#feels good feels organic feels clean and nice and fresh

[curatedbyondrea]

How to bring *luxury* into your life while on a budget

Luxury on a budget is absolutely achievable! It's about focusing on creating an experience of indulgence and pampering, rather than just expensive things. Here are some ideas:

Redefine Luxury for You:

Focus on Experiences: Luxury isn't just material possessions. Think about what makes you feel truly pampered and relaxed. Is it a long, candlelit bath with a good book? A picnic in a scenic spot? Prioritize experiences that create lasting memories.

Quality over Quantity: Invest in a few key items you'll love and use for years, rather than buying a lot of cheap things. This could be anything from a luxurious body lotion to a cozy throw blanket.

Create a Luxurious Atmosphere at Home:

Declutter and Deep Clean: A clean and organized space instantly feels more luxurious. Light some scented candles, put on some calming music, and dim the lights for a spa-like atmosphere.

DIY Spa Treatments: Skip the expensive spa and recreate the experience at home. Give yourself a foot massage with homemade sugar scrub, use a facial mask made with natural ingredients, or draw a relaxing bath with essential oils.

Elevate Everyday Activities: Take the time to savor a cup of tea in the morning. Set the table for dinner with nice plates and silverware, even if it's just a simple meal.

Seek Out Free or Low-Cost Luxuries:

Embrace Nature: Take a hike in a beautiful park, have a picnic by the beach, or simply sit outside and enjoy the fresh air. Nature is a free and luxurious way to de-stress and reconnect.

Cultural Gems: Many museums and galleries offer free or discounted admission days. Check your local library for free museum passes or online resources for virtual tours of famous collections.

Learn a New Skill: Taking a free online class in something that interests you, like photography or cooking, can be a stimulating and luxurious way to spend your time.

Remember: Luxury is about feeling good and taking care of yourself. By being creative and resourceful, you can incorporate these elements into your life, regardless of your budget.

[bunny-jpeg]

wrestling au 🤼 - starring task force 141!

simon 'ghost' riley -

oh, big scary ghost. the masked heel of the little association he was apart of. he took in the sounds of people's booing, and he fought without much remorse. he tried not to make it look too real, by that he meant not messing up his opponent too much. the last thing he wanted was to get his ear talked off by upper management. there was a routine to follow, even if it ended in bruising, simon still had to follow it. or else everything could be thrown off. his hulking size made him a wall of an opponent, and the story lines where he won were always a crowd favourite. he loved being the big baddie of the ring, he loved to be the monster they booed at. because no matter how loud they got, simon would always walk away with the title belt.

he fucked like an animal though. you were the daughter of his trainer and boy did he love to take you for a spin after he got nice and sweaty. when your father was in his office cashing the cheque for the monthly payment for his services, simon was servicing something else. your back on the wooden bench of the men's locker room. simon's cock splitting you. he used his size to his advantage, while he couldn't do too much damage in the ring. you sure as hell could take a sexual beating. the numerous amount of times, simon had you twisted up as he fucked you. in the locker room, in the back of his car, even that time over your father's desk when he had left early. you were good stress relief and even when the crowd booed him, you were in the back happily cheering for your big, beefy lover.

john price -

face turned heel, a seasoned veteran with the aches and pains to prove it. his knees cracked if he tried to go to low and it usually takes him an extra few days to recover from it all. when he was clean shaven and younger, he was the pretty boy from liverpool. now in the twilight years of his career, he loved to be big, bad, price. he was the kind to play 'dirty', the sort of wrestler to throw last ditch effort tricks to win the match. he got his fists bloodied. he laughed when the crowd booed him, he basked in the feeling of being the worst of the worst. alongside his right-hand man ghost, they were destined to take the title from the pretty faced good guys. he looked good in the books and the 'shorts'. anyone close enough to the ring could see price's bulge. it was the type of be circulated on social media. he was hairy, a little different than the normally smooth wrestler. he smoked on stage and antagonized the audience. he was a hefty man who loved to get his opponents down on the mat.

but even at his age, he likes to sink his teeth into the competition. and what's better than the fresh face they got in the women's division. oh, you look amazing under him. price got into the ring with you a few times, the he had you bent in certain was that made you blush. you almost moaned when he had you basically in a ball with his barely covered crotch up against your ass. he even barked the words, "guess it's time for me to find a missus! what do you think? could our new starlet be the wife of the big, bad price?" which only earned hollering from the crowd. he liked it rough outside the ring, when he had you pushed into storage closets. when he got to tear your underwear off of you and sink into his prize. that was his cunt, don't you forget. if he sees you talking to another male wrestler, then there would be hell to pay. you better pray that the pill works, or you'll be in the stands a lot sooner than you expected with price's hefty baby in your arms.

john 'soap' mactavish -

face, face, face! but the face you hate to love! his story lines are always so good. he was cocky, loud, his laughter was like a bark when he got the microphone. he was the good boy from glasgow, even had saint andrew's cross across the ass of his shorts. he was the most flexible, often having the heels of the organization bend him in ways that most others couldn't. while he wasn't the broadest (he was still fairly big), he made up for it in endurance. one time he was asked how he could keep up for so long even if he was bloodied and bruised, he simply laughed and said, "well, ya bed enough bonnies. you can keep goin' all day and all night with the likes of these guys. sadly, the girls tap out before i'm finished." he felt like he teetered between being a heel and a face, he only became more cocky when he won the title from price. when he got the older man on the mats. it was only right for a face to have the title, for a heel to have it was wrong. but yet, there was a cockiness to him. even was he stripped price of the belt and gave the shiny metal a heated kiss. the man from the highlands was on top!

but of course the man on top loves to have his woman on top. and who exactly was the lovely woman to be with mister mactavish? well, it was the ceo's daughter of course! and the stamina he had in the ring bled into your experiences with him in the bedroom. johnny was a cervix bruiser, the kind where you'd feel it for days afterwards. when you sat at lunch with your father, you'd wince and pray that no pained expression crossed your face. like price, johnny was a breeder. with a stamina like a rabbit, of course he was shooting loads into you on almost a daily basis. you'd lie to your father about you whereabouts, you said you were at the library studying for your upcoming final. meanwhile johnny was pouring shots of liquor down your throat then messing up your pretty face with his cum as you sucked him off behind the building. insatiable, with the title around his waist only making it worse. he had the title in his hands and the ceo's daughter's lips around his throbbing cock. but don't worry, johnny isn't the type to tap and leave. no, no, finishing in you is a promise. a promise that you'll be mrs. mactavish very soon. after all, his kids weren't going to have your father's last name.

kyle 'gaz' garrick -

a very clearly a face. his gimmick is the sweetheart next door who can handle himself in the ring. a real knight in shining armor, it was hard when the story called for his defeat. but, in the end he always came back to secure his title. there was a bravado to him, and a real charmer. while some had a face that others wanted to hit, no one wanted to mess up that perfection that was kyle garrick. he did play it up a little bit, sauntering as he entered the ring, letting the crowd get excited for what was to come. he had more than a few fans, but he was always respectful. a real gentleman. he even had a trick where he'd give roses to female fans as he walked towards the ring. his smile gleaming under the bright lights.

of course, the sweetheart of the ring has the perfect love story. the woman who had been with him since his early days. while his fellow wrestlers got into all sorts of trouble, he enjoyed the company of his dear wife. but, don't get it wrong, your sex life was not boring. while price was screwing newbies, kyle was on his knees in the bathroom of the pub you all went to after the match. your back up against the sink of the single stall washroom. your pants around your knees and his large hands on your thighs. his tongue lapping at your pussy. your sweet, muffled moans kept kyle wanting more. his cock throbbed in his jeans, the rush of the match was still abuzz in his system. he loved the taste of his wife, how could he not? even after all these years together, tasting you was like biting into a ripe apple at the peak of its season. the kind of fruit that had a price tag that would make the average person shudder. you were the apple of his eye and the love of his life. of course he'd worship you. there was still an electricity between you two, a fire that couldn't be tamed. if he gave a rose to a fan as part of his gimmick, then you got a dozen. if roses made you allergies flare up, then he'd give you fake ones. so they'd never wilt, like his love for you.

[innerfare]

Sanji Fluff // Angst Compilation

Summary: A compilation of Sanji angst and fluff from my multi character posts (You're Wounded, Brushing Your Teeth Together, Flowers, Type of Date, You See His Cabin, Fighting and Making Up, Paradise, Nightmares, I Love You, You're Jealous).

Genre: Fluff // Angst

CW: None // SFW

———

You’re Wounded: 

Fusses over you while you see to your own wound, feels like they dodged a bullet, blames themselves for any harm that comes to you. “Never again,” they promise themself, bringing you a hot cup of tea to soothe you. 

Brushing Your Teeth Together: 

Slings his arm around you, gets a little too distracted by the sight of you brushing your teeth, ends up standing there with his mouth open and his toothbrush hanging out. Ends up speed running his when you’re finished so he can follow you out of the bathroom. 

Flowers: 

Classic red roses, at least a dozen at a time. He’ll buy you roses in shades of white and pink, as well as the occasional yellow, but a dozen red roses is his go to. He also makes very good use of the petals. Doesn’t need a special occasion to present you with a bouquet. In fact, he always makes sure you have fresh flowers on your nightstand. Additionally, he’s learned to cook a few dishes with edible flowers in them for you, presenting you with all manner of chamomile, chive blossom, and pansy dishes. 

Type of Date: 

This man will take you on the best picnic of your life, a picnic so good he’ll have you wondering why you ever thought restaurants were the epitome of fine dining. It won’t just be delicious, it will be an aesthetic dream, with a wicker basket, checkered blanket, and even a small bouquet of flowers in a glass jar. If he takes you on a picnic beneath the stars, he’ll light candles and be sure to have an extra blanket to keep you warm. Oh, and champagne. Definitely will open a bottle of champagne. 

You See His Cabin For The First Time: 

Sparkling clean, and yet, he’ll apologize anyway because the pillows aren’t fluffy enough, the rug isn’t completely straight, etcetera. His closet is very well organized, all of his clothes ironed and properly taken care of (Sanji’s the rare type to actually read labels and do his laundry accordingly). His most prized possession is a book on the All Blue, which he’s poured over countless times, using color coded tabs to flag various pages and writing detailed notes in the margins. He also came across one of Zeff’s old wanted posters in Loguetown, and he keeps it framed next to his own, the closest thing he has to a family photo. 

Fighting and Making Up: 

He’s far too protective over you, and it causes a lot of fights. He treats you like a china doll, and though that can be quite nice at times, he needs to understand you’re not made of glass. Alternatively, he’s the type to get upset with you for being too friendly to other men. There was also a miscommunication where he cooked something you didn’t like and you weren’t exactly gentle in your reaction to it, you thinking he already knew you didn’t like that thing when he didn’t actually know, him thinking you had an issue with his cooking and not an issue with one of the ingredients. He’s the type to bring you flowers even if you were in the wrong in order to jumpstart the making up process. Your fights never last long because Sanji can’t sleep, can’t eat, can barely even pull himself out of bed if the two of you are on the outs (early childhood trauma can be that way). 

Paradise 1: 

Wandering through a flower field and picking some of the more beautiful blooms that catch your eye, sprawling out on a picnic blanket in the late morning to bask in the sweet scent, enjoying the breeze as it ruffles your hair, weaving some of the flowers you picked into a delicate crown that they wear proudly while the two of you share sweet kisses. 

Paradise 2: 

Waiting until late evening to meet beneath a peach tree, speaking at first in hushed tones, worrying someone is on to the two of you, eventually forgetting about all of that and settling into easy conversation about nothing and everything simultaneously, him jumping up to pick a peach for you to have as an evening snack, you taking advantage of the last bit of light to carve both of your initials into the tree trunk. 

Nightmares: 

You’re in the clutches of his brothers while his father watches on in approval, and he’s trying to save you but to no avail. Suddenly, he’s seven years old again- too small, too slow, too weak to put up a fight, completely at the mercy of his brothers. Only, they aren’t tormenting him, they’re tormenting you, and from the looks on their faces, they sure are enjoying it. The look on your face, though, is one of complete anguish. And then you scream in pain, and he’s awake again, sitting up in bed with a sheen of sweat on his skin, the image of your face in such pain burned into his brain. He doesn’t register that it was only a nightmare until he puts eyes on you, and even then, it takes him several days to recover from the nightmare. 

I Love You: 

Sanji technically confesses first, but you’re the one who actually says those three words. He’s holding your hand in both of his, clutching it close to his racing heart, as he looks down at you, telling you all the ways you make his life better, all the things he’s looking forward to doing with you, all the energy he’s going to put into keeping you happy, healthy, and safe. And the words just sort of fall from your lips. He stops mid sentence, eyes wide and mouth open. The seconds drag on in silence before he’s pulling your lips to his. Both of you are very generous with these three words, saying them often and in public. If you ever hang up the transponder snail without telling him you love him, he’s calling you right back to make sure everything is alright. (Also, not really relevant, might do a separate post about this, but Sanji is definitely a heart-shaped jewelry sort of guy. He just is. Certified lover boy.) 

You’re Jealous: 

Even with a third eye, Pudding is stunning. And Sanji almost married her. It was before you two were together, but listening to the stories from Whole Cake, hearing how close he came to marrying another woman, knowing she really did fall in love with his kind heart and wonderful cooking, turns you into a little green monster. You know you shouldn’t feel jealous of a woman you’ve never met before, a woman Sanji chose not to marry, but you can’t help it. Sanji is completely shocked that you would feel jealous over his relationship (if it could even be called that) with Pudding, though after thinking about it some more, he does realize why you might be jealous that he had a fiancé. His solution is to bring you a bouquet of roses and walk you through the dark details of his life, telling you things he’s never outright told anyone, so you understand the special place you have in his life. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[callsign-muffin]

Heal Together: Chapter 1

(Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw fic)

I've been lurking on here for a while, reading Top Gun fics and I recently got inspired to write one of my own. Hopefully someone reads it and likes it!

Note about the format: Between every header is a change in the point of view :)

Summery: When Rooster was med-evaced back to San Diego from the mission field, the last thing he expected was to wake up with a tube down his throat and the most beautiful woman he's ever seen at his bedside.

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.1k

“Hey Carly, I’m taking over for room 4 today. Are you ready to give report?” You ask the cute blonde night shift nurse, she looked about 12 years old. What in the hell was she doing in the ICU of a military hospital? Hell, you should be asking yourself the same question. You hated it here at this boys club where nurses were ignored as a female dominated profession, despite being the people who spend the most amount of time at the patient’s bedside in a 12 hour stretch. But you were only one week into this eight week travel assignment and the money was great, so you just had to grin and bear it and make as few enemies as possible.

“The census is low, is this gonna be your only patient?” She asked.

“Yeah.” You pulled out your report sheet and pen, “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

You could tell Carly was fresh off of orientation by how nervous she looked before beginning to speak.

“Hey,” You placed a comforting hand on her knee, “take your time, tell me what you know, and if I have any questions I’ll ask them when you’re done. You just finished a long shift, it’s okay to be a little out of it. We’ll get all the info we need together. No pressure, okay?”

“Okay,” Carly nodded and took a deep breath, “This is Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, 35 year old male, full code, no known allergies…”

You quietly took down the pertinent information about Lt. Bradshaw as Carly spoke. He was a pilot, recovered after a crash, and was stitched back together pretty well on the aircraft carrier, he went septic and was transported back to the states to your hospital. Pretty standard stuff. He was currently on a ventilator for breathing support but all seemed to be going in a positive direction despite the shitty circumstances.

Carly finished her report with a sigh of relief, you had a feeling the staff nurses weren’t as respectful when receiving report from a new graduate. “Any questions?”

“Any family  at the bedside?” You asked.

“No, no family. Apparently a guy named Pete Mitchell calls daily for updates, they’re not related but he’s included on the patient’s medical information release forms, so we can talk to him. Chart says he’s single, no siblings, and both parents have passed away.” Carly yawned, she was beginning to fade after a long night. You didn’t want to hold her up anymore than necessary, she needed to get home and go to bed.

“Okay,” You clicked your pen, “Sounds good. Let’s go check lines and meds so you can get out of here.”

She paused for a second as you got up from your chair at the nurses station, “Y/N… thank you for being so nice… I’m only a week off of orientation and things are still so new…”

You smiled at the compliment, “We’ve all been there. Every nurse on this unit was new at one point and I think sometimes they forget that. Hell, I’m a traveler and this is only my second week and there’s so much that’s new to me too. You’re doing great.”

You spent the first part of your morning before rounds with the care team just cleaning up the patient, organizing the room, all that good stuff. Though it wasn’t necessarily considered “professional”, you played some music softly from your phone as you worked. You found that music or just talking to patients on vents helped with agitation. You couldn’t imagine anything more tortuous than listening to repetitive beeping and alarms all day long and nothing else. Though most managers didn’t like it, that didn’t stop you. What were they gonna do? Fire you? Hospitals hire travelers at such a high price point when they’re understaffed and desperate. They needed you more than you needed them.

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

“When the sun goes down, we’ll be groovin’

When the sun goes down, we’ll feel alright

When the sun sinks down over the water

Everything is hotter when the sun goes down…”

Who the fuck listens to Kenny Chesney anymore? Rooster thought to himself.

He knew he was sick, the docs on the ship told him that before they knocked him out to shove the tube down his throat. They told him he’d be med-evaced back to San Diego because the hospital where he was overseas didn’t have the capabilities to take care of someone as sick as him. He didn’t know how long he had been there, all the days run together when you’re too weak to open your eyes. He was used to having things done to him, he was past the point of getting agitated about it, because he knew they’d just sedate him more.

“Alright, Bradshaw.” A confident voice said, “All of your lines are untangled, your room is clean, and your initial assessment is done… How about we have a little spa day? You’re smellin’ a little… ripe.”

RUDE! 

“HA! You can hear me! You raised your eyebrows!” She giggled, damn it was a cute giggle. Rooster honestly hadn’t realized he was moving his face. But he believed her because that’s what his face usually does when he’s surprised. “You’ve been caught. No more playing dumb.”

Water started running, splashing, and the suction was turned on… that sound usually meant his mouth was gonna get cleaned and he was gonna feel something funny down his throat. He hated it.

“Carly told me you were getting agitated during mouth care last night. Since you can hear me, I’m going to tell you everything I’m doing, so don’t get sassy with me.” She said, “Deal?”

Anything for the first person not to treat me like a damn vegetable. This was the first time someone actually talked to him and told him what the fuck was happening since he got here. It was a welcome change.

The kind yet sassy voice interrupted his thoughts, “Okay, mouth care. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

She didn’t lie to him, she was quick and the stupid suction caused him minimal discomfort. Maybe it was because he could brace himself, or maybe it was because she was just really good at her job.

“I’m about to give you a full body bath, so how about we get to know each other a little bit.” She said as she adjusted his sheets and pillows to reposition him, placing a towel under his head, and rinsing his hair with warm water.

Rooster’s whole body relaxed.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N and I’m obviously your nurse today and will probably be for the next few days…” Nurse Y/N went on about where she’s from, her hobbies, how she’s not making many friends in this new hospital she’s been contracted out to.

Welcome to the military, it’s a boy’s club. He wished he could say that to her. He imagined medicine was similar to aviation, full of egos.

Before Rooster knew it, his whole body had been washed from head to toe. He hadn’t felt this clean in what felt like years.

“So Lieutenant… not to be crude but… I gotta clean your bits. But at least we’ve really gotten to know each other.” Nurse Y/N said, “Your girlfriend will thank me later.”

Ha! Rooster laughed to himself, What girlfriend?! My dick hasn’t been played with in months!

Like with the mouth care, her cleaning was quick and respectful. And damn, being clean felt so good. She went on to change his gown, sheets, and blankets. Rooster truly felt like a new man.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw, you’ve never looked better.” She said with a satisfied sigh.

That’s a damn lie, but I’ll take the compliments wherever I can get them at this point.

“Hey Y/N,” Another female voice said, “They’re starting with you for rounds. Are you ready to present your patient or should I stall?”

“Nah, I’m ready. Tell them to come in whenever.” Nurse Y/N said, then her voice got low and she whispered to Bradley, “I’m gonna try to get them to lighten your sedation and move towards trials of turning the ventilator off. It’s not gonna be comfortable but the sooner we start working towards getting that tube out of your throat, the sooner you can get the hell out of here.”

Rooster wanted to make sure she knew he heard her and that he was on board, it took every ounce of strength in his body, but he nodded.

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

“No way.” The resident physician said simply after you gave your recommendation with your presentation of Lt. Bradshaw

You were dumbfounded. What the hell did he mean no?!, “This patient was more than ready to move towards extubation.” 

“And what makes you the expert?” the resident asked.

Oh lord, this fresh out of med school asshole was turning rounds into a dick measuring contest.

“The fact that I’ve been at his bedside for the past three and a half hours, I assessed him, bathed him, turned him, and he is showing signs of progress. The next step is spontaneous breathing trials and extubation. The longer he stays on the vent, the more likely he is to get pneumonia, as we all should know, Doctor.” You explained coolly but made sure to add his (probably newly earned) title. 

“I agree with…” The attending looked at you and scanned your badge, “... Y/N… What do you think from a Respiratory Therapy standpoint, Brent?” He looked over at Brent, the RT.

Brent smirked and narrowed his eyes at the resident, “I also think moving towards extubation is a good thing. If he has two successful trials, he could be off the vent by the end of the day.”

The attending physician nodded, “Then it’s a plan. And I think this is a really good lesson for the residents and medical students with us on rounds, the nurses know more about the patient than we do. We should always consider their recommendations because they have the most valuable view on the patient, simply because they spend time with them.”

You tried to dim the glow that was on your face.

 “Thanks, Dr…” You scanned the attending’s badge the same way he did yours.

“Carter, Brendan Carter.” He extended his hand and you shook it, “Glad to have you here.”

That was the most welcome anyone had made you feel in the last week here. Who would’ve thought a wrinkly old attending doctor with dancing eyes would be the person to stand up for you and make you feel secure in your clinical decision making.

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

Rooster wasn’t sure how much time had gone by since Nurse Y/N told him she was turning down his sedatives but it felt like he could open his eyes almost instantly. It was so… bright. Once his eyes adjusted, he scanned his surroundings, the lights weren’t even on but the sun shining through the large window felt blinding. He looked to his left and saw the machine that the tube in his throat was attached to, the machine that had kept him alive for God knows how long. He looked to his right and saw multiple IV poles that attached him to lines and lines of medicine and fluid. Further to his right, he saw a woman standing at a computer, typing away furiously, her face was serious yet beautiful, was that Nurse Y/N?

“Good morning, Lt. Bradshaw.” She said quietly, “You’re still attached to your breathing tube, so you can’t talk. Now that you’re awake we’re one step closer to getting you off that thing. Sound good?”

Rooster nodded slowly, wishing he could thank her for everything. For talking to him, bathing him, treating him like a human-being.

“Do you feel strong enough to write?” She asked, “Can I get you a whiteboard?”

He nodded again.

“I’ll be right back.” She swiftly left the room. 

Rooster couldn’t help but love watching her walk away. Along with a beautiful face, he could tell she had a great body hiding underneath those scrubs. It had been so long since he’d seen a pretty girl.

She returned quickly with a whiteboard and a marker, handing it to him, “What’s on your mind Lieutenant?”

Call me Bradley. He scribbled, 

“Nice to meet you Bradley.” She smiled down at him, “How are ya feelin’?”

Better now that I’m clean and awake. He wrote.

“There’s something healing about a bath and being taken out of your drug induced sleep, huh?” She giggled.

Rooster nodded and started writing again, Thank you for everything.

“No biggie. I’m glad to see you doing so well. Is it okay if I do a full assessment on you, just since you’re awake now?” She asked.

He nodded, this girl could do anything she wanted to him. She was basically his angel.

[vonlycsnn]

Hello! May I request a Von lycaon x Gn Reader who is blind but has a optimistic personality? One who uses to love the simple things in life like feeling the sun, taking walks and enjoying any meals

Thank you so much! ♡

Have a nice day •u<~☆

♡ — A RAY OF SUNSHINE

~ VON LYCAON X BLIND (GN) READER.

SUMMARY: You spend your usual morning with your lover, Lycaon. He can't help but appreciate how optimistic you are despite your disability.

cw/tw: none.

A/N: I love this idea so much! I tried to do as much research as i possibly could for this, so my sincere apologies if i got anything wrong. Thank you for the kind words and for the request, I hope you enjoy reading this!

Faint footsteps can be heard approaching your bedroom. Soon after, the door gently opened. It made a quiet but noticeable squeak. But you were too deep in your sleep to hear any of it. The footsteps walked across the room and stopped.

 

Clawed hands grabbed the curtains and drew them open, revealing the morning view outside. You were suddenly hit by the sensation of warmth on your bare skin. You whined in protest. Knowing exactly what that meant.

 

You opened your eyes to see the blurry environment around you, folding the pillow you were laying on as a way to tell your beloved butler that you didn't want to get up just yet.

 

You hear a chuckle from your left ear, the bed sheets folded as you felt someone sitting on the edge of the bed. Then you felt someone breathing close to your neck; you couldn't help but giggle at how it feels.

 

"It's time to wake up, dear." Lycaon whispered.

 

You adjusted your position to face him, trying your best find his face with your hands. He chuckled once more and guided your hands to his fluffy cheeks. Immediately after you moved your fingers to feel his fur, he smiled.

 

"Mm...enjoying yourself?" The thiren asked. You merely nodded as you were still too sleepy to say anything just yet. You felt something brush against your legs, assuming that it's Lycaon's tail wagging.

 

You kept running your fingers against his fur for what seemed like minutes until you felt arms behind your back, lifting you up from your land of peace. "Lycaon nooo..." You lazily protested.

 

"Come on now. I've made you breakfast, fresh and warm for you to enjoy." He explains as he approaches the dining room.

 

The dining table was neatly organized, and the floors were spotless—a perfect start to your day. Oh, if only you could appreciate the effort he has put into cleaning this area...

 

He carefully put you down and guided you to your seat. As soon as you sat down, you smelt a delicious scent in front of you. You couldn't help but smile big when you realized what it was.

 

"I've made your favorite; french toast with a few slices of bacon."

 

You heard utensils being grabbed by the thiren; a hand gently moved your head in his direction. All you could see was a blurry white figure in front of you, but nevertheless you smiled softly.

 

"Open your mouth, love."

 

You obliged, happily receiving the food he's feeding you. Once you tasted the sweetness of the French toast and the salty bacon, you felt like you were sent to heaven. Lycaon's cooking is always so good.

 

As he was feeding you, he begins to reminisce about the past. Back when the two of you were merely friends.

 

—

 

"Master, you mustn't walk too far."

 

You heard him warning you; all you gave him was a smile and a giggle. One step...two step...You walked forward. Shoes removed to feel the concrete floor beneath your foot, and the cold air touched your face gently...It was soothing.

 

"Don't worry, Lycaon. I'm just going to stay right here." You assured him. His mouth opened, clearly wanting to say something, but he didn't. He merely stood there, waiting for you to finish your moment.

 

"The rooftop of this building...it's my favorite. Open spaces like these in general are a delight to be in."

 

You closed your eyes, strengthening your other senses. Being blind is not easy by any means. You remember the day you cried your eyes out as a child over the fact that you couldn't recognize simple shapes and figures. 

 

Your parents did everything in their power to help you; of course you were grateful for their efforts. But they knew that someday they couldn't help you anymore; that's why they hired the best servant they know: Von Lycaon from Victoria Housekeeping Co.

 

Someone who could help you with everyday needs, someone who could keep you safe from the dangers of the outside world—you were truly thankful for all he has done.

 

Despite your early disappointments and everyday struggles, you learned to accept how you are and enjoy your life with the things you already had. You were born with this condition. You couldn't change anything, and that's okay, even if you wanted to enjoy life like the rest of the world.

 

The thiren stayed silent, admiring you from afar. You were always the cheerful type, but hearing you say such optimistic words despite the disability you were given with...it was inspiring.

 

Lycaon smiled, and he walked towards you. You felt a hand on your shoulder.

 

"Then I'll bring you here more frequently if you'd like." Lycaon suggested.

 

You smiled big, nodding vigorously.

You couldn't be happier.

[daenysx]

hi bby, i just saw your modern aemond old money moodboard and i wanted to make a request for a blurb or drabble about it, thankss :))

i hope i've done well, thank you for requesting <3333

modern!aemond targaryen x fem!reader

it's a busy day. the busiest in the entire week, that's for sure. aemond signs another paper, huffing quietly. one more. one more hour and he will leave the office.

the screen of his phone lights up with your answer to his text. he asked if you feel like going out for dinner tonight and you sent him many virtual kisses, agreeing to his offer. his day will certainly last better when he gets to see you, sitting at a fancy table in your favorite restaurant, sipping champagne as you tell him all about your day.

when he finishes all of his stuff, he takes his suit jacket and his phone. his assistant nods him goodbye, he catches the elevator. texting you he's on his way, he settles down in the car. finally.

"hey, handsome." you greet him after sitting on the passenger seat when he pulls the car in front of the house. leaning in for a kiss, he's surrounded with your perfume, it's like taking a deep breath in fresh air. you clean up the lipstick stain you left on his lips with your fingers, he closes his eye to your touch.

"you know we could stay at home." you say, gently. "you must be tired."

"no, no, i'm fine." he quickly shakes his head. "you look perfect."

"thank you." you smile. "my husband has an excellent taste in dresses and jewellry."

he holds your hand during the short ride to the restaurant. you rub your thumb on the back of his hand, the tension on his shoulders leaving him every second of your touch.

the dimly lit atmosphere is so nice, white candles and pretty flowers are used to decorate your table. aemond orders your favorite with a bottle of champagne. he gets to see you so clearly now, across the table with your legs close to his under it.

"is everything okay at work?" you ask. he likes how attentive you are to his business, you know most of everything he does. it's good to have someone who supports him, who tells him what she thinks when he needs another pair of eyes.

"yes." he nods. "well, mostly. it's just busy, there are some new deals we gotta keep an eye on. some- opportunities, if i can manage to take them."

you squeeze his fingers on the table. "of course you'll take them."

the click of glasses, fine food, and your jokes about the conflict between mrs. tyrell and mrs. lannister at the latest organization you joined. you look so bright, his pretty girl, under the gold lights with your glowing smile.

now, he wants to return back to home, to kiss you until he stops breathing. taking every piece of lovely jewellry and your dress off, letting you cover his neck in lipstick stains, holding you on the satin sheets of your bed.

he kisses the back of your hand instead. he's more than attentive in the conversation.

cinnamon girl sleepover ♡

[kuni-is-daddy]

Scaramouche/Kuni NSFW Alphabet(Fem READER!)

Word count: 1.1k.

Today is my Birthday 📷🤠 I wonder what scara would give Y/N on their birthday. Something besides a 'nice vantage point' view I hope🤨����

CW: Minors do not interact past the cut! this is a NSFW POST!

ScaraMasterlist🤪

A: Aftercare- after you first had intercourse you awoke to rather clean and organized room. Your clothes weren't on the floor and we're replaced with a fresh set by the edge of the bed with a note ontop. Scratching your eyes you flipped the note over and read a small 'Hurry up and go to the dining hall when your done.' So you did, smiling ear to ear gleefully, barely getting out the bed and falling on your butt from a sting in your lower body, and a variety of bite marks trailing up your thighs.

B: Body Part- your neck and cleavage. Scara loves to bite on your neck while stuffing you full. He's Moaning, biting and licking so passionately along your neck he could practically feel your heart beating through it. When you make out he can't help but quickly run his hands under your shirt and tug at your bra fabric hiding your boobs. "Mn..fuck your such a tease~" he mutters out.

C: Cum Shot- Scara is pretty possessive, and now that "He's indulging you more often." Besides a hickey he makes sure to coat you everywhere. Your face, fingertips and especially your boobs. Whenever you wake up in the morning and practically stumble into the bathroom your met with bite marks all over your chest. Taking a picture of you covered in his sticky load is his favorite way of claiming you.

D: Dirty Secret- Sometimes he'll take pictures of you and your fucked out expressions, Fresh tears and bite marks along your beautiful body drives him crazy, Especially after your covered in his sticky seed. When your out for a while or he's on missions and extremely needy, he'll seclude himself just to desperately fist his cock to the many pictures of you he's saved. "Hnh~ S-shit~ that's it, Such a good- mnh~ slut taking my cock so well."

E: Experience- Very little or even none, He didnt care for sex as he's so worked up over Inazuma and dottores constant nonsense. Hearing childe talk about 'Hot People he's seen' on trips nearly made scara push him off the boat entirely. You get the honor of being the only one touching his 'godly' body.

F: Favorite Position- face down. Ass up. He loves rubbing his hands along your back then trailing down your body towards your ass. With his smooth fingertips Its almost like a massage. Once he notices you sink into his touch and arc your back like a cat, he's immediately slapping your ass and gripping onto your hips to pull you closer. Grinning at your surprised moans.

G: Goofy- Scara is way too focused on getting himself or you off. But if you made a sly remark about how gentle he's being...he'd flip you over on your tummy, then smash your face into a pillow and call you a needy slut before fucking you rough.

H: Hair- He's a pretty boy, always keeping it trimmed. But since you have the 'honor' of touching him. He'll let you decide how you want it.

I: Intimacy- messy at the beginning. Since your his everything now scara didn't know how to react. He's never had a long lasting or any relationship like this before. Even with aftercare only your panted breathes and 'small talk' would fill the silence.

Walking through the forest or quiet paths always made scara feel at peace which is why he brought you with him. Not because he was bored. His tone would change completely from 'destroyer of nations and Lord sixth' To the blissful innocence he's had as kabukimono. The second you take the opportunity to interlock your hand with his he nearly goes bug eyed as if you Disturbed his peace. He'd Scoff and sigh as if your needy. So you pulled away with a slight frown and immediately he's grabbing tight on your hand. "I never said for you to let go, did I?" He implied and you immediately shook your head and held his hand again with a bright smile on your face while he tippee his hat and looked in another direction, hiding the rosey red blush coating his cheeks. After a couple of days out, scara would be the one holding your hand as soon as you get out the door for a date/ outing he's planned. Everso tightly and even wrapping his arm around your waist so your under his umbrella ((Or hat)) on rainy days.

J: Jack Off- He wouldn't need to unless he's oversees for a mission. He'd fuck you whenever he felt like it. In public, at home. It didn't matter. If you really insisted on waiting until you both got home he'd still pull you over to a alley and kiss you deeply at the very least.

K: Kinks- KUNI!!! CALL HIM KUNI and it practically drives him INSANE!! He loves how sweetly you say his name, either moaning or just calling out for him. You could try kabukimono but He'd get sensitive over it.

Degrading, "Your such a slut~ moaning and pleading for my cock. Want me to give it to you? Then give me more, let me hear more of your pathetic moans. How much do you want your master to fill you up?" Corruption, if it's your first time he'd give the most devilish smirk you've ever seen in your life it would give that weirdo doctor a run for his money. He gets to claim and stuff your pussy full , molding you to perfectly fit his cock and his alone. Breeding, oh for you to have his children. He'd kiss on your belly and abandon his fatui duty's without a second thought. He loves kids and once it was brought up He'd stop at nothing to fill you up with his seed. Just say the word.

L: Location- he prefers the bed, couch, anywhere in your shared home or his palace designated by the tsaritsa. His office however is a favorite of his so he can see you spread out for him and your body jolting back and forth while the desk creeks from his fast pace. But if he was really turned on like at his meeting with Kujou Kamaji..he'd have you stuff your mouth with his cock from under the desk and even pretending to "drop something" just to see your teary eyed face.

M: Motivation- That mouth of yours. Whenever you talk back it amuses him, even during arguments he'd always say things to get a reaction out of you and see what you could come up with just to shut you up later if he loves your answer. (Mention his mother or '3 betrayals' and he'll use you as much as he wants for the day.) Either starving you of an orgasm or deep throating his length and force you to swallow every drop of his cum. If you send a picture of you in black lingerie or any clothing he's bought recently, he'd make it a priority to fuck you as soon as he got home without a care in the world.. he probably left the door open🤭

N: No(turn offs)- Scara would love to try anything with you, either him being top or bottom he always found a way to dominate you or be a brat about it. So it didn't really matter what you did. But if theirs 1 things he didn't care for was wax play. The thought of possibly burning your skin with a mark like that gives him bad memory's.

O: Oral- he loves it. When he plunged 2 of his fingers inside of you and licked at your clit, you came all over his fingers and tongue. You apologized for being so messy but the first thing that came out his mouth was for you to sit on his face like a good girl.

P: Pace- it depends on the mood, he couldn't live watching you walking the next day without stumbling or your legs wobbling. But if it was a long day with fatui work or he hasn't seen you in weeks. It's slow and passionate. He missed feeling your beautiful body. He wanted to explore it just like your first time.

Q: Quickie- Down for it anytime, anywhere.

R: Risk- since he could have you give head right Infront of a colleague. He'd do it Infront of the tsaritsa for all he'd care.

S: Stamina- he's a puppet....and on top of that his 'Creator' is the electro archon. He could go for hours before Overheating 🤭🤭Turning into a sensitive moaning mess. But 'unfortunately' your a human. 2 Rounds minimum.

T: Toys- catching you playing with a toy in your room? He'd watch as you begged and cried from frustration for him to touch you because the toy wasn't enough. How pathetic of you to result to such things while he was away..

U: Unfair- He’s so unfair. he’s brought you to tears almost everytime you did it, he needs you to beg before cumming. Whenever he feels you reaching your climax he'd slow down just to hear you whimper. If you try to tease him he'd indulge it only until he got impatient. Grazing his tip on your folds before riding him? He'd slam you onto his shaft by grabbing your hips. Licking around the tip? As soon as you blink your deep throating his length.

V: Volume- Get as loud as you want, it'll only edge him on more to go faster, to degrade you more, to fuck you harder. As for him he'd mimic your moans just to make fun of you. "Oh shit...You Ah~ like my cock that much? Yes.. faster? Beg for it..cry louder baby~"

W: Wild Card- somnophilia. Only if you give him permission.. if you couldn't wait for him to come back from a mission and we're passed out in his bed he'd flip you over on your back, spread your legs and begin licking and biting at your thighs. When he has a wet dream he'd spare no time and have you waking up to him grunting and groaning in your ear while he folded you like a chair. Also.. electro play..when riding him he'd shock you to go faster instead of slapping your already red ass.

X: X-ray. how big🤨- 6- inches and thick. Grinding on him feels so good it's almost as if he's inside of you already~ making you wet and ache for it. When he shoves it deep inside you there's always a bulge, sometimes he'd even grab a marker and label your tummy. He'll stretch you farther next time.

Y: Yearning- if you want it bad he'll always comply. But ONLY if you want it bad. Keep begging, he needs to know you want It. If you dont beg he'll just swat you off like a bug. Or lazily take you.

Z: Zzz- he'd watch you fall asleep after gazing into his indigo eyes long enough. It was a weird yet comforting feeling as you both laid in bed. Your warm body against his. You'd even lay on his chest to his soft breathing making you rise uppp and downnn. It used to creep you out how he wouldnt breathe sometimes but you got use to it. He'd sit there just observing your body. Even trailing his thumb along your soft lips and cheeks.

-- FIC NOTE 🧍

For those confused on turn off 'Bad memory' with the wax play, I considered it for the 3rd 'Betrayal' When the child died from his illness and Kabukimono burned the house down and most likely buried the kid within it.

But this is all head cannons so I hope this is good food for thought with scara!!

"Didn't you post a scara alphabet before?"

Well yes thank you for remembering 😃☝️ The other one got flagged 🧍

[girlypopbops]

The Ultimate Guide To a Monthly Reset ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Each month deserves a fresh start. This made me inspired to start a new monthly tradition where on the first Sunday of the month, I will do a deep clean a reset. With September just starting and kicking off my favorite string on months coming up, starting now was the perfect time. Below I am going to deep dive into all that I did to put myself back on track for a successful month again. I might also mention that I woke up today feeling the most peace I have in ages, so I can confirm this reset is essential.

Home:

𖥔 Laundry : washing usual clothes, towels, bath mats, bedding, bags, (anything that can be washed essentially)

𖥔 Vacuum

𖥔 Mop

𖥔 Clean mirrors

𖥔 Wipe down all surfaces

𖥔 Dust

𖥔 Re-organize all drawers and papers

𖥔 Put everything back in its designated spot

𖥔 Clean makeup & hairbrushes

𖥔 Clean out any junk ( in drawers, bags, wallets)

Digital Space:

𖥔 Clear out any old messages that aren't needed taking up space

𖥔 Clear out search histories

𖥔 Change device wallpapers & re-organize home screen

𖥔 Delete any apps you don't use

𖥔 Clean out camera roll

𖥔 Unfollow social media accounts that aren't good for your mental health

𖥔 Clear out emails

Brain:

𖥔 Journal about the prior month & reflect on what was fun and what didn't work out

𖥔 Set goals for the new month

𖥔 Tarot reading on advice & what to expect in the upcoming month

𖥔 Re-asses routines

Body:

𖥔 Everything shower : full shave, exfoliate, scrubs, dry brush, body oils, tons of moisturizer

𖥔 Face mask

𖥔 Full skin care : shave face, pluck eyebrows, clean out pores, oils, eye cream, toner, moisturizer, use a frozen clear quartz or amethyst face roller and gua sha

𖥔 Teeth whitening strip

𖥔 Paint nails

Finish the evening off with a hot tea and book and a nice candle burning!

☆.。.:*·°☆.。.:*·°☆.。.:*·°☆.。.:*·°☆☆.。.:*·°☆.。.:*·°☆.。.:*·°☆.

Getting into bed all squeaky clean, clean bedding, mind clear, and ready to take on whatever the month has in store is sure to get you the most refreshing nights sleep!

[afyrian]

ch. 3 - the key to my heart m.list

    the warm morning air hits your face as you open the front door of ‘earthen kiln’. bright summer rays rise over the nearby buildings, bouncing against your sunglasses. locking the door behind you, you head off towards the main city center. very rarely do you leave the homey bubble of ‘earthen kiln’. except for the occasional monday where you make a few exchanges. 

  your first class on mondays get a fresh box of pastries cause you give extra mugs to the local diner. a pair of earrings when trading a small jewelry holder. even receiving a bouquet of flowers once a week in exchange for pots at ‘calico blooms’. so every monday morning, you go around and exchange all of your trinkets that you threw in the kiln. 

  ‘calico blooms’ is always your last stop, making sure you have extra time to talk with kiyoko. she's been there longer than your pottery shop has been down the street. even talking with a realtor friend of hers to get you a good deal on the place. making her store a good place to take a break and share a pastry. 

  the best part being when you open the front french doors, smelling the floral hints in the air. she's organized them in such a way that the stronger smelling flowers are towards the back, letting people ease into the aroma. almost immediately you're always greeted by her or one of her minions. this time though, it's her. 

  she stands up straight, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, stray hairs off to the side, "y/n! i see you brought pastries, i assume you have-"

  "a vanilla dipped donut with sprinkles? of course i do," you carry the box over to her stand, setting it down on the corner in case any customers decide to come in. 

  kiyoko gives you a soft smile, eagerly waiting for you to open the box and split it up for the two of you. even if it is a routine for the two of you, normalized and simple, it still brings a smile to her face every time. "so, what's up with the ‘onigiri miya’ guy? the whole square has been wondering about him. it's become so busy there that some of the other restaurants are getting worried," she takes her half of the donut from your hand, leaning her elbow against the counter.

  "okay- so his name is miya osamu, and i have no idea how to feel about him. i mean like he's been there for about a few weeks now and i'm still worried. like he seems really sweet, one time actually..." you start to reminisce of a memory from the last day, waving your hands as you talk, a few sprinkles falling.

  "l/n! i think you may have dropped something," a familiarly warm voice calls out for you, a sense of urgency hidden within.

  your head whips around quickly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. when you turn around you can see miya standing outside of ‘earthen kiln’s’ door, a key in his hand. his other hand is resting on his hip, fingers resting in front of his apron some. something about him in the morning glow makes your cheeks feel hot to the touch. 

  “i was cleaning tables and saw something shiny fell, figured it’d be important,” miya walks over to you, reaching the key out.

  resting your hand out, palm up, he sets it in your hand. just barely, his fingers graze your palm as it sends goosebumps up your arm. “thanks, miya, if i would’ve lost that, i don’t know what i would’ve done!” you let out a deep sigh, scratching behind your ear with your free hand. 

  “of course, and if we’re going to be neighbors for a while, why don’t you just call me osamu. if you ever meet my brother, it’ll help introductions immensely,” he gives you a warm smile, his stray hairs flowing back from the wind. 

  you nod, wondering if you’re ready for this kind of relationship with him. he seems nice, easy to talk to, yet you know that his store’s influence could negatively impact you. if you spend this whole time romancing him, you may forget about the thing most important to you, your passion, “okay… and you can call me y/n. it’s only fair if i’m calling you osamu.”

  “great, well, good luck on your journey,” he gestures towards your bag, looking at you in such a way that you’ve never seen before, “and if you ever need a key collector again, let me know.”

  “…it honestly made me feel a little giddy,” you admit, lowering your head to rest it in your hands, shaking it slightly as you realize how silly it all sounds. 

  kiyoko reaches a hand over, rubbing in a circular motion along your upper back, “it sounds sweet, and besides, even if he does put someone out of business, you can always ask him out for his money.”

  “c’mon.. you’re so ridiculous.”

  “i’m just saying! plus you seem to like him some, even if this ‘osamu’ could affect the square some, doesn’t mean you can’t find love. there’s someone across the street who co-owns the tattoo shop and honestly, it makes me nervous, but you have to go for what you want,” she removes her hand from your back, pulling your hand from your face and running her thumb along the back of your palm.

  you take in a deep breath and shrug your shoulders, pursing your lips, “yeah.. i just wish i knew what i wanted. and also, you’re not talking about kuroo, right?”

  “no! his co-owner, she- she’s great,” kiyoko shrugs her shoulders, closing her eyes in contentment. 

  there’s always been an air about kiyoko in which she seems to have it all together. the cute girl across the street, the shop that’s blooming wonderfully in the town, and not a single doubt that ‘onigiri miya’ will affect her business. even now, she stands there smiling to herself, completely in love with life. 

  “that’s great kiyoko, i can’t wait to go with you guys on a double date,” you lean forward, poking her shoulder, ignoring the nagging feeling deep down. 

a/n: i love you calico blooms, also check out eggy’s ‘inked’ which is a kiyoko smau!! also maybe a smau extra tomorrow for this <3 taglist: @causenessus @osakis-gf @eggyrocks @brkfclub @marisabel14

@bbybibi @etoiile @miyamoratsumuu @girlokarina @gsyche

@cherrypieyourface @zephestia @acowboykisser @whosmarjj @gumiiiiezzzz

[deexchanel]

Golden.

Word Count: 2,650

Pairing: Geralt of Rivera x BlackFem!OC

Warning: Swearing, Fluff, Angst, Fighting, Arguing

Summary: Geralt is known to everyone that he is not the relationship type. After having an recurring dream, one woman is stuck on his mind and he can’t let this one get away.

A/N: Another Geralt oneshot uh ohhh. I know that this timeline is in 1210 but I'm not going to try hard to have it that way, meaning it will be some modern things in here. It is not edited, but since I'm on break, it won't take me long to do. Aside from that, Thank you for reading!

The fire brew nicely keeping both him and her very warm for the night. Geralt laid next to the girl that made him forget about everything else he dealt with. He felt content with having her close to him and nothing mattered at the moment.

He rolled over to smell her warm vanilla scent but there was no head. Geralt snatches the cover off in shock to see her body except with no arms or legs. He scoots back kicking the cover,”AH!”

A deep howl sounds off behind him and he quickly draws his sword, looking in every direction. His heart pounded in his chest as an animal come rushing towards him. Geralt stood up ready for battle and the Barghest jumped to him.

That’s when Geralt awoken from his slumber. He swung his feet to the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. He then began grabbing nearby items to get dressed for leaving. When finished, he nudged Jaskier with his foot. “Jaskier, meet me at Kaer Morhen. I will be there but I have to go somewhere first.”

Jaskier, who was sleeping on the floor, heard him perfectly but still waved him off because it was still early in the morning. Geralt walked out the door, making way to his horse, Roach.

“Good Morning.” He spoke lowly while rubbing his favorite spot. Geralt climbed on, beginning his trip to Town of Odin. This dream occurred to him the previous night as well and he didn’t want it to be a third time.

——

“I need to make sure I grab some fresh bed linens while heading to work.” Nyla mumbled to herself as she folded her now clean clothes. After placing them on top of her vanity, she pulled apart a few of her curls to give her hair a fuller look.

Spending a couple of minutes in the mirror to make sure her face is clean and smooth. Nyla got up from the vanity making way to the bed where her outfit laid. It was a white dress with a green flower print all over, pairing that with some white sandals. Once smearing her melted cocoa butter against her lips, she made way to the kitchen.

Nyla picked up things around the house, wanting to organize her little home. It was a 1 bedroom, 1 bath cottage style home, it's perfect to her. The record player spun tunes that she loved which gave motivation to clean up her home. She is a single 23 year old with no intentions of having a man any time soon so the small size is great.

“Good Morning, Ms.June!” The chocolate woman waved over to her neighbor with pure happiness.

Ms.June waved back, “Morning Nyla! I made croissants, would you like some?”

She gave her a smile, “Yes ma’am, I would love one.” Nyla looked both ways before crossing over the rocky road. She would never turn down any baked goods from Ms. June. She was the only woman that made her feel welcomed in the group.

The Town of Odin was a big well known town, from the fabulous boutiques to the nice food places. The beautiful garden at the entrance of the town , ropes tourist in.

Nyla lived on out skirt of the town, living in the house her grandmother once lived in. Our beautiful Nyla is a people person but loves being alone when it comes to her living space.

Getting that trait from the fact that she grew up with two older brothers and older sister. When having siblings there is no definition of personal space. Her parents moved to New Asgard under rightful leadership of Queen Frigga. She visits quite often but this month she was going to miss their plans.

After eating the warm flaky croissant, she straightened her front patio from any fallen debris. She also had a huge flower garden that she tended too frequently.

Tending does have her outside all day which she then spends her evening going to Ms. June house. One person is writing while the other yells out fictional story ideas to write down. Tonight she did have a shift to pick up so she wouldn't be able to spend majority of time there like she always does.

Today shall give her peace.

Or so she hopes.

Eyes set upon Geralt as he stalked through the city of Odin. The city didn't have a hate relationship with Witcher's unlike surrounding places but his guard was still up. He held on his needed things and the leash that connected to his horse, Roach.

By time he arrived in the city, it was past night fall. Geralt was pretty tired but determined to save his love. He knew the path to Nyla’s house, so he kept his distance from everyone until...

"GET THE FUCK OUT MY PUB!" A feminine voice was heard in the streets from this pub that was on his left. That voice sounded very familiar. Too familiar.

He made his way over to the pub curious on what the chaos was about. Geralt stood tall at the door, scanning the crowd looking for a certain pair of brown eyes. A guy stood in front of him with his back facing the door, arguing with someone. That someone landed a clean punch across his face making him forcefully bumped into Geralt.

He pushed him back making the guy now face him. "The fuck is your problem!?"

Geralt expression harden," You bumped into me." his eyes shifted to the person behind him. It was Nyla. His Nyla. Their eyes made contact, setting off bombs of love within him.

It's like nothing else mattered but her.

Reality kicked in when the drunk guy continued his yelling, getting closer to Geralt. "You stood there fuck tard! This low down pub took my money."

Nyla crossed her arms, not even phased by the insults. She just wanted him out of her pub quickly. "Oh my gosh, you're complaining but still here! I been said get the fuck out."

"I can leave whenever I want bitch." The drunk guy spat into her face, sizing her up. This stupid act got his ass punched the first time. Nyla balled her hand into a fist, lifting her arm but Geralt instantly grabbed his shoulder forcing him to turn around.

He landed a smooth punch to the side of his face. The strength made the guy blacked out and Geralt dragged his limp body out the door, tossing him in the road.

Making it back in, his focus was 100% on Nyla. In that swiftness, she was back serving food and drinks to customers. He looked around the room then settled on the table in the corner.

His eyes instantly locked back onto Nyla, noticing every little detail. Seeing the gold jewelry she wore brought out her brown eye color. Nyla's dark brown curly hair bounced as she walked around. Her outfit didn't reveal much but a man has an great imagination. Noticing her smooth brown skin as it glisten in the light. Nyla's nice plumped lips had him wanting to kiss her every second if he could.

"You're staring." Nyla's firm voice broke him out of his trance. Gosh, she looks more amazing up close. Geralt gave her small smile, "I know."

"What do you want Witcher? I haven't seen or heard from you in years." She sat the piece of paper down, placing a hand on her curvy hip. Taking this time to notice some of his features, he definitely looked different then he did four years ago.

"I came to save you..." He couldn't even finish due to protest.

"Save me? I can take care of myself perfectly fine." She raised an eyebrow. Questioning herself, what does she need to be saved from? him obviously. He left the first time, that mean he's bound to do it again.

"I can see that very clearly but whatever's after you, I just can't let you be here alone. You need to come with me Nyla." Geralt points to her, his face held the determination. Letting her know that he is serious.

"So you only came because something is after me. I appreciate that you care but Geralt like I mentioned, I haven't seen you in years. I do not feel comfortable skipping town with you."

"Nyla listen!"

"I'm listening Geralt! You don't have anything else to say other than you came to save me. If it wasn't something after me, I would've never heard from you again. Am I lying?"

Geralt trailed off in silence knowing what she was saying is very true. After a couple of seconds he spoke." What you speak of is not true. I'm wanted by many, I didn't want to put you in harm's way."

"Geralt that is bullshit!" Nyla claim as shook her head in disbelief. Is she really hearing these words come out his mouth

"I'm sure you'd do a much better job of killing it then." He stood up from table, feeling regret and frustration. His tallness made Nyla melt but she had to keep her composure.

"You thought I was going to welcome you back with open arms? I'm angry with you Geralt! You're so self-absorbed. You only care about yourself!" Nyla voice started to raise not caring if it caught the crowd attention.

Geralt lets out angry groan. His icy white hair flowed as he walked pass her leaving. Nyla didn't want him to leave, honestly she was happy to see him but her anger got the best. She lets out an angry groan herself, " Fine!"

She balled up the paper that she used to take orders and tossed it to the back of his head. It hit his back, obviously not feeling it he continued walking out the door.

"Nyla can you refill-" Her manager starts as Nyla get closer to the bar. The manager doesn't likes her for whatever weird reason and uses every moment to patronize her.

"Shut the fuck up talking to me." Nyla cuts her eyes, grabbing the full beer glass so she can pass them out.

-----

It's hitting midnight which is what time the pub closes. As usual Nyla is the last to stay doing her normal. Consisting of wiping tables down, cleaning the windows and sweeping. When finished, she grabbed her things and locked the doors.

The night sky was clear as she saw the full moon above while walking out the town of Odin. Nyla loved the light from moon as it brighten the pathway home. Weirdly the town was quieter then usual, normally it would plenty townmens standing around the bonfire.

Maybe it was something in the air. It's only a ten minute walk from town and the surrounding forest area isn't too thick so Nyla isn't scared to walk by herself at time. It's just something about tonight that gave her this weird eerie feeling.

Hearing a dog whine astray her from being lost in thought. Nyla stopped so she could hear clearly, "Hello?"

The whining started again and she turned to her right, taking one foot off the path to get to the injured dog but the whine turn into a slow growl.

Nyla instantly stopped in her tracks beginning to speak out again, "Hel-"

She catch sight of a pair of orange eyes staring back, oh shit.

For a second out of fear, she stood there. A monstrous Barghest, orange eyes glowing with predatory intent, lunged. Its gnarled claws reached for her, the air crackling with its otherworldly power. She lets out a blood-curdling shriek beginning to run down the path.

Not to far from Nyla's home, stood Geralt as he was staking out behind her house. That scream grasps his attention, shaking him to the core. Without thought, he takes off towards the sound.

Nyla ran til she couldn't, as adrenaline rushes through her body. Nothing could make her look into the eyes of death. In the matter of what felt like hours, Geralt eyes of cat-like yellow, materialized from the shadows running towards. His silver sword gleamed in the moon light, he yelled for her "Nyla!"

That grabbed her attention, losing focusing on running, she tripped over a stone. Geralts leaps over her, sword drawn and at the ready.

"Your hunger ends here." Geralt growled, his voice a low rumble.

The Barghest roared, its attention diverted from Nyla. With a swift, graceful motion, Geralt sidestepped the beast's clawed attack, his sword dancing in a deadly ballet. Each strike was precise, each parry flawless.

Nyla, though terrified, found herself awed by the Witcher's skill. She'd heard tales of his prowess, but witnessing it firsthand was a different experience entirely. The battle raged, a symphony of steel on bone, of snarls and grunts. The forest echoed with the clash of the two adversaries, their every move a deadly dance.

--------

Nyla's small arm wrapped around Geralt's buff frame as she helped him into the house. Both covered in blood, she flung them to the couch. Tired is the understatement.

Whatever position they landed in, Gerald sat there with his eyes closed holding on to his bleeding torso. Nyla sat there as well til she relized that the couch was covered in blood. Oh well, she'll get him to throw it out in a hour or so, just not right now.

"Geralt."

"Hmm."

"We have to get you stitched up love."

"No it's fine, I'll heal."

"Geralt..."

"Nyla I'm fine, I promise." He opened his eyes, the yellow in his eyes didn't glow like when he's upset. Nyla expression softened as she grabbed his free hand. He squeezed her hand a little but, "Let's just get cleaned up."

Nyla doesn't respond but lets out a breathe she didn't know she held. She made way to the bathroom, prepping the hot bath water. Once finished, she got into the water then called for him. "The water is ready!" In two minutes, Geralt walks in the bathroom, getting in the tub. Nyla looks away in this moment, not it the mood for anything sexual.

Right now she just wants to cuddle this man. When he settled in the water she moved closer to him, placing a head on his shoulder. "I shouldn't have been so stubborn earlier. I'm sorry Geralt, thank you for saving me."

"No need to apologize Nyla." He wrapped his arm around her, placing a kiss on her forehead. "I will aways come to your rescue." In this moment, the world was silent and all that matter was the steaming water against their skin.

"And I will always appreciate you for that." She spoke gently, her hand rubbed against his scars, amazed at his healing ability. Nyla leaned up from his loving brace, facing him. " I've really missed you Geralt."

" I've missed you too Nyla."

His deep voice made her heart flutter and Nyla averted her gaze, nervously . The Geralt of Rivia claim that he misses her. He gently placed a finger under her chin to make Nyla look to him.

Her heart pounded as their eyes locked, his golden eyes burning into her soul. She felt breathless. Not wasting a second, Geralt placed his lips onto hers.

Their bodies pulsed with the raw energy of their passion, every touch, a testament to their love. Nyla places her hand against his face, deepening the kiss. Geralt pulled her closer wishing he could mold their skin together so they never parted. He wanted to devour her, kissing her ever so passionately, wanting her to feel his love.

She meant everything to him.

As their lips parted, their foreheads rested against each other, their eyes filled with unspoken promises.

They were bound by a love that transcended words, a love that consumed them entirely.

-----------------

I know Geralt didn't have many lines, but remember he might not be the most expressive lover. It's his actions and unwavering dedication that speaks words.

Wow, I love the motivation I had for this cause it's crazy how I started on this in 2022 lol. I hope every one enjoy, I wish you the best holidays!

Stay slutty my friends!

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, ED

CHAPTER 1: This is Me Trying

Five months isn’t enough to change a person.


Aegon had explained this to his mother and even dared to bring it up with his father.

They were in the car at the time, the seatbelt strapped tightly across him feeling more like a straitjacket, as they drove toward rehab.

Predictably, his arguments were met with silence and a shrug.

He wasn’t surprised.

His mother hadn’t spoken to him since the incident. At first, Aegon had been slightly concerned, but he quickly came to the conclusion that he preferred the silence to the inevitable lectures she would have otherwise unleashed upon him.

Endless, nagging, and hypocritical.

During his five months at the facility, the therapist assigned to him had introduced him to the concept of palliatives.

Drugs, he explained, were Aegon’s palliative. A way to cope with his hard life.
For a brief moment, Aegon had felt a pang of self-pity. But it didn’t last long. He soon realized how hypocritical it was that the world seemed to focus solely on his palliatives.

Wasn’t it a palliative when his father organized those tedious family dinners, pretending everything was fine? Wasn’t it a palliative when his mother refused to eat more than once a day? Or when his brother spent hours on SoundCloud or practicing piano, trying to control the one thing he could in a world that was otherwise out of his hands?

At least Aegon wasn’t a hypocrite.

His method of numbing himself while waiting for something—anything—good to happen was blatant, honest, and immediate.
And, most importantly, it didn’t harm anyone but himself.

Unlike his father’s blissful ignorance of the people in his life, or his mother’s erratic attempts to maintain control over the children she had raised on a diet of resentment and mistrust.

Even more absurd was how the rehab’s only achievement had been keeping him clean for five months.

Then, despite the fact that his loathing for his miserable existence hadn’t changed, they sent him out the door with a pin on his jacket that read I Made It and a series of strained smiles. Aegon could almost see those smiles fading the moment the doors closed behind him. He imagined them rubbing their sore cheeks, exhausted from the effort of faking it.

Savoring that image, and just reminded of said pin, he’d ripped it off his jacket and tossed it into the nearest bin, just outside the pub where he was waiting for Aemond.

As he cringed at the thought of looking like a total loser on his first night out since being allowed to leave the house after dark, another thought brought him some relief: His brother was late.

Finally, he spotted the sleek black Uber slowing to a stop.

Aemond stepped out, adjusting his coat with his usual precision, looking just as buttoned-up as ever.

Aegon smirked as he approached. "Nice of you to show up,"

"You should thank me. Must feel like shit being trusted outside only if I take you out on a leash," Aemond replied.

"That's why I'm surprised. Didn't peg you as the type to leave your poor brother hanging in some dive like this," Aegon said.

Aemond's expression barely shifted, though his voice had an edge. "A session player the label hired for Ryan Westbrook's album bailed last minute," he replied, matter-of-fact. "Had to jump in and handle it myself."

Aegon gave an exaggerated, mocking nod. "Of course. Always going above and beyond, right? Wouldn't be you if you weren't putting out every little fire around here."

Aemond's eyes narrowed, his tone taking on a distinct coolness. "Someone has to, don't they?" He paused just a moment. "Not everyone can afford to leave things unfinished.”

The implication landed sharply, and Aegon's jaw tightened, though he kept up his lazy grin.

He hated how his brother always found ways to cut deep without raising his voice or losing that controlled look.

He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Aegon followed Aemond through the entrance of the pub, the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne hanging heavy in the air.

As they made their way toward the bar, Aegon glanced around, taking in the worn booths and scuffed floors, and raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, Aemond? You brought me to an open mic?"

Aemond didn't look up from his phone as they approached the bar. "There's an artist playing tonight. Someone I'm interested in for the label."

Aegon let out a dry laugh as he leaned against the counter. "Let me guess. Another jazz purist who thinks they're too good for a real audience? Or maybe some virtuoso who's technically perfect but couldn't make you feel a thing if they tried."

Aemond didn't rise to the bait, just ordered his beer—a Guinness, of course-and finally looked at Aegon, expression perfectly controlled. "Believe it or not, technical skill isn't a bad thing. Maybe you'd understand that if you'd ever taken the time to perfect anything."

Aegon scoffed, shaking his head. "Perfect things all you want, it doesn't make it real."

Aemond's jaw tensed just slightly, but he was quick to mask it. "Not everything has to be tortured and messy to be real," he replied coolly.

Aegon gave a low laugh. "I bet Dad loves that pitch. 'Nothing too risky, nothing too raw.'"

Aemond's eyes flicked back to his phone as it buzzed with a notification, his attention shifting immediately. "What would you know."

Aegon let out a breath, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't stop the flash of anger in his chest. "Oh, nothing. I was passed out for that lesson about Dad's artistic values."

Aemond barely looked up, already absorbed in his emails, barely acknowledging him. "As if he knows anything about art himself," he said coolly before turning back to the screen.

Aegon scoffed, ordering his own drink.

There was a strange irony in spending five months locked up, discussing coping mechanisms while people worse off than him screamed at all hours of the day and night, only to end up casually ordering a lager like nothing had happened. Clearly, no one cared about coping mechanisms when they were legal, Aegon thought. Especially not in the UK, and definitely not in London.

Bunch of hypocrites.

"Right, and that's why I'm here-to witness your next big discovery." He took a long sip of his beer, smirking at Aemond. "Lucky me."

Aemond glanced at him with faint irritation before his attention returned to his phone, clearly signaling where his priorities lay. To him, Aegon was little more than background noise in a night focused on scouting talent.

Aegon gave a sarcastic laugh. "Who even are you here for, anyway?"

"A girl. Songwriter. I stumbled on her here weeks ago." Aemond said before looking at Aegon, noticing his slight smirk. "Not exactly your type, though. She looks like she actually has her life together.”

Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, but those are the best. Usually packed with daddy issues and give the best blowjobs."

Aemond sighed. "For once in your life, try not to be yourself for five minutes until I finish talking to her, will you?"

Aegon smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh no, l'd never dream of it. In fact, I can't wait to witness your undeniable charm in action."

Aemond didn't even dignify him with a response, finally setting his phone down and scanning the room, trying to figure out when the set would start.

Aegon took another sip of his beer, then smirked. "How's the studio in my attic going, by the way?"

Aemond didn't look at him, though a faint edge crept into his voice. "Your attic? Maybe it was. It's actually functional now."

Aegon folded his arms, giving a wry smile. "Functional, sure. Guess the label needs more square footage to turn out all your jazz virtuosos. I'll take it back, though."

"Right," Aemond muttered, half-amused. "Because you need the space so badly. That last big project of yours going well?" He lifted an eyebrow, a look of practiced coolness. "Or did you leave that in rehab too?"

Aegon's smirk faded for a second, then he shot back, "Yeah, along with your unpopped cherry.”

Both brothers turned toward the stage, the argument dying on their lips, as the first soft notes of a piano drifted through the pub.

Under the dim spotlight, a woman sat at the piano, her fingers moving with practiced ease over the keys.

Aegon’s attention sharpened as her voice cut through the crowd—steady but raw, carrying a quiet strength that filled the room.

He froze, the words echoing through his chest.

She sang about falling behind, about losing control before she even realized she’d let go. There was no dramatization, no plea for sympathy—just the quiet, aching admission of someone trying to find their way back. Her song was a confession wrapped in melody, each line peeling back a layer of something deeply personal.

Something about her voice and the way she laid each line down hit close, almost too close. She didn’t have that polished, technical precision Aemond loved so much; her voice was a little rough around the edges, real in a way that felt honest and exposed. As she reached the refrain, her voice softened, but the weight of it lingered.

It wasn’t a desperate cry for help, just a quiet acknowledgment of the struggle—of waking up every day and choosing to keep going, even when it felt impossible. He clenched his jaw, unable to look away. There was something in her performance that felt like she was reaching right through him, laying bare everything he’d been feeling since his release.

Beside him, Aemond was watching too, his expression cool but focused, his ‘talent scout’ face firmly in place.

“She is—”

“Incredible, I know.” Aemond cut in, his tone cold and detached, like he’d already done all the calculations in his head. He took a sip of his drink, but Aegon barely heard him.

The music pulled at something in him, tugging him closer. Before he even realized it, he was standing, making his way through the sparse crowd toward the stage, almost in a trance.

As she reached the bridge, her voice deepened, rawer, her words lingering in the air. She glanced up, and their eyes met—just for a brief second, but it was enough.

Aegon felt a rush, an unexplainable feeling that had him frozen in place. Then, just as quickly as it happened, she looked away, finishing the song with a haunting final chord.

The old crowd broke into a light applause, scattered but appreciative, but Aegon didn’t clap.

He was too transfixed, watching her as she stepped down from the stage. He didn’t even notice Aemond’s presence until he felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder.

Aemond leaned in, his voice a sharp whisper. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Aegon. Just… Stay out of my way on this.”

Aegon shrugged him off, but Aemond’s grip tightened for just a second—a subtle warning.

Aegon ignored it, his gaze lingering on the singer as the last notes of her song still echoed in his mind. She had bowed her head in quiet thanks before stepping off the modest stage, her smile small but genuine.

Aemond finally released Aegon’s shoulder, straightening his collar like the proper little businessman he pretended to be.

Aegon thought he looked ridiculous—playing the part, as if he weren’t just another desperate son trying to prove himself to their father.

“Victoria,” Aemond called out, stepping forward as she passed nearby.

Aegon tasted the name in his mind. Victoria. Even that sounded regal.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, squinting slightly as she registered who had spoken. Almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick lashes beneath a straight fringe. Then, recognition. Her expression cooled instantly.

“Oh, not you again.” She rolled her eyes, sheer irritation in every syllable.

She turned to walk past them, but Aemond stepped into her path. “Wait! I sent you an email—”

“One yesterday, two the day before, five last week,” she interrupted, arms crossing. “It’s already pathetic enough that your slimy, opportunistic father sends you to negotiate on his behalf. Do you really want to add stalking to your family’s list of improper behaviors?”

Aegon barely held back a laugh. He couldn’t blame her.

But then Victoria’s sharp gaze landed on him. “And what are you laughing at?”

Aegon opened his mouth to reply, but Aemond cut him off. “My brother. Completely incapable of reading a room.”

Victoria let out a bitter chuckle. “Ah, so Viserys sent reinforcements.” She exhaled, exasperated. “My answer is still no, Aemond.”

“I’ve drafted a contract that’s fair and balanced. If you’d just give me five minutes—” Before he could finish, a voice rang out from behind the bar.

“Hey, Stevie Nicks! Performance is over. Swap out the IPA keg.”

Victoria glanced over her shoulder at the short haired barlady, then back at Aemond with a mockingly apologetic shrug. Without another word, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the back of the pub, leaving them standing there.

Like idiots.

Aegon grinned. “Well, that went well.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Aemond muttered, downing the last of his Guinness and slamming the empty glass onto the near table. He turned and stormed toward the exit.

Outside, Aegon found his brother scrolling through his phone, glancing up and down the street like he had somewhere important to be. “What are you doing?”

“Heading back to the studio,” Aemond replied without looking up.

Aegon scoffed. “Oh, come on. I haven’t been out in five months. Can’t you stop being a resentful prick for a couple more hours?”

Aemond’s Uber pulled up to the curb. He finally looked at Aegon, smirking. “Well, aren’t you thrilled? You’ve just been unleashed.” He gestured toward the open night. “Have fun. And if you die, do it discreetly.”

With that, he climbed into the car and slammed the door shut.

The window rolled down just enough for one final jab. “And for the record, it’s my studio, not your attic.”

The car pulled away, leaving Aegon standing there, caught between conflicting emotions—anger that people kept throwing those five months in his face, irritation that his brother had actually defied their mother’s orders not to leave him alone, and, most surprisingly… relief. For the first time in months, he was free.

He stepped back into the pub, drawn toward the idea of another drink. Maybe even a woman for the night—someone foolish enough not to question why a grown man had to sneak her into his parents’ house to hook up in his childhood bedroom.

As he scanned the room, the thought quickly soured. The place was dismal.

The average age seemed to be about eighty-two, and they weren’t even the jovial, ruddy-faced drunks who’d offer outdated wisdom and fart without noticing. No, these were pseudo-intellectuals discussing theater and poetry.

Aegon couldn’t help but picture Aemond like that in forty years: hawkish nose folded in on itself, cheeks finally sagging against his jaw. A miserable, pretentious old man.

Hell, there was even one on stage now, waxing lyrical in some pretentious slam poetry performance.

Christ.

Not exactly bright business tactics.

If Victoria played a whole night here, maybe the place would actually draw a crowd.

Victoria.

Her lyrics flitted through his mind. Aemond had been right about one thing—she seemed like someone who had her life together. What the hell did someone like her know about his kind of mess? About waking up to find yourself utterly wrecked, again and again, until there was nothing left to wreck?

The thought triggered a sudden craving for beer.

Making his way to the bar, he found her behind it, wrestling with the IPA keg her colleague had asked her to replace.

Aegon studied her for a moment, settling directly in front of the tap and praying he wouldn’t get the same treatment Aemond had.

She wore a short-sleeved shirt, and the arm facing him was fully inked with tattoos.

“Should I call security?” Victoria asked suddenly, clearly irritated by the weight of the keg and even more by Aegon’s presence a mere breath away from her face.

“Relax, I’m not here to talk business. I just want a beer,” Aegon replied, calm enough to sound believable. Victoria eyed him for a moment, then let go of the keg briefly before resuming her task.

“Fine. What’ll it be?” she asked, deliberately ignoring the other customers, likely hoping to deal with him as quickly as possible.

“An IPA,” Aegon said, his tone challenging as he locked eyes with her.

Victoria scoffed and went back to changing the keg, clearly annoyed.

“You sing well,” Aegon commented casually, testing the waters and taking advantage of their enforced proximity.

“I know,” she replied coldly, not bothering to meet his gaze, still wrestling with the keg.

“Did you write that song?” he tried again.

“Who else?” she shot back sarcastically, now visibly more irritated as she stood upright and grabbed a pint glass.

“It was beautiful,” Aegon said quietly as he watched her fill his beer. Victoria glanced up at him from beneath her fringe, unconvinced by the sincerity of his compliment.

“It felt like one of my therapy sessions. It was surreal hearing someone else sing all my thoughts,” he added.

Victoria continued to eye him skeptically.

“I write too,” Aegon admitted. “But my music’s always been more… arrogant, cocky stuff,” he said, always self-deprecating, fumbling for the right words. “Tonight, though, I envied you. I wish I could express pain the way you do.”

Victoria slammed his pint down on the bar. “Look, if this is some ploy by your father or your brother to get me to sign that contract, it’s not going to work,” she said, smoothing her fringe and grabbing the card reader. “But I’ll give you credit—at least your excuse is creative. Guess you finally realized that borderline harassment can land you a lawsuit.”

Aegon’s expression darkened.

Insolent, arrogant brat.

This is what happened when he tried to be vulnerable, to step out from behind his crutches.

Bravo, therapist. What a stellar piece of advice.

He pulled out his wallet, grabbed a card without meeting her eyes, and paid.

“Bitch,” he muttered, grabbing his beer and heading for the smoking area.

“Fucking nepo-baby,” she shot back.

Aegon let out a nervous laugh at life’s endless ironies. And for the second time that night, he couldn’t say she was wrong.

*********

“How many days have to pass before I can officially say I’ve been ghosted?” Victoria asked, slipping her phone back into her bag and pulling out a cigarette instead.

Sara was tugging a beanie over her head, having just locked the pub door behind them. With her short hair, red nose, and wide eyes, she looked like a kid straight out of a cartoon. “I don’t know, 85 days?”

Victoria laughed, partly because Sara’s answer perfectly summed up months of their disastrous encounters with men, and partly because she felt stupid for even asking. She lit her cigarette, shielding it from London’s biting wind.

“Is this the guy from Friday, or last week’s?” Sara asked again.

“Wednesday. The one who saves trees for a living,” Victoria replied, her tone flat as she took a drag.

“Lovely. Noble,” Sara quipped sarcastically. “And yet not noble enough to tell you he doesn’t want to see you again?”

Victoria shrugged. She might’ve been more upset if it wasn’t a story that had played out so many times before. She and Sara had dissected it endlessly: We’re almost thirty, London’s too big, dating apps have turned every connection into something interchangeable and meaningless.

Every half-baked sociological theory about men ended the same way—with a loud “Fuck men” and another round of pints at the pub below their shared flat.

Victoria let out a long sigh, tossing her cigarette into the bin near their bus stop. “If only St. Louis would get back to me, I wouldn’t have to keep distracting myself with these useless men.”

“Fuck men,” Sara echoed, and Victoria nodded solemnly. “Although, if you’d just take Aemond Targaryen’s offer, you wouldn’t even need some songwriting master’s program full of spoiled rich kids playing the trumpet because no one else thought of it,” Sara teased.

Victoria shot her a scandalized look before turning her attention to the approaching bus.

“After what they did to Charlie? If you hate me and want to see me tied down by their outrageous, seven-year contract, just say so. You can cover both our bills, too,” she said, tapping her phone against the card reader, the familiar beep yet another reminder that life isn’t free and she, unfortunately, wasn’t a Kardashian.

Sara huffed as she collapsed into the seat next to Victoria. Vic hoped it was from climbing the double-decker’s stairs, not her earlier comment. “It’s that asshole Charlie who’s put these ideas in your head, isn’t it?”

Never mind, Vic thought, rolling her eyes.

“Vic, Charlie’s a talentless idiot who got lucky for ten minutes, couldn’t handle the pressure, and now he’s terrified you’ll do better than him. His ego can’t take it, not after dumping you.”

Victoria’s face darkened, a bitter smile tugging at her lips as she turned to look out toward Vauxhall Bridge. No matter how much time had passed, the sting of losing Charlie was still there, suffocating like a plastic bag around her head.

“Sorry, but I love you too much not to be honest. And honestly, you should stop talking to him, let alone seeing him,” Sara declared, crossing her arms with a bit too much conviction for it not to be personal.

“I only meet him to talk about music,” Victoria lied, her voice barely convincing even herself. “And anyway, I’ve read their contract. It’s objectively exploitative,” she added defensively.

“Well, great. If you want to keep working at the pub forever, at least I’ll have company,” Sara retorted, her stern tone laced with affection.

“Until you land a role as Fantine in the West End and leave me to deal with Rhys and his low-rise jeans,” Victoria quipped, finally turning to meet her friend’s gaze.

Both of them pulled exaggerated shivers, as if on cue.

“I accidentally brushed his hand earlier, and he asked if I use shea butter,” Sara said with a grimace.

“Gross,” Victoria deadpanned.

“I know!” Sara shot back without missing a beat, sticking out her tongue in exaggerated disgust.

A moment of silence fell as Sara recalled the incident with Rhys, only now realizing why Victoria hadn’t caught her earlier desperate glance for help.

“Who was the other blond guy?” Sara asked, genuinely curious.

“Aemond’s brother. Professional suck-up, apparently. He wouldn’t stop gushing about how much he loved tonight’s song,” Victoria said, her voice tinged with annoyance. “Then he called me a bitch,” she added indignantly, seeking validation from her friend.

“Hot,” Sara replied, catching Victoria off guard and making her burst into laughter.

“What? He was hot!” Sara insisted.

Victoria composed herself and shrugged. He was hot, she admitted silently. The kind of hot that triggered her savior complex. Dark circles that screamed insomnia, alcoholism, maybe drugs. That cocky, indifferent swagger, treating everyone like they didn’t matter. Rarely was that attitude a performance. In her experience, it came from a lifetime of chasing validation and convincing yourself it’s easier to act untouchable than to face the disappointment of never getting enough.

She knew it well. She’d done the same her whole life.

With a nonchalant nod, she shrugged again and pressed the button to request their stop.

“Fucking Nepo baby,” she muttered, for the second time that night.

Once they got back, Sara quickly said goodnight and disappeared upstairs to her room. Vic dropped her backpack by her bed, her unused gym clothes still inside. Tomorrow’s the day, I was too hungover anyway today, she told herself before collapsing onto the mattress.

Her phone buzzed, and she couldn’t help but smile when she saw Charlie’s name. “Still up for Saturday?”

She replied with the briefest yes, a stark contrast to the flicker of excitement that ignited in her stomach.

Vic knew it was a terrible idea. She kept telling everyone it was just a way to stop idealizing him—that seeing him, noticing how sad, lonely, and frankly a bit stupid he was, did her good.

But as she scrolled through her unanswered texts—the Wednesday guy still in radio silence—she had to admit the truth: Charlie still had a space in her mind. Part of her still hoped he’d come back.

Realizing, once again, how foolish and weak she was sparked a familiar kind of self-loathing. She could already feel it stealing her night’s sleep. She thought of Sara, that lucky bastard who could fall asleep anytime, anywhere. Must be nice.

Vic, on the other hand, was trapped. Stuck between her sharpest thoughts and the empty spaces she filled with sandcastles of her own making.

“So good at expressing pain, and too stupid to do anything to avoid causing it,” she thought, remembering the words of Aemond’s brother.

The weird thing was, he’d seemed sincere.

A memory flashed in her mind. She’d still been on stage, and for a moment, she’d caught his eye from the crowd.

It was the kind of look that felt lost, like someone who genuinely needed to hear the words she had written.

Maybe she’d been too harsh. Maybe he really had just wanted to give her a compliment. But oh well, too late now to undo a spat that ended with him calling her a bitch.

Fuck men, the audacity.

No, seriously, fuck men.

Fuck Aemond.

Fuck Aemond’s brother.

Fuck Charlie, for being too narcissistic to notice she’s still holding on.

Fuck that guy from Wednesday, for not realizing how great she is.

Fuck her father.

And fuck the emptiness Vic felt in her chest, where the echo of one word reverberated: alone.

Vic sat up abruptly, running a hand over her face and through her hair, her eyes drifting to the guitar.

Sorry, Sara, but I promise you’ll love this song.

**********

The truth was, Aemond knew his father had no intention of offering Vic a contract.

It was possible that all the other times he’d pitched this or that emerging artist—musicians of unparalleled quality, mind you—his father’s typical response of dismissing them as about as interesting as a blank wall had dulled Aemond’s focus during the conversation where he first brought up Vic.

“Nobody needs another fucking Taylor Swift,” his father had cut him off, long before Aemond even had the chance to play him one of Vic’s songs.

But this time was different. Aemond was sure of it. He had finally cracked the code, finally understood what the label needed.

Maybe it had something to do with those five months Aegon spent in rehab.

The way his family was even more miserable than usual. The way he had to sit through dinners where his father would shake his head and say what a shame it was, how his brother could be so sensitive when he managed to channel all those unspoken feelings into something constructive.

His mother never responded. She’d just stare blankly at her untouched plate, lost in her thoughts.

She probably blamed herself for everything that had happened. For how she’d never really seen any of her children, not truly. For how the only career Aegon would ever have accepted had slipped through their fingers.

That album—unfinished, despite all the effort put into planning its release. A modest following, years spent negotiating opening slots for far more famous artists. All the pieces in place, a solid push from the family name, all of it wasted on a pipe. Or maybe a line of coke.

Aemond had no sympathy for his brother. He never bought into the so-called 27 Club curse—artists without discipline or ambition, driven to music by the chaos ruling their amygdala. He didn’t believe in talent either.

What kind of concept is that, anyway?

Unexplainable, undemocratic, so random

It’s unjust.

So, he studied. Piano, guitar, brass instruments, violin, double bass. Graduated from the conservatory with top marks. He had no intention of letting himself get duped by nonsense about talent or by talentless fools who spouted it.

That is, until he heard Victoria for the first time. And there it was: the spark, the hope. The thing that could elevate him from just another mid-twenties guy on a reasonably promising career path to the rightful heir of his father’s empire, who, incidentally, had no real grasp of technical judgment.

With that in mind, Aemond sat waiting for his father in the administrative office of the label, a coffee in hand, his face buried in a mountain of emails on his phone.

What he didn’t expect was for his brother to have the same idea.

Aegon was wearing sunglasses indoors, his jumper stained at the hem, and he shuffled his feet like a grade-schooler.

Aemond doubted he could mask his disdain for long, especially when his brother collapsed into the chair beside him, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re alive,” Aemond remarked, his tone flat.

Aegon’s response was slow, his movements almost lethargic. His hand moved through his blond hair at a pace that felt absurdly sluggish. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“What are you doing here?” Aemond asked, not caring about sounding obvious about how inconvenient his brother’s presence was. He couldn’t let Aegon ruin everything.

“I want to pick up the album project again,” Aegon said, suddenly animated. He slid his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose to the top of his head. “I think I’m creatively ready,” he declared with the kind of confidence only someone completely clueless could muster.

Aemond let out a derisive laugh. As if their father would ever allow it. Not after the disaster last time, when Aegon had blown through the budget, overdosed, and left Viserys scrambling to save face with every collaborator they’d hired.

He didn’t bother responding.

“Your friend gave me some kind of epiphany,” Aegon continued, sprawling across the chair until his head rested on the armrest. “And the girl I hooked up with last night said I look like a rockstar.”

Aemond shot him a look of disdain. “Dad’s never going to let you do it.”

“I’ll play the drug-addicted son who’s found his way back and can only be saved by music card,” Aegon said with a shrug.

Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose. It was almost laughable how his brother thought things were that simple.

“Good luck,” Aemond said, snapping the "c" for emphasis.

Before he could return his attention to his phone, the office door opened, and their father strode in with long, purposeful steps.

His face was tired, almost annoyed, except for the faint politeness he reserved for the secretary or intern who’d greeted him. He stopped in front of the chairs outside his office, clearly wondering what he’d done to deserve both of his sons there that morning.

“Are you okay?” he asked Aegon, his tone suggesting he had no interest in dealing with any drama.

Aegon nodded, confused by the question.

“Come in,” Viserys sighed, opening the door to his office. Aemond shot to his feet, making sure he was the first to enter.

“What do you want?” Viserys asked curtly as he settled behind his desk.

Aegon had finally taken off his sunglasses and opened his mouth to speak, but Viserys stopped him, turning to Aemond. “You first. Then we’ll deal with your disaster,” he said, nodding toward Aegon.

Aemond took a deep breath. “I know you’re tired of hearing me say this, but I went to see Vic Dawson again yesterday and—”

“Okay, time’s up,” Viserys interrupted, shutting him down immediately. Aemond kept his composure, though a wave of humiliation washed over him.

“What do you want?” Viserys asked Aegon, who jumped in his seat, clearly not expecting to be addressed so soon.

“I want to pick up the album again,” Aegon said, bluntly and with a naïveté that was utterly out of place given their father’s mood.

Viserys let out a long sigh. “For fuck’s sake, Aegon. Do you want to give your mother a heart attack? We’ve been through this already. You can’t handle the pressure, or the lifestyle.”

Aemond shot a glance at his brother. Aegon’s face had contorted into an undignified pout. It was absurd that he genuinely believed their father would agree.

“Why do you have this terrible habit of avoiding anything peaceful?” Viserys continued. “You could work here, help evaluate the artists Aemond suggests, give me your opinion on who’s worth pursuing. Maybe one day even take on part of the company…”

Aemond stiffened. It was crystal clear that Viserys didn’t want Aegon anywhere near the rockstar lifestyle again—too much trouble, and their mother wouldn’t survive another overdose scare. But the suggestion that Aegon could take over the creative direction of the label? After everything Aemond had done? The hours spent scouting musicians, attending the grimmest open mics in search of someone worthy?

That offer should have been his.

Before he could object, Aegon replied, “I’m not cut out for desk work. You know I had talent.”

Aemond rolled his eyes at the word.

“And you know I can do this,” Aegon finished, leaning across the desk, defiance in his eyes.

Viserys exhaled, unimpressed. “Aegon, your album wasn’t good.” The weight of his words settled heavily in the room.

Aegon’s expression faltered. His father’s judgment had always been hard to swallow, but this cut deeper.

“You never listened to the professionals we hired,” Viserys continued, “and don’t make me remind you how it all ended.”

Aegon clenched his jaw. Those so-called professionals? All handpicked by Aemond. But instead of feeling slighted, an idea took root—one that might finally prove himself without their interference.

“You expect anyone to work with you again after the last disaster?” Viserys added, shaking his head. “No one at this label will touch this project.”

“Then I’ll do it on my own,” he countered, lifting his chin. “No producers, no writers—just me.”

Aemond barely reacted before Viserys scoffed. “That’s not happening.”

Aegon gritted his teeth, ready to argue, but Aemond cut in smoothly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“Actually… I know someone who might.”

Both Viserys and Aegon turned to him.

“A songwriter,” Aemond clarified.

Aegon frowned, suspicion creeping in. Just days ago, Aemond had refused to even let him reclaim his attic studio. And now he was offering to oversee his comeback?

“I’ll produce the album myself,” Aemond added, his gaze steady on their father. “I’ll make sure it’s done right this time.”

For the first time in the conversation, Viserys looked intrigued.

“We can’t afford it,” Viserys said, though Aemond detected uncertainty in his voice—the last real resistance he could mount.

“Yes, we can. I know everything about the company's funds. I’ve done the math,” Aemond countered. Checkmate.

Viserys let out an even longer sigh, sinking back into his chair.

“Fine. Do whatever you want, just stay out of my hair for a while,” Viserys said, and Aemond allowed himself a triumphant smile, even casting an improbable grin at Aegon, who still looked baffled.

“And don’t stress out your mother!” Viserys barked as Aemond headed for the door.

Aegon followed moments later, his face full of questions, clearly struggling to keep up.

“What the hell are you talking about? Who’s the songwriter?” Aegon asked, trying to match Aemond’s pace as they walked down the corridor.

“Victoria Dawson,” Aemond replied, his smirk suggesting he had everything under control.

[wanderingskemetic]

⚰️Subtle Wesir Worship🌱

Greatly inspired by @khaire-traveler's wonderful subtle worship series, which can be found here.

Eat in season produce; support local farmers

Start your own garden; grow plants in your room

Visit cemeteries; leave flowers at graves (with permission); or help clean up gravesites (if allowed)

Learn about and uphold Ma'at

Make a playlist or listen to songs that remind you of him or you think he'd like

Make a collage/moodboard/pinterest board/similar collection of photos and images you associate with him, especially if some of the images are your own

Wear a piece of jewelry or other clothing item that reminds you of him

Light a candle or incense that reminds you of him (safely)

Take charge/leadership roles in parts of your life

Send a nice message to your loved ones/check in on them regularly

Carry a picture of him in your wallet, pocket, phone case, etc. or as a phone or computer wallpaper

Pick and/or press flowers (only from areas you're allowed to)

Have djed pillar, crook and flail, mummy, grain, willow, or atef crown imagery

Support environmental organizations

Learn about plants and animals, especially those that are native to your area or Egypt

Take care of a plant, animal, or other person

Spend time out in nature

Learn about local invasive species, plants or otherwise; get rid of any invasive plants you see, if safe to do so

Do things to help local wildlife like hanging up suet feeders, building bat boxes, etc.

Honor your ancestors/souls that have passed

Allow yourself to mourn over difficult changes or the end of relationships; allow yourself to miss people

Become comfortable with change; take new risks, try new things, accept difficult changes

Hold onto any family heirlooms; keep items from people who have passed in your life

Support humanitarian organizations, especially funeral funding or suicide prevention ones

Learn about death; acquaint yourself with the idea of death; figure out what you believe happens after death

Cook with homegrown herbs or produce

Plant seeds, especially the fruit or vegetables you've eaten; give it new life

Recycle; reuse things that don't need to be immediately disposed of

Use compost for your garden or nearby plants

Try to start each day fresh

If you have a partner, set aside time to do something special with them

Make a list of simple joys in life; focus on the good parts of your day at the end of it

Give people chances to change, but if they continue not to make changes, don't continue to spend time with them

Practice truthfulness and keep your promises

Hold others and yourself responsible for their/your actions; apologize or make amends when possible/appropriate

Don't feel obligated to forgive people; you do not have to forgive them even if they've apologized to you

Stand up for yourself and the things you believe in

Let go of people or things that do not contribute to your life in a positive way

Go stargazing

Remember that rest is productive; take breaks when you need them

Showing kindness towards your fellow humans

Keep a self-growth journal; write down things relating to self-improvement, how you're feeling, goals you're working towards, etc.

I may add more to this list in the future. Suggestions are always appreciated.

Link to the Kemetic Subtle Worship Masterpost

[tragedybunny]

Pretty Baby

༺Summary༻

Astarion is a trophy wife that does online porn and gets soft dommed by his loving wife.

༺Pairing༻ Astarion x Tav

༺Warnings༻ NSFW - PiV Sex, Anal Play, Femdom, Mommy Kink, Feminization

༺Word Count༻ 2870

༺A/N༻ I'm gonna be straight with ya - there was a lot of pseudoephed and sinus cold involved in the conception of this. I am accepting no responsibility for it.

Read On AO3

It's 6 PM and I just got home from the office. Pulling into the driveway, I let the car idle a bit before getting out. It builds the anticipation, I know he can hear it, know that he's in there, waiting for me, my sweet wife, my Astarion.

He's kneeling on that plush white rug that I indulged him and bought, even though it's a nightmare to have cleaned. That perfect body of his is clothed in nothing but his new pink, lacy, lingerie set that we picked out yesterday. 

I feel myself getting a little wet thinking about it, how I watched him put it on this morning during his stream. Whenever I have time, I like to turn it on, even in the background, watch what they're all wishing they could have, but it belongs to me. 

He'd been artfully arranged in bed when it had started. “Hello darlings,” he'd purred for his audience. “Forgive my state, I'm just waking up.”

I laughed loud enough that I was thankful my office door was closed. Did anyone really believe he looked that made up fresh out of bed. He'd been up since I got up, cooking us breakfast in an old band t-shirt and boxers, curls wild, red eyes full of sleep still. My sweet little albino weirdo, he listened to me complain about how we were out of blueberries for my oatmeal and promised to get more. “Get some strawberries too while you're there,” I'd added on my way out the door. After I left for work, he got ready for his stream. 

Whenever someone at the law firm asked what my spouse did, I told them he was a social media marketing consultant. When they asked for who, I told them it was all hush-hush, NDA's, they were lawyers, they understood. At this point, they were convinced he worked for the pentagon or something, if only they knew. 

After he told the audience his ridiculous lie, he rolled over in bed and stretched dramatically, flexing lean muscles for the camera. “I need to go to the farmer’s market today, mommy is out of organic blueberries. But she got me something special and told me I have to wear it if I leave the house.” 

My hands had drifted to the crotch of my pants, client emails forgotten. He had been asking to wear a plug outside the house, I told him if he remembered his lingerie and to send me pictures, we'd talk. Pulling the set from his dresser drawer, he showed it to the camera. “Mommy is spoiling me, isn't she, darlings?” 

My fingers ghosted over my mound as I watched him put on the pink bralette and thong panties. Somehow, it was more intoxicating than seeing him nude. “I'll be taking some pictures later that you all can indulge in, but for now I'm off.” 

Thinking back on it, I can't wait anymore and turn the car off. As soon as I walk in the door, I head straight for the living room, dropping my bag on the chair to find my little treat waiting for me, on his knees, still dressed like I'd told him. “There's my little wife,” I greet him, and he knows he's good to talk. 

“Hi mommy, how was your day.” He shifts one leg forward on instinct so that I can put my foot on his thigh. 

“Fine, nothing terribly exciting,” I answer as he takes my shoe off. Switching feet, he takes the other one off, kissing my leg through my suit pants. 

“I'm glad it wasn't too stressful.” Shoes gone, he starts to work on my pants. 

“And how about you, were you a good little wife today? I saw you getting dressed on your stream.” I run my hand through his platinum curls and give them a playful tug. 

He smiles proudly. “Yes, mommy, I did my errand and I had a nice day. I love it when you take time to watch me.”

“I know you do, baby. And you sent me so many nice pictures of you in your gift, just like I asked.” I step out of the pants and signal him to stand so he can finish undressing me. When he's done, he hands me a comfortable, loose dress he has ready. “What's for dinner?” 

Astarion is a middling cook, and we eat a lot of take out, but sometimes it's nice to push him out of his comfort zone. Especially since he doesn't do all that much around the house with the maid service and the grocery delivery. He's a trophy wife. I knew that the moment I met him though, back in law school. He'd been forced into it by his adoptive father, Cazador Szarr and was so visibly unhappy with it and his whole life. We'd eloped six months after we met so I could get him out from under that monster’s thumb. I hadn't regretted it since, our less traditional proclivities even ended up complementing one another. 

“Lasagna,” he says, looping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my shoulder. “It's almost done and I promise the maid didn't help this time.” 

“Good job, baby. Go handle my clothes and we'll eat.” 

Dinner is served by Astarion with a cute little apron over his lingerie. Not every night is playtime like this, but it is Friday so we've got time to enjoy ourselves. The lasagna is an improvement over the last time and he even took care to make a wine pairing from a local winery. “They had samples at the farmers market, so I could make sure it's up to your standards.” 

The bottle comes back with us to the living room where I leave Astarion to pick out a movie while I grab some toys for the evening. His eyes get wide with excitement as I lay them out on the table next to the wine glasses. My wand, his plug with the pink jewel top, lube, and his paddle in case he gets bratty. I don't spank him often, only when he's seriously asking for it.

“Come here, wifey.” I take a seat on the champagne pink couch and settle him between my legs with a glass of wine. 

What we're watching doesn't even matter as he starts loving on me almost immediately. The skirt of my dress is short enough that it rides up and leaves plenty of me exposed. He kisses and nibbles my thighs, fingers digging in, begging for my attention. My own underwear are getting slick. 

“Please, can I pleasure you?” He rasps, finishing his wine and setting the glass aside. Kneeling, he turns to face me, crimson eyes begging.

“Hmm, you said you were good today. Did you get my blueberries?” He nods enthusiastically. “And the strawberries?” His face falls, I did add that at the last minute, maybe it's a little unfair.

“I forgot,” he looks down at the carpet. Poor little dear, his cock is already half-hard in his panties. 

“You can use the wand for now. Anything else depends on your behavior.” He doesn't look up right away and I tip his chin up with my fingers. “Understood?”

“Yes, mommy.” Obediently, he retrieves my wand and sets it to low, he's so well-trained with it. 

My legs spread and he bushes it lightly against my clit through my underwear. “Good baby.” 

He works me gently to the precipice, stroking the wand over me rhythmically until I'm panting and groaning in need. My fingers wrap themselves in his curls and I tug him forward, demanding more. Placing it flush against me, he goes back to kissing my thighs. 

Bucking my hips against the wand, I feel myself letting go. “I'm going to come love, you're doing so good.” Moaning, I clench around nothing, and pull his face against my sodden underwear by his hair. 

Taking the wand, I turn it off and pet him, fingers drifting lightly over his scalp. Despite not fulfilling all my requests, I know I'm going to need him inside me tonight. I'll just have to think of a little punishment to remind him that he's not getting away with it. But for now, I want to play with my little wife.

“Lay in my lap, let's get this plug in you.” 

He blushes adorably and quickly does as he is told, laying across my thighs so I can reach his bottom. Taking another drink of wine, I let him wait, feeling him squirm with anticipation. Finally, I grab the lube and coat my fingers. 

Pulling his thong to the side, I spread him open and gently work a finger inside him. Below me he already starts making noises.  Another finger slips in and he mewls. “Feeling good, baby?”  

“Yes, mommy, you're so good to me.” 

My fingers flex inside him, eliciting little moans as I prep him. When I'm satisfied he's ready, I lube up the plug and place it teasingly close to his entrance. “I want you to keep still, and no coming. If you want to wear this out of the house, you need to prove you're not going to be a mess about it.” 

“Y-yes, mommy.” 

This is actually unfair and he knows it. I wouldn't be there to play with him if he wore it out. But he accepts it like the good wife he is. 

Slowly, I push it inside of him, treasuring the little gasps he makes. Once it's inside, I give it a firm push and he actually yelps. Poor thing, I'm just getting started. 

Focusing on the movie, I start to idly play with it. Teasingly, I tug on it, working it back and forth until I feel him rut against my thigh. Lightly, I smack his bottom in warning. “What did I say?” He stills but whimpers as I keep going. 

After he's good and worked up, I give him a break, rubbing his back and playing with his curls. I feel his cock, hard enough to dig into my thigh, and his panties wet with pre-cum.

When his breathing evens out, I start again and feel him shaking as he fights the urge to thrust against me. “Mommy, please,” he whines. 

“A little longer baby,” I answer soothingly, now fucking him properly with it. 

His moans turn to cries as he fights the rising tide of an orgasm, control something he's never been particularly good at. Finally, I take pity and stop, letting the plug settle inside him. “I think you've been very good tonight. I'm going to let you fuck me, but you can't finish in me because you still need a punishment for forgetting.” 

He petulantly agrees and gets off my lap, kneeling on near me, while I set my clothes and lay out on the couch. “You can touch and kiss all you want.” I instruct, reaching out to stroke him through wet lace. “These are so pretty, but let's get them off so we don't ruin them.” 

When they're discarded on the floor, he slots himself between my thighs and runs his hands over my body. “You're so beautiful. How did I get so lucky?” 

I'm so wet, there's no resistance as he slides inside me, a relieved groan escaping him. His lips kiss every inch of me as he pumps slowly into me with restraint that's been trained into him. 

Hesitantly, he takes a nipple between his lips, looking up to make sure he has permission. I nod and he hungrily suckles at it, the pace of his hips increasing. 

“That's it, harder.” I encourage, reaching to scrape my nails along his back and ass. His hips snap harshly as he stays latched onto me, teeth scraping my nipple with just the right amount of pain. “I'm close, touch me.”

His fingers eagerly dip between my legs, knowing he can't come unless I do first. My hips buck into the firm circles he's rubbing, and my legs wrap around his back. He fucks so damn good. “That's it, love, such a good little wife,” I moan and see stars. 

He whines and jerks back as I'm still riding my high. “I- I'm,” the rest of his words are lost to heaving breaths as he tries not to spill himself.

“We need to work on that control of yours,” I scold gently and he pouts. “I'll remember that attitude later. Now go on and finish up.”

“Thank you, mommy.” He palms himself and begins to stroke vigorously.

Reaching for my phone from the table behind me, I open the camera. I'll hold onto these for myself for a while, then let him post them. I don't mind sharing his beauty with the audience, but I get first dibs. 

“There's my pretty baby,” I coo, watching his face beam at the praise while I snap the loveliest pictures of him. 

“I want to watch you come. Can you do that for me? Get it all over yourself.” I zoom in on his leaking cock, elegant fingers wrapped around it, then his face, eyes closed, mouth parted. 

With a final moan, he comes, seed coating his stomach and pelvis. “Look at me love.” His eyes are hazy when he brings them to mine, and he's smiling dazedly. “Let me get some pictures of you, you're such a beautiful little mess.” 

God, I may keep these forever, he looks so blissed out. Putting my phone away, I lean over and kiss him tenderly. “Let's get you in a bath.” 

In the water, he curls up in my arms, the little spoon, my cherished wife. “Did you enjoy yourself,” I ask, kissing the top of his head. 

“I always do with you.” Taking one of my hands, he kisses it reverently. 

“And you still like all this, right?”

He goes stiff in my arms and hesitates. His adoptive father had no tolerance for Astarion’s more unique tastes. “Yes,” he breathes, distraught enough that I feel bad. 

“That's good, because we have to make a special stop before groceries for the dinner party tomorrow.” Grabbing my phone, I open the email concerning a gift I ordered him. 

A rose gold metallic band sits on a bed of red velvet. A normal choker, save for the tiny lock in place of closure. “You mean it?” His voice is breathy with excitement.

“Of course, a pretty collar for my pretty wife.” 

“Can I wear it to the dinner party?” 

“Are you ready for everyone to see it?” I don't want him taking on too much at once. 

“I am, besides, I can't wait to see who's the most awkward about it.” Little breathy giggles escape him. 

“Gale for sure,” I add my laughter to his, glad he's so happy.

“Can…can I wear a skirt tomorrow when we go out?” 

“Sure baby. Do you want one for the party too?” I've asked before if he wanted to be thought of as a different gender, and he always says no, despite very much wanted to be called wife. 

“No, I think the collar will be enough excitement for them.” 

“Alright, that sounds like a good plan. Now let's get out of here before we both get all pruney.” 

The camera is set up for an early stream the next morning. Astarion flounces into the room in the fluffiest black tulle skirt with cream silk blouse. “Good morning darlings, mommy is taking me out today, and she said since I was good I get a little reward.” 

He bends himself over the ottoman that's the same pink hue as the couch. A pretty little sight with his bottom in the air. “And she's going to be nice and help me with it.”

I don't make appearances on his stream often, and they're always from the waist down to avoid recognition. Carefully, I sit next to him on the couch, keeping my face out of view, and push his skirt up before pulling down his panties. Sensible black cotton for today. We gave him some prep off camera so the audience can get straight to the goods. 

Plug in hand, I give him a showy little spread first. That's right, look at my wife's cute little asshole you simps, I think to the audience spending their hard-earned money on him. I push it in, letting his whimpers fill the air. It's so hard to not talk, to not call him pretty baby and tell him how good he is, but I can't have my voice recognized. 

When it's in, I give his bottom a few firm smacks for everyone watching to enjoy. A little payback for the pout last night. “Mommy,” he whines, not having expected the improptu punishment. When I'm finished, I pull his panties back up and he turns to sit facing the camera, eyes watery. “We've got a busy day, so I probably won't see you all again today. I promise a nice long video next time.” 

Once he gets the camera off, I pull him in for a kiss, tongue darting into his mouth. “Let's get going. I want to make it back early enough ruin this cute little outfit of yours.” 

[hyperesthesias]

Ramblin' Man and Other Sob Stories: The Tale of a Ghoul's Doomed Love Life.

RATING: MATURE words: 15,141. warnings: canon-typical violence, drug-use and addiction, language, mild sexual content, death of a partner, terminal illness, canon-compliant.

SUMMARY: A private conversation with Goodneighbor's Mayor John Hancock, in which he details how he found and lost the love of his life, and how he became a Ghoul.

author's notes: for the sake of this story, this piece utilizes the scrapped plot-point of Fahrenheit being Hancock's daughter.

song recommendations: Whiskey Sunrise by Chris Stapleton; Too Sweet by Hozier; Just Pretend by Bad Omens; Cleopatra by The Lumineers; Ramblin' Man by Allman Brothers Band.

AO3 LINK

I’m not known as a quiet kind of guy. I have the tendency to run my mouth. Ballsy, maybe. Impulsive, sure. I’d like to consider myself intuitive. People who know me – or who used to know me – wouldn’t exactly consider me smart, either. Hell, that’s what piqued my interest in Mentats in the first place. When I get an idea, I don’t easily let it go – something that can be a benefit, or a detriment, depending on how pessimistic you are. I consider myself a realist. Not something that’s often tied to intuition. Most realists I know are just pessimists in disguise. I prefer to see things the way they are: fucked, but not beyond recognition. Everything except for my face, maybe. But I only have myself to blame, there.

I wasn’t always this good looking. I was, actually, by all accounts, good looking at one point in time. At least, I liked to think so. Couldn’t seem to get many ladies to agree with me – they all seemed to focus on my brother. Never understood what they saw in the guy. But then again, we all have different faces we present to different people. Different people can bring out different aspects of ourselves, sometimes even things we didn’t know what we were capable of. That’s not always a good thing. But it’s not always a bad thing, either. Sometimes we can be pleasantly surprised with ourselves.

I know what you might be thinking – a guy like me, that’s not too hard, right? All jokes aside, sometimes it’s nice to know you’re still capable of something good. Especially when all else around you seems to be sinking into depravity and injustice by the minute. 

I felt good once. Not high – not ecstatic. Not altered. I felt good. The feeling was organic, it came from within me. Not manufactured. I felt…like a decent person. Which isn’t easy in a place like this. It’s a feeling I’ll never be able to replicate. Doesn’t matter how many chems I get my hands on, I would never even try to replicate it – it was a feeling unto itself. Something that could never come from a bottle of Jet. Trying to recreate it with drugs, feels like a sin of some kind. 

I’m not opposed to a bit of transgression, but even writing about it – about that woman…I can’t do it justice. Can’t do her any justice. Even though I’ve tried. It’s all I’ve wanted to do.

The only way I can describe it? The picture on a postcard. Something so idyllic, something so far out of reach – so idealized. It sounds kitschy, it feels kitschy. You know it’s a painting, you know it’s not really as pretty in real life, you know all that beauty only exists somewhere in an idealized past. But you can’t look away. You can’t look away. And you’re holding the stupid thing with as much care as you can – making sure the edges don’t fray, that the painting doesn’t fade. It represents something better, bigger than yourself: the way the sunset ought to be, the way it was all those hundreds of years ago. You don’t want to look away. And in the action of preservation, of preserving something beautiful, you find you’ve become a better person.

I know that doesn’t really make sense.

No one’s ever described me as pithy.

I tried to keep things good, I tried to preserve what I could. But nothing stays clean in this wasteland for long. 

Wren was a breath of fresh air in a town where chems were the cleanest thing to inhale. She owned a well in the furthest corner of Goodneighbor – it was the cleanest water you could get for miles. It was only advertised through word of mouth, and Wren didn’t run her mouth to many people. Anyone who knew about the well, knew about Wren – but not everyone who knew Wren knew about the well. She was there before Vic and his boys, she was there after. She didn’t age – not in the same way as a Ghoul, but like something else entirely. She was a Smooth-Skin, and by all accounts she looked human. As the years went by, I thought maybe she was a Synth, and I finally found the courage to ask her as much. She only laughed, and asked if I was implying she was stiff in bed. I never did find out what she was, exactly. Or if she knew of some drug that kept her looking fine – and if I could take a hit off her, as if maybe it would fix me. I figured it must’ve been something in the water. It was the sweetest water I’ve ever tasted.

People used to say water doesn’t have a taste – but, really, it’s the pollution that socks you right in the mouth. That metallic twinge, that thick feeling of oil and rust, the tingle of radiation. But after enough chem use, you start to lose your sense of taste. Really, I think it’s for the better. 

I met Wren before I became what I am now. She knew me since I was a wild and reckless youth – now I’m a wild and reckless wrong-side-of-forty. There were loads of roads into Goodneighbor, the home of good medicinals, if you knew where to look, and if you didn’t mind taking the back alleys. I wandered into a waterway system one night, that’s how I found the well. The passageway I entered was part of a water filtration system Wren came up with herself; I wound up wading runoff water, looking for the other end of the tunnel. Couldn’t find the light.

Instead, I found myself at the long end of a double barreled shotgun, staring at a bleak and brainless future if I didn’t come up with a good reason for trespassing, as she said. I fell head over heels for her the minute I laid eyes on her – both literally and figuratively. I was scrambling on the wet ground, pleading for my life. I must’ve looked as pathetic as I felt, because she had mercy on me. She put away the sawed-off and took me round to her cabin on her patch of land. Later, she told me she let me off the hook because she recognized me from her club – The Bird’s Nest; she said she knew me as the scrawny baby-faced kid trying to live his best life, one Mentat after the next. All I picked up from that later exchange was that she thought I was cute.

The Bird’s Nest club was on the outskirts of Goodneighbor. It was a classy joint, almost as exclusive as Wren’s well. The only way in was through private invitation. I got in in the first place by piggy backing off another acquaintance’s invitation, something that wasn’t exactly looked well upon. She told me she didn’t take kindly to intruders – at her well, or at her club, and as punishment for my intrusions, she said she’d find a use for me. She indentured me to servitude; I had more fun things in mind, but I worked off my crimes with janitorial service. I was instructed to clean the waste waterway, the very one she found me in; it took several days, but I scrubbed it top to bottom. After that, she had me clean The Bird’s Nest – ceiling to floor. I preferred the waterway. You don’t wanna know what kind of shit you can find on the floors of a nightclub.

Wren was as shrewd as she was beautiful. I eventually learned she distilled her own spirits with the water from her well. It made for a dedicated clientele, who couldn’t go back to any other sludge after tasting her whiskey – pure and crisp. Burned in all the right ways. Her competitors in the area all thought she was dealing something on the side; she was poaching customers left and right with the quality of her handiwork. They figured she had to be into something else to keep her retention numbers up so high. But it wasn’t drugs. Not at first, anyway. It was just…her. It wasn’t just her water that made people want to stay. It was her. She made you feel like you were the most important person on Earth, like you two had known each other since the beginning of Time. Like when you walked through her doors, you were coming home. Friendliness isn’t exactly common in the Commonwealth. Or anywhere around here, for that matter. I think people just wanted to feel…wanted. That’s how you felt with Wren.

I was there one day, mopping the floors, when three men came to her club, uninvited. Wren was behind the bar, with a shotgun under the counter. She greeted them as she would have anyone else: she was calm, quiet, she had this unassuming smile – could be used to disarm anyone, but it just as easily hid her own intentions. They demanded she pay them protection money. 

“Why?” she asked. “I can protect myself just fine.”

They all looked at each other like grinning idiots. They stood there laughing at her. But Wren didn’t budge. She was leaned on the bar, with a rag in one hand, glancing at each of them – just waiting for them to make the first move.

“You want to keep this place in operation,” they said, “you’ll keep the boss happy.”

“I don’t answer to your boss,” she said. “I’m an…independent contractor. I take care of myself.”

I stayed a healthy distance away from the impending conflict. The air was rife with that frenetic energy, that electric charge you can feel right before a fight. I wasn’t always so keen to shoot first and ask questions later. That was a skill I learned over time.

“We’ll take care of you and this shack of yours if you don’t hand over the money.” The three men all drew their weapons and started squaring their shoulders.

I can still remember the way her face looked as she stared them down: almost serene, unmoving. Like she wasn’t bothered by these brutes coming into her place, threatening to kill her and burn her place to the ground. She took the rifle out from underneath the bar and set it in front of her. “One of you will make it out of here alive. I’ll let you decide amongst yourselves who you would like it to be.”

I took that as my cue to duck behind something sturdy. 

All I remember after that is the sound of bullets flying and landing in soft flesh. Bodies hit the wood floors, and I could feel their weight reverberate through the planks from my hiding spot, behind a wall at the far corner of the club. Glass shattered, and I heard running footsteps – and for a minute I was worried Wren left me behind with those thugs; but, what did I matter to her anyway? She wouldn’t put her life on the line for me, a thief and a trespasser.

When the gunfire sounded like it died down, I risked looking over the wall and saw the last man standing giving Wren a beat down. Her rifle wound up across the room, it was closer to me than it was to her. He had one hand around her throat, and the other pulling on her hair. She had one arm trying to loosen his grip around her throat, and her other hand shoved into his face, digging her nails into his ugly mug. I panicked – didn’t know what to do. The worst thing I could do was get myself got in the process of trying to help. The smartest thing I could think of was tossing the shotgun back to her.

She kicked the butt of the rifle upwards with a flick of her foot, and caught it – whacking the guy over the head. It left a mark – he stumbled just enough for her to pry free from his grip. The minute she got her footing back, she shot the bastard square in the shoulder. Blood spattered onto her as he was blasted back at the force of the shotgun pellets. He scrambled as quick as he could, and flew out the door before she could fire off another shot.

The minute he was gone, Wren collapsed to the floor, shotgun at her side, her hand around her throat. I took the chance and came out of my hiding place, not sure if the woman was going to keel on the spot. She was covered in blood, could barely breathe. I offered to patch her up, but she told me, as best she could with a hoarse voice, that none of the blood was hers. All she asked me for was a cup of water. It was the least I could do, I figured.

I did as she said: grabbed a glass from behind the bar, and filled it with that crisp, clean water. I knelt beside her and helped her drink it, she had trouble moving her neck – but I noticed, there wasn’t a single bruise on it, where that thug’s hand would’ve been. 

After she finished every last drop in the glass, she turned to me, and told me my debt was paid.

“I spared your life,” she said, “and you saved mine. Consider us even.” Her voice still wasn’t quite what it was before the attack, but her breath was coming back to her, and she looked and sounded as though she’d only been involved in a minor scuffle. “Thank you,” she said, and she tried looking me in the eye, but I couldn’t hold it.

I looked around at the two remaining bodies of those attackers, and felt more of a coward than I did when I first landed in Goodneighbor for good, after Diamond City. The guilt was worse than the crash after a bottle of Jet. That was my first up-close and personal encounter with Vic’s boys. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do jack shit,” I scoffed. “I coulda done more.”

“You have no loyalty to me,” she said. “The fact that you felt obligated to help, someone to whom you owed a debt, says more about your character than what you might or might not have done in the idealized version of yourself.” She swallowed, her hand massaging her neck, but still I couldn’t see even the trace of a bruise left behind.

I didn’t allow myself to feel the weight of her words – the guilt of Diamond City, of all those Ghouls, displaced, dead, or worse, was still too fresh in my mind. And at that time of day, I was still too sober to let myself feel anything at all. She stood, and I sat there, suddenly realizing I would have to mop the floor all over again.

She told me I didn’t have to stay there anymore, my debt was paid, I no longer had any obligation to her or to The Bird’s Nest. I told her I didn’t have anywhere else to go – which was the truth as a drifter, of course, but it was also my own way of sticking around as long as I could. The Bird’s Nest was the first place where I felt like I had a place. Wren bartered my services as a janitor for room and board. I slept in a repurposed broom closet in the back of the building, and even with living there, Wren was somehow always up and at ‘em earlier than me. 

There was a separate, locked room on the opposite side of the building where I stayed. I could hear her tinkering away in there from sun-up to the second the club doors opened. Whenever she left the room, even for a moment, she locked the door behind her. The only key was on her person at all times; she kept it inside her…unmentionables. What? A guy like me, I’m allowed a look at a rack like that. On occasion. 

I began to wonder if the rumors were true, if Wren was selling something other than spirits to keep her clients happy. Something harder, something that lasted longer than whiskey, and that was maybe purer than Jet. It was part of my own selfish reason I was interested in staying as long as I did. That, and, I…I started to feel things for Wren. Things I’d never felt with anyone else. She was everything I wasn’t: beautiful, smart, brave. Being close to her made me feel that maybe I could be those things, too, by osmosis. But I figured a woman like that, she’d never give me a second look. I was used to it – being passed over, mostly invisible. It was my brother who got most of the love, the attention, the good shit in life. Maybe that’s why I like talking so much: I’m an attention seeker at heart.

But I didn’t seek out her attention, I knew there wasn’t a shot between us. I knew what I was, besides a coward: a junkie. She knew it, too. But she never treated me any different. She knew the kind of shit that went down on the club floor – the chems that passed hands, the laced smokes, the patrons huddled in the corners, looking for something extra to take the edge off. Wren was never a fool. Which is exactly why I knew nothing could happen between us.

Vic visited her personally a week later. I wasn’t on the floor when he came by; I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to, around Wren’s secret backroom, when I heard the commotion. She was laughing at him. She had this beautiful laugh, elegant, like something out of an old film. But this laugh was different, it wasn’t something I’d heard from her before, it was sardonic, callous. Like she was making fun of him. Didn’t exactly seem like the smartest move from my vantage point – but who was I to point fingers? I didn’t have the stones enough to help her, either way.

I still remember the sound of his palm hitting her cheek. Her head whipped with the force of his slap. She held a hand to her face for only a second, before she brushed her hair away, and set her eyes on him again. She still had that laugh on her, though, even when he told her to wipe that smile off her face.

“Even if I was in the business of recreational remedies, I wouldn’t give you a dime, Vic. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my operation.”

“Then you won’t be surprised when accidents start to happen,” he said. “But if I were to have the funding, I might be able to prevent these so-said accidents before they happen..”

“Don’t try to extort me, Vic. It’s not a language you speak well. You wanna know what I hear instead? Cowardice. I hear a man who gets off on watching others suffer. I hear a child’s tantrum – a child who has never felt in-control a day in his life. I’ve been here longer than you’ve been alive, Vic. I’ll be here long after you’re dead. I’ve seen men like you come and go. It’s never pretty. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about your own accidents.”

“You threatening me?”

“I don’t need to. I’ve seen enough to know men like you never last long.”

First time I heard her say that, I couldn’t help but wonder who’d be stupid enough to go up against a guy like Vic. Well, we all know how that turned out. Guess ‘stupid’ wasn’t far off.

She let him live. He walked out of The Bird’s Nest without a scratch. Same couldn’t be said for Wren, she was still rubbing the side of her face. From where I stood around the backroom, I couldn’t see a mark on her, though. But that being said, I was too preoccupied with the guilt of trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind that secret door of hers while she wasn’t looking. I went behind her back, literally, trying to see what I could see through the cracks of the door, trying to see if she was hiding anything interesting – interesting to me, anyway, in the way of chems. All I could make out were these silver pots and glass vials. Looked enough like a chem lab to me, though there wasn’t much to go on. Could have just as easily been part of her distillery.

I decided to get away from the backroom door before she found me, and I’d have to half-ass explain myself. I walked onto the floor, instead, and inquired about her encounter.

“He won’t give up,” she said. She was wringing her hands through her bar rag, she looked nervous. I’d never seen Wren nervous up ‘til then.

“What’re you gonna do?” It’s not like I had any heroic ideas at that point.

“Do what I’ve always done. Keep my head down. I won’t be picking any fights with Vic,” she said. “But I’ll finish them if he sends them my way.”

“Sounds like he isn’t giving you much of a choice.”

“That’s what he wants you to think.” She looked at me as she said it. Like she wanted me to really hear it. “That’s what he thrives on.” She threw the towel over her shoulder, and placed a finger along my jaw, guiding me to meet her eyes. “You always have a choice, John.”

That was part of the problem, really. I always had a choice. A choice for good, a choice for evil – evil’s a little dramatic, but no one would call a Jet addiction rational, either. My parents didn’t expect much out of me. Not that there was much to aspire to around here. My brother was always the rising star. The Golden Child. It was my choice to leave them. It was my choice to pick up a bottle of Jet for the first time. It was my choice to spy on Wren, even after all she’d done for me. 

It was my choice to shoot up one night at The Bird’s Nest. All I wanted was to forget – just for a minute, just for a second. Forget the guilt. Forget the fear. Forget the man I was, who I wanted to be – who I knew I could never be. Just forget it all. Just for a minute. 

It was a minute too long. I overdosed. Flat on the floor, fresh out of dignity. 

It’s ironic, really. I used to do anything and everything I could to forget. Now I’m a regular card holder at the Memory Den. Doing anything and everything I can to remember. To relive. Wren, and everything about her.

She found me on the floor, I guess. That’s what she told me. The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, still unsure what planet I was on. I think I might’ve thrown up on her. But if I did, she never said anything about it.

I just remember the sound of her voice as she said my name: “John…” It was a sigh, it was familiar. It was disappointment. Or, at least, that’s what I thought. 

She was wiping my face with a wet towel, I pushed her hand away. “I don’t want your pity.”

“If I pitied you, you wouldn’t be here. Pity is passive. It does nothing.” She dipped the cloth into a basin of her water and passed it along my face again. “I’m worried, John. There is a difference.”

“I don’t need anyone else’s disappointment. I got enough of it back home.”

“I never said I was disappointed in you. In fact, I’m rather impressed by you.”

I scoffed, and almost pushed her away again, but my arms barely had any strength left in ‘em. “You got the wrong guy.”

“You’re John McDonough, aren’t you? Brother of the Diamond City mayor. I heard what you did for those who were displaced. The children among them. I don’t imagine it was easy to go against the word of your own brother. Although, I’m curious as to why it was he who pursued a career in politics, and not you. You graduated at the top of your class – beating out your brother’s own academic records.”

“If this is a polite way of asking what the hell happened to me, consider me still insulted.”

She only smiled and shook her head; she pressed the bowl of water to my mouth and helped me drink from it. “Not at all. I mean only to say I am impressed. Both by your compassion and discernment.”

“Yeah, well. No one’s ever accused me of being a genius. That’s what the Mentats are for.”

She thought it was funny. “Mentats enhance what’s already there. It doesn’t come from nothing.”

No one ever gave a fuck enough about me to listen, to appreciate, to just…let me be me. I swear, it was a better high than anything I could find in a bottle. “How’d you know who I am, anyhow?”

“It’s my job to know who I let into my establishment. With whom I work. It’s how I’ve survived this long. Knowing who’s who.”

“That why you’re so confident you can wait out Vic and his boys?”

“Partly,” she shrugged, and poured a tablespoon of something white and powdered into the rest of the water in the bowl. She had me drink it; it was bitter and fizzy, but it settled my stomach. “That, and I know men like him never operate long without making enemies. If it isn’t one of his own men who turns on him, it will be someone else he shouldn’t have crossed.”

“You have a lot of faith in other people.”

“I have faith in what I see.” She looked at me as she said it. Like she wanted to know I heard it.

That time I didn’t look away. That time I heard it. I felt it.

After that, she had me working more closely with her, like a personal assistant. She didn’t demand I get clean. She didn’t expect me to be anything other than what I was, who I was. She treated me with respect, like I was an intelligent creature, like I had a brain. It wasn’t something I was used to. But it was good exercise intellectually. A part of me felt like I was living up to whatever potential I might’ve left behind in Diamond City. The only two rules she laid down: don’t get shitfaced on the clock, and don’t go into the locked backroom. Easy enough.

But we always want things we can’t have, don’t we?

She trusted me. She didn’t have to say it. But she did anyway.

She was in her office, tired, more tired than a night’s sleep could fix. A hand on her head, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular; I came in through the door to tell her I’d finished restocking the bar, when I saw her. I didn’t say anything, I just stood there, wondering if she even noticed me. 

I called out to her, but she didn’t hear me, so I took the chance of walking in without permission. The towel over my shoulder, I came beside her, hoping she’d see me out of the corner of her eye. I wasn’t exactly keen on being on the wrong side of her sawed off again. 

“Wren?” I said again.

That time, she jumped, and lucky for me, she realized who was talking to her before she pulled the gun strapped to the underside of her desk. “John…” She exhaled and rubbed her face. “I didn’t hear you, forgive me.”

“It’s alright,” I tried not to sound as worried as I was. “Got something on your mind? You look preoccupied.”

She looked at me with this fatigued smile, and shook her head. “Trying not to think of my failures. Seems to be all I can think about when I close my eyes.”

“You’re talking to the expert of failure,” I said, hoping to see her laugh. “Though I don’t imagine you’d be partial to my preferred coping mechanisms.”

“Maybe you’d be surprised,” she raised a brow. 

I leaned my hip on her desk, arms crossed. “Oh yeah?”

“You’re not the first person in the Commonwealth to use a crutch – to deal with all the shit we see day to day.” She sat back in her chair as she looked at me. “You won’t be the last. All we can do is make sure people don’t suffer needlessly.”

The way she said it, it was like she knew something I didn’t. I got to thinking maybe it had something to do with that secret room of hers. Maybe she was cooking up a drug capable of keeping its user sane. A seemingly impossible feat, but by that point, I was convinced Wren was capable of anything – anything good especially. “You got an idea on how?”

She took a deep breath in and shook her head once. “Making sure people know they have somewhere they can go. That they have a friend. If they need it.” She paused, her eyes looking at nothing in particular again. She looked washed out, like something was eating her from the inside. Like the air passed right through her, leaving her a ghost. It was terrible. Then something crossed her face, like she thought of something that unsettled her, and she turned to me: “You know I’m your friend, don’t you, John?” She asked as though she were afraid I would say no.

I knelt down. “I know. I know that. Hell, you’re the only real friend I think I’ve ever had. You’ve never had an unkind word to say about me, and everyday I work to earn that.” She looked at me, and there was a sadness in her that I don’t think I’ve seen in anyone else – a grief that was too cruel for someone like her. “You know…You know that I’m a friend, too, right? Friends are hard to come by. I want to be your friend. Despite myself.”

She put her hand on my face, and ran it through my hair. There wasn’t an ounce of harm in her. She just smiled at me and nodded. “I know.”

I wanted to tell her then and there that there wasn’t a damn thing I wouldn’t do for her – but both of us would’ve known it was a lie. The best I could do was steal a kiss on her hand. Her skin was soft, and while mine wasn’t exactly as good-looking as it is now, at that time I only had a few scorch marks; I was still weathered from the harsh winds and Sun. Her skin felt as if it’d never been touched by the radiation. Like a feather – Like I could kiss it all over, and it would never leave a mark. I wanted to do all that and more, but I settled for a stolen kiss, instead. 

Wren was supposedly older than Vic, himself, which would’ve made her older than me, and any of my family and friends – save for the Ghouls who were around since before the War. I couldn’t make sense of it, she was beautiful, youthful, and not a day over gorgeous. But I learned a long time ago, the less you know, the less you’re liable for, so I didn’t ask questions that I thought were above my paygrade: my pay being room and board. I enjoyed not being homeless, and besides it’s impolite to ask a woman her age, you know.

She recruited my help on something important, she said, it was something no one else was supposed to know about. At first I thought I might finally get a look inside that secret room, but regardless of how curious I was about those vats and vials, nothing could have prepared me for what she showed me, instead. There was a room behind the The Bird’s Nest that was dug into the ground; it was covered in tarps and mud walls, with a crooked skylight window built into the dirt. Turns out it was a greenhouse. Wren had a garden of bright flowers – they were all kinds of pink, yellow, white, some all of those colors at once, with big green leaves, and long pollen-y things in the flowers. It was like something out of a picture book. I’d never seen anything like it, especially up close, in person.

She needed me to help prune and harvest some of the green shoots. I told her I didn’t want to fuck it up, that she shouldn’t have let me in her greenhouse, I was bad luck. All she said was that I wasn’t getting out of work that easy. She put a pair of scissors and gloves in my hand, told me where to snip, and to get to work.

Wren went around the greenhouse collecting what she could, picking the shoots she wanted, and putting them into her apron. The whole thing was surreal. I had to check to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. But sure enough, it was real – all of it. She had this white ribbon in her hair, it was pulled back, out of her face. The way the sunlight came in through the skylight, it made her look like some kind of saint. I was damn near ready to believe it, too.

We worked til my shirt was soaked from sweat. It was fucking hot in that greenhouse, the air was thick, and it felt like I was drowning in the humidity. I never thought I’d be ungrateful for water, in any form, but I guess too much of anything ought to kill you. She led me back inside The Bird’s Nest and told me to leave whatever I’d collected by her locked room.

I did as she said, and waited, out of sight, hoping to see into the room when she went in to work. When she dragged the baskets of plants inside, I could see a better set up of what looked to be a laboratory of some sort, and little empty vials waiting to be filled. I was sure that she was brewing something good – something better than anything you could find on the street. Between the plant crop, and her admitting to her own using habits, paired with the fresh needle marks on her arms, I was convinced she was going to flood the market with something sweet. Maybe even push Vic out of Goodneighbor with the profits. It seemed like a good plan, in my mind. But I knew better than to ask. I didn’t want to spook her, I didn’t want to ruin my chances of having first taste of whatever she was cooking. I decided to wait it out, see if she would offer me any as a reward for good behavior.

It wasn’t all selfish, though. And it wasn’t all one-sided. That’s what scared me the most. As the months went by, she would call me for errands that didn’t need doing, for advice she already thought of. She told me, really, it was just because she needed an excuse to talk to me. 

“You don’t need to make an excuse, baby. I know I’m easy to talk to.”

She just laughed. I liked making her laugh. It was the one thing I was good at.

(Farrah, skip to page thirteen.) When she first kissed me I thought I’d taken too much the night before, that I was still dealing with the hallucinogenic consequences. I thought maybe I’d imagined her – that the past eight months were actually a dream that’d gone by in the blink of an eye, that I’d wake up in the gutter of some back alley where I belonged. Then she kissed me again. And I knew my mind couldn’t make up anything that good. It had to be real.

I was worried I’d contaminate her. I was worried all my bad luck, all my failures, my past – all of it, would somehow change her for the worse. I didn’t want that. She deserved better than that. Than me.

Didn’t stop me from sleeping with her, though.

That’s how Farrah happened. Fahrenheit, she calls herself now. But her mother named her Farrah. 

Wren made the first move. I wouldn’t have dared. She was classy about it, she was always the romantic type. She didn’t use other people for her own advantage. When she asked something, she meant it – especially in private matters. She needed to know I wasn’t inebriated, that I wasn’t acting out of clouded judgment, that she wasn’t taking advantage of me. Hell, I wouldn’t have minded if she did, but she wasn’t that kind of person.

I did everything I could to show her just how grateful I was. How much she meant to me. Night and day, anytime she called, I was there when she needed me – for anything at all. I wasn’t her commodity, but I was just that eager. Didn’t matter who knew, wasn’t anything they could do about it. I was hers, and I wore it like a badge.

She was gentle with me. She didn’t need to be, but she was. It wasn’t just sex. It was something else entirely. A kind of high I can never chase down again. Vulnerable – my purest, realest self. That kind of elevation you can’t get anywhere else other than with the person you’re meant to be with. I think those months might’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been, and probably will ever be. 

Of course, I have a knack for ruining good things.

Wren got us something special one night – a little butterfly shaped pill, meant to be shared by two; you broke it in half down the middle, and held one wing under your tongue. It was meant to incite an erotic experience, capable of bringing people together in a way they’d never been before. 

Goddamn, did it work. Best sex of my life.

It was like a piece of myself fused with her. I could almost feel it, somewhere in my chest. The deeper I kissed her, the deeper I was inside her, the more I felt myself tethered to her. The world changed, and everything seemed brighter – it was pitch black, middle of the night, but the room felt as bright as day. Every scrape of her nails into my back felt hot, like sunlight. I couldn’t feel an ounce of pain if I wanted to.

She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, full of ecstasy. She glowed, bright colors – like the flowers in her greenhouse. She was all the colors of a sunset, as sweet as fruit, and made up of all the sounds a goddess would make. She had her legs wrapped around me all night long, barely let me breathe. I loved the way she looked when she enjoyed herself – especially when I was causin’ it.

(It’s safe now, Farrah. Mostly.) I woke up earlier than her, the Sun wasn’t even up yet. I laid there in her bed, still coming down from the night before. I could feel the heaviness of a crash coming on, and I wasn’t keen on being her downer in the morning. I had the mind to dip into my own supply of whatever was in my stash; I knew I had some MedX in my other room, and I figured I could slip away while she slept, and come back before she woke up for another few hours’ sleep. 

I managed to get out of bed without waking her, and I was almost out the door. I was almost out the door. I should have…just walked out the door. I should have just…

You ever have a memory, and remembering it is like watching it happen in slow motion all over again? And all you want to do is yell at yourself to do the opposite of whatever it was you did? 

Her clothes were on the floor. But the key to that room…it was just sitting there on her night stand. It was too easy. She was out, completely — I’d worn her out good. It was like I was watching myself from the third-person while I did it. I couldn’t stop myself. There wasn’t really any reason, other than morbid curiosity and the not-so-subtle hopefulness that I’d find something worth doping up on. I’d be in and out of there without her knowing, no harm, no foul.

The key fit perfectly, and the door opened with a shove. There were silver, pressurized vats, and some kind of glass distillation process set up. All of it was working, going, even though she wasn’t there to supervise it. I began to think maybe I had been wrong, that it wasn’t some new kind of chem, but that the plants were add-ins to her whiskey. But at the end of the distillery, the glass tubes were collecting droplets of something dark red – almost a rust color — into a vial. It wasn’t a quarter full.

There was a small refrigerator next to this whole set up, and I looked inside thinking maybe she had a bottle of something good I could nip. Turned out, it was only more vials – three of ‘em – and two bags with dates written on them, three months apart, the earliest one being only a couple weeks ago. I grabbed one of the vials and twisted it open; she already had three, and more were on the way, supposedly. It was worth at least a taste. The smell was…odd. Pungent – like iron and compost. Wasn’t exactly appetizing. But wasn’t exactly a deterrent, either. I’d had worse. 

The taste was just as bad – it almost had a soft grainy-ness to it, like soft silt. It left a tang in the mouth, and it went down harsh. Whatever it was supposed to do, just the act of drinking it was starting to kill my vibe. It was only then I started to realize maybe I shouldn’t have been doing what I was doing. The shame was setting in, and I was starting to panic, realizing I didn’t know what to do with the empty vial. I didn’t know how to get rid of it without Wren finding out it was me who took it. 

I had to get back to the room. Return the key, lie back down, and hope that whatever I’d just swallowed wasn’t going to kill me in the next twenty minutes. 

But it was already too late.

I turned around, and Wren was standing there. 

I’ll never forget the look on her face. I knew, in that moment, everything everyone had ever said about me was true: worthless, stupid, selfish junkie.

“What have you done?” The sound of her voice, the betrayal in it, the horror – I can’t get it out of my head.

There was nothing I could say, there was nothing in my head other than regret. “Wren…”

She was starting to cry. I’d never seen her cry before. She grabbed the vial out of my hand, and checked the refrigerator. “It takes me a whole year to make just one – one of these vials! I give my life to make them! I give of my own body – my own blood!” She lifted the sleeve of her robe and showed me the needle marks. “Do you know what you’ve done?” she cried. “You’ve just drank my own blood!” She threw the vial at me and it shattered on a wall behind me. She grabbed the bags from the refrigerator and held them up to me. “My blood!” She sobbed, and checked the distillery, making sure I hadn’t fucked anything else up. 

I was starting to feel sick. I couldn’t tell if it was from whatever it was I’d just taken, or if it was because I couldn’t handle the idea that I’d vaporized the greatest relationship I’d ever had, and would ever have. I couldn’t hold it down, and I started to heave, my body wanted to spit it back out.

“Out! Get out!” she yelled at me, and pushed me out the door just as I threw it up. “It wasn’t meant for you anyway! All it will make you is sick and ill. A year of my life, in one bottle – to give to others who need it. Who need it more than me!” She pounded her fist on her chest, on her heart. “People who rely on me, John! Men, women. Children! The very ones you saved – they rely on me. On what you’ve just wasted,” she was practically shaking with anger as she looked at me and the vomit on the floor. “The only hope Ghouls might have for normalcy.”

I was trying to get back on my feet, still not sure if anything else was going to come back up – my head was spinning and my throat burned. At that point, I wasn’t completely comprehending what she was saying, and at first I thought she meant I was going to turn into a Ghoul. Turns out that didn’t happen until later. What she meant, instead, was something impossible: a cure for ghoulification. I didn’t understand at the time. 

I didn’t understand a lot of things.

“I’ll work it off,” I said, trying to keep my stomach from flipping. “I’ll work – A year, a year you said?” I spit something on the floor as I finally got to my knees. “I’ll work…–”

The way she looked at me…with anger and disgust. I deserved it. And more. But nothing hurt more than when she turned her face away from me. “There is nothing you can do to fix this.”

I begged her, on my knees, practically grasping the hem of her robe for her mercy. “Please – I’ll work – I’ll work it off. I’ll work the seasons. I’ll do anything. I’ll do…”

She still didn’t look at me. But I could tell her anger had turned into something else: heartbreak. “I don’t want you to.” She cried. “I want you to leave.”

I sat there, begging whatever higher power there was out in the universe for all of this to be a dream. A nightmare. That I would wake up next to her, in her bed; that it’d be morning, that I’d get to hold her, that it’d be us and nothing else. So many times before, I’d been the one to leave when things got rough. The one time I wanted to stay, the one time I wanted to make it right, instead…I couldn’t.

I didn’t know at the time that she was in the family way, otherwise there would have been nothing she could have said, nothing she could have done to get rid of me. I would have found a way to stay. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself. Who knows the reality of things. Promises we make to ourselves tend to be the flimsiest. But I like to think even I couldn’t stoop that low.

Again, I was a drifter. I began to wonder if that was all there was for me. I started to believe it. That there was nothing else – just alleyways and gutter beds. Vic’s boys were becoming bolder, terrorizing the population every chance they could get, trying to keep them in line: target practice in their own personal games of lethal darts. The only thing that kept me going was the hope of feeling okay again. The next high, the next score – those moments, ephemeral, transient, where I felt like a person again. I thought I was at my lowest. I didn’t think there was any way for me to feel any worse than I did. 

With every high, the lows got worse. The crashes, the lulls – they were mind numbing, and not in the fun way. I felt like a living, breathing sack of shit. Even the reflections of myself in the gutter puddles were too much to look at. The thought of myself made my skin crawl, and every waking moment was a struggle to get to the next waking moment. 

That’s when I came across a chem-maker at the border of Goodneighbor, he had a laboratory on the outskirts of a travel route towards Diamond City. He was a Ghoul, made shit for the hell of it, because he liked to. He used to be a chemist, apparently, but I was too strung out to listen to his life story. He offered me his cheap shit, but the usual orders of Jet and Mentats weren’t doing it for me anymore. I needed something else – something that would change…me. Who I was. If I could find that, then maybe things wouldn’t be so bad from there on out. Famous last words.

He offered me a bottle of Day Tripper, and my face must’ve done the talking on how annoyed I was because the old guy got offended.

“You don’t get it,” I said. “I don’t want to just see a different world. I want to be different. In the world.”

He looked at me, like he pitied me, and he shook his head. “I don’t got anything that can help you there, kid. Ain’t nothing that can change you, but you. But I got things that can make life a little more worthwhile in the meantime.” He tried to push the Day Tripper on me again.

He went on and on, and my mind started to wander. I noticed a bottle on a shelf behind him that looked similar to Wren’s stuff: it was a little glass vial, filled with a rust colored liquid. “What’s that?” I pointed.

He immediately shut me down. “No – you don’t want that. That’ll change you in all the wrong ways. Not the kind you’re looking for.”

“Where’d you get it?” I thought maybe Wren sold some of her stuff to dealers around Goodneighbor, hoping it would get to the right hands. Didn’t sound like her style, though.

He told me it was a relic from some old time religion that wasn’t around anymore. It was meant to turn people into Ghouls, on purpose. It was used as some kind of transformation ritual, rumored to have hallucinogenic properties. I looked at the guy talking to me, a Ghoul himself, and thought it didn’t sound so bad. He looked pretty much as bad as I felt. It was just more visible. He kept talking, but I was wondering what I would look like – what it would be like to look in a puddle and see someone else for a change. Someone with a different face. Someone who I deserved to see. 

“I’ll take it.”

“I’m not selling it to you, kid,” he scoffed.

I wasn’t exactly flush with caps, but there was one thing I had – it was the only thing that meant anything to me. I thought it might help the chemist, too. Inside my jacket’s inner pocket was a plastic bag, filled with a pressed flower. It was a flower from Wren’s garden, a closed blossom. I took it, before I shot everything to hell, half because I was fascinated with the thing, and half because I wanted a piece of her close to me. But looking at it, debating whether or not to barter it for the vial, I decided I wanted to put the past behind me. I wanted to let her go. For her sake, really. That maybe, on some level, if I was still holding onto her, I was still bringing her down – even from a distance. 

I gave him the flower, and he gave me the vial. I didn’t say anything else. 

The liquid had a similar texture – silty, left a residue on the tongue. The taste was way worse, though. I almost threw that up, too. But I managed to keep it down, managed to ride out the first few minutes of discomfort until the high kicked in. 

It was the weirdest, most incredible thing I’d ever experienced: It felt like dying in slow motion. Saying it that way sounds bad, but it was beautiful. I felt invincible – like I was transcendent of any plane of existence. Like nothing could hurt me – Like I had a purpose, a meaning. The world felt like it should, how I imagined it might’ve in its most perfect form: lush, green, sublime. Nothing could bring me down. It lasted longer than anything else I’d ever taken: three days. One hit. And on the third day, I woke up a different person.

The ghoulification didn’t happen overnight. It was subtle. It started with the color of my skin – marbley and patchy; then like spoiled Cram. Wounds opened, skin split, things sagged on me that I didn’t think could sag. By the first week, I was in a lot of pain. I managed to get my hands on some MedX and it helped keep me sane enough to get through to the second week. By that time, things on me were breaking down; my eyes were the first things to change. That was weird. I’d had blue eyes before. Seeing them turn black all over – that was a trip. 

Week three came around, and I was starting to have regrets. I got what I wanted: looking in the mirror was an experience in itself. I was a completely different person. But one wrong move and my nose dislodged. I had to rip the rest off, myself. You’d have thought I’d lost a fight to a leprotic armadillo. This was no longer the solution I thought it was.

It’d been six months since I’d left Wren, and I was praying to any and every god I could think of that she would have mercy on me again. Just one more time. That maybe this time I could take one of her vials for the right reason. The cosmic irony wasn’t lost on me that the very thing of hers I’d squandered, was what I needed. I didn’t care what I’d have to do to make things right with her. I set out to The Bird’s Nest, hoping to grovel. Hoping to ask for forgiveness. Hoping, maybe, she still loved me. The way I still loved her.

It was gone. All of it.

The only thing left of The Bird’s Nest was its still smoldering wood skeleton. I ran into the wreckage, terrified I’d find Wren’s body, or what might’ve been left of her. I didn’t find anyone, there were no remains of anyone in the debris, as far as I could tell. All that was left in her bedroom was a half-burnt photograph, it’d only survived from being tucked under her mattress. It was a photograph of us, taken by some hot-shot from her club; we were in the background, talking. It was a passing moment, made immortal. I’ve kept it ever since. The next thing I did was look for that locked room of hers, hoping to find a vial of Ghoul-cure that might’ve survived. I managed to find one, but it’d been broken, probably exploded in the fire. I licked whatever droplets I could from it, though. The rest of her equipment was totaled. Nothing survived. 

Her greenhouse was torched, too. Every plant razed to the ground, burnt to a crisp. 

I walked to the well, hoping to at least slake some thirst. But the drink I scooped into my mouth was bitter – sour. Tasted like chemical. The water’d been tainted.

It was Vic. I knew it in my bones. 

I’d never felt more powerless.

There was no way of finding where she went, where she escaped to. If she had another hide-out somewhere, I didn’t know about it. If Vic took her, there was no way I would’ve been able to get her back – at that point. The one thing in my life that I loved, and that loved me back…was gone. 

I was back on the street after that. There wasn’t much left for me. Other than survive. And watch my transformation progress.

It was a couple months after that when Vic’s boys went on a particularly bad tirade. People were getting sick of the bullshit Vic was letting loose on the streets. People were broke, and the broker they were, the fewer places they had to go – especially when Vic started to try his hand at buying real estate from already destitute homeowners. People were dying. They were getting tired of being hunted for sport. 

Vic’s boys liked the thrill of the hunt – The Most Dangerous Game, as it were. They were goons, sure, but they were sick. Twisted. With how many people were displaced, hiding places were getting scarce. I knew of a utility access point with room enough for two, maybe three people tops, if you all squeezed together.

A group of drifters were looking for a place to hide as Vic’s boys were approaching. I was already in the access point, about to close the door when I saw them frantically looking for a place to hide. They didn’t see me, but I was about to wave them over, when I saw the tyrants’ shadows around the corner. I froze. I debated what to do – I could call them over, and risk them exposing my hiding spot. Or I could just stay still. Close the door. 

There were three slits in the metal door that I could see out of when I closed it. That’s when I saw one of the drifters try and take a stand against Vic’s boys. He was done for the minute he opened his mouth. But he told it straight – that people were fed up with their terror tactics. He was dead the second they slammed his head into the ground, blood and brain matter everywhere. But they just kept going. They just kept going…

…And I just sat there, inside that little closet, praying they didn’t hear me crying, praying I wouldn’t be next, all until the beating stopped. His blood was on the access door when I finally opened it.

Everyone has their breaking point. That was mine. I went on a bender, trying to erase everything I’d witnessed from my memory – trying to get the stink of the catastrophic fire at The Bird’s Nest out of my nonexistent nose. Whatever it was, however much of whatever it was, it didn’t matter, it went down the hatch or up the vein. I just wanted the pain to stop. Tale as old as time.

I’m sure you’ve heard the legend from there. I’m a legendary kind of guy. I like to think I make a statement. Woke up in front of Hancock’s duds, and suddenly realized there was a way out – there was a way to be that different person. All it would take was a little bloodshed, and a whole lot of charisma. 

I might’ve still been high as hell, because I don’t know where I got the confidence, but I started organizing the revolution right away. The weapons, the people – it was all on the down-low, but it was getting done. I felt like a different person, especially with the clothes, especially not being able to recognize a shred of myself in the mirror. I think it helped. But the Ghoul-chemist was right, all that change had to come from within; it was just given a good drug-induced push.

Even when I wanted to back out, I realized I was in too deep already. I had the weapons, I had the people looking to me for guidance. I thought of Wren’s words: ‘Making sure people know they have somewhere they can go. That they have a friend. If they need it.’ Those people were relying on me, like people were relying on Wren. And I thought maybe, just maybe, by leading these people, by following through with them, I would be able right my wrongs with her on some cosmic level. 

And as I wrapped that rope around his neck, as I threw Vic off the balcony – as I listened to his neck snap, and the cheering of the people gathered there, I hoped maybe she could feel those amends made from wherever she was.

One of the first private matters I attended to as newly appointed mayor was trying to find Wren. I knew about Nick Valentine’s reputation from Diamond City, and I recruited his help. I told him it was a passive thing, not to dedicate loads of time and effort into it, though he’d still be compensated handsomely. I figured I was one of the last people she wanted to see – if she was still alive. I wanted to give her as much space as possible, but I was still hoping he’d come across her at some point.

Four years went by, and every update from Nick was the same: not a thing on the radar. Eventually, I asked him to consider expanding his search to possible grave sites. I didn’t want to be a pessimist, but like I said before – I’m a realist. And the reality was, Wren’s chances weren’t looking good. She had a talent for keeping her head down, but she also had a knack for making friends. If she was out there, if she was doing alright, she was still helping people. It’s who she was. The fact that Nick couldn’t come across a single person who owed her a favor was a singular sign pointing to the worst possible outcome.

Then, one day, Nick came to my office with news. He looked rattled – and that isn’t a pun. 

He said there was a girl who needed to see me. I didn’t think much of it at first. I’m the mayor, plenty of people say they need to see me on a daily basis. 

But he said this was different.

“She came to my office, looking to hire me,” he said. “She’s a kid, John. I don’t know a whole lot about human development, but she’s about yea high,” he motioned to just below his chest. “Didn’t have the caps to hire me if she wanted to, but I asked her what the job was, and if I agreed, it’d be on the house.”

I shrugged, legs up on my desk, most of my attention paid to the pen in my hand. “So you got a heart a’ gold, what’s this got to do with me?”

“She said she was looking for a McDonough. That’s why she was in Diamond City. She thought she was looking for the Mayor McDonough. Turns out she got the wrong mayor. She was looking for John McDonough.”

I was surprised to say the least, but still confused. “Did she say what she wanted?”

His face may be plastic, but you hang around him long enough you can tell when he’s nervous. “She said she had a message for you. It’s all she said for a while – she’s a real tight lipped kid. Was determined to only talk to you. But I told her without knowing what the message was about, and from whom, I wasn’t going to hand her over to my friend that easy.”

“Aw, that’s cute – You call me your friend to your clients.”

“She said the message is from Wren Huichol. She said she wants to see you.”

“What?” I sat up straight and stood, every other thought left my head. “Way to bury the lead, Nick.”

“I don’t think that could be considered the lead. Comparatively, at least. And there’s a reason I’m burying it.” 

“Spit it out, rust bucket – what’s the matter with you?”

“John, the girl is her daughter.”

My whole body went numb, my ears were deaf and ringing at the same time. I shook my head. “That’s not right. Wren didn’t have kids.” The height that Nick pointed to would’ve made her at least ten years old. “She didn’t have kids.”

“She told me to give you this, as proof.” He pulled something from his coat and handed it to me.

It was a flower. It was dried and pressed, all pretty – well taken care of. It was the kind Wren grew in her greenhouse. It felt like the heaviest thing in the world sitting in my hand. I didn’t know what to believe about the kid, but I knew that if Wren went out of her way to find me, to give me proof – then whatever was going on with her was serious. “Where’s the kid?”

“She’s outside.” 

Nick brought the girl into my office, then waited for me outside the Old State House.

The girl looked around ten years old. She had hair like her mother’s, and that same immovable and unreadable expression. Except the kid looked more stern than her mother. Whoever she was, and whatever she’d seen, it couldn’t have been easy, I thought. She looked like she’d been through hell, and she was still so young.

She didn’t waste any time, got right to the point: “Are you John McDonough?”

But there was something about her eyes, something about the way they looked. I knew them anywhere. I’d tried so hard to forget ‘em. They were mine. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Farrah,” she said. “My mother sent me to find you.”

“She sent you…” It didn’t make sense. “Why? Why send a kid? Why not come herself?”

“She can’t. She’s sick. She sent me to find John McDonough, she said that I would be safe with him. With you. She says she trusted you. That she trusted you to do the right thing.”

The words hit like a rock, and I leaned my back on the edge of the desk to steady myself. “Did she…say anything else?” I knew this girl was my kid, I knew it in my bones. But none of it made sense. Wren and I met only five years ago; any child of mine should have been no older than that.

“She told me that John McDonough is my father. Is that you?”

I managed a nervous laugh, everything in me wanting to bolt. But I stayed put, even if my head was turned away from her. “I – I don’t know, kid, I think you got the wrong guy.”

“I don’t think so.” She kept looking at me, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. I wouldn’t be too calm if I found out my old man was a Ghoul. But she didn’t exactly seem fazed, either. If anything, she just looked tired. Exhausted. Poor kid seemed numb.

I took a deep breath, and got my head together before I crouched down to her level. Those eyes were mine, alright. I recognized the apathy. “How old are you?”

“Five.”

“You’re tall for your age. Well spoken. Why aren’t you like other five year olds? You go through a lot of growth spurts?”

“Mama says it’s because we’re different. That we’re special. But without the water she says she doesn’t know if I’ll be special anymore. She’s sick because she doesn’t have the water.”

“Are you sick, too?”

She shook her head.

“Alright,” my hands went down my face. I was barely keeping it together, but I didn’t want to flip out in front of the kid. “Alright, Farrah. Let’s get you cleaned up, let’s get you something to eat.”

That was the first time she looked her age. Her eyes got all big and watery, and she shook her head again. “I don’t want to leave Mama there by herself.”

I felt the same way she looked: devastated. “Me neither, kid. We’re not gonna leave her there. But I’m guessing you haven’t gotten a lot of food, or a lot of sleep, am I right? She’d want you to get all fuelled up before we go back for her. C’mon,” I stood up and gave her my hand. “You ain’t gonna be alone anymore.”

We headed out the next day – me, Farrah, and Nick. He didn’t have to come, but after I told him the rest of the story, he said he wanted to be moral support. The guy’s too soft for his own gears. It took us a few days to get to Wren’s place: a hideout somewhere between Goodneighbor and Diamond City, the kind of place that isn’t on a map. After Vic’s attack on The Bird’s Nest that’s where she must’ve gone, where she must’ve had Farrah, too. I was kicking myself for not trying harder to find her at the time. But at the very least, Vic was gone now. 

Then again, so was her well. 

Farrah led us inside the house, it was dug into the ground, like her greenhouse. It made the whole thing much cooler, which was a welcome relief from the Sun. I was half expecting to be met with the untimely smell of a body, or some other horror – and I was trying to get Farrah to let me scout the place first, but she’s always been as stubborn as her mother. 

It was only right then, right at that moment, when I stepped inside, when Farrah called out for her mother, that I panicked. I didn’t know what to say to her, I didn’t know how to face her – I looked different than the last time we saw each other. I thought maybe she’d take one look at me and say ‘Nope! Sorry. I’ll get Farrah to someone else who isn’t such a volatile freak.’

But I should’ve known Wren better than that.

I walked into her room just as Farrah told her she’d found me. They were hugging so tight, I thought they’d squeeze the life out of each other. 

“I missed you so much,” I heard Wren tell her, “but I didn’t mean for you to come back – you were supposed to stay there when you found him.”

“I’m a bad influence,” I said. Stupid way to introduce myself, especially after all those years. But it definitely wasn’t wrong.

She looked at me, and it was like all those years apart had just been minutes. She was just as beautiful as I remembered, but she looked sick. She looked like I had been right to be worried. She was thinner. Her cheeks were hollow, and she had dark circles around her eyes. She looked weak, which was never a word I’d used to describe Wren.

“John…” The way she said my name, it was the same. Like she knew me better than I knew myself. 

I took that as my cue to approach her, and she told Farrah to wait in the living room; Nick was there preoccupying himself, he volunteered himself to keep an eye on her while we talked. 

Wren tried to stand, but I told her not to. I sat on the edge of her bed, and kept to myself. I couldn’t look her in the eye. After everything, after all that time of thinking what I might say to her if I ever saw her again, dreaming of her, of holding her again. All I could do was sit there, waiting. Like a dog at her feet.

“You got a new look,” she said.

Took me a minute to realize she was teasing me. But eventually we both scoffed out a laugh. “You like it? I think it gives me a nice vintage feel.”

She laughed, and she sounded the same. Just tired. Made me worried.

“How are you holding up?” I asked. I reached for her without thinking. I gravitated towards her, my hand against her face.

And she didn’t pull away. She stayed there, in my hand. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it, John.”

I tried to brush it away, tried to pretend all those fears weren’t real. “You’re gonna be alright. We’re gonna get you back to the city. You’ll be alright there.”

She just shook her head. “I’m not gonna make it.” She looked up at me, and her eyes were wet, but her body was too tired to cry.

She told me without the water from her well, she was on a one-way track to the ultimate final destination. There was nothing that could stop it, nothing except for that well water. She’d had an emergency supply at her hide-out, about three years’ worth; she managed to stretch it as far as she possibly could between both her and Farrah. But she ran out last year, giving the last of it to the kid. She didn’t know why Farrah seemed fine, by all accounts her fate should’ve been the same. But she figured it was because of whatever wasteland genes I might’ve passed on. Gave her resistance to the radiation, or just made her more…normal. Wren was different, I didn’t fully understand how.

“Promise me you’ll take care of her,” she begged me, squeezing my hand. “Promise me you won’t let anything happen to her.”

“That was never a question.”

We sat there in silence for a while. Between life and death, there wasn’t much that felt significant enough to talk about. But I didn’t let her go. I kept holding her hand as long as she let me. 

“I tried…I tried to find you,” I said.

“I looked for you, too.” 

“If only I’d tried harder, sooner –”

She shook her head against the pillow behind her. “There was nothing you could’ve done, John. Vic came armed to the teeth. It was all I could do to get everyone out. To get myself out, with Farrah. She was just an infant then.”

Imagining Wren alone, with an infant – my infant – having to escape a warzone, it made me want to kill Vic all over again. This time, drawn and quartered through the city. “You don’t ever have to worry about Vic again. He’s gone.”

“I heard,” she smiled, weaker than before. “Took me a long time to figure out it was you.”

“Wasn’t exactly my usual M.O. of hiding my tail between my legs, I know. I just got so sick of it, Wren. So sick of it.”

“You’re a hero.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m barely a mayor. I like the hands-off technique of letting people do what they want.”

“After everything this town went through with Vic, I think that’s just what the people need.”

“You’ve always had faith in me.” The thought occurred to me of governing Goodneighbor without her. I’d been doing it for three years, there wasn’t any reason to think it’d be difficult otherwise. But it suddenly felt like too much. “You’ve gotta come back with me, Wren,” I said again. “I got a doctor there, I’ve got people there. I’ve got people now, Wren. They’ll fix you up. Hell, they can check Farrah – make sure she’s right.” She just shook her head, trying to let me down easy. “C’mon – don’t give up on me now.”

“I’m not giving up, John. I just know when I’ve lost.”

I felt powerless. As powerless as I did when thought I lost her before. “I just got you back.”

She touched my face. I looked different than when she touched me all those years ago. But it still felt just as good. Like home. “You’ll have me again. Someday.” She shook her head again, and tried to look better than she felt: “But I don’t want to think about ‘someday’ right now. I only want to think about right now. About you. About Farrah. Let me, John. Let me.”

I couldn’t tell her no. I asked her to tell me about the kid, instead. Tell me everything I needed to know – everything about her, about the memories that made them both laugh. About what I could do best for her as a father. She didn’t ask me to be anyone other than who I was. She never did. All she asked me was to think of Farrah first, before I did anything stupid. She was a smart kid, she said, she wouldn’t tolerate any of my bullshit. With her as her mother, I told her, I didn’t expect anything less.

She got tired, and I left the room to let her rest. Farrah was still in the living room with Nick, playing chess with him at the table. She was hustling people even then. I’ve always been proud of her. When I walked out of her mother’s room, she got up and took my place by her side. She never left her alone. I sat with Nick, feeling more vulnerable that I was willing to admit.

I told him mostly everything. I told him that Wren wasn’t coming back with us. I told him I didn’t know what I’d do without her. I told him if he wanted to leave, I wouldn’t blame him. 

He wasn’t going anywhere, he said. He was going to see this through with me. 

“Because I’m your client?” I scoffed.

“Because you’re my friend.”

I realized right then that people liked me. I went from being a nothing and a nobody – a radroach in the gutter — to someone people wanted to like. I was consciously aware of it, of course, but I don’t think it really hit me until then. I had friends, just like I told Wren. People who actually cared. It was weird.

Nick was going to offer me the couch to sleep on, but Wren said she wanted both me and Farrah next to her while she slept. I think a part of her was worried she’d go sometime during the night. No one wants to be alone when it happens. I didn’t blame her. I was just surprised she wanted me so close to her. I think a part of me came up with this whole story in my head about how she felt about what happened between us, that I forgot it might not have been completely accurate. I’d used it to self-flagellate for so long, I was learning on the fly how to accept that she still wanted me.

We stayed there for a little over a week. Farrah, her mother, and I got to talk. For once in my life, I felt something like normalcy. None of us talked about what was coming, we just enjoyed the ‘right now’, like Wren wanted. She and I enjoyed it together a whole hell of a lot more when we were alone, though. A couple times, in fact. Who was I to deny a dying woman’s request? 

A part of me thought that she was going to stand up one day and agree to come with me to Goodneighbor. That suddenly she wouldn’t be so sick anymore. That it was just a bad case of exhaustion, and that I was just what the doctor ordered. That me being there would somehow cure all her ails. She looked like she was getting better, anyway. She even made it to the living room, ate dinner with us at the table. 

Then the next morning, she could barely sit up, barely talk.

She asked me for some MedX. “I know you have some,” she said; I could barely hear her. “I saw it in your coat.”

“I have trouble sleeping.”

“John…please.”

I didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did she. There wasn’t anything left to say. She was ready. I had to be.

I made sure Farrah wasn’t around when I gave her the first hit. She started to look like she got some relief. I thought maybe that’s all she needed. Something to even her out. I thought maybe she’d sleep it off for a bit, and then be ready to get up and at ‘em in a few hours. Denial is always a double-edged sword. Gives you some relief for a while, but you always wind up paying for it later.

After a few minutes, she looked at me, and I knew it wasn’t enough. I never was.

“Just a little more…please.”

We both knew what would happen. I didn’t fight her on it.

I grabbed a second syringe, and ripped the cap off with my teeth, trying to keep my thoughts busy on finding a good vein. I tried not to think about what I was actually doing. I was doing what she asked. That’s all I ever wanted to do.

She trusted me. More than I deserved. I’ve always tried to live up to it. 

Wren started to get more relief after the second hit. Her face relaxed, and her breathing started to slow, it wasn’t anxious anymore.

I put a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, baby.”

She whispered to me she wanted Farrah with her, with me. I called in the kid, and she crawled into her mother’s arms. They both fell asleep. I was on the other side of her, watching them. I guess all things considered, I’ve gotten pretty lucky. I didn’t get a lot of time with Wren, but then again, some people never find someone to love in the first place. If there is some big, grand scheme of things, I’m glad it put us together. At least for a little while.

Nick dug the grave while I wasn’t looking. I actually don’t know what I would’ve done without him there. I’m used to being alone. As much as I’ve skipped out on everyone in my life, I’m just as used to people skipping out on me. But he was there. The whole time. I owe that guy a lot.

We stayed as long as Farrah needed to after we buried Wren. 

The trip back to Goodneighbor was a long one. I had never been more exhausted in my life when we finally got back to the State House. I didn’t have a place set up for Farrah yet, so I let her take my bed. I couldn’t sleep anyway. I spent the night looking out at the sky.

The following week, I tried to get back into the swing of things. Putting the past behind me – running. It wasn’t doing me much good, but I liked to pretend it did. I was in my office, trying to split my attention between balancing my ledger and consoling Farrah. I started to get frustrated, and the last thing I wanted to do was lash out at the kid. So I came up with a compromise: I taught her how to cook the books.

I pulled her onto my lap, and went over money math with her. Wren was right, she was a sharp kid – sharper than most at that age. But like all kids, she started to get bored. She was more interested in the way I looked. I started to think maybe she hadn’t seen many Ghouls while hiding out with her mom.

She touched my face, trying to make sense of it. “Why do you look different?” Kids have such a way with words.

“I’m a Ghoul,” I said. 

“How come I don’t look like you, too?”

“You do,” I said. “I didn’t always look like this, y’know. No one’s born a Ghoul. You gotta turn into one.”

“How?”

“Lots of radiation. That’s not gonna happen to you anytime soon, kid. Don’t worry.”

She was still touching my face. She had this stern, careful way of looking at things, like she was thinking. Always thinking. I guess she was trying to imagine what I used to look like.

“Here,” I said, and put her down. “I’m pretty sure I got a picture around here somewhere.” I rifled through my desk for a few minutes. There weren’t many personal effects, besides the occasional smoke box and bullet cartridge, but in the false bottom of the very last drawer, I’d put the old photograph of Wren and me for safe keeping. “Here,” I handed it to her, and pointed. “That’s your mom – and that’s me.”

She looked at the photo, then at me – real scpetical. Like I was pulling one over on her. All I could do was laugh. 

“That’s me, kid. A long time ago.” I pointed again. “See, you and I got the same color eyes. My eyes used to be blue.”

She stared at it for a long time, and sat down on the floor. 

“You can keep it.”

She looked up at me – she suddenly looked her age again: small, fragile.

I put a hand on her head, and let her lean on my leg. I kept working. Still running.

Despite everything – despite myself, really – I think Farrah, or Fahrenheit as she calls herself, turned out alright. No one could know who she was, how we were related, how she was different. It’d make her an easy target, and it would give me an exploitable weakness. I may not be the best politician, but I do know one thing about politics: no one is safe, and no one is off-limits. As far as anyone knew, she was just some orphan kid who was the mayor’s runner. It kept her out of trouble for the most part. But kids are curious critters, they get into things and places they shouldn’t. 

A few years after her mother’s death, Farrah got reckless. She got in with a dangerous crowd. She was the youngest among them, and they were always trying to get her to prove herself. I’m not saying I don’t understand the impulse – I, of all people, have no room to talk – but I made her mother a promise: that I’d look out for her.

Imagine my panic when I couldn’t find her all day, and into the night. I was sweating my head off, trying to figure out where she could’ve gone. I didn’t think she and I got along that terribly, that she’d wanna run away. But all I could imagine was the worst. I had half the mind to call up Nick and ask him to track her down, when I saw her so-called ‘friends’ wandering around the streets without her.

I don’t like to wield my diplomatic power, but when it comes to making sure my people are safe, my kid is safe, it’s personal. Whether they know she’s my blood, or not. I was open to the idea that maybe they weren’t involved at all, that maybe Farrah went off on her own. That is, until I talked with the head of this little crew, myself. I saw Vic in his eyes, and my hands itched to strangle the life out of him. I knew he was responsible for whatever happened to her, wherever she was. 

I dragged him into the Old State House, and laid down the law personally. Busted a kneecap, broke a few fingers, until he gave up their sick plan. These goons lured her out to a guarded junkyard and left her there. I threw him out of the State House and out of the city completely. Him and his whole crew. 

I got to the junkyard after sunset, and was held up by the owner, until he saw it was the mayor at the other end of his shotgun. I told him I was looking for a kid who’d come by earlier; she might’ve been with a group, she might’ve been alone. He knew who I was talking about. He pointed to the sign at the gate:

‘Trespassers will be shot.’

I bolted into the yard, barely thinking, looking for her. There was a clearing in the distance, and that’s where I found her: gaping hole straight through the chest. 

It was the worst moment of my life. There were no thoughts in my head, just…blinding white pain. I held her there for I don’t know how long. It was like the world had ended. Nothing else existed. I’d failed. I’d failed Farrah, I’d failed Wren, myself.

Then she gasped in my arms, and I nearly dropped her in shock – now I may be a user, but I’ve never used that much Jet, enough to bring back the dead. But it wasn’t a hallucination. Farrah was alive, the hole in her chest was mending itself somehow. I didn’t question it, all I did was get her home. By all accounts, she was fine. Got the wind knocked out of her, and felt sick for a few days while things healed up, but she was alright. She’s got the scars to prove she survived.

Kid’s got nine lives. Every damn day I’m worried she’s gonna lose ‘em all. She’s had a few close calls since then, but always comes back kickin’. I half wanted her to be my bodyguard so that I can keep an eye on her. But I know it’s the other way around, too. She looks out for me. Not all fathers can say that about their kids.

I don’t know how long Farrah’s gonna live. A century and a half, like her mother, or a few decades short of a hundred, like any other human. All I know is, I got a long life ahead of me. I don’t mind it. If I live half as long as Wren, I hope to do half as much good as she did. That’s all I want, really: to do good, and have a good time doing it. Sounds more simple than it is, but it’s worth the effort.

I’m still waiting for that ‘someday’ that Wren talked about. But I figure I oughtta fill the time before then, give her a good story when the day comes. Nothing beats a good story. I’m sure she’s got loads for me, too. I’m lookin’ forward to hearing ‘em.

For now, my time is filled with taking care of the people who need most: the misfits and underdogs of the Commonwealth. That, and making sure Fahrenheit doesn’t get herself killed too often — or losing my own head in the process. Not until I go feral, anyway. But that’s a story for another time. A long while from now. Hopefully.

I have a purpose again. It’s what everyone wants: to matter, to be seen, and to be important to people who give a shit. If I had to do it all over again, I would – I’d fix a few mistakes, I’d do a few things I should’ve done, avoid a few things I shouldn’t have done, and made more room for better things. But if I had to do it all again, if I could meet Wren all over again, if we could’ve had the time we did and more – hell yeah, I would. All of it. In a heartbeat.

[mae-gi-writes]

It's (Just So) Awkward | jungkook (bts) - one

“No way. We’re too different and he’s so—so black and white. A straight-up yes-or-no kind of guy. And I’m not.”

Genre: nerd! Jungkook x outspoken! Reader, university! Au, idiots to lovers au, kim changbin cameo (skz)

A/N: any mention of disorders/medical conditions are fictional and I do not own Jeon jungkook. I only own the plot. If you are sensitive to content that talks about psychological disorders, i would advise you to read at your own risk. Please do enjoy !!

Comment your username to join the taglist! 💕😊

Part One | Next >>>

———

“And I scream ‘for whatever it’s worth, I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?” — Cruel Summer, Taylor Swift

———

You and Jeon Jungkook have known each other for years.

You know him like the back of your hand, not because you wanted to, but because you were obliged to, with the god-awful amount of time that you spent together.

Everything started back in art class. You had been fifteen at the time and had enrolled in the Visual Arts IGCSE course, as did he. There were only five students in the class, which was the main reason as to how you got to know your classmates that well, considering that these were the sorts of people that you wouldn’t normally hang out with on a daily basis.

You’d taken a seat next to Jungkook on that very first day of class, your colored markers in one hand and your sketchbook in the other, when he’d first decided to pick on the state of your shirt.

“Your shirt is crumpled,” he’d stated matter-of-factly, as though he didn’t have any filter, as though he didn’t care that it might affect your feelings. Good for him that you weren’t the type of person to take things to heart.

You merely straightened and looked at him, “thanks for the observation.”

“Don’t you iron your shirts?”

“Uhm no, I forgot,” you eyed his very organized desk, noticed the straight angles of his own sketchbook perpendicularly placed with his ruler. His pens stacked at its side, parallel to the paper, and his hands poised onto the fresh page.

Your gaze then traveled up to his clean, crisp shirt, hair parted to the side and glasses perched on his nose.

Your eyebrows raised in curiosity as he said, “coming to school with a crumpled up shirt just shows how disorganized you are. Or maybe you didn’t have enough time. Then that’s time-management skills that you lack.”

“Thanks, I’ll take that into consideration,” you’d replied sarcastically.

And from there, you had learnt to know who Jeon Jungkook really was.

Undeniably, he had an amazing gift for art which no one could argue with, so all his backhanded comments were, over time, either ignored or playfully used as insults to tease him back. He was a funny guy — in the sense that he barely had any filter or sense of what was socially accepted to talk about — but you couldn’t say he hadn’t grown on you over the past years and funnily enough, you both ended up in the same university course as Visual Arts major.

“You again?” You’d groaned on the first day of lecture upon noticing his tall, dark frame behind round spectacles. Even out of high school, he still wore a shirt -- this one pale blue -- tucked into sable pants, hair combed back into that side part that now sportrd a few bangs, and his glasses.

He grinned at you from his seat, “hello, Y/N.”

“Why are you here?” You dramatically fell into your seat, swiveled towards him with an exasperated sigh as your chin fell into your hand.

“Because I applied for Visual Arts and got in.”

“Well yeah I knew that much,” you rolled your eyes, “but I thought you wanted to be an architect. Isn’t that what you said before graduation?”

“You remember?” His grin widened, “that’s nice of you—“

“Not on purpose, you dweeb. Now tell me why you’re here instead of bugging someone else in architecture 101.”

“I am in architecture,” he lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “but my course asks for an art prerequisite. They said I couldn’t use my high school grades to give me my transfer credits because art wasn’t my main subject.”

“That’s bullshit. Your art was the best out of all of us.”

“Apparently it wasn’t good enough for them.”

You tilted your head at him, “so you’re telling me I have to suffer through this with you, again? Didn’t I do enough of that in high school?”

“Technically, you’re the one who came to sit next to me.”

“You got a point. Maybe I should move.”

But you didn’t. Not wanting to admit it, you were actually grateful knowing that Jungkook was a familiar element amidst all this new environment. Not that you’d ever tell him that though, knowing he’d take full advantage of it.

That didn’t stop you from complaining about it with your mother every time you saw her appear on your phone screen. She would only laugh and tease you about it, saying that out of all universities, Jeon Jungkook had chosen the one you had applied to. Surely, according to her, she thought it was fate.

“It’s not fate,” you’d grumbled into your pillow, “how can it be fate? He just likes to torture me.”

“He’s not that bad Y/N,” your mother chided, “and you know how he is. His mother said so at the exhibition, remember?”

Yes, you had remembered how his mother had apologized following Jungkook’s harsh criticism of your projects. How could you forget? It had been on the final exhibition evening where all students were decked in black and white to follow the theme of the night, and as part of your final exhibition, you’d had to criticize and analyze your classmates’ pieces with your teacher as mediator. And when Jungkook had been asked to voice his thoughts about your work, he had been void of kindness:

“It doesn’t seem genuine.”

“It lacks of technique.”

“You could’ve used more depth.”

“I don’t see the connection between the artist and the audience.”

Not wanting to cry in front of the entire class had you running to the bathroom as tears streamed down your face, which caused his mother to follow you while trying to explain her son’s horrible behaviour.

“I’m so sorry Y/N. You know he doesn’t mean it that way, not really—“

“Oh then, in what way does he mean it then?” You’d sniffled into your tissue, hating how red your eyes looked in the mirror, “because to me that sounded downright condescending and honestly, I thought better of him—“

“He’s different, Y/N.”

“Different?” You pause, “what do you mean…different?”

That was when she explained about Social Cues Disorder, also known as SCD, which was placed on the Asperger’s spectrum despite being slightly different from the said diagnostic. And as she spoke, it became clear why Jungkook didn’t have any social barriers into speaking his mind even when it might hurt people or be taken the wrong way. The thing was, he didn’t know.

Nevertheless, it took you a few days to recover from his personal attack. You were surprised when Jungkook came up to you a few days after the exhibition to offer you an apology.

“My mother said she told you about SCD,” he spoke as though they were talking about the weather when to you, it was slightly difficult to handle such a topic when you had no idea whether he’d take it right or wrong, “she also said I need to apologize because I was very harsh on you during the exhibition.”

You swallowed thickly, the sting of tears building in your eyes as the memory resurfaced, “yes. You were.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied without missing a beat, “I didn’t know it would hurt your feelings. According to the doctors, I don’t know how to understand people’s emotions or react to people, or say the right thing. So I’m sorry, because I’m sure I might do it again.”

You looked at him for a long moment, judging the weight of his words. Then, you sighed, “that’s fine, Jungkook. Thanks.”

If you removed his lack of total empathy, Jungkook was admittedly kind of fun to be around. He had the most hilariou responses to everything, which you learnt the more you sat next to him in class.

"Color blindness is an eyesight problem," he said one day when you told him that you believed color blindness to be some sort of supernatural gift.

"Well how do you know that the colors you see are the real ones?" You lean over your desk, pen in hand as the soft scratches of pencil to paper filled the room, "maybe we're the ones who are colour blind."

"That is scientifically incorrect."

"Who said so?"

He looked at you as if you were an idiot, "it was scientifically proven, Y/N. I don't think your argument is valid."

"Okay, so let's take schizophrenia for example," you quickly fired back, "people say that those with this disorder hallucinate and see things that aren't there. But maybe, wait--hear me out," you added when Jungkook started shaking his head, "maybe these people actually see things that we don't."

Jungkook's eyebrow rose in what looked to be half-amusement, "I'm not sure that's a valid point. Also, it's medically incorrect to be sharing false information about psychological disorders."

"Not everything is quantifiable, you know."

"Still, what you're saying is that these people have superpowers that don't exist."

"Exactly."

"Sounds like some kind of marvel action movie to me."

Of course he would say something like that. What were you expecting more? With time, you came to understand the phenomenon that was Jeon Jungkook, with his weird quirks and curious way of thinking. You secretly wondered whether he knew how easily people got triggered by his responses, or whether he just went through life with his own kind of colorblindness.

You got rewarded with a first-hand situation between him and another classmate of yours a few days later, going by the name of Kim Changbin.

It was in the middle of mid-term and since deadlines were comig up soon, the printmaking studio was crammed with students trying to finish up their portfolio projects in time. You would normally give Jungkook a hand with the technical materials and tools needed and after having set up his screen, was busy arranging your own set of colours when a voice pierced through the room in anger.

"What the fuck, Jeon?!" Your head swivelled to see Changbin at the station that Jungkook had been standing at seconds prior, looking quite murderous with his damaged screen in hand. Facing him was Jungkook, a palette knife held in mid-air, "what's wrong with you, flaunting that thing around when we all have screens?!"

"I'm sorry," the words came out straight away from Jungkook's mouth, "It wasn't my intention. I'll make sure to work on it--"

"Work on it?" Changbin's nostrils flared. He stepped towards the taller man, "this took me fucking weeks to perfect. And what? You're going to work on it?" He took another step closer, causing Jungkook to lean back, " How the fuck am I supposed to get my artwork back huh?"

"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention," Jungkook parroted again with eyes glassy as though he didn't know what to say, "I'll make sure to wo--"

"Yeah I heard you the first time!" Changbin hollered, index stabbing at his chest, "this artwork is my scholarship ticket and you fucking ruined it!"

"Hey hey," you quickly stepped in-between the two men, hand latching onto Changbin's shoulder, "he said he was sorry okay? Let's just calm down and--"

"Move out, Y/N, this is none of your fucking business," Changbin pushed you away and you stumbled. He took this chance to lunge for Jungkook's chest and the latter whimpered, yelping and handa scrabbling to push Changbin away, "you gonna take responsibility, dumbass?--"

"I'm sorry it wasn't my intention--"

"You fucking retard you can't even --"

"--make sure to work on--"

"Shut up!" And before he knew it, Jungkook yelped and pushed Changbin away.

"Changbin!"

"Jungkook!"

Changbin fell, crashed straight into a table with such force it split down the middle. For a minute, he lay there motionless, the entire class rendered silent.

And in the middle of it all, a panicked Jungkook holding his hands over his ears.

He crouched down as people moved towards Changbin concern and you took this chance to go to your friend, hearing him mutter the exact same phrase over and over again with a blank look in his eyes.

"Jungkook," your words were quiet as your hand wrapped around his shoulder tentatively, "hey, you alright bud? Let's get you out of here, okay?"

But as if he just realized you were his only safe anchor, the young man was quick to wrap his arms around your middle before he buried his head into your chest.

Your cheeks flamed, but you went to caress the back of his head, knowing that this was not a normal situation. He needed you.

"Jungkook?" You whispered and tried ignoring the way your heart skipped a beat, "you okay?"

"Just--please. Don't move."

Few words with so much power. You couldn't help but crumble and hold him closer if that was possible, hoping that the consequences that would follow would hopefully be called an accident.

This was the first time you'd seen Jungkook, as who he really was. You could have walked away , you had that choice, if you wanted to.

But you didn't.

---

"Hey."

Changbin's angry eyes fluttered up to yours from the nurse's bed. He'd been admitted to the campus clinic for an overnight watch in case something went wrong with his back. Due to the force of his fall, he now sported bruises all along his spine and you knew without doubt he'd use it as blackmail against Jungkook even if the wounds were superficial.

"What do you want?" He growled.

From his narrow-eyed stare, it was clear that he was not enjoying his current predicament; that being pinned down to a bed.

"How are you feeling?" You moved a little closer and tried not to flinch under his hard gaze, "I just wanted to see if you were alright."

"Well you got your answer," he snapped, "now if you don't have anytbing else to say, get lost."

"I'm sorry. Jungkook--he's a bit socially awkward and I know you took a lot of time to finish this--"

"That's not your job, is it?" He chuckled emptily, "why are you apologizing on his behalf?"

"Because I know that's what he wants to say, but he's not in a state to say it right now," you took another step closer until you were at his bedside, "so before you go and think that he's just a loser, I wanted to clarify it with you."

"What are you, his mom or something?"

"We're friends, Changbin."

He shook his head, looking amused and you were glad he didn't seem to be so angry now that you exchanged more than two words with him, "and how exactly, did you become friends?"

"Why?"

"You don't seem the type to be friends with that kind of geek, apologies for the insult," he said with a raised brow, "so tell me. How are you friends? Is it by duty?"

"No. He's...it just happened," you tried to stammer through an explanation, though he had a point. How had you become friends? "In any case, does that even matter?"

That was when Changbin grinned at you, "wanna be my friend?"

You stared blankly at him, "what?"

"You wanna be my friend and help me out with my artwork?"

Considering that he would probably combust and drag you along with him if you failed to agree, you were quick to abide by his suggestion, setting up a meeting at the studio a few days later when he'd be safe and sound from the nurse.

You even prepared the materials in advance, setting up all the colours and preparing the screen so that Changbin wouldn't have to wait for it to dry to expose his design.

Your phone vibrated and you quickly pulled it out, frowning when Jungkook's name flashed across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hello Y/N. Where are you?"

"Uh, at school. Why?"

"I bought chocolate donuts."

Your heart melted slightly, "I'm in the art lab."

Which was where Jungkook found you a few minutes later as he walked through the door, donuts in hand and looking as geeky as ever with a crisp white shirt tucked into light jeans.

"Why are you here?" He frowned, "You're already done with your artwork."

Changbin walked in from the exposure room right at that very instant, his face turning sour as soon as he caught sight of the dark-haired man, "what the fuck are you doing here?" He growled.

"I'm here to give some donuts to--"

"To you!" You grabbed the donut box from Jungkook before thrusting it in Changbin's face, "hos way of saying sorry about your broken screen."

"Actually, these donuts were for yo--"

"He just feels so bad about you having to do your artwork all over again, right Jungkook?" You throw him a pointed look, which caused Jungkook's brows to furrow in even more confusion as Changbin's dark eyes flickered between the two of you, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

It took a moment for Jungkook to mutter out a, "sure."

"I'd feel a whole lot better if you got out of my face," Changbin scowled at him then, and you quickly scurried in front of your friend with hands held up in a defensive manner.

Jungkook turned to you, "do you have to help him, Y/N? He doesn't seem to be very friendly to me--"

"You little shi--"

"Alright alright boys!” You flailed your arms around wildly in hopes that would deter any kind of fight, “I told you, Jungkook doesn’t know how to show his affection and gratefulness to other people. Don’t take it badly, Changbin, let’s just— “

“Statistically speaking, you shouldn’t hang out with people with violent tendencies. It’s dangerous,” Jungkook stated bluntly.

You threw him the angriest glare you could muster, causing the said man’s eyes to dart away. He couldn’t recognize social cues, but he did know for a fact what your angry face looked like. So he didn't fight when you pushed him out of the door while excusing yourself with Changbin and it was only when you were safely away from prying ears that you tried talking some sense into your friend.

"Don't mess with this, okay? I got it." You said in what you hoped was a convincing tone, "just go home and finish your homework. We have that art history essay due tomorrow."

Jungkook stared you down behind his glasses, "but Changbin is--"

"No it's fine, just go home. Everything will be fine if you go home."

"What if he hits you?"

"He won't."

"You will call me if he does?"

"Yes. I promise I will."

That seemed to satisfy Jungkook and you quickly propelled him out of the building before ushering back inside the lab just in time to catch Changbin doing his screenprint.

"Got rid of that loser yet?" His smirk was infuriating. It made you want to slap it off his face.

"Shut up and let me help you," you responded, rolling your eyes as you went to assist him. In truth, you were just secretly glad they didn't tear each other's throats out.

Not everyone understood Jungkook, and while that was fine, you just felt as though you were responsible for protecting him.

It was almost midnight when you finished cleaning up the studio and packed up all the tools and materials, that was when Changbin suggested you get something to eat. Deciding that your stomach was a priority, you agreed and settled at one of the small cheap restaurants that sold hot noodle soup, one of the rare finds open 24/7.

"Why're you friends with that guy?"

You glanced up from your soup, "you asked me that before, Changbin."

He took a sip of his, other hand fumbling with his chopsticks to gather some noodles, “and I’m asking you again. Why are you friends?” He took a bite of his noodles and grumbled appreciatively, “you like him or something?”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard coming out of your mouth,” you snorted as you slurped your noodles and chewed on the warmth that seeped into your chest. Noodles always tasted better in cold weather.

“Well he likes you.”

You almost choked on your noodles, “wha— where are you getting all this false information.”

“It’s written all over his face, Y/N,” Changbin rolled his eyes, “he wouldn’t be bringing you donuts if that were the case.”

“You’re wrong. He’s just kind. He always was,” the thought of you and Jungkook being together suddenly flashed before your eyes and heat flushed through your cheeks at the thought. He was your friend, he was the closest thing to home that you had now that you were in university, so it was just natural for you to gravitate towards the familiar.

“Bullshit. You don’t see the way he looks at you.”

“He doesn’t look at me like anything.”

Changbin merely chuckled, shaking his head before finishing his soup in silence. You were glad that he dropped it, knowing full well that you wouldn’t have been able to take it if he’d continuously found arguments to support his hypothesis. Jungkook couldn’t like you…could he? He was…odd and not the kind of man to look for things like relationships.

Then again, you’d never actually asked Jungkook how he felt about girls. Or relationships for that matter.

Which was why you had planned to corner him after your English lecture, rushing to the end of the corridor where you knew Jungkook had his design class with your bag barely closed and books clutched to your chest, only to find the said man wrapped up in an animated conversation with a stranger you’d never seen before.

The girl was beautiful. That was a given, with long glossy curls that fell to her waist and dyed light blonde, giving her the appearance of a fairy. She was wearing a pastel blue coat decked with white pants and boots to match, the perfect fashion icon for many, slightly smaller than you were so that her head had to tilt back every time she spoke to him.

You were about to swivel around — since they seemed to be in deep discussion — when Jungkook spotted you. His brown eyes lit up from behind his spectacles (it was kinda cute) and he grinned, dimple showing.

“Y/N,” he called your name and you had no other choice than to walk over, flashing him a weak smile, “this is Lee Sara. She’s in my design class. She’s also going to be an architect.”

“Hi,” Sara smiled. She was beautiful, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” you smiled back, eyes darting between the two before settling on Jungkook’s, “you ready to go?”

“Actually, Sara and I are going to get some boba,” Jungkook said.

“Oh,” you tried to hide the surprise on your face, “right. Uhm… I’ll see you later then.”

“Do you want to join us?” Sara asked kindly.

Jungkook was already turning away by then, probably too excited to get his drink to think about your feelings. He stopped mid-way, looked back at you, only to see you shake your head.

“I’m okay,” you smiled slightly, “see you two later. I gotta head to the library to study.”

Maybe it was the fact that Jungkook never used to socialize with girls before or that you never noticed, but you couldn’t help but feel slightly disoriented at the sudden switch in the situation, causing Changbin’s earlier words to resonate through your brain. Did Jungkook actually have romantic intentions towards girls.

Did he feel attracted to them? It had never crossed your mind before, but now that Changbin had it labeled as an option, it was as if you couldn’t get the thought out of your head.

And it wasn’t just a one-time occurrence. A few days later you found him cooped up in the library with Sara at his side as they studied the mathematical equations of buildings and helped each other out with their projects. You had joined for a bit, only to feel a bit left out by the conversation and thus opted out early in favour of escaping the rising awkwardness. Not that Jungkook noticed, he never noticed anything.

“Maybe you’re right.” You’d grumbled to Changbin during your art lab a few days later. You had arrived early to class, coffee still steaming in hand, to find the said young man already sitting inside with his final artwork labeled and ready to be submitted on the table.

He looked at you, an eyebrow raising in curiosity, “I’m right about many things,” a smirk graced his face, “do tell.”

“About Jungkook liking girls.”

“No. I said he liked you, that’s a different—“

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut him off, “he doesn’t like me. But he’s—I just realized that maybe he does want a girlfriend. Maybe.”

“What made you say that?”

“He’s been hanging out a lot with a classmate lately,” you shrugged, “it’s just—it feels weird. He never used to be so…social.”

“Good riddance,” Changbin’s smirk grew, which made you throw your pen at his head. It hit him straight on the forehead, “ow! Watch it, woman.”

It was for the best. Really, truly, that Jungkook was expanding his horizons and talking to new people. He couldn’t be in your shadow forever, after all. That was what you kept on repeating yourself as the thoughts replayed through your brain again and again and again. The realization was tough, but change was good. Right?

Change was needed.

And maybe you should change too.

———

"Pigs aren't cute. They bathe in mud and carry numerous bacteria and and these bacteria are transferred to humans."

"Pigs are cute!" You gasped, shoving your phone in Jungkook's face to show him an image of said animal, "look at their babies! They're so fluffy and like tiny and small--"

He pushed your hand away in disgust, "you have weird taste in cutness."

"They're this ugly pink but overall they're quite charming, don't you think?" You giggled as you keptbswiping for photo after photo, "oh gosh, look at this one! He has a bow on his head."

“Y/N you have a weird definition of cute.”

You chuckled, “and you are weird, full stop.”

A few days had passed ever since your encounter with Sara and you hadn’t mentioned anything about the said girl since, thinking that it was probably for the best. And plus, Jungkook had the complete right to do whatever he wanted with his life. Yup. You weren’t there to stop him from talking to a pretty girl.

Maybe you should worry about yourself instead, and try not to focus too much on how it was getting harder and harder to get Jungkook’s attention these days.

Not that anything had changed. You still went on your library study sessions and bought boba together after every art history lecture. You still ate friend chicken and pizza while streaming your favorite movie — the same one that Jungkook asked for every week — and you still hung out with each other as though everything was normal.

But you knew it was far from it, something that your social circle of friends also pointed out during one particular lunchtime.

“He’s so peculiar. How do you hang out with him?” asked your good friend Yoona. You had met her during orientation and the two of you had hung out together quite often ever since. She’d even tagged along to some of your famous movie night Fridays, “I mean, not to sound rude but he’s like the kind of guy you’d find in Internet cafes.”

“He’s not all that bad. You just don’t know him well,” you argued as you took a sip of your iced tea.

“Don’t you think he has a crush on you, Y/N?” Another friend, Jimin, asked. He was busy unwrapping his sandwich and flicked his fringe out of his eyes, cocking his head in a way that made you feel a little self-conscious.

Yoona chortled, “no way. I don’t see it. Although…when you think about it, it would make sense why they would end up together.”

“Right?” Jimin added, “it’s clear as day that you guys have feelings for each oth—“

“Bullshit,” you laughed, “I don’t know why you keep mentioning that. And plus, he’s hanging out with this new girl these days.”

“New girl? Who?” Yoona frowned.

“Her name’s Sara Lee. Heard of her before?”

“Oh,” Jimin straightens, “the pretty girl from architecture right? I think everyone’s heard of her. She’s like an influencer or something.”

“Well you know, if you dress up Jungkook nicely…” Yoona trailed off in thought, “I think he has potential.”

“You think? Girl, the ladies in my course have been eyeing him since the start of the new semester. That’s old news,” Jimin rolled his eyes as you stared them down, eyes darting from one face to another as the new information sunk in.

“Wait—“ you interrupted their flow of conversation, “are you—are you actually serious? Jungkook? Potential? What—“

“I’m surprised you haven’t seen it yet, Y/N,” Yoona said as she slurped down her drink, “I mean— this boy just has wardrobe issues. Nothing that a little bit of fixing can’t solve.”

Contrary to your friends, you had never actually thought of Jungkook— seen of him in this light. Which was why you decided to stare him down in your art history lecture right after lunch, cocking your head this way and that as you examined the angles of his face.

In truth, they were right. Jungkook did have potential to be handsome. Because even with those round glasses and that horrible side part of his, you could still catch a glimpse of his jaw line. His build was hidden, but yet still there underneath the curve of his shoulders. His back was broad, that you were sure of and you couldn’t help imagining how he would look like in a v-neck shirt—

Stop. Your slammed down on your thoughts like car brakes. This was Jungkook, for god’s sake. You’d known him as the annoying classmate in high school, the quirky friend who never wore sweaters or casual wear and was always decked in formal attire. This wasn’t about to change now.

“Y/N, you’ve been staring me down since the start of class and it’s starting to creep me out.”

Jungkook’s voice dragged you back to reality. You blinked, catching his eyes as warmth suddenly flushed through the back of your neck.

“Uh—yeah sorry. Was just lost in thought.” Lies. You were definitely checking him out. You wondered whether he actually knew what that word meant. You were just glad he wasn’t the best at reading physical body language or expressions for that matter.

“Can I ask you a question?” You asked suddenly.

He looked hesitant, but nodded.

“What do you think of Sara?”

“What do I think of Sara?” You watched his eyebrows pull into a frown, “I don’t think I understand this question, Y/N.”

“I mean—do you find Sara attractive? Like as a girl?”

Jungkook was silent for a long moment and though you were usually the best at reading him, the expression on his face was one that you couldn’t decipher.

It made your stomach curl with unease.

And when he finally spoke, you swore your stomach twisted in on itself.

“Sara is pretty.”

Your throat suddenly felt dry. You swallowed thickly, bit down onto your lower lip and tried to wonder what the fuck was wrong with you. It wasn’t like you liked Jungkook…right? Right?

“Would you date her?” You asked.

“I have not thought of it. But yes, she is, by every man’s standards, a very good candidate for a girlfriend.”

Ah. So he did know what it meant after all.

“But would you date her?”

“Probably. Yes.” He looked at you then, tilting his head to the side as though trying to decode what was going on inside that head of yours, “why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. No reason.” You tried to smile, lips lifting slightly at the corners in hopes that it would fool him.

It did. Without him knowing that somewhere along the seam of your heart was a small hole that ripped apart its seams.

-—-

Part Two >>

[reyboris]

Astro notes (june 23)

Full moon are like eat a lot in the night. Could be nice and good, but intense.

Eclipses are like drain energy.

New moon feels clean.

I found that aries, gemini, leo or libra energy(big3 or stellium) in a chart could be more horny 🥵than scorpio energy. Lol. Scorpio is not only sex (like taurus is not only food) Or what do you think?

The first sign of a modality have a lot in common with the last sign of the modality. Example taurus (first fixed sign) are similar than aqua energy (last fixed sign).

Placements that i feel like exaltation: Aries mercury (so smart), Venus in cancer (so fresh), aqua mars (inusual energy).

Pisces era like pisces people, represents good art, but bad organization.