#though there's so little detail on it that I've made up most of what is here

[rainydayathogwarts]

Fancy ride - Sirius Black

summary: Sirius gets jealous when you're sharing stories from your date with Evan, so you put him in his place. cw: jealous!sirius, caught making out wc: 2.3k+

"It was the most inappropriate joke but something about it just worked, I don't know."

The marauders all sat in the common room, listening to you recall the story of your apparently amazing date with Evan to Lily and Marlene. The girls asked questions about information James and Remus claimed they did not want to know, despite leaning forward to hear you better. Sirius sulked on the couch next to Remus, who had whispered to him to be nice before you'd started your story, well-aware of his feelings for you. Now, looking at the boy, he was shocked. Sure, Sirius always flirted with you, but everyone always thought it was just for shits and giggles, two good friends poking fun at each other. Or at least, Remus thought Sirius just had a little crush - nothing big. He thought Sirius would be ask mean questions about your date, belittling his masculinity, however he only sat silently on the couch with a frown on his face.

Loud giggles from the three girls opposite Sirius had his head snapping up, attention grasped. His eyes locked on you, sitting on the floor laughing, hands clasped around Lily's bicep as you leaned on her for support to sit up straight. Sirius glanced towards the two boys sitting on his right: James's face was flushed pink at the intimate details being shared and Remus was laughing along with you guys in disbelief. "Shit, well how fancy was his ride at least?" Remus added, throwing you and Marlene into another fit of giggles. Sirius furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, not understanding the relevancy to the date. Shit, he wished he was listening now. "Wait I don't get it. He picked you up to the place so you're in love with him now?"

When the laughing calmed down, Marlene scrunched her face up, muttering "What?" With an amused scoff and Lily gave him an almost pitying look that had Sirius throwing his hands into the air in surrender, saying "I zoned out for two seconds, I don't know what happened." You smiled at him, a gorgeous smile that made Sirius feel like the most special person in your life. God, you were too nice to him. He smiled back at you. "No, Sirius. He was my ride, if you know what I mean." Sirius's smile dropped as Lily squealed at the reveal of new information, reaching for her butterbeer. "You fucked!?" Marlene questioned, and you nodded, almost proudly, gesturing towards Remus with a nod. "Remus had a feeling, didn't you Rem?" The boy nodded, leaning back against the couch.

"Hence the question." He said, looking over to James and slapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. He looked horrified. "Jesus prongs, it's as though you've never had sex!" Remus exclaimed with a laugh. "I didn't know this was how girls spoke about us afterwards!" He yelled, voice comedically high-pitched. Despite the commotion, Sirius found your eyes still on him, observing his reaction. You were fiddling with your necklace nervously, afraid that he was judging you. "What? You asked the long-haired boy, making everyone's attention turn towards you. Sirius shook his head quickly "Nothing. I just feel like I should have been listening to the rest of the story now." You laughed at his response, but Sirius could tell it wasn't genuine. You knew he was lying.

"I don't know if James is up to hear any more information-" "Forget James!" Remus interrupted, picking up his butterbeer and rounding the table to sit with you and the girls on the floor. "I want to know." You giggled, and Sirius took note of how the smile reached your eyes this time. "Wait so was the ride taking you, or were you riding the ride?" Marlene not-so-subtly questioned, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. "A little bit of both." Remus hummed, muttering into his bottle "That's probably why I can still smell it on you." You gasped, jumping up and screeching "You're joking! I've showered twice since!" In the corner of your eye, you watched Sirius stand up, walking towards the staircase. Your gaze followed him, head turning to see him disappear up the stairs. James stood up too, jokingly stating "Well I'm going to let you girls finish your little gossip session" before following his best friend. Remus threw a pillow at James, narrowly missing his retreating figure.

When you turned back towards your best friends, finding their eyes locked on you, you retreated into yourself, mumbling "What?" Lily cocked her head to the side, a knowing expression on her face. "Why'd you care so much about what he thinks of your date?" Pointed out Marlene, leaning against the table. Remus's face contorted into one of confusion, going silent as he observed the interaction. You rolled your eyes, turning your attention to the lit fireplace to avoid eye contact with either of your dorm-mates.

"It's fine to admit-" "No I won't!" You cut Marlene off, sharply turning towards her. "Because the second I admit that I like him out loud it becomes real." You whisper-yelled at her. A silence dawned on you and the girls, but Remus gasped loudly. "You like Sirius!?" He asked, matching the volume of your voice and looking around the common room after name-dropping. "Men." Lily scoffed, and you followed her action, scoffing too. "What about Evan?" He asked. "Evan was a date. I had fun with him. Once. It's different with Sirius." Remus put his bottle on the table, the glass making a loud slamming sound as he did. He turned towards you, saying "Y/n he likes you too. He likes you too much." You shook your head at Remus's words, telling him "No, Sirius is protective and pretends to flirt with me to make me feel better about myself. He doesn't like me, he's just pissed I'm not playing his game right now."

Remus's jaw went slack in shock, shaking his head aggressively. "No, no, y/n, Sirius doesn't just flirt with people he doesn't like." Ouch. "Remus!" Lily scolded, watching as your face changed, and your eyes went glassy. "So he just likes everyone then?" You spat, and Remus's eyes widened, shaking his head even faster now. "No, no, you don't get it! You just can't tell when Sirius is actually flirting with someone. There's a very fine line between flirting and being nice for Sirius." He insisted. None of you looked convinced.

"Save your breath Remus, you're not making it any better." The boy ran his hands over his scarred face, thinking up solutions. "I know! He'll just tell you himself!" Your eyes widened when Remus stood up, realisation dawning on you. "Remus no!" You tried, but the boy wasn't listening to you, already halfway to his dorm. Speeding up your pace, you chased Remus up the stairs, only catching his wrist hallway across the hallway when he came to a stop in front of his door. "Remus," you whispered, panting lightly. "Don't." Remus looked at you for a while before finally nodding when he noticed the fearful look in your eyes. Unfortunately, the door to the dorm swung open nonetheless, and you found James stood in front of you. He took a moment to look at you and your hand wrapped around Remus's wrist, confusion settling onto him.

Unluckily for you, directly facing the doorway, Sirius sat at the window nook, smoking a cigarette near the open window. He observed the scene just as James did, and you let go of Remus's wrist, letting your arm fall to your side. Remus looked at you with a pleading look on his face. "Just fucking tell him." You scoffed, an incredulous look on your face. He finds out about your crush and five minutes later has you trying to tell Sirius? Absolutely not.

"No."

Sirius exhaled, smoke from the cigarette dispersing in the air. "Tell who what?" Sirius asked, making both your heads snap towards him. James slid through the doorway and between you and Remus, watching you from the other side of the door now. You angrily strolled into the dorm and Remus's eyes lit up, watching as you snatched the cigarette from between Sirius's lips, telling him "I thought you said you were gonna quit smoking." Putting the cigarette between your lips, you inhaled deeply as Sirius scoffed, muttering "Fucking hypocrite." Remus grinned, reaching over to shut the door before turning to James. "Progress." The confused boy grimaced, letting out a clueless 'huh?'

On the other side of the door, you stood looming over Sirius as you smoked silently, eyes shutting in satisfaction. "Give that back! Aren't you supposed to be talking about the mind blowing sex you had?" Sirius growled, taking the cigarette from you, watching as you sat down next to him, exhaling the smoke into his face with an annoyed smirk. Fuck. Sirius gulped, inhaling the smoke in the air. God knows he would have yelled at anyone else who did that, but with you? It was sexy. "What's so annoying about the sex I have? God knows I've had to listen to you talk about countless women." Sirius swallowed, cheeks heating up. You had a point. "You just annoyed that the sex I have isn't with you?"

Sirius froze, the cigarette burning between his fingers. You smiled condescendingly, taking the cigarette from him and bringing it back to your mouth. You inhaled, leaning back on the pillows behind you, your head hitting the cool glass of the window. The cigarette rested between your fingers, hand draped over the couch as you blew the smoke into the air, staring up at the ceiling. You felt your heart aggressively beating against your chest, swallowing a lump in your throat as you attempted to keep your nonchalant attitude. Sirius’s face popped in your ray of vision. Glancing at him, you realised how much closer he was to you now, hand propped right next to your shoulder to hold himself up, leaning over your torso. ��What?” Your wall of confidence wavered, and you took in a shaky breath, eyes softening in fear of his judgement. “Remus told me everything.” You blurted out, a fake confidence in your voice that Sirius didn’t buy for a single second.

“Sit up.” Sirius spoke, shuffling away from you to make space for you to sit properly. “What?” You mumbled, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “Sit up so we can have a proper conversation.” Following Sirius’s orders, you sat up, leaning over to put the cigarette out on the ashtray in front of you before resting your hands on your thighs. Sirius stayed silent in front of you, a solemn look on his face. He only stared at you, as though trying to decipher the look on your face. You felt sick. “Sirius I swear to god if you reject me I’m going to throw up out of that window.” Sirius grimaced at your words, scrunching his nose up before snapping his head towards you.

“Wait, me reject you?” Sirius breathed out. You nodded wordlessly, watching as Sirius’s face morphed into twenty different emotions before starting to speak again. “Remus told you I like you.” You hummed. “So why on earth would I reject you?” Shrugging your shoulders, you opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it. “I thought you were here to reject me.” Your back straightened at Sirius’s words automatically. “Remus wasn’t lying?” It was Sirius’s turn to shake his head, and he hesitantly moved closer to you on the couch.

“What about Evan?” Sirius asked, and you felt his cold breath on your face. You reached a hand over to push Sirius’s black locks behind his shoulder, cupping his jaw and stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Sirius, he was never a real option.” A relieved grin made its way onto Sirius’s face, shifting his weight to lean closer to you, cupping your cheeks to bring your face closer to his, and pulling you into a desperate kiss. You gasp the seconds your lips touch, both hands closing in on the fabric of Sirius’s shirt. You let Sirius manhandle you onto your back, his torso hovering over yours as he needily deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into your open mouth. You whined as one of your hand slipped under Sirius’s untucked shirt, feeling his muscles clench at your soft touch. Sirius barely pulled away from you, biting softly at your bottom lip before kissing you properly again, bringing his body closer to yours so you could feel his chest touching yours, hair falling over his shoulders to tickle your cheeks.

Just as Sirius brought his hips down, dragging them across yours, the door to the dorm slammed open, and Sirius jerked away from you, straightening up so he straddled one of your thighs. Your head snapped towards the door and the two silent teenagers who stood there. James gestured with his hand awkwardly, and you felt your face heat up as he said “We were sitting outside and we just- we uh-” “-We thought we should check on you. Just… in case.” Remus finished for him, eyes glued to Sirius, now pulling on his shirt to make himself look a little more presentable. When Remus and James still don’t move, you pushed yourself up on your arms to help yourself sit up, and your thigh pushed upwards, grazing Sirius just between the legs. The boy gasped loudly, hands immediately flying to his crotch, and he jumped off you, instantly walking towards the doorway, where Remus and James stood. “Well, you checked up on us for sure!” Sirius exclaimed, pushing the door closed and forcing them out into the hallway.

When Sirius swung around to face you again, you were already stood behind him, and your hands immediately got to unbuckling his trousers. You dropped to your knees and Sirius felt himself get harder at the sight of you looking up at him with a glint in your eyes. His hand reached back, blindly searching for the doorknob until he heard the ‘click’ of the lock. Outside, Remus and James stood still in confusion and near awkwardness. They didn't say a single word until they heard a loud moan on the other side of the door, and immediately scrambled away, tripping over their feet to reach the common room.

[flover4ever]

first date⋆.˚ ౨ৎ ˚ ˖࣪

a/n: i think abt matt and karen's date in that restaurant all the time. such a perfect scene! i wanted to capture that energy. i've always wanted to write a matt x librarian! oc fic. but times are tough and i can never commit to things lol. here's a snippet of what could have been. also, i am not from new hampshire. but oh my god, how pretty!!!!! im jealous.

warning: matt murdock x librarian! reader

matt didn't think his night could go any better. in front of him, he's got the most beautiful girl of his dreams. she told him that he is wearing a white cardigan and light blue dress, the fabric reaches the ground. she told him that the kids from the library tell her it reminds them of when the sky is clear of clouds, only sunny and blue.

matt takes a sip of his wine. "you got family in new york?"

"no," she shakes her head, taking a sip of her water (when he first asked her out, he wanted to take her to drinks. but marianne has sworn off drinking for life). "moved here three years ago."

matt's eyebrows raised. matt realized just how little he knew about her, despite how marianne was the common thread in nelson & murdock. "where are you from?"

"new hampshire." said y/n, a small smile peaking through her, like the first ray of sunshine. "it's beautiful there, so much color and life."

"god, it's hard to describe it," she said. matt loved how she described things, down to its smallest details. she talks in such a cadence akin to deep flowing rivers to morning birds. she can make her grocery list sound like a love poem. "it's hard to capture that beauty... sense of awe at the life around you, you know?"

matt smiled, so hard his cheeks started to hurt. he was sure he'd grow smile lines by the time he's forty if he keeps this up. maybe it was worth it. for y/n. "yeah," he muttered, almost lost in a trance.

