You have the high status and the bright mind, plus a virtuous character to not let that go to your head. What you lack may look desirable, but you realize no amount of complaining will change that, right?” Chihaya clapped his hands wordlessly. His look was the one of someone who had been wanting to say that all along. “Akeru, you may not be able to become a good bodyguard, but you can become a good vassal. Are you really unhappy with that?”

It was as if Sumio was testing him. His question made Akeru feel like crying.

“...... No.”

“That’s good then.”

And yet—and yet! Akeru bit his lips. “Still, it’s so frustrating!”

“—It is, right? Frustrating,” Sumio repeated the word as he sighed, his tone giving him away.

Afterwards, once Akeru ran to retrieve the training saddle and Sumio was watching him go, Chihaya approached him without a sound. “Are you truly fine with this?”

Sumio turned around with a start. Faced with Chihaya’s silent stare, a forced smile appeared on his lips—the boy had seen through him, it seemed.

“...... It’s not like I can do anything about it.” It was the one thing he couldn’t help or change. No matter what he did. “She may hate me and give me the cold shoulder, but I at least thought it would be fine for me to wish her a bit of happiness.”

Ah, and yet—it was so frustrating.

As he spoke, Sumio slowly shot an arrow. An impressive shot that landed right in the middle of the target, as if it had sucked it in.

—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---

1: The original title is しのぶひと, in hiragana, which I'm interpreting by pure logic as 偲ぶ人. The main meaning of the verb 偲ぶ is to recall, which is what you may find in japanese-to-english dictionaries, but it has more than one meaning. The second, which I consider the intended here, is "心引かれて、思いをめぐらす。慕わしく思う" or "To muse of a heart stolen. To yearn."

2: The Boys’ Festival (端午の節句) or Boys’ Day celebration, also known as the Feast of Flags, takes place every May 5th in Japan. Within the story of Yatagarasu, it’s noteworthy for its second day being when Wakamiya, Yukiya and Kazumi go to spy on Cherry Blossom Palace and Yukiya is thrown down the cliff, being seen transforming by Asebi and the others. Wakamiya was, in fact, supposed to visit that day bringing the offerings.

3: Medicine Hunting (薬狩) was an actual component of the Boys’ Festival in ancient times, although it’s now lost to time. They would indeed get deers’ antlers, mugwort, irises and similar medicinal materials. The scent bags were also a historical element of the festivities, being made with the gathered materials with the idea of helping with keeping people healthy during the following rainy season. These scent bags would stay until September 9th, the Chrysanthemum Festival.

4: The term refers explicitly to Shinto rituals, but Yamauchi has no concept of Shinto.

5: The nine-colored deer (九色の鹿) has its roots as a sacred beast in a buddhist jakata tale, but it’s also known to appear in the Konjaku Monogatarishū (今昔物語集), a recopilation of japanese folktales written during the 12th century and other ancient tales. Much like the name implies, its fur is supposed to be of nine colors.

6: Sumio here is quoting the Romance of the Three Kingdoms. The specific excerpt (which has since become a saying in Japan) originally referenced Lü Meng, a general who came to serve under Sun Quan, during his youth. It’s essentially used to express that you must never underestimate how fast a young man can grow, both literally and metaphorically. “Outer book” here means any book coming from Outside of Yamauchi.

[macgyvermedical]

In regards to mental health and routines post, do you have any suggestions on how to start increasing those habits. This last year, I've been having similar issues and I know I need to work on doing my hygiene routine more, but am struggling to start. Do you have any advice? Please and thank you!

Maybe.

So I'll start by saying that I am not working for money due to mental health problems at this time. This makes it so my spoon allotment is skewed in my favor when it comes to personal care. If I were working, my personal care progress would be a lot slower going.

Also, my experience with personal care problems are a result of living with schizoaffective disorder. Some of the things I do might resonate, some might not. Your Mileage May Vary, and all that. That's why I'm saying "I do a thing" instead of "you should do a thing" with the language in this post.

Next, I honestly don't love the term "habit" because it implies that eventually after doing something for a long time it becomes easy. Might be a thing. Personally I've never experienced it. I have the same resistance to showering I had 4 years ago when I stopped doing it more than about once a week. But now I just have the spoons to trick myself into doing it every other day.

So on to some things I do that might help:

I fill up my day as much as possible. I try for lower spoons activities that have some kind of imposed structure. This gives the personal care a specific place in my day, and gives me a reason to do the personal care if the activity is around other people. Some ideas:

Clubhouse International. Many cities in the US and Europe (as well as some other places) have an in-person chapter of Clubhouse. Clubhouse is a free work-ordered day program, which means it provides a low-stress, workplace-like environment to go to every day.

Volunteering

Free online courses such as those offered by Harvard. These can be up to a semester long and are paced from 2-20 hours of work a week.

I think about things in terms of problem solving. I don't plan to take a shower every day. But I do plan to get up and ask myself if my hair is uncomfortably greasy (I can find an uncomfortable problem like this for just about every personal care action). If I decide yes (which happens every other day about), I then get to problem solve.

Problem solving here is an exciting alternative to just planning to shower every day whether I need to or not. I get to come up with a solution (which might be a shower, or it might be a baseball cap, or it might be a quick wash in the sink (I have short hair)).

Then, and here is the key part, no planning ahead. I have to do the solution right then before I can think about it too much. Or I have to wait until I forget it and then remember it again, which is not as reliable.

I figure out when I naturally want to do a thing. This has been particularly helpful in working out. Turns out, working out in the morning is not for me. I'd rather not get out of bed at all than get up and work out.

But after dinner? When I have all that nice energy from all the glucose available to my muscle cells? I feel a lot better about working out. Plus, I usually don't have as much to do at that time.

This just makes it easier to say "yes" to a workout. I still have to sneak up on myself by planting workout supplies (shorts, a yoga mat, and a gallon milk jug filled with water I use as a weight) and knowing what workout I'm going to do ahead of time (it's the same one every day until I get bored or it gets too easy).

I track my "streaks". I have a calendar with a key that has different symbols for each personal care task. I have brushed my teeth at least once per day for the last 58 days. I have averaged showering every other day in that time. The last three weeks? I've averaged 5 workouts a week.

The more I have put in, the less I want to screw things up. Sometimes I get out of bed after laying down at night to brush my teeth just to keep the streak going, but it's better than not brushing at all.

I compromise. I used to think if I wasn't doing a thing the best way possible, I shouldn't do it at all. But here's the secret: something is genuinely better than nothing. I often have to compromise with my brain "I'll only do half the workout" or "I'll wash my hair instead of showering". And you know what? At the end of the day I got more personal care done than if I didn't compromise.

The ability to do things also just naturally waxes and wanes. Sometimes compromising keeps things going through the tougher times. Keeping track of things like when I'm compromising a lot helps me help make decisions about my care.

I hope this was helpful!

[linkspooky]

Does it ever frustrate you (like it bothers me), that the heroes and civilians (and many of the fans) have no concept of "the big picture"?

I mean being optimistic is one thing, but the hero kids are going back to class, hero society is being rebuilt and the same structures are getting back in place with barely a question of what might change, if anything will...

Like shouldn't they know by now??!!

Hawks looked into the league of villain's pasts.

Deku was told directly by shigaraki what was wrong with their society in the last war.

There was a whole (plausibly canon) movie revolving around the threat of the quirk singularity, and still nobody cares.

Judging by the recent chapter, the civilians are the same as they always were, or have become even worse in their mindset.

And at least so far, the heroes haven't shown anything concrete in how they plan on doing things from now on, if their actions or beliefs made any real impact.

At this point it really feels like either:

A. The Lov (Toga, shigaraki and some others) make a miracle resurrection/recovery.

or

B.it's the cycle of violence until inevitable extinction...

Do you feel differently or the same?

Hello, friend.

I definitely share your frustrations.

I think this post by Tumblr User BNHAObservations might be onto the type of societal reform that Horikoshi might be going for in this epilogue.

So there's two approaches that you can approach to MHA, and specifically it's endings. BNHAObservations is using Literary Analysis. That is they're not talking about the work in terms of "thing good, thing bad", but rather assuming that everything Horikoshi put into his work is intentional analyzing the themes which Horikoshi is putting forward. What is the theme of MHA and how does Horikoshi demonstrate that theme with characters and events in story?

That's the question to ask if you're taking a literary analysis angle.

(By the way if BNHAObservations sees this I'm not criticizing your post in any way sorry if I give that intention I'm just using it as an example, and also reccomending people read it because it's a good post. This post isn't a response to this post I promise I'm just linking it to provide an opposite point of view from my own).

The second is Literary Criticism. While I prefer Literary Analysis, I've been taking a Lit Crit approach as to late because. My question is not "What is the theme of MHA?" but rather "Does MHA use the tools of storytelling to communicate it's theme to it's audience well?" So, let's discuss how Hori chooses to convey the themes of the fictional world he created.

So as I said BNHA observations has an answer to your question from a literary analysis perspective. The gist being "Horikoshi seems to be suggesting that the improvement to society will come from the public being more involved with stuff like community outreach to assist the heroes, and maybe with Spinner's comic the villains voices will be heard on top of that." Which is a valid perspective and why I linked it.

However, from my literary criticism angle I don't think that particular theme is communicated well by the story. This is why while I think acknowledging the cultural context of the story is an important perspective, it's just one perspective because MHA is still A STORY and it has to use the tools of storytelling to get those messages across. MHA can exist as a piece of cultural commentary and still be confusing about what exactly kind of commentary it wants to make, because it doesn't function as a story.

So here's the literary critcism angle of: Why is it so gosh darned frustrating that the public at large doesn't seem to have changed at all by the ending of MHA?

When you are a writer you can write anything you want. But if you want to write a story that people want to read you have to follow the rules of good storytelling.

There are reasons why storytelling rules exist. A story is a bond between author and reader, readers to other readers. It is a communication between humans and humans work in a certain way.

I'd also argue that literary criticism is something that exists across cultures, like for example I watch Japanese Horror movies with my friends. Japanese Horror movies are very different from american ones because what that culture considers scary is different. However, if I'm watching the movie that has bad lighting and uncreative camera work, and I criticize it on that grounds, I think the rules of what makes good and bad camera work and shot composition work across cultures.

To quote this post:

Storytelling rules are rules of communication. Rules for handling expectations and saying what you intend to say without it being misheard. Rules for tugging at emotions and pulling heartstrings in a good way rather than a bad way. Storytelling rules are lessons learned by authors of the past that failed to communicate what they needed to. They are not that subjective.

So to address your ask finally friend, I believe a lot of audience comes from Horikoshi's inability to get his theme across in his own story with the tools of storytelling, just what he wants to say about the the society that he's created in his fictional world.

The first is the very obvious discrepancy between setup and payoff. As an example I read the Sam Vimes discworld novels, which you could say is copaganda about a good cop who does his job. However, the story is not trying to be a deep analysis about the crimminal system, it's a fantasy story taking place in a deeply corrupt medieval city where the main character is a parody of Dirty Harry. In other words it doesn't bring up any of those deeper issues so I can just read it for what it is, knowing it's kind of dated.

MHA sets up these deeper issues in a way that calls to be addressed. It's made clear several times in both Shigaraki's walk, and his speech during the first war arc that there's already enough heroes and yet problems in this society persist.

Theme is basically the story asking a question and then providing an answer. The question is: If there are so many heroes then why are there so many people who don't get saved?

It seemed like the answer we are building towards is that heroes need to change the way they deal with villains, hence why everything post War Arc focuses on the main trio trying to save their villains without just putting them down. You have Twice's death at Hawk's hands, and the question of why heroes only save the good victims. You have the parallels between Shigaraki and Eri. You have Deku say "ONE FOR ALL IS NOT A POWER FOR KILLING."

Hori is an author who makes choices and he chose to deliberately bring up these issues and not address them, and that makes the story feel unsatisfying to read because serialized stories hook the audience by promising future development.

Read this story because you want to see how the Todorokis will find a way to unite their family. Read this story because you want to see how Bakugo and Deku will become the greatest heroes, by saving by winning and winning by saving.

Twice's death, Toga's question about if Uraraka is going to kill her, Shigaraki's walk, OFA is not a power for killing these are all things that mattered in the story and then suddenly didn't. If you promise a story is going to address something and then you renege on that promise the audience will find it unsatisfying. If I'm reading a murder mystery and it ends with everyone eating cake and the murder hasn't been solved (and that's not the point of the story) I will feel like the story has wasted it's time.

So it's not just a case of "MHA was never going to be a story of deep societal reform because it's a shonen jump manga" but these themes are brought up, and then never addressed again.

Which is where we get my second layer of criticism, the massive tonal whiplash. My Hero Academia seems like a story of how kids are going to grow up to be better heroes by saving their villains, until it's not.

My Hero Academia is not a tragedy, until it becomes a tragedy in the last five minutes. Every single person thought Shigaraki was going to be saved somehow, until he wasn't. Everyone thought that Twice's death was going to be the last death in the league of villains, because the kids were going to realzie they have to find another way than killing the villains, until it wasn't. The audience isn't stupid for thinking this was going to happen, that's what Horikoshi was foreshadowing in his story until he threw it out.

The worst part is the tragic tone doesn't work, because it's poorly written as a tragedy. Greek Tragedy revolves around the fall of the heroes (this is a japanese work and japanese theatre is different, but Superheroes are inspired by the greeks). If the villains failed to get saved, then it should be a failure on the heroes part, it should be devastating on the heroes.

Hawks failed to save Twice but he's fine, Deku failed to save Shigaraki (OFA is not a power for killing) but he's fine, the only hero who seems personally affected by their loss is Shoto who is losing his brother. If this is a tragedy then heroes should be the ones to fall because tragedies are about the tragic flaws of the heroes.

However, we get this tonal inconsistency instead where no consequences stick to the heroes and every single bad thing that happens to them gets magically done away with by plot convenience.

So Hori has shown that he can just handwave away whatever kind of grievous injury he wants, and yet he still chooses to go out of his way to unnecessarily punish the villains for their actions, in the manga that's supposed to be about saving them.

And even if we go with the "Well, their hearts were saved" approach, the manga fails to demonstrate how their hearts were saved. Naruto, a manga running in the same magazine, does this so much better with characters like Obito.

Look at Obito's sendoff in the manga. A character who also is responsible for directly harming the main characters and who went to war with the entire world.

Obito has a dream sequence where he realizes he could have always gone home and still tried to become Hokage and he wasn't beyond redemption. He lives long enough to assist Naruto in the fight against the final villain. He gets called awesome by Naruto for trying to become Hokage because they shared the same dream.

His last moments in the manga are Rin the girl he loved comforting him in the afterlife, by saying she was watching his suffering all along. His literal last action is to lend his power to Kakashi his best friend in order to fight together once more against the villain.

Shigaraki on the other hand doesn't even get the majority of screentime in his own death chapter, he gets two pages compared to AFO's five.

It's not just the fact they get unsympathetic deaths, the story also bends over to show that they deserved it. Toga doesn't want to accept prison for her actions so it's okay for her to commit suicide even though she's a young girl. Shigaraki didn't want to give up being the hero to the villains, so it's okay that Deku didn't save him.

People are discussing whether or not Spinner should be held accountable for not saving Shigaraki because of his character flaw of deciding to not think about things and go with the flow, but that ignores the fact that once again Spinner is not the main character. Yes, characters should be held accountable for their flaws, but the protagonists are the one who should be held the most accountable because the story is not about them.

Spinner and Deku both failed to save Shigaraki, but let's look at their punishment. Spinner is in prison for the rest of his life probably, almost became a Nomu, and has survivor's guilt for being unable to save Shigaraki in time due to his own actions.

Deku... has to live with the fact he killed Shigarki and will "never forget it."

If we are going for a tragic ending, and Deku is the center of that tragedy, than Deku should be the one suffering for his failures. Deku should be held just as, if not more accountable than Spinner.

Spinner is held accountable and that makes him a good character - but to what end? I know what it's to slide blame away from Deku, which is also why Spinner randomly says something racist at the end of his scene.

So in all it's not frustrating because MHA isn't some deep, thoughtful criticism of Japanese society. It's frustrating because it violates the rules of setup and payoff, and it also is extremely tonally inconsistent.

A common response to this is I've seen is "You should just like MHA for what it is, and not what you want it to be."

However my underlying problem is that MHA as a story seems to be very confused about what kind of story it is. That confusion shows in Horikoshi constantly throwing out his own foreshadowing, and the wild swings in tone from tragedy to a story about optimistic young kids who are going to be the best heroez eva. Hori can tell whatever story he wants, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's telling it well.

As I said Hori's indecisiveness shows by this point in the story. I've already discussed this with Class1aKids but it really seems like Horikoshi is setting up two things with scissors-kun:

He'll either be A) A new villain that Deku and the kids prevent from becoming the next AFO or B) a resurrected Shigaraki who can save the rest of his league and fulfill his role as hero of the villains.

At this point there's equal foreshadowing for both, and this is my personal theory but it truly seems like Hori is gauging audience reaction to see which path he should take. If the japanese audience is satisfied with the villains "hearts" being saved, or if he should bring Shigaraki back to let the villains end on a more hopeful note.