"why'd you come to new york, then?" he's genuinely curious, his head titled to the side. "i mean, you make new hampshire seem like another planet next to new york."

she laughs, a giddy and joyous thing. "new hampshire's home. but new york, it never leaves you know? even with the grim and grit, there's something or someone that just makes you want to stay. when I interned here in hell's kitchen, the only thing that kept me moving was the kids. story times, their little faces, their constant questions. all of it. it gave me purpose."

matt hears her heart race, the kind that spoke to one's sense of passion. it was almost melodic, the rapid yet enchanting rhythm of muscle.

"nobody truly understands that they're the future," she said. "our future. i want to give something to them, something irreplaceable."

"like reading?"

"yeah," she sighs, like talking about the children of hell's kitchen filled her with such fervor, she couldn't contain it. "exactly."

"but working with the best lawyers in new york is a definitely a bonus," she adds, holding up her glass of water, the ice swirling against the glass.

y/n narrates what she's about to do, matt chuckles as he does the same, their glasses clinking.

"what about you?" she rested her head on her hand, her heartbeat starting to race as she met his eyes. though their gaze would never be able to meet, his dark gaze became her favorite shade of brown. it wasn't like hers, like earth's dirt in new hampshire's wilderness-- it was gold, shining like embers.

"me?" matt raised his eyebrows.

"yeah," she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, her vegan samosas long gone by now. "what made you want to be an attorney?"

"it was my father really," said matt. "he was a boxer. . . caught up with the wrong people. and when i was nine, he died. i tried giving him justice, but no luck. i guess i just don't want any nine year old matt's to feel the same way i did."

"like what?"

"helpless."

her gaze softened. "you're a good man, matt."

"i think you are good, too, marianne," says matt. "better than me."

and he meant it. for years when darning the suit of daredevil, he feels as if there is a twisted part of him taking over his soul. every punch felt one step closer to that. being matt murdock, keeps him grounded-- but that wouldn't be possible without foggy, or karen, or y/n.

she seems like she doesn't have to try. she is effortlessly good and pure. and maybe there is a twisted side to her that she hasn't shown to him. but he's hanging out the hope that this is who she truly is. a person who is kind and good at her core, even if she had to eat through the rotten parts of herself. maybe that's what makes her truly good.

[falling-star-cygnus]

hiii 😇 id love (if you wanted to) write some gallagher or boothill! maybe something like how they express love in a relationship or something along those lines

love ur work!

and i love you, random civilian! [please get the reference, i beg]

so- i've been thinking over this ask for a while because I just- couldn't think of anything T^T and i didn't want to deliver any kind of half-assed response. I also don't know Gallagher that well, so i apologize if his characterization isn't up to par :{ -> due to the new Boothill content, though, i think i got something!

bare with me, i don't really do reader stuff so most of this is in relation to some anonymous third person 😭

Boothill:

I firmly believe that hair is a big thing for him. like- putting little braids and gently brushing out knots, and putting it up in whatever hairstyle you ask for is one of the ways he shows he cares

When he was alive, i can see him being really touchy and physically affectionate- and he still wants to be, with his mechanical body, but bc he can't feel it anymore he shoves the desire down

MUSIC!! i made a post about it here, but in more detail [specific detail to this ask] i'd like to imagine when he's taking a breather he'd share his headphones and doze off

[i'm completely imagining argenti, rappa and mr.reca to these.]

Gallagher:

What's the bar version of a passenger princess? Like- Gallagher designating one seat at his bar that everyone knows not to sit in or mess with the person that sits in it [or: this]

He seems like the type to have Acts of Service as his love language, as well as lovingly being an asshole

Mans is tired, and he seems have drowned cat energy soooo group naps! [can it be called a group if it's one person...?] Very clingy naps, actually, like- needs weight on top of him and something to wrap at least one of his arms around

me, realizing i included naps in both of the third examples: ...that's not self projection, not at all. nope

[spiritsong]

day one: name, part one

#Veilguard30 by @pavus · rook dev prompt

word count: 1.5k What follows is my attempt to weave together my pre-established backstory for my mortalitasi Rook with the Mourn Watch backstory — that of the child found in a tomb. It got pretty long, so I'm splitting in two parts; part two will come tomorrow. read part two here! continue below, or read on ao3.

In 9:13 Dragon, the fortress of Bownammar falls. It is the beginning.

The most vigilant of dwarven scholars warn that it is a sign. Some people cast the scholars’ worries aside with a wave of their hand. The fortress has fallen to the darkspawn before and reclaimed just as often.

Others heed their warnings. Their people understood what it was to live amidst perpetual threat. To brush it off with no great concern was tantamount to opening your home to the great evil standing on the doorstep.

Still, the most privileged and powerful amongst them were shielded in the safety of their enduring thaigs, unwilling to face the truth when there were always more pressing issues in closer proximity.

As for the surface races, as for the human societies that reigned in the land above, well… they were not even afforded such warnings. They never cared to hear them.

It takes several months for the news to reach the cult. 

The omen traveled across the Waking Sea to the streets of Cumberland, a city swollen with life. It cut its way through plains both fertile and dead. The omen breezes past ears and passes through lips, at times in hushed whispers, often fearful, often disbelieving. 

For all the power of a message set on the wind, it must eventually peter out and find its end, but not before the omen is finally breathed with the relief one feels at the arrival of something long awaited.

The Maker would grant them mercy at last.

The cult never stayed in one place for too long. 

In the beginning, their numbers were few and this made them invisible. The early resurgence of a cult is a vulnerable thing, and so they clung to the shadows for protection. Still, His Word must be made to take root in any who were receptive. 

It was a delicate balance, but often, they needed to do little more than hold their arms out, and the wretched and downtrodden would walk into the fold. Suffering was always open and wanting. 

They welcomed the destitute, the grieving, the indentured and enslaved, the lost and misguided; any who were broken or alone or homesick for something they had never known. 

The dwarves and elves and humans were nearly equal in number. The humans, for all the power they held on the surface, were unwilling to share their good fortunes with the lowest of their kind. 

The elves were certainly no strangers to suffering, forced to live atop one another in the most squalid corners of the human cities, their numbers whittled down by their oppressors as had been done countless times before. 

The dwarves came from those who were forced upon the surface, either in recent memory or generations before. They were exiles from their ancestral homes, unwanted by their kin and unwanted by the Stone. 

There were some who were neither poor or despairing or powerless; they only craved more power and thought to find it through the cult. They were ambitious would-be magisters, mostly. Some were Nevarran death mages who had lost their path. 

There was even a pair of Grey Wardens — one whose head swam with the Song in nearly all his waking hours, and another who was new to the order, but did not take to it. She was looking for a way out, though she did not know it. 

The others did not know what to make of the Wardens. Did the Maker lift them above all else? They were granted with the gift, and yet, did they not affront the generosity of the Maker when they refused to let the Blessing spread through every corner of their bodies and every corner of the land? 

The rest of the cult kept the Wardens at a distance nonetheless; set apart, either as guide or pariah.

The cult traveled and the cult grew and the cult waited. The waiting was what they did best of all. But it was different this time, to know what once seemed unreachable was now portended. 

As time passed, the patience of devotees transformed into the patience of desperate fanatics. And as the organism grew and the meager shadows of the surface world refused to hold them any longer, they descended.

Perhaps this is where it all went wrong. Some argued it was too soon — why would they jeopardize what had been centuries in the making by allowing themselves such temptation?

And yet others asked if there were any greater than them who deserved to be the first to give offering to their Maker. 

But it was preached that there was no such thing as deserving — there was only the void, the darkness, the abyss. There was only the Blight.

For amongst the Maker’s gifts was plague and pestilence, but none so sacred as the gift of the Blight. 

It was not selective nor prejudiced; it was indiscriminate and undiscerning. If there was to be a question of worth, then it should be centered on their inherent unworthiness. 

They were nothing. They were Empty.

The Maker had turned His gaze from them. The masses played at falsities, pretending as though their existences were anything but cold and meaningless without the Maker’s love.

His gift was a wave of endings to wash upon an undeserving world. 

But as the cult traversed the tunnels that snaked through soil and stone, as they anxiously pressed up against the ceiling of the earth as they waited and waited and waited—

—the Wardens grew restless.

And the others grew frenzied.

The Song, the Song, the Song! It was all the Wardens spoke of, and all the humility and piety of the world could not hold under the weight of longing for the end of all things.

It began with the flesh.

If one took in the flesh of the Maker’s gift often enough, His Song slips through the earth, seeking His most devoted.

To feel His breath upon the ear, to hear His voice at last… it was enough to bring them to their knees, tears falling as their arms raised high, grasping for their God.

They scavenged for the flesh where they could, but they grew greedy. It wasn’t enough. 

Then one ran off into the darkness, and another, and another — they ran into the arms of the Maker’s army; the vessels through which his Gift is spread.

It was too early, the wiser amongst them said, but few listened.

And one day they drew too close. 

The Child remembered little. 

There was perhaps a Mother and a Father, though the Child knew them by no such names. Their faces were long lost, but their vague outlines stood against the shadows that overtook most of the Child’s memories.

Sometimes, the not-Mother and the not-Father brought the shadows. The Child would rather not remember those.

The Child remembered a time when the sun touched their back. Sometimes it was itchy, and sometimes it was so warm and welcome, the Child wished to press back against the heat.

The Child remembered light. They remembered something that was not stone beneath their feet. Grass, soft and forgiving. Dirt, packed and easy to walk upon. Mud that tried to eat the Child. Sand, a little like the mud in that it was uneager to let go, though not as yucky and uncomfortable.

The Child remembered the things that they lacked. A plush bear, its worn and weathered arm held tenderly in the grip of a Girl, face similarly dirtied as the Child’s own. 

The Girl had a Mother and a Father, and there were other children, too. Brother. Sister. This was called a family, the Child knew.

There was something else the Girl had and the Child didn’t, though the Child floundered for the language to describe it, snatching each word as it flew by, letting them go when they didn’t fit.

“What is that?” the Child asked the not-Mother. 

They stood on the edge of the busy city street. There was stone beneath their feet then, too, but this stone was flat and similarly shaped and all nestled against each other.

The Child pointed at the Girl. “That’s like… that’s like the sun…” 

The Child’s hand waved through the air, fingers opening and closing as they struggled to explain. 

The Child’s nubby fingers pressed against the rough fabric at their chest, the movements akin to that of clawing. “And this, this isn’t like the sun. This is like at night, when it’s cold and the sun is sleeping.”

The not-Mother’s lips crooked up into something like a smile, though her eyes reflected the same feeling the Child was trying to describe — that is, they reflected nothing at all.

“That’s called being empty,” the not-Mother said. “That is what you are. Empty.” 

[shannonpurdyjones]

One side effect of my research for this novel being steeped heavily in textile history is my swelling disgust with modern fabrics.

Firstly they're so thin? Like most things you see in Old Navy or even department stores might as well be tissue paper?? Even some branded sports t-shirts I've bought in recent years (that are supposed to be 'official apparel' and allegedly decent quality) are definitely not going to hold up more than a year or two without getting little holes from wear.

This side of even two hundred years ago fabrics were made to be used for YEARS, and that's with wearing them way more often because you only owned like three sets of clothes. They were thick and well made and most importantly made to LAST. And they were gorgeous?? Some of the weaves were so fine and the drape so buttery we still don't entirely know how these people managed to make them BY HAND. Not to mention intricate patterning and details that turned even some simple garments into freaking ART.

I know this is not news, the fast fashion phenomenon is well documented. Reading so much about the amazing fabrics we used to create and how we cherished and valued them, though, is making it hard not to mourn what we lost to mass production and capitalism. Not just the quality of the clothing and fabrics themselves, but the generations of knowledge and techniques that are just gone. It makes me what to cry.

I need to get a sewing machine.

[reiderwriter]

hii I absolutely love your writing!! I was wondering if you could write a one shot with gun kink? maybe not really something *aggressive* but just gun kink in the plot !! and please smut with no angst, also maybe aftercare in the end? it's totally okay if you're not comfortable. im loving your kinktober one shots! have a good day :)

A/N: This being one of like... three gun kink requests I've received, we are all not seeing the pearly gates lmao. If you enjoy reading this, even 50% of how much I enjoyed writing it, then I'm happy 😚

Warnings: Undercover FBI Agent reader, gun kink, interrogation room sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, some BDSM themes, Spencer has to 'rough up' the reader etc.

Masterlist

Being rough-housed by a group of FBI agents and pushed against a wall before being handcuffed was never your idea of a fun Tuesday night. It wasn't exactly high on the list for any night of the week, really, but here you were. 

“Caitlyn Grant? You're under arrest for being an accessory to a felony and evading law enforcement, whatever you say…” You drowned out the rest of the statement. It was nothing you didn't have memorized. 

“You're not the usual drug crew, and you don't look sturdy enough to be on most of the other teams either. What part of the Bureau are you in?” You asked the lanky man currently pinning you to the wall as he made sure your handcuffs were aptly tight. 

“You have the right to an attorney, if you can't afford one-” 

“I waive my rights. It's not human trafficking. You wouldn't be working this case if you were human trafficking.” 

The man just stared at you in vague disapproval as you grinned back at him. His closeness meant you could see every detail of his face up close, the five o'clock shadow, the dark circles from lack of sleep. On most of the agents you'd encountered, it had the effect of making them look older, a little haggard, and depressed. On this man, it was honestly very hot. 

He started your pat down by spreading your legs, though honestly, if he'd asked nicely enough, you'd have done just that for him. You near enough told him just that as he reached the two pockets on the ass of your jeans. 

“Watch it, Agent, my bite is worse than my bark.” 

“Turn around.” 

You pouted at his solid resolve, wondering what it would take to get the man to crack a smile or even a frown. Something that wasn't just disinterest slapped on a face and called a day. 

You did as he asked, making sure your body pressed nicely up against his the entire way until your shoulders were resting on the wall and he was feeling along your waist. 

“Come on, what kind of weapon are you going to find there?”

“Standard protocol, please let me do my job.”

“Standard protocol is calling one of your female agents over here to maintain the boundary, Agent. This feels more like you're just trying to cop a feel.” 

Those words finally got a reaction. The subtle clench of the jaw as his hands tightened slightly on your waist had you suddenly regretting your decision to be put in handcuffs. Your hands should've been free to tuck the stray lock of hair that had fallen in his eyes behind his ear, free so your fingernails could trace a path down his face and neck and chest. 

His gaze landed on the simple silver chain you wore around your list and he delicately pulled it out of your shirt, careful not to touch you (and avoiding you even as you arched your back into him). 

With a quick tug, he pulled the necklace clean off your neck, not pausing to bother with the clasp at all. 

“Clever boy. I'll see you in the interrogation room, shall I?” He said nothing as the female agents you'd mentioned earlier stationed themselves on either side of you as you walked away. You didn't break eye contact until the doors to the police van closed behind you. 

Six months undercover on a case, and this was the first time you'd stepped foot in a police precinct since you'd ditched your real name and life. 

The interrogation rooms hadn't changed in that time, at least, still grey and depressing. Time felt void as you waited for company, and thankfully, you weren't waiting long.

“Agent Y/N, sorry about the arrest, we wanted to make it look as real as possible while pulling you out.” The woman who greeted you obviously held the authority, and while you wanted to respect that, the sight of the man trailing behind her actually caught her full attention. 

“Pleasure to meet you….?” You let the question hang open for both of them but kept your gaze fully focused on the man, who stood himself next to the door, keeping surprisingly quiet. 

“I'm Unit Chief Emily Prentiss, this is Doctor Spencer Reid, we're from the-” 

“Behavioural Analysis Unit, of course. I was close, you know, earlier. A face like yours wouldn't last five minutes in cartel land. I almost guessed cyber, but you looked a bit too bookish. Doctor Reid, hmm.” 

“This interview is taking place with Agent Prentiss. Please direct all your questions to her.”

“Oh shit, sorry, where are my manners. I didn't mean to disrespect you like that, Agent Prentiss. It's just been a long few months.”

The other woman just chuckled and shook her head, leafing through some documents to pass you over the information on the case they needed assistance on. 

“We think there's a serial killer in the drug ring you infiltrated,” the woman explained, passing over the files with the case details. You took a moment's breath before opening to the crime scene photos, steeling yourself for what you might encounter. 

“There are probably a lot of serials in the organization. It's a drug ring. What makes this one worse?” You said, just as you flipped the file open and answered your own question. 

“Shit- Okay, that's what makes this one worse. He can't be more than 15, right?” 

The answering grimace on the two agents' faces suggested you'd been generous in your estimate. “Okay, how can I help?” 

xxxxx 

A few hours passed in the interrogation room, and you'd walked them through all of your up to date information on your case and cover. The chair wasn't exactly comfortable, but you were glad to be finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. The interview was ending, and you could see an end to your undercover work swiftly following too with the BAU's assistance. 

You weren't looking forward to having to acclimatize back into the real world. You'd gone from pushing papers at a desk 9 hours a day to rubbing shoulders with drug dealers and junkies, a lot of whom were kids, young people like you who had no other options than the streets and crime. 

You made a mental note to give a few warnings to the younger kids on the streets to stay alert and then started getting back into character. 

“Thanks again for your help, Agent. We appreciate your time.” Prentiss nodded at you as she gathered the folders, getting ready to leave. 

Spencer Reid stood, too, stretching himself out as he rose from the chair, giving you quite the show as your eyes dragged from his face, down his chest and down further still as you appreciated the view. 

The last few hours had been strictly professional, and you'd enjoyed bouncing ideas off of him, running through theories. Now, trying to get back into your ‘lusty barmaid’ persona, you thought instead about how much you'd like to bounce on him yourself, possibly while running your hands through his hair. 

A girl could dream. 

“Hold on a second, I'm still in cover, I can't go back out there looking this pristine, it's too suspicious,” you said, the two agents turning back to you curiously. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Someone needs to throw me around a little. Rough housing, you know, a few bruises will do it.” 

Prentiss looked at you, caught halfway between impressed and amused. The good Doctor however seemed to darken slightly, covering his shock with a tensed jaw. 

“She's all yours, Spencer,” Wmily winked at the man, turning the door handle and beginning her exit.

“What? Why?” 

“I don't hit women.” 

“And I do? Emily, wha-” 

But the door to the interrogation room has already closed with a small cackle, and you're already being drawn closer to the man like a moth to a flame. 

Turning to face you, you see the shock of the situation on his face before he looks away in a flash, refusing to meet your eyes as he keeps himself close to the door. 

“Doctor Reid, I'm not actually a criminal, you know?” 

“I thought you wanted one of us to treat you like a criminal now.” 

“You make a good point, shall we begin?” 

He signed and rubbed his temples as you advanced, letting you get a little bit closer before holding his hands up in surrender. 

“Wait, wait, tell me first, what should we be doing?” 

You took a deep breath and expelled it, then took the time to think about it. 

You would need some visible marks of the FBI's unkindness - wrists red, a bruise or two on your knees, maybe, from falling. The problem was, you couldn't think about how to get the marks without driving yourself insane. 

There was a quick and easy way to get tender knees, an even easier way to mark up your neck and chest, but you couldn't figure out how to ask Spencer Reid to do those things without spreading your legs and letting him do whatever he wanted. You weren't sure you wouldn't do that eventually, anyway.

“Let's start with my wrists. You were too generous with the handcuffs earlier - just grab them really tight, pin me against the wall if it helps.”

He nodded and took a hesitant step towards you, thinking for a second, before grabbing one wrist and spinning you around. Before you could even process the action, he had you pinned, chest against the wall, arms above your head. 

“Is that okay?” He asked, his grip tight  but not bruising yet. 

“A little tighter, I want the marks to last a while. Why is my face against the wall?” 

He gripped tighter, the pain sending a jolt through your wrists that trailed all the way down to pool between your thighs. 

“I thought you'd be less uncomfortable like this.” 

“With your dick pushed up against my ass? Yes, Doctor, great decision.” 

He let out a cold, quick laugh, leaving you flushed as he pushed your upper body into the wall, too, finally getting to the grip strength he needed to get attention. 

“I'm sorry to disappoint, Y/N, but that's my gun,” the words whispered in your ear were the last straw as you shuddered in his grasp, his hands releasing your wrists as he stepped back a little. 

You shook out your hands a little, trying to momentarily relive the stiffness in your joints. 

He took a few paces to the desk and upholstered his weapon, placing it on the desk before joining you again. 

“So you don't get confused again,” he explained at seeing your raised eyebrow. 

“Oh so next time, it will be your dick?” You whispered, moving back to the desk and sitting yourself on the edge or it, picking up the gun and studying it for a few minutes. 

“Y/N, put it down.” 

“Ooh, possessive, are we?” You giggled, aiming it at him for a second before grabbing it by the barrel and holding it back out for him to grab. 

“Hold it, point it at me or whatever. Maybe it'll help you rough me up.” 

His brow furrowed, but he grabbed it anyway, not immediately slipping it into the holster as he stepped forward. 

“What now?” He asked, and you shrugged. 

“Whatever feels natural. And looks visible, I guess.”

It took him a few minutes to decide, surveying your body like it was a puzzle. Professionally, of course. You were about to speak up and urge him to get on with it when his hand shot out and wrapped around your throat. 

You tried to gasp, but the grip was firm, and boy, was it driving you crazy. Your legs had naturally parted as you sat yourself on the edge of the desk, and he walked into that space now, his free hand still holding the gun. 

Your body pushed forward into his, suddenly awash with arousal as your chest heaved with tiny breaths, lungs burning. 

“Are you enjoying this, Y/N? Or is it Caitlyn Grant that's enjoying this?” 

You felt the gun touch your thigh gently, and you moaned, just as he softened his grip on your throat. 

“Answer me, please. This is an interrogation room, after all.”

You met his eyes, checking to see how far he would take this, how far you could push back. 

“I'll admit, I'm not against mixing pain and pleasure.” 

His gaze flicked down, slowly pushing his gun up the skin of your thigh, raising your skirt with the barrel to catch a quick glimpse of your panties. 

“I can tell.” 

If it weren't for his grip on you, you'd have lunged for him right then and there. The cool metal against your thigh had you shuddering against him, growing wetter by the minute. 

“I read somewhere once that we can't pretend to be someone else without actually becoming them in some small way. You've been a cartel whore for six months, I wonder if this is a lasting effect.” 

He was so close now all he needed to do to close the gap was change the angle of his head, but he kept you in place with that gun, pointing up from your pussy, flush against your stomach. 

“I'll tell you a secret - the part of me that's aroused right now definitely predates this cover.” 

His lips drop to yours, tongue clashing with yours furiously as he grabs the back of your head to angle you better. 

Letting his hand drop back to your thigh, he gently coaxed you further open, skirt riding up. Putting down the gym momentarily, he pressed a wandering finger against your pantie-clad pussy, feeling your arousal before he used it to coat his fingers. 

A second later and the offending pair of underwear lay discarded on the floor. 

“Fuck, Spencer,” you said, gasping for breath as he again picked up the gun. 

“You wanted this so badly, didn't you? You've been needing someone to treat you like this for months now. It didn't even have to be me.” 

He traced circles on your thigh with the gun, and you twitched, years of training not letting you relax around the weapon and months of sexual frustration, making you desperate for something to touch you. 

“Yes, yes, please touch me.” 

The hand at your throat slid down to your chest and pushed gently  urging you to lie back and let him do whatever he wanted with you. The desk was cold - metal biting at your bare skin - and it only sent more shivers down your spine as he lowered himself to his knees and parted your legs for his tongue. 

The first touch was heaven, a state of bliss you'd been without in what felt like forever. His tongue danced across your folds as he tasted every inch of your exposed cunt, grip still strong on the gun pointed now to your chest, pinning you between the machine and the table. 

You tried to be as still as possible, to take the pleasure he gave calmly, but you couldn't. You writhed, moaned, chest heaving as you tried to hold off the first orgasm you'd achieved with someone else in probably a year.  

Like a man on a mission, Spencer Reid did not care. He gladly suffocated between your thighs as you squeezed them together, wrapping them around his head so you could keep feeling the insurmountable pleasure of his tongue on your pussy. 

“Spencer…Spencer, fuck-” you said as he finally pried your legs apart, lifting them just slightly so his tongue could reach further inside of you, curling with each wave of passion. Your hands fisted his hair, desperate for something to ground you to the moment as your pleasure spilt out of you, orgasm jolting through you in tiny sparks of pleasure. 

The gun moved first, coming level with your chest as you untangled your fingers from his hair. Spencer stood, wiping his face with the back of his hand as he kept the gun on you. 

“I think this turns you on even more. You've been ruined by this cover, Y/N, you're so used to being in danger that you can't even get off without someone threatening you.” 

You attempted to scoff, to brush off his words somehow, but his hand was suddenly back around your throat, picking you up off the desk and pulling you instead towards the room's one-way window. 

“Look at yourself,” he said, again twisting you around so you were pressed into the wall, wrists above your hair, raising your shirt to expose the cold skin underneath. He ran the barrel across the fresh skin, leaving a field of goosebumps along his path. 

“I don't think it would've mattered who came in to rough you up. I think you'd just as happily have convinced Emily to fuck your little pussy raw, right Y/N? As long as there was a gun…” 

Your moan was the only response as he used the weapon to spread your legs. You naturally arched your back and kept your hands in place as he holstered the weapon momentarily to unzip his pants and let his cock free. 

You couldn't see it, but you saw his reflection in the mirror as he slowly stretched you out with it, mouth dropping in a lustful ‘o’ as he fed his dick to you, hard and thick. 

As soon as it was in, the gun came back out, this time to rest against your temple. 

“Get yourself off,” his voice was so low it was practically a growl. “Use my cock, and pleasure yourself.” 

Your body listened immediately, beginning to move back and forth on his cock as he held himself in place. His moans and groans were all the encouragements you needed, the gun at your temple was just made the pleasure more profound as you approached your release. 

But he kept you pinned to the glass, your full range of motion limited, and you whimpered in frustration that you couldn't feel every inch of him. 

“If you need something, use your words, Agent.” 

“More, need more, please..please,” you gasped, breathing ragged. 

The hands at your wrists released, and he fisted a hand into the flesh at your hip, your wrists resting on the glass next to your face as he took over your thrusting. 

“Can't even do this anymore, what a spoiled little whore,” he said as his hips began snapping into you, reaching that spot deep inside you as you drooled against the glass, wondering if anyone had just happened to step into that room and what they must think about you. 

“Cum for me, Y/N. Cum on my cock,” he said it, and entranced, your body did just that, your orgasm taking the last breath of strength you had as he too plunged himself deeper and stilled there, his cum coating your walls. 

Neither of you moved for an eternity, but the first sign of clarity returning was the careful return of the gun to the holster. 

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Spencer minimized the mess you made together, cleaning you up as he slipped out of you. Discarding it momentarily on the floor, he pulled your clothes back into position and led you back over to the chairs. Just as he moved to sit you down, though, you turned and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug. 

His arms hung suspended for a minute or two before he let them rest on your back, stroking your hair. 

“Sorry, it's been… it's been lonely, and I didn't realize how hard it had been until-” 

“It's okay. Take your time,” he said, sitting down in the chair and letting you curl up in his lap, burying your head in his neck

“We’ll catch this guy, and then you're out, okay Y/N? We'll come back and get you out soon.” 

Lifting your eyes to his, you nodded, pressing your lips to his with a smile as you again worked yourself back into character, regaining your earlier composure and lifting yourself from the man's too comfortable arms. 

“Well, Spencer, what do you say we get me back into panties and handcuffs and cut Caitlyn Grant loose?” 

[kykyonthemoon]

How to take care of your on-period girlfriend

During that time of the month, you receive special treatment from him.

ಇ. Character x Female Reader

with Rafayel, Xavier, Zayne and Caleb.

ಇ. Tags: fluff, domestic fluff, established relationship, pain & comfort

ಇ. Word count: 3k4

ಇ. Note: Some details in this fic are inspired by in game Tender Moments.

ಇ. Requested by Mỗi ngày nhặt một anh làm chồng and an anonymous reader on my ask box.

ಇ. Masterlist ♡ Request a fic ♡

𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒍

In the middle of the night, you awoke with such discomfort in your lower belly and an aching feeling throughout your body. You knew it was that time of the month; in fact, it was a few days late due to recent work-related stress. You didn't expect to have your period today, so waking up at this hour with discomfort all over your body was quite uncomfortable to you.

Your hand found the phone on the nightstand beside the bed. Rafayel has left you several messages and missed calls. Perhaps you fell asleep without realizing it due to fatigue. You decided to get up and use the bathroom for a while. That's when you discovered you were missing what you needed most at home.

You grumbled and switched the phone screen back on. You were reluctant to disturb him at this time, especially because he was attending an exhibition in another city and you were not sure if he had returned yet. But you were upset and missed the times like this when he took care of you. Just before dialing his number, your phone rang.

"I've seen you online for a while. What's up? Can't sleep?"

Rafayel's voice rang out from the other end of the line, full of energy still. You just answered with a few short phrases, summarizing the current situation for him and told him that you were about to go out and get the necessary supplies.

"Just stay there." Rafayel stopped you. "Do not go anywhere. Wait for me."

You were a little confused why he had told you to stay home. But just now, you were too tired to have the strength to ask. Besides, you could not go out in this state, when you just wanted to faint on the floor.

You washed and changed into a new set of pajamas. Luckily, you found a spare sanitary pad left over in the closet that was sufficient for your needs. As soon as you got out of the bathroom, you heard the front door open. Rafayel appeared there, with a bunch of bags wrapped in both hands.

“How are you now? Does it still hurt?"

You shook your head, primarily to reassure him. But glancing at your pallid face, he knew you were lying. And you were taken aback when he arrived here, at this hour.

“Didn't you leave Linkon for the exhibition a few days ago?”

“That event was nothing special. I was on my way home when you called. I stopped to get you a few things before coming here.”

"Just a few things?" You gazed at the mound of items Rafayel had just purchased and set on the floor. "Why does it look like you bought everything in the store?"

Rafayel grinned at you. He softly aided you in getting down, leaning your back against the cushion and placing your feet on the couch. After that, he began taking out everything from those bags, which startled you a lot.

He had purchased you sanitary products in the form of pads, panties, tampons and even menstrual cups. One of each type and brand. There were also several pain relievers, vitamins and more. When he noticed your amazement, he said:

“Since I don't know which type you usually use, I bought one of each.”

Rafayel laughed. And you, even though your face was pale, felt so content due to his silliness.

“You could have just asked me.” You responded.

“I won't be able to see your surprised smile then. Since I've made you laugh, I must be a fantastic boyfriend, right?”

You slumped entirely back on the couch, still laughing but murmuring: "You must be a fantastic fool."

Lemurians' bodies are not like humans, you appreciated Rafayel's efforts to learn about your cycle and care for you in this manner. He plopped down on the couch next to you, lifted your legs and placed them on his lap. His slender hands rubbed them gently.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

You shook your head. “It doesn't hurt much. Just mild cramps.”

Rafayel nodded. He still remembered you often got cramps in your legs every time your period came. He continued massaging your legs before moving on to your tummy.

“What about this place?”

When your lower abdominal contractions resumed, you let out a tiny cry. Rafayel immediately withdrew his hand. “Sorry… Did I hurt you?”

“I-It's okay…” You tried to smile. “I'll probably feel better after a good rest.”

Rafayel's expression shifted slightly. His hand returned to your lower abdomen, continuing to gently rub it. “There you go again. Just say you're hurt when you're in pain. No need to try to act strong in front of me. Did you forget about our agreement last month? Whenever you have your period and are so weak like this, I will become your bodyguard.”

In the lying position, you could see half of Rafayel's face illuminated in the warm glow of the nightlight. His eyes were both concentrated and kind as he continued to ease the pain in your stomach. Suddenly, you couldn't help but jab your finger into his face. He pouted and puffed out both cheeks. Just like a puffer fish.

“Okay, it's all my fault. Now I will let Rafayel take care of me without worrying that I'd bother you.”

"Good. Even though I don't know how to take care of humans, I guarantee you'll be satisfied!”

Rafayel joyfully grasped your hand and kissed the palm to make it less cold. He continued rubbing your abdomen, singing a melody that put you at peace.

“Get some sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, I will still be here, right next to you.”

𝑿𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓 

As a child, you imagined your knight arriving in shining armor on a white horse.

It turned out that your knight did not have a horse, but rather a white Hunter's uniform and a coat that he had just removed to wrap around your waist.

It happened when Xavier and you had just finished dealing with the Wanderers on the outskirts of Linkon City. Late at night, an unusual incident occurred. You hurriedly arrived to take on the task, unaware as that time of the month had come.

Perhaps you were too preoccupied with work to remember when your period would start. After finishing the task, you were dismayed to realize that the blood on your dress was not the blood of the Wanderers at all.

Xavier discovered it through your frightened eyes and trembling body. Immediately, he took off his coat, wrapped it around your waist to cover the blood stains, and even carried you a long way home on his back.

Your arms were wrapped around Xavier's neck, your face completely hidden in his shoulder. You felt so embarrassed to let him catch you in such a messy state. However, Xavier continued to soothe and console you. He said:

"It's not a problem at all. You don't need to be embarrassed about this very normal thing."

Even though it still did not feel right, you said nothing more. You were exhausted enough, and your aching body was screaming for a rest.

Xavier took you back to your apartment. You thanked him profusely and quickly went to take a shower. After that, sensing the silence outside, you assumed that Xavier had returned to his home. Unexpectedly, you caught a pack of painkillers on the table. Next to it was his phone.

You did not intend to peek, but because the phone screen was still on, you accidentally saw the content that Xavier was reading: How to take care of your girlfriend during her periods.

You chuckled to yourself. It turned out Xavier was learning how to take care of you. Then, his hand appeared out of nowhere to take the phone back.

“Are you done? Take your pill now."

Xavier gave you a cup of warm water. You smiled: "I thought you went home."

He slowly dropped himself into the seat next to you. “You are so hurt. How can I go home?”

"I'm alright. I'm going to sleep soon, tomorrow I'll feel better.”

Xavier did not seem to take your word for it. He grasped your hands.

“Aren't you going to be in pain for two or three days to a week?”

“Did you just read that on the internet?”

Xavier pondered for a time before nodding: “I... am not very familiar with these things. But I'll stay here until you feel better. Is that okay?"

You gave him a nod and a smile. Xavier got you a painkiller. After taking it he let you lean on the sofa, held your hands tightly, rubbed and breathed on them to bring some warmth.

After a while, your lower abdomen started to hurt. Xavier expressed concern as he noticed your expression:

“It hurts a lot, doesn't it? May I give you a massage?”

He waited for your approval with a nod before placing his hand on your tummy. He gently stroked it clockwise and inquired: "Is this better?"

You shook your head. One hand pointed to the lower abdomen, somewhat below where Xavier's hand was lying. “Here.”

“I see.”

Xavier's fingers went lower, causing you to flush slightly. Xavier said again:

“I only have two hands. One is warming your right hand, the other is massaging your belly. What should I do with your left hand?"

You gazed down at your hand. It wasn't chilly enough to warrant staying warm, but Xavier insisted on it. He also came up with a new idea:

“How about you put your left hand on me.”

You were astonished for a second. "Put it… on you?"

"Yes. Here..." Xavier raised his shirt slightly, showing his abdomen, and glanced at you with anticipation. You sheepishly placed your hand there, and he pulled his shirt down again. “Is it warm?”

You nodded, not sure what else to say. The warmth from his body made you feel heated within. Xavier proceeded to rub your hand and belly. Your hand, which had been put on his body for a short period of time, now became restless. It crept gently upward, to where you could feel his heartbeat quickening.

Xavier stared at you, considered for a time, then said nothing. Since he had let it slide, your hand glided down, past a layer of firm muscles, and then a bit further…

“If you continue to be so naughty, I'll get angry.”

Xavier leaned close to your ear and murmured, his tone irritated, but his gestures seemed to lean heavily on you.

Your fingers twitched slightly as you attentively watched Xavier's slightly furrowed expression. He went on to say: "When I'm angry, it will be quite terrifying. So be a good girl for me.”

Your hand, which was resting in Xavier's, was drawn to his lips as he pressed gentle kisses against it with heated breath. His eyes darkened somewhat; perhaps it was simply the light. You whispered an apology and returned your hand to its previous position. Xavier gazed at you with a small smile.

"If you're sleepy, just lean on me."

"Yes." You responded gently, placing your head on his shoulder and yawning loudly. No matter what the situation was, with him by your side, you would always be safe.

𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 

You were astonished when Zayne showed up at your door late at night after his shift. Seeing your pale and fragile appearance, he asked you to go to the bedroom for some rest. After faltering a few steps, you nearly collapsed to the floor.

Fortunately, Zayne's dominant arms caught you in time. With one quick movement, he lifted you up with ease.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

Zayne said, and you obediently followed. He carried you to your room, put you on the bed, and drew the blanket over you.

"Give me your hands." You placed your hands on his. Zayne stroked your hands briefly to warm them up before placing them beneath the blanket. "I will make you some tea. Remember to keep yourself warm."

You nodded sheepishly. Your eyes followed Zayne's wide back as it vanished beyond the bedroom door, and you wondered how he knew you were on your period.

You were not convinced this was a coincidence since Zayne prepared you a cup of jujube tea that he had brought with him. He used to give you that drink on days like this. He said it would make the pain less severe. And it was true.

"Drink this. Then eat the red dates, too."

Zayne handed you a cup of tea that he had just blown to cool down the heat. He sat down next to you on the bed. You ate a jujube, turned to look at him, and noticed his palm was already open in front of you.

“Spill it out here.” He said. You looked at him for a moment and then did what you were told. Zayne smiled with satisfaction, patted on your head, then took back the almost empty cup of tea from your hand to it on the night table.

“Feeling better?” Zayne inquired pleasantly as he assisted you in lying back on the bed. 

You smiled faintly and said:

“Just a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittle bit better.”

He laughed at your childish behavior. “If it hurts too much, you'll have to go to the hospital.”

You frowned and shook your head vigorously.

“Don't want to? If so, you need to get a good night's sleep. When you wake up, you will definitely be better.”

You gently tugged on Zayne's arm, whispering: "So... Can I get special care from Dr. Zayne? That way I'll get better faster..."

He looked at you with smiling eyes then nodded. You shifted slightly to the opposite side of the bed, making room for him to lie next to you. He instructed. He said:

“Turn around. Then slightly bend your knees closer to your stomach.”

You did what he told you. Your back turned to him, and very soon, you felt the warmth from his body enveloping you.

Zayne embraced you from behind. One of his hands went under the pillow to lift your head up a bit, the other was placed on your stomach. His hand appeared to be large enough to cover your entire stomach. With a delicate touch, his hand began to travel in a circular rhythm on your lower belly.

At first, you felt ticklish and heated given the embarrassment caused by his touch. In addition, Zayne's steady breath was blowing on your hair from behind. He asked:

“Feeling better yet?”

"Yes." You replied softly. “Doctor Zayne's hand is so warm…”

You caught his quiet laughter. He pressed his body closer to you, while you just wanted to hide your face in the pillow. Then, you suddenly remembered what you had wanted to ask him just now:

“How did you know my period would start tonight? You even brought me tea.”

“Can you guess how?”

“Hmm… Let's see. You knew the exact date last month even though I didn't tell you about it... And the month before that too..."

Doctor Zayne allowed you to think about it for a minute. Zayne's knowledge of the days your menstrual cycle would start was most likely due to his perfect memory. Thinking about this, you turned around and his lips brushed your forehead.

"Eh…"

You froze for a second. Doctor Zayne gazed at you. He was so near that you forgot what you were about to say.

"You've got the answer yet?"

Your face became as crimson as the jujube tea. His breath danced over your cheeks as you responded:

“Um… I already knew the answer… Dr. Zayne is so busy, yet he still remembers my cycle?”

“I remember everything related to you.” Zayne spoke, his expression very serious and full of concern. You reluctantly turned aside.

"T-Thank you…"

You noticed Zayne's body pressing closer to yours. He buried his face in your hair and the nape of your neck, his hand continuing to rub your lower abdomen. He whispered:

“Get well soon. Although I hope that what makes you better is not painkillers or tea… but me…”

The corners of your mouth stretched out, smiling so widely that you could not close it. You grabbed his rough hand that was placed on your stomach and replied:

“Doctor Zayne has always been my elixir!”

𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

The door to your room opened in the middle of the night, and Caleb emerged, blocking the entire entrance. He was holding a hot compress bag, a glass of milk, and sanitary pads.

"I'm here to rescue you, Pipsqueak."

Caleb turned on the nightlight to see your pale face and unkempt hair. You were writhing on the bed, in anguish from your period. You could only send him a text message with the strawberry emoji and a sobbing expression. He arrived at your bedside about five minutes later.

He assisted you up, gave you some painkillers, and then pressed the hot compress bag on your stomach. You frowned.

"Do you need to be so harsh with someone who is sick?"

"It's on you for not listening to me. Even though you knew you were about to start your period, you still had the urge to drink lots of cold drinks. You only listen to me when you're in pain?"

You grimaced and rolled over on the bed. Due to your sudden movement, you got cramps in your shoulder blades. You cried loudly for help. Caleb just sighed in helplessness. He helped you lie upright again and rubbed your shoulders.

“If I'm not here, who would you whine to?”

Since you knew Caleb was home, you texted him. However, you did not say anything after that. The anguish had utterly drained you. Caleb couldn't stand to torment you any longer after knowing about your situation. He leaned you on his lap and helped you sip your pain reliever and warm milk. The hand on your back kept rubbing you.

"Is it so painful? "Can you try to get some sleep?"

You replied by shaking your head. Caleb patted you some more. "Then I will stay here with you. Okay?"

This time you nodded. Caleb drew you closer. He removed the hot compress bag from your tummy and began rubbing it with his hand. All of a sudden, your childhood came back, when you had your period for the first time and Grandma was not home; there was only Caleb. Even though you had learnt in advance that all girls would have to go through her period every month, you were nevertheless terrified when it arrived. Fortunately, Caleb was by your side. He raced to get sanitary pads for you, poured hot tea, and helped you warm your hands and feet.

At that time, you were really timid. And perhaps from there you saw the differences between you and Caleb. Both of you were no longer innocent children. This unusual feeling also steadily grew since. 

"Lucky you're here…" You whispered, a hand softly tapped on Caleb's.

"Of course. I'm always by your side, pipsqueak." He responded, then lavished you with several delicate kisses on your hair.

"Caleb… Don't disappear, okay?"

Surprised, he said, "Where can I disappear to?I still have to comfort you with your favorite meals tomorrow."

"Tomorrow…" You instantly recalled having a date with Caleb at the amusement park. But this unexpected menstrual cycle ruined that plan. "I'm sorry…"

"No problem." Caleb stroked you on the head. “You can compensate me another day. For now, you just need to rest well.”

“But I still feel like it's my fault… It's been a while since you could have a day off, yet we can't go out…”

Caleb smiled gently. He tucked your loose hair behind your ear. When he looked into your eyes, he said:

“If you're bored, we can watch the series you like together tomorrow. Or play some games.”

Upon hearing that, your mood brightened a little. You loved spending with Caleb, whether it was a date outside or just hanging out at home. They all brought joy to you.

Caleb placed a kiss on your forehead. He went on:

“Don't think too much about it. Go to sleep now so you'll have the strength to bother me again tomorrow."

You laughed. Caleb was always such a teaser, but that was the reason why you were so happy around him.

Coaxing you for a while, when you started to fall into a deep sleep, Caleb whispered softly in your ear:

“Being able to come home and be with my pipsqueak, that's the best kind of vacation for me.”

[kaisacobra]

I Dare You - Tara Carpenter

Summary: When Amber Freeman, Tara's best friend (and secret crush) dares her to win a random person over, she thinks it's gonna be an easy task. What she wasn't expecting, however, was that y/n y/l was far more interesting than she thought.

Warnings: Painter!Fem!Reader, very small mentions of sex and alcohol, non-canon/high school!AU, angst? ish?

W.C: 6.0k

a/n: She's back! This is probably not my best one but i was desperate to write something again and end my awful writers block. Anyways, i do think this will be a small series so stay tuned for that!

Tara’s head was pounding.

The school day had barely started and she couldn't stand being there any longer. Contrary to what many might think, her discomfort didn't come from the noise of lockers banging or the loud chatter and laughter of the students in the hallways. In fact, the reason had a first and last name: Amber Freeman, her best friend and secret crush, who seemed very intent on recounting every detail of her hookup with a girl last night.

“And then she asked me to...”

“That's enough! I definitely don't need to hear about what sex position you used, or anything like that.” Tara held up one hand, grimacing in disgust as Amber laughed beside her, opening her locker without the slightest shame at what she had said.

“Come on, Tara! Don't be so grumpy.” The dark-haired girl gave her a fake pout, purposely trying to annoy her friend. “I needed that! Do you know how long it's been since I've been with anyone? Too long!” 

And not only did Tara know how long it had been since Amber had kissed anyone, she also knew exactly why it had happened. Tara had a certain advantage at school for hanging out with Amber, who carried the title of most popular and desired girl for her unattainable energy, memorable parties and, of course, singular beauty.

Hanging out with Amber and basically being her right-hand woman meant that Tara was also popular by proxy. The students knew exactly who she was and, what's more, they knew that if they messed with Tara, they would have to deal with the wrath of the implacable Amber Freeman, which came in handy when Tara needed to “gently” convince multiple people in the school that Amber would never be interested in them behind her back. 

Apparently, someone had slipped through her fingers. 

Tara didn't bother to offer an answer to her friend, just rolling her eyes and closing her locker without much strength, so as not to make her growing migraine even worse. Unfortunately, Amber had never been the kind of person to wait for an opening to speak her mind. “You know, I bet that bad mood of yours would be cured if you loosened up a little bit. When was the last time you kissed anyone?” 

“Who kissed who?” 

Tara leaned her shoulder on the locker behind her to watch the arrival of Wes, closely followed by Liv and Chad, who walked hand in hand, followed by the stares of the crowd of teenagers who either wanted to be them or wanted them to be gone. The trio, along with Tara and Amber, were considered the “popular crew” at Woodsboro High School, even though the Carpenter girl hated the term because she considered it extremely cliché and tacky.

Liv and Chad were the typical American high school couple made up of a cheerleader and a soccer player. Tara had known Chad the longest, having him as a childhood friend, and she watched first-hand as he became more and more enamored of his influence through his status as a star quarterback, especially as he gained the attention of his current girlfriend and the entire school. Liv was the typical mean girl cheerleader who was extremely empty and desperate to stay relevant in the social hierarchy. Tara didn't understand what Chad saw in her, but she put up with the girl because Amber wanted her around for some reason. 

Wes, on the other hand, was an exception. He used to be a loner until Amber took him under her wing after she discovered his status as the sheriff's son, which the girl used as a pass to get out of trouble more easily. Wes knew that his position in the group was fragile and so he constantly tried to compensate by bringing up gossip that he found out about the whole school.

He was still waiting for an answer when Amber slipped an arm around Tara's shoulders, ruffling her hair. “Tara here is in a bad mood today. I was trying to tell her that the way to solve it is with a good makeout sesh.”

You could help me with that, Tara thought, but other words came out of her mouth, “Shut up. I'm just not in the mood for anything right now, that's all.”

Tara knew that hooking up with Amber, if it ever happened, would be both her blessing and her curse. Amber was the type of girl who would rather die than get into a serious relationship and, if Tara was going to be honest, she knew the girl would be a terrible girlfriend. Too bad her little crush couldn’t think rationally.

Liv smirked in her usual evil little laugh. “Yeah. I bet you're only saying that because you've been left on the shelf.”

Amber and Wes hissed and whistled teasingly, trying to get an even bigger reaction out of Tara. Chad raised his eyebrows in shock, glancing briefly at the shorter girl before focusing down on his phone. Tara felt a wave of pride and piled up anger rise up inside her. She crossed her arms defensively, scoffing as she glared at Liv. “Oh, please. You know very well that I could get with whoever I wanted at this school.”

Okay, maybe the words were a bit exaggerated and presumptuous, but it's not like she was wrong. Popularity aside, Tara knew damn well that she was a pretty girl and she wasn't afraid or ashamed to use her charms to get what she wanted sometimes.

“Whoever you wanted, huh?” Amber smiled mischievously as she heard the phrase and the evil glint in her dark eyes, which usually appeared when she was coming up with her crazy plans, began to show. “Interesting. We should prove that somehow, Carpenter.”

“Whatever.” Tara rolled her eyes, internally wishing that the matter would be closed soon. The more Amber stared at her like that, the redder Tara’s cheeks became and that was going to be impossible to hide in a few minutes.

“Ah, ah! Don't chicken out now, Carpenter.” The raven haired girl raised her index finger, shaking it in a negative. “I've got a great idea! Why don't I just pick a random person and you have to hookup with them, hm? Come on, Tara. I dare you.”

The three other teens let out more roars of approval, patting Amber on the shoulder for her brilliant idea and trying to convince Tara to go through with the challenge, offering half encouraging words and half biased questions along with “Are you scared?” and “Can you handle it?”.

The Carpenter girl felt at a crossroads. On the one hand, she definitely didn't want to do it. Her small (and growing) crush on Amber was already too much sentimental work for her, not to mention the fact that she wasn't at all keen on the idea of kissing some random stranger, especially knowing that Amber would choose the most embarrassing option possible.

On the other hand, a part of her was always tempted to indulge Amber Freeman's desires, eagerly searching for a hint of approval or recognition in those umber eyes that usually carried nothing but sarcasm and boredom.

So Tara didn't even have to consider long before she groaned in displeasure, closing her eyes and leaning her head back until it rested on the locket’s door. “Fine, whatever. But if you pick some weirdo who eats his own snot, I swear...”

Tara's thoughts were interrupted by the loud noise of something hitting the floor, followed by some snickering and murmuring from everyone in the hallways. She lifted her head to see through the crowd, searching for the reason for the commotion while already hearing her friends laughing beside her.

When the crowd finally cleared enough for Tara to be able to see, she was faced with the scene of a girl slowly picking herself up off the ground, peeling off a canvas that still looked wet from her T-shirt, now completely stained with paint. Another football player seemed to be trying to apologize for something, to which the girl only responded with a nod of her still lowered head.

"Holy shit." Amber laughed, holding her stomach as if she were at a comedy show. "What a dumbass. Hey, isn't that one of Mindy's little friends?"

Chad looked up, looking away from his phone when he heard his twin sister's name being mentioned. He let out a sound of confusion at first, but following the gaze of the others, the boy finally nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Y/n Y/l."

Tara watches with furrowed brows as the girl walks further into the corridor, clearly unhappy with her ruined painting and clothes. When she focuses back on her friends, Amber's mischievous gaze is already on her. "I think we've met your challenge, Tara."

The shorter girl's eyes widened comically and she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Chad had a similar reaction

Mindy used to be part of the group made up of the childhood friends: Tara, Chad, Mindy and Amber, at least until the beginning of high school, when everything related to her became a forbidden topic and the group underwent a change of members. What happened was that the girl had called Amber a bitch for cheating on Mindy with her girlfriend at the time, causing a rift that was never repaired. Chad had to beg Amber not to do anything drastic against his sister, which she begrudgingly accepted, but also didn't allow any of the others to have contact with her.

"Amber, are you sure?" Tara subtly tried to change Freeman's mind, already anticipating the huge mess that could arise between the former friends. "I mean, she's Mindy's friend and she's kind of quiet. Maybe she hasn't even kissed anyone yet."

A bit harsh, but that's the impression Tara got from the little she knew about you. She had never heard you speak in any of the classes you had together, she always saw you either with Mindy's group or on your own and the most she knew was that you were good enough at painting to paint a mural behind the bleachers at the school's request.

Unfortunately, Amber couldn't care less about any of these set of reasons. In fact, they even seemed to encourage the dark-eyed girl, who just shrugged. "Even better. You'd be doing her a favor and we wouldn't be attacking Mindy directly. Sounds like a win-win to me."

Tara looked at the others, analyzing their reactions to the plan. Wes and Liv had already agreed to it a long time ago and were now trying to pressure the shorter girl into accepting. Chad met Tara's gaze and shrugged, although his wrinkled forehead gave away his distaste for the whole idea.

The Carpenter girl sighed, suddenly feeling crowded despite only having four people around her and an entire hallway available for her to run down if she wanted to.

The problem was that she didn't. Not when Amber's beautiful manic eyes were staring at her with such expectation, making Tara's stomach do somersaults. So Tara just nodded her head in a yes, receiving happy shouting and pats on the shoulder as a reward.

"Y/n Y/l is the target, then."

_

To say that your day sucked would be an understatement.

First of all, you'd spent the whole week racking your brains, trying to somehow find inspiration to do a painting for art class, but your creativity had gone out the window. The best you could do to produce your teacher's homework request: “Represent a personal happy moment”, was an adaptation of a Polaroid you had taken with your friends a few months ago.

Being a perfectionist who already thought your artwork wasn't good enough, you decided to add a few touches on it a few minutes before arriving at school, trying to convince your inner art critic that the painting wasn't so bad.

Unfortunately, the second problem came at the exact same minute you set foot in the school, or rather, the minute one of the football idiots stepped in your way, causing you to trip and fall right on top of the canvas that wasn't yet dry.

You barely heard the boy's apology, just nodding and struggling to get out of the hall as quickly as possible, wishing the ground would swallow you up soon so you couldn't hear the loud snickering of the other people in the hallways.

Luckily for you (because something in your day had to go right), you had a spare T-shirt in your locker, near the art room. It wasn't the prettiest thing in the world, having a big Jason vs Michael Myers fan art printed on it, but at least it was better than spending the rest of the day in a shirt that looked like it had been vomited on by a unicorn.

You sighed, placing the canvas, now destroyed, on one of the empty easels in the art room. The once uniform colors now blended into a mess of paint that, until earlier today, had represented your face next to those of your friends, enjoying a summer's day in Woodsboro. The green of Anika's blouse had mixed with the chocolate of Mindy's skin, the white of the sun had stained the brown of Ethan's hair and the faces of the four of you had become a single blur, exactly where you had crashed into earlier.

“I thought you didn't do abstracts.” A familiar voice echoed into the room and you turned just in time to see your favorite teacher, Ms. Crane, entering the room with her typical warm smile. As always, the art teacher was wearing a light dress and her blonde hair was perfectly tied up in a bun, which by this point was her trademark.

“I don't.” You replied simply, pointing disappointingly at the disaster on canvas you had made. “I couldn't think of anything during all week so I tried to finish it this morning, but then the paint wouldn't dry and I ended up falling on it.”

The teacher grimaced, her big blue eyes looking at you with some concern as she left her bag on her desk. “Creativity block? You've never had a problem with that before. Should I be worried that it's happened just when the theme was having a happy moment?”

You quickly nodded, trying to relieve the woman’s nerves. You weren't a sad person at all, although many people thought so because of your withdrawn behavior. You had a good life, you were a good student with a clear talent for the arts, and you had a sincere friendship in Mindy, Anika and Ethan, who had already met all the social needs you might have had.

The real issue with this project was that none of your attempts seemed right, always seeming to be missing some element or another between the memories in your brain and the movements of the brush in your hand. And yes, Ms. Crane was right about this never happening before, which was what made you the most frustrated.

The woman seemed to understand your internal dilemma and her gaze softened. “Why don't I give you another week to finish, hm? You're one of our best artists, y/n. I know you can make masterpieces when you have your head on the right place.”

And that was the reason why the woman was your favorite teacher, far beyond just being the one responsible for the art subject. Laura Crane was extremely human and compassionate towards all of her students, even those who weren't good artists or those who went to class just to admire the young teacher's beauty.

“Thank you, Ms. Crane.” You nod, feeling some of the weight on your chest being lifted. The woman waved her hand dismissively, acting as if she hadn't done anything much, even though you knew she had just done way more than any of the other old vultures who worked at the school.

You spent the rest of the day with that in your head. Your mind twisted and turned trying to find a glimmer of inspiration for your work, desperately trying to think of something that could represent your best moment of personal happiness on a 60 x 100cm canvas. The extra deadline Ms. Crane had given you made your perfectionist side feel even more intense, wanting to make a piece impressive enough to justify your lost time.

Your thoughts clouded your mind so intensely that you mechanically made your way to the history room, sitting down in your usual chair without really paying attention to your surroundings. The room, little by little, was filled up with students and, along with them, came the loud noise of chatter and chairs being dragged around. But even so, your eyes remained focused on a blank sheet of paper in front of you, while the pencil in your hand almost had to cry out for help because of the strength with which you were holding it.

You couldn’t even draw a sketch. Goddammit, what was wrong with you?!

“Can I borrow a pen?”

You snapped out of your stupor when you heard a soft voice close to your ear. Raising your head a little too quickly, you found yourself facing beautiful brown eyes and dimples on either side of a smile. Honestly, that sight scared you even more because why was Tara Carpenter, resident popular girl, talking to you at that moment?

It's not like you cared about the whole “social pyramid” and “popularity ranking” thing that mattered so much to some people at your school, but you knew that Tara and her friends didn't have the best track record with your best friend, Mindy. You didn't know the full story, but the fact that Mindy always cursed them every time the group passed by you gave you an idea that maybe they weren't such good people.

Tara noticed the confusion on your face, thinking it was due to the sudden question and not due to her presence in general, and decided to humorously complement the question. “I left all of mine at home, can you believe it?”

Not really, you were tempted to answer, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. You spent a few more seconds analyzing the girl, trying to understand why she had asked you for the pen and not the other people in the room she usually sat nearby. Tara was still patiently standing next to you, leaning slightly towards your direction, and she didn't seem to be in any rush, nor did she seem to have any bad intentions.

Overall, the only mean ones in her group of popular people were Amber and Liv, but they usually liked to be offensive directly to the faces of the students they chose as victims. The fact that Tara hung out with them was no green flag, of course, but from what little you knew of her, the girl didn't seem to be the teaser or prankster type.

With that in mind, you pulled one of the pens you used the least out of your bag and raised it towards the girl, offering it without muttering a word, wishing that the awkward (at least for you) conversation would end soon.

Unfortunately, Tara didn't seem to share the same opinion, because she pulled out the chair right next to you to sit down, dropping her black bag carelessly on the side of the table and pointing at your clothes. “Nice shirt. Team Jason or team Michael?”

The question mark in your head seemed to get even bigger with the casualness with which Tara was talking to you. You knew that the girl didn't talk to many people apart from her friends and you knew even better that they generally tried to ignore your existence along with Ethan, Anika and Mindy.

Still, horror movies were your passion and you couldn't pass up the chance to talk about one of your favorite topics with a new person.

“Well, it depends on which parameter we're using. Overall, I like the Halloween franchise better and I prefer Michael Myers’ aesthetic, but I think Jason has a better lore and he would definitely win in a fight.” You tried to keep your yapping contained, not knowing exactly how interested Tara really was in your opinion, but you were surprised to see a twinkle in the girl's eye and a mischievous smile bloom on her face.

“Michael is much faster and smarter than Jason, there's no chance of him losing in a fight.”

“Zombie Jason was literally immortal, Michael and his kitchen knife wouldn't stand a chance against him.”

The two of you continued to talk and go back and forth with each other's comments as if it was something you did every day. Being so intrigued and immersed in the topic of the conversation almost made you forget that you were talking to Tara Carpenter, with whom you had never exchanged more than three words in your life before, but both of you only stopped talking when the teacher called your attention, asking for you to be quiet so that he could start the lesson.

Tara didn't seem as shocked by the interaction as you were and, in fact, she continued to sit next to you even though her usual chair on the other side of the room was empty. She gave you a complicit wink before turning to face forward, a satisfied smile still playing on her face, as if she had been the winner from that debate.

And you? You did your best to pay attention in the rest of the class and not keep reliving the interaction in your head, trying to convince yourself that that conversation had been a glitch in the matrix and would probably never happen again, but it was hard now that you knew how nice Tara could be and after you had noticed the way her freckles seemed to dance across her face when she smiled.

_

“Earth to y/n?”

The voice of your best friend, Mindy, snapped you back to reality, making your cheeks feel warm. It was lunchtime and you, Mindy, Anika and Ethan were sitting at your usual table, which was a wooden picnic table, conveniently placed under the shade of a huge tree. A few meters away, closer to the cafeteria doors, was the circular table that was always occupied by the popular kids, surrounded by people who intruded on the group's chatter to pretend they were close to them at some level.

Usually you would never look in that direction and would instead be in a conversation with your friends about anything, but you couldn't stop thinking about the randomness of the moment you had with Tara earlier.

Your eyes turned to Mindy on the other side of the table, who frowned as she realized that you were intently watching the table of the people she hated most at school. Anika, next to her, followed your gaze and the edges of her lips fell in concern. “What? Did they do something?”

“Did they do something to you?!” Ethan asked alarmed, his body leaning towards you enough to make you uncomfortable at the invasion of your personal space. It was no secret to anyone that the boy was in love with you, especially because he had confessed it multiple times. However, no matter how many times you said you only saw him as a friend, Ethan didn't seem to move on.

“No. It's not a big deal.” You shook your head, easing your friends' concern. Still, thoughts of your conversation with Tara seemed to beg to be externalized. “Tara spoke to me in class today, out of nowhere. She saw my shirt and started asking me about which of the two was my favorite.”

“Out of the blue?” Mindy asked, still frowning, and you nodded. “Well, I know Tara has always loved horror movies. We all did.”

The meaning was left implicit, but you knew she was referring to her old group of friends before things blew up between her and Amber. Anika ran her hand over her girlfriend's arms, trying to make her feel a little better about the topic through physical contact.

The table sat quietly for a few torturous seconds until you spoke up again, breaking the silence while watching Mindy's reaction cautiously. “It was nice. I mean, she was nice to me and the conversation was interesting.”

“Careful, y/n. Talking like that, it almost sounds like someone's got a little crush.” Anika teased you, wiggling her eyebrows in a way that made you feel even more embarrassed. You looked away to the crowded table on your far right, watching the way Tara seemed to be engrossed in whatever conversation she was having.

It was confusing. You didn't think you had a crush on Tara just because you had a nice moment with her, as much as you admitted that the girl was very pretty, but it was undeniable that something about this situation had intrigued you a lot.

Next to you, Ethan scoffed aggressively, looking irritated by Anika's little joke. “Come on! Y/n would never be interested in a person like her! What does she have to offer? Stupid parties and a basic knowledge of horror movies?”

“I don't think Tara's that bad...” Anika mentioned, looking up at Mindy for some confirmation. Of all of you, Anika was the most positive and social. Sure, she didn't like Amber for obvious reasons and neither did she like Liv because “her vibes were horrible”, but she constantly tried to mediate for the twins when she visited the Meeks-Martin house and you knew she'd spoken to Tara and Wes at least once before.

Mindy, on the other hand, definitely preferred to nurture her rivalry with all of them, but she sighed, knowing that she could never be completely against her own girlfriend. “I'd rather make no comment. Just keep in mind that if Tara is Amber's right-hand woman, it's for a reason.”

As Ethan protested against the small positive words Mindy and Anika had spoken about the popular group, your attention turned back to the table, your mind still processing what had happened earlier. Had it been a one-off thing? Did Tara like the topic so much that she just had to talk to you? Would she have talked to anyone wearing the shirt or would you have been special for some reason?

Your eyes were fixed on the opposite table, but your thoughts were racing, creating a thousand and one possibilities with a creativity you wished you'd had to complete your painting. You were so lost in your own mind that you hardly noticed the rest of the world around you.

Or, at least, that was until Tara caught you staring at her.

_

“The poor girl is so into you.”

Tara looked away from you to focus on Amber, who was sitting right in front of her with her legs propped up on the table. She had her back turned to where you were at, but somehow her fox-like senses knew exactly that you were looking in that direction.

As time passed, fewer admirers surrounded the table, picking up on the implicit hint that Amber would only give them crumbs of attention for a few seconds until she started to get annoyed by the presence of the crowd of opportunistic losers. The place was now only occupied by their inner circle, but Tara still felt like there were too many people.

“I bet she almost cried when you paid attention to her.” Liv laughed evilly, sitting on Chad's lap in a position that definitely didn't look comfortable for the boy.

Tara shrugged, feeling the gaze of the whole table on her, waiting for updates on her challenge. “It was no big deal, we just talked about movies.”

The truth was that Tara had enjoyed the conversation far more than she could have anticipated. Her initial plan had been to borrow a pen and “forget” to give it back so that she would have a reason to look at your Instagram and send a message after class (which she had actually half done, as your pen was still in her bag), but your t-shirt offered an opening that fit Tara's plans like a glove.

She had missed being able to discuss horror movies outside of the internet. Amber couldn't have a full debate because her patience ran out as soon as people disagreed with her and that made her aggressive. The others in the group didn't care that much about the genre and the most Tara could talk to them about was the basics of “which of these movies is scarier.”

The last time she had actually talked about the topic in a pleasant way had been with Mindy and that had been a long time ago. Tara hadn't even realized how much she had missed it.

“Well, I don't think it'll be long before she falls for you, anyway.” Amber shrugged, looking as bored as she usually was. “Maybe I made it a little too easy for you.”

“I've asked around and I'm pretty sure that y/n has never been with anyone. That makes things more interesting, doesn't it?” Wes said, once again trying to make himself valuable to the group with his information. The platinum-haired boy looked at Amber expectantly, like a puppy eagerly waiting for a treat.

Tara couldn't help but wonder if also looked at Amber like that, even though she didn't realize it.

“Eh. It depends on how she reacts afterwards.” The dark-eyed girl threw her head back, making her chair stand on just two feet. “Can you imagine if she just chooses to ignore Tara? Bo-ring.”

The conversation kept going on that topic but Tara was suddenly distracted by the sound of her phone’s notification ring vibrating in the back pocket of her jeans. She took the device in hand, seeing on the lock screen a new message from Sam, her sister.

Sam: Hey, I'm stuck at work until later. Can’t give you a ride, sorry.

Tara huffed with annoyance, not even bothering to reply and just placing her phone back. “Amber? Can you give me a ride home after class?”

The raven-haired girl hissed and grimaced, almost managing to sound apologetic even though Tara knew she didn't actually give a damn. “Sorry, T. I'm going to buy some stuff for the party on Saturday, so I can't.”

Maybe it was for the best. Tara always felt more attracted to Amber when they drove alone in her car, either because the conversations seemed more sincere or because the Freeman girl could be extremely attractive when she drove with only one hand on the wheel. If Tara was trying to get rid of this little crush on Amber, spending hours in a car alone with her might not be the best idea.

“It’s alright. I need to walk more anyway.” Tara shrugged, pretending not to be annoyed by the situation. Taking the school bus wasn't an option, because it would take twice the time as walking, and hitching a ride with any of her other friends would be either awkward or stressful.

So, after class was over, the younger Carpenter made her way home with her bag on her back and her headphones in her ears. It had been a while since she'd had to walk home, at least since Sam had come back from rehab, but at least it gave her time to catch up on her thoughts.

It took less than 20 minutes for her to get home, throwing her bag on the sofa carelessly and turning on the TV to fill the uncomfortable silence in her house. A rerun of an SNL episode was on and Tara hoped that the sound of the audience's laughter would make her feel a little better about the shitty day she'd had.

But then again, Tara couldn't remember having a completely good day ever since Sam had come back from rehab and had forced their mother into one as well, trying to help the woman with her drinking problem.

The girl went to the kitchen and got herself a glass of water, while in the living room, the audience laughed at some of Bowen Yang's skits. She had hoped that the cold water would relieve her negative feelings but it didn't do any good, because all Tara could feel was irritation.

Yes, she was annoyed that Sam couldn't pick her up. Yes, she was angry that her life had turned upside down ever since her sister had returned. Yes, she was pissed that she wanted to vent to someone, but she knew that her best friend wouldn't give a damn about being a good listener. Yes, she was enraged about having feelings for someone she knew would only break her heart

And GOD, how angry she was with herself for going along with this idiotic plan just to get one iota of Amber's approval. Tara felt ridiculous, even more so now that she knew that you were a nice and kind person, even if you were a bit closed off.

But the girl was wracked by conflicting feelings and she just wanted them to stop. She urgently needed a distraction, be it drinks, or a movie, or...

Or Amber was right and maybe Tara really did need to have a fling with someone to relieve her tension.

She wasn't thinking straight when she reached for her phone in her back pocket again, opening it straight to the Instagram app and finding her feed full of photos of people she followed, but she didn’t waste time on them as she was a woman on a mission. Tara leaned on the kitchen worktop, both elbows propped up as she searched for your name in the search bar.

The girl huffed when she found nothing on her first search and then decided to appeal to Mindy's profile, digging through the accounts she followed to try and find any that might refer to you.

Two minutes later, Tara came across an account called “pinceaudey/n”, which had a painting portrait as the profile picture. That's got to be it, she thought, wasting no time in opening the profile which, fortunately for her, was public. More laughter was heard from the TV, but this time Tara finally felt her mood change to something more positive.

The profile didn't seem to have any photos of you, but it was full of photos of paintings and other things related to art. Tara didn't linger on any of them. The less she connected with you, the easier it would be to have a hookup and leave, which was exactly what she needed. No more complications.

Still holding her phone, Tara crossed the kitchen to walk right back to the living room, looking in her bag for the item she had “accidentally” forgotten to return. She took the opportunity to look through the curtained windows, seeing that night was beginning to fall, darkening the streets and making Tara's heart race. She hated being alone at home and hoped that Sam's shift at the antique store wouldn't take much longer.

Finally she found the pen, just as Megan Thee Stallion began her performance as the show's musical guest. Tara held the object between her fingers and took a quick photo, sending it to your DM with a text. “Hey so i accidentally stole your pen lmao.” and then, ”I promise to give it back tomorrow.”

A few seconds had passed and you still hadn't seen it. It was alright, maybe you just had some better things to do other than stare at your phone, but for some reason, Tara couldn't stop herself from biting her nails in anxiety.

Maybe it was because it was late at night and she felt lonely, or maybe it was because she was in a particularly chatty mood that day, but without a second thought, her fingers typed out another message to keep the conversation flowing.

btw who do you think would win between Freddy and Leatherface?

As she waited for a reply with a small smile on her face and music playing from her TV, Tara finally felt less alone at home.

Maybe Amber was right. Maybe she needed a distraction.

[kyracooneyx23]

Better Keep Your Mouth Shut

Kyra x Sunny -> part one

summary: You've managed to keep your relationship a secret but can a drunk Kyra keep her mouth shut?

Kyra had only joined Arsenal a week ago but already people thought it was strange how close the two of you were with each other.

They all thought it was weird how you already seemed to have hundreds of little inside jokes that you would always be giggling about at training, and how you'd been out for coffee almost every day.

When people questioned it you'd both play it off saying that you'd clicked and wanted to get to know each other better. But in reality you were making up for lost time when you didn't have to chance to do this.

The girls would complain that they couldn't be friends with Kyra because you hogged her and you'd grin and claim it because you were the best person in the world and you couldn't blame her for wanting to be your friend.

Steph, who seemed to be the most suspicious, had even gone as far as trapping you in the changing rooms. Her eyes had been sharp, filled with a mixture of suspicion and concern as if she could tell what was going on. 'Why is Kyra always clinging to you?' Steph had demanded and it was the first time you'd struggled to smoothly answer.

'I've just been looking after her... making sure she settled in ok,' You stammered, trying to keep your tone casual, Steph was like Kyra's mum and you didn't want her to get mad. 'It can be really scary making this big of a move, you should know that.'

Steph's eyes stayed trained on your for a minute longer before she shrugged, either believing you or giving up trying. 'Caitlin must be right, Kyra's obviously going to make friends with the biggest pest on the team.'

Even though you were happy to finally be able to spend time with your girlfriend, not over facetime with an annoying time difference, you didn't want to stop her from being able to make friendships with the other girls on the team.

Overall the two of you had done a pretty good job at keeping it undercover, only once had the secret almost slipped.

Kyra didn't mean to she just hadn't been thinking about it when her and Alessia were leaving the cafe they had just had lunch in together.

'I need to pick up some chocolate for dinner tonight. It’s Sunny’s favorite.' The blonde had said as they walked along the street.

Kyra’s eyes lit up, smiling softly as she remembered all the times you'd begged her to get chocolate. 'Oh, that's a great idea she's obsessed with the marvelous creations you should grab that. Also get some Sour Patch Kids too. She always craves sour stuff after chocolate.'

Alessia raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at Kyra confused as to why the Aussie knew so much about a girl who she'd only met a week ago. 'That's pretty specific... has she always been like that?'

Kyra nodded enthusiastically, her mood lifting as she gets to talk about you. 'Yeah, always telling me how she needs that sour kick to balance out the sweetness. She'll give me the silent treatment if I don't let her eat them. Funny how she’s got such specific cravings, right?'

Alessia’s suspicion grew with every word. 'So you’ve been hanging out with Sunny a lot then?'

Only then did Kyra realise the mistake she'd made, the way she was talking about you made it seem like you'd known each other for ages which you had, but nobody else was meant to know that. She mentally cursed at herself for not realising sooner. 'Yeah, a bit. But she's always going on about how she loves that combination. I guess it just stuck with me.”

As they entered the store, Alessia couldn’t help but wonder how Kyra knew so much about Sunny’s preferences in such a short time. The details seemed too precise for a friendship that was only a week old, leaving Alessia increasingly intrigued and wary.

Currently you were all at a team gathering and Viv and Beth's house, the whole team catching up before the start of the season. You'd told yourself you wouldn't drink tonight, knowing when you do you normally ended up doing something stupid. However you broke that promise the minute Katie had teased you and called you a chicken.

So that's how you ended up leaning heavily on the kitchen island an empty shot glass in your hand, matching ones scattered on the table. A smug grin plastered to your face as you watched Katie struggle to down her drink.

'Who's the chicken now.' You laugh making chicken noises and only stopping when she whacks you in the arm making you wince.

'Piss off McCabe,' you huff rubbing your arm even though it didn't even hurt that bad. You just liked to make a scene out of things. 'You're such a sore loser, I can't believe you thought you could beat me in a drinking game I never loose.' You smirk at her even as she flips you off before you decide you don't want to deal with a drunk and angry Katie, instead going to find Vic.

'Hellooooo.' You smile stretching out the word as you wrap an arm around your best friend, sitting down next to her on the couch as she talks to Leah and Lia.

When sees you she rolls her eyes lightly, 'I thought you said you weren't gonna drink tonight.' You grin sheepishly.

'What do you mean, I haven't.' You lie causing her to roll her eyes again but you know she's not seriously annoyed as a small, amused smile plays at her lips.

'Well when your throwing up tonight, don't expect me to hold your hair back for you.' She teases moving her body so her legs are resting on you and you groan trying to push them off but failing.

'that's not true, you always hold my hair.' You tell her knowing that she may act annoyed but she's always there for you at the end of the night just like you are for her. She shakes her head and you move your face closer to hers 'admit it, you love me.' She laughs, gently pushing your head away from hers before the two of you join in with Leah and Lia's conversation.

You don't realise that as this happens Kyra is watching you from the corner of the room, where she is talking to Katie and Caitlin. Her attention far from the conversation as she gets sick of Katie complaining that you must've cheated.

Instead she's watching you with Vic, your arms wrapped around the Dutch's body and her legs casually resting on your lap. When you lean your face closer to hers she can't help but feel a pang of jealousy in her heart seeing you like that with someone else.

She knows her thoughts are irrational, you and Vic are just bestfriends, she's like this with Charli as well so she shouldn't be jealous but she is. She blames the alcohol for making her feel this way.

When your head rests on Vic's shoulder she leaves the room wanting to find someone else to talk to bored of Katie's complaining. She didn't expect to find Stina, Frida, Steph and Beth all laughing loudly as Kim stood in the middle of the room singing loudly to a song Kyra couldn't recognize.

When the other four notice her presence they all grin at her. 'You're next Kyra.' Steph laughs loudly handing Kyra a hairbrush and pushing her to where Kim used to be standing. She then plays a song and it takes a minute for her to realise what it is but when she does she let's out a little laugh before singing loudly.

Normally she wouldn't be this comfortable performing in front of people she hardly knew, but the alcohol surging through her veins seemed to have given her a surge of confidence.

Meanwhile, you're still stuck on the couch with Vic. Her legs on top of you stopping you from leaving. Your interrupted from the conversation by Alessia's loud voice in your ear.

'Sunny, you've got to see this!' She screams, pulling you up causing Vic's legs to fall to the ground a small whine escaping her lips.

'Hey! I was comfy.' She complains but her cries are unheard as Alessia is already dragging you through the crowded room. She was pulling you up the hallway and only when you got closer could you hear Taylor Swift's voice breaking the quietness.

It was only as you reached the door that you could hear another voice screaming loudly along with the song. the off-key wails you immediately recognized as Kyra's, and you immediately understood why Alessia wanted you to see the scene in front of you.

Kyra was completely wasted with a hairbrush in one hand and a glass of some alcoholic liquid in the other. The hairbrush was being used as a microphone with Kyra screaming the lyrics of You Belong with Me. Steph and Beth were dancing along together and Frida was laughing from the couch her phone trained on Kyra as she filmed the madness.

'Why can't you see-e-ee you belong with me!'

'Sunny please stop her, she's been playing this song on repeat like four times.' You laugh at the pained look on Stina's face as she speaks.

'Kyra! what the fuck are you doing.' You shout getting the Aussie's attention. When she sees you her whole face lights up and she runs over to hug you.

'Why were you being so cuddly with Vic.' She pouts, dropping the hairbrush onto the ground. You were always like that with Vic, and Kyra knew you only meant it in a friendly manner so you frowned.

'When.'

'Just then, on the couch.' She whined squeezing you a little bit.

You had no idea why she was so upset, you were just sitting together.

'Kyra Lilee Cooney-Cross, you've got to be fucking with me! You can't seriously be jealous of Vic!' You push her away lightly remembering where you were and that nobody knew about you and Kyra. She pouted as you looked around the room checking to see if anyone was watching you, which thankfully they weren't all caught up in their own stuff.

'it's not funny.' she puffed, crossing her arms like a 4 year old. By now Steph and Beth had changed the song and were both now in their own little world dancing away as everyone else watched their performance.

'Alright, I'm sorry.' You roll you eyes at her pettiness forgetting how dramatic Kyra could get when she'd have something to drink. 'I'll order a uber and we can get going when it arrives.' You offer and she huffs one more time before strolling off.

You laugh lightly at the girl watching her walk away from you walking into the door and swearing at it before going out of sight. You pull out your phone and open up the Uber app but are interrupted before you can order one.

Leah grabs your arm pulling you into the middle of the circle with her. 'C'mon little gooner,' she grins at you, using the nickname she had for you one that she started calling you when you first joined the senior team resulting in you calling her big gooner. 'It's our turn for karaoke.'

Someone chucks you the hairbrush which you catch with ease as the music starts blasting through the speaker and you instantly recognize the tune of 'The Angel' and you laugh. 'Manu, was this your idea?' You look towards the Austrian and roll your eyes playfully before you start singing the lyrics along with Leah. People laughing as you try to hit the notes but fail drastically.

When it gets to the chorus the whole room starts singing along.

'North London forever, whatever the weather.' Leah wraps an arm around your shoulder.

'These streets are our own.' You smile despite how awfully out of tune everyone is 'and my heart will leave you never, my blood will forever run through the stone.'

Eventually the song ends and every breaks into a round of applause you and Leah laughing as you take a bow.

'Who's next?' Beth shouts and when no one puts their hands up Beth stands up and grabs the hairbrush from your hand picking a song of her own.

You squeeze next to Caitlin on the small armchair she's sitting on, flicking her in the shoulder knowing she's was extra irritable when she'd had a drink.

'Fuck off, I'm not in the mood for it tonight.' She groans pushing you away, but its no use and the arm rests block you from going anywhere so you're still stuck pressed up against her side, 'Katie's been talking my ear off all night, and I was trying to get a break from it now but of course you had to ruin it.' She sighs and you grin at her reaction.

'Speaking of katie, where is she?' realising you hadn't seen katie since you beat her in that drinking game.

'Her and Kyra are in the kitchen, their both pissed.'

You frown to yourself, remembering you told Kyra you'd call and Uber but you'd not been able to when Leah had distracted you. You get off the chair and walk into the kitchen.

'I still can't believe you have a girlfriend, that you've never told us about before.' Alessia says, looking shocked at the news.

'She's so pretttyyyy.' Kyra was drunkenly rambling on to a slightly less drunk Alessia. 'L-like she's perfect. And it's not fair that she doesn't think I'm perfect.' The aussie whined sadly.

An equally intoxicated Katie frowned dramatically, 'well then she fucking stupid.' she decided through a hiccup.

Kyra gasped as it was the most offensive thing she'd even heard. 'Don't say that.' she pouted with a heated glare towards Katie.

'it's true.' Katie sniffed, waving her hand in the air mindlessly and accidentally slapping Kyra on the face.

Kyra let out a shriek as though Katie had full on punched her and lifted her hand, slapping the Irish back with no strength, it was more of a pat on the cheek.

Katie gasped loudly leaning over to hit Kyra back and seeming to forget she was sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter resulting in her falling off and landing on the floor.

And that's how you found them, a red faced and frowning Katie lying on the floor as though she had been shot, a giggling Kyra rocking from side to side where she was perched on the counter and a tired Alessia who still had a vague look of shock on her face as she was still thinking about the news Kyra had just broke.

'Normally I'm the one who has to be looked after on nights out.' You mumble, amused at the sight before you.

Katie pushed herself off of the floor so fast you were worried she'd injure herself but she didn't even notice, instead her face lit up making you confused before she yells out; 'Foordy!'

Caitlin groans from behind you and you realised she must've followed you, the aussie barely has time to prepare herself before Katie launches herself into her arms.

You grinned at them, shooting Caitlin a teasing smile as Katie snuggles herself into the crook of her neck and even let out a hum of complete content.

You only look away from the amusing yet adorable scene when you hear Kyra whisper to Alessia who had her eyes shut and was resting her head on Kyra's shoulder now. You were unsure if she was sleeping or trying to but you prayed it was the former as Kyra loudly whispered 'She's so pretty.'

Alessia just mumbles before a quiet snore escapes her lips and you allow yourself to go and sit next to Kyra.

'Talking about me love?' You question cheekily, this time speaking in an actual whisper so no one else can hear.

'Yeah.' Kyra whispered back, to out of her normal mindset to tease you or be cocky, instead she sounded so sincere that your heart fluttered a little bit. Her big eyes staring up at you hopelessly as you smiled tenderly.

'Well thank you.' You smiled softly, giving her a little squeeze not wanting to do anything more knowing that if Caitlin sees she's likely to remember as she's not as shit faced as Katie is.

'It's ok, it's the truth.' Kyra sleepily smiled back at you, her eyes drooping as she leans on your shoulder, Alessia groaning from the sudden movement rubbing her eyes as she moves into a sitting position.

It takes her a while to adjust, seeming as though she must've forgotten where she was after falling asleep. When she sees you her eyes light up a little bit a grin falling on her face 'Sunny you're here.' Her words are still slurred showing that she hasn't sobered up yet, 'did Kyra tell you the big news, she has a girlfriend!'

The smile falls off your face, and you feel your hands start to sweat as nerves take over. 'really?' You manage to say weakly, you weren't prepared for everyone to know 'did she say who it was?' You ask praying that even drunk Kyra would be smart enough to not tell them.

'No.' You feel your heartbeat ease but the smile on the strikers face falters, clearly disappointed that Kyra hadn't revealed who, before she beams again 'but she kept going on about how caring and funny she was, I wish I had someone to love me like that.' The blonde sighs looking into the distance as you smiled fondly at the other girl who's head rested on your shoulder.

'So pretty.' Kyra mumbles half asleep and your smile grows before Alessia looks back at her a coos.

'Oh Sunny, you've got to help me find out who she is.' She says excitedly, and you nod weakly trying to act as if you had no clue who it could be. After seeing your reaction Alessia squeals hopping off the table, 'I've got to tell the others the big news.'

'Maybe it can just be our little secret for now.' You suggest not wanting everyone to know as they'd all pester Kyra non-stop and she was never good under pressure.

'I guess, but Katie knows as well.' You sigh bringing a hand up to your face knowing that Katie wouldn't be able to keep her big mouth shut, all you could do was hope that she'd be to drunk to remember this in the morning.

Once Alessia's left the room, you're alone with only Kyra.

'Baby it's time to go, the Ubers here.' You gently shake her causing her to groan and hug you tighter burying her face in your chest. 'You can stay at my place tonight, we can just tell Steph that you crashed on the couch.' You tempt her and a small smile forms on her face.

'Cuddles?'

'Of course.' After hearing your response she quickly hops up and grabs your hand, helping you off the counter and pulling you to walk beside her and out of the house. 'Shouldn't we say goodbye?'

'It will be fine, they probably won't even notice we're gone. Now stop trying to stop me from spending time with my girlfriend.' She whines and you laugh kissing her on the nose to quiet her complaints.

'Better?' You joke rubbing her back before sliding your arm around her waist.

'I think I'm going to need more than that.' She says a mischievous glint in her eyes. You place a small kiss on her lip, intending for it to only be a quick peck but she senses your plan and wraps her arms tightly around you stopping you from moving as she deepens the kiss.

'Kyra.' You mumble between her lips, 'someones going to see us if we keep going.' after a bit of wiggling around you finally are free of her grasp.

You gasps, acting hurt as she places her hand to heart 'my own girlfriend doesn't love me.' she exclaims dramatically and you laugh.

'You're hearts on the other side silly.' You state moving her hand to the correct position as she goes red.

'I knew that, just testing you.' she lies a grin on her face as she does.

By now your out on the street waiting in the cold for your Uber, noticing your shivering Kyra wraps an arm around you pulling you closer trying to warm you up with some of her body heat.

'I love you Ky.' You say softly, the sound of your voice the only noise in the peaceful night sky.

'Love you more.'

'Don't think that's possible.'

She doesn't have the chance to retaliate as your Uber pulls up and you both hop into the back of the car, hands still intertwined as you do so. You quickly tell the driver your address as they begin the drive home.

You and Kyra sit in a comfortable silence both staring out the window and it's only when you look to your left that you realise the sad expression on Kyra's face.

'What's wrong my love?' You ask squeezing her hand as she turns around to face you.

'It’s nothing,' she mumbles, her voice barely audible. But when you give her a stern look, she exhales heavily, her frustration palpable. 'Fine. Tonight, I kept watching Caitlin, Katie, Viv, and Beth—seeing them so effortlessly happy together. It made me ache because I want that too. I want to be able to be with you like that. I want to show you off and kiss you without having to sneak around. I want to hold your hand in public, cuddle with you on the couch, call you ‘baby’ and ‘my love’ without the constant fear of hiding. I’m tired of pretending we’re just friends when all I want is to be able to be your girlfriend.'

You weren't expecting those words to fall out of her mouth and when you do it makes your heart sting a little. What she was saying was true, you felt that way to but you were too scared of all the bad things that could happen if you did tell everyone.

'Oh baby.' You look into her brown eyes which are slightly moist and you can feel her pain, 'I'm sorry for making you feel this way, I didn't know it was upsetting you but if you want we can tell the others. It's up to you.'

She looks torn, trying to decide how to respond. She opens her mouth before shutting it then opening it again, 'that would be nice, but maybe we can wait a little longer. We'll see what it's like after the season starts.' She suggests and you nod, yawning loudly as a sudden rush of exhaustion enters your body.

'Let's get home and rest we can talk about this tomorrow.' You tell her, eyelids becoming to heavy to keep open much longer. The relief you feel when you feel the car stop and see your familiar apartment building just outside the window is welcomed and you rush to quickly pay the driver before getting out of the car.

Once you get into your apartment you and Kyra both make a beeline for the bedroom, equally as ready as the other for a good sleep. You chuck her a pair of pajamas she left last time she'd stayed the night which she puts on whilst you do the same.

Your quickly in bed her head resting on your chest as you play with her hair causing a sigh to fall from her mouth.

'Goodnight love.' She whispers into the darkness.

'Night baby.'

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART II

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. see part I for full story details. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

V. STRENGTH

Jacaerys was a child when he found out that he was a bastard and his mother was a whore.

Bastard. Whore. Even before he understood those words, he knew that he was different, somehow. That he was not enough. The lords and the ladies in the Red Keep always stared at him and Luke when they walked by, clinging to their mother’s skirts. They whispered whenever Ser Harwin Strong spent his afternoons with them in the training yard, putting wooden swords into their tiny little hands and teaching them how to swing. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter whenever his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, took Jace out riding, steadying him on his pony. Pay them no mind, Jace, his father always said. They're only staring at you because you will someday be king.

So Jace closed his ears and focused only on Mother, Father, Ser Harwin, and Luke.

But the older he got, the harder it was to ignore the whispers. Bastard. Mongrel. Son of a whore. A wonder that his dragon egg even hatched. I've never seen any Velaryon who looked like that. He don't look like no Targaryen prince, methinks. Look at that hair. Look at those eyes. He can only be a bastard.

He can only be a Strong.

It wasn't all bad in his family, at least. Queen Alicent always looked at him with contempt, but his grandsire kept her from saying anything. Sometimes his uncle Aegon would bully him about it, but then he would leave Jace alone whenever he was teasing Aemond instead, so all Jace had to do was join him in making fun of the scrawny boy. And whenever Aegon and Aemond teamed up to point out Jace’s bastardy, you would stop both of them. You would gently scold Aemond and that would make him quiet, but with Aegon you would throw things instead. (Oops, you said once, after dropping the Seven-Pointed Star on Aegon’s foot. Sorry, my hand slipped. I'm afraid that book burns my heathen fingers.)

You always defended Jace like that.

Jace’s mother was a whore, and he later learned that yours was too. Maybe that's why you were so nice to Jace, even though the lords and ladies of the Red Keep scorned you worse than they ever did him. To Jace’s wonder though, you never seemed bothered by it.

It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jacaerys, you told him once. We’ve got dragons. We’re Targaryens. So long as we play our cards right, no one can ever touch us.

But what if my blood isn't enough? he would mumble. What if Vermax doesn't let me claim him? What if I cannot fly? He did not have silver hair and pale eyes, the features of a Valyrian king. Perhaps his bastardy and Andal blood made him less of a Targaryen. Could a mongrel tame a dragon? Could a bastard sit the throne?

Could a Strong ever take to the skies?

You smiled at him whenever he asked. You can do all of those things, Jace. I promise. I can't help you with most of them—but at the very least, I can help you learn to fly.

So he found himself on your dragon, seated behind you, his hands tight around your waist. I've never seen Wildfyre so happy to have someone ride him, you laughed. Not even me!

The dragon clicked and grumbled and turned his head to look at Jace, golden eyes approving. Then Wildfyre’s great wings started flapping, his roar thundering through the skies, and suddenly Jace found himself rising higher and higher, the muscles of the great creature rippling beneath him. King’s Landing was getting further away, shrinking; the clouds were getting closer, and Jace felt a chill as the cold damp of them soaked into his clothes. A freezing wind whipped through his hair, felt like ice to his bones, but he screamed and screamed with laughter, heart dancing as he clung to you.

Once you'd steered Wildfyre through the clouds, drifting into the warm twilight, you turned back and threw him a smile.

See? you yelled. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless on dragonback!

Fearless, you called him. He clung to this word: Fearless. I must be fearless. I must not fear my duty. I must not fear the succession. I must not fear the court.

In truth, though, Jace was afraid. He was afraid of being a bastard and he was afraid of losing the Throne, of ruining his mother’s claim. But you were so good at dispelling it all. You were so good at making him brave.

So when his family was sent to Dragonstone indefinitely, he nearly wanted to throw up—because it meant he could no longer see you. He sought you out soon after the decision was made, nearly running through all of Driftmark’s grounds before going to the Queen’s rooms, where he knew you would be.

He found you by Aemond’s bedside, talking to the injured child as he slept. Your fingers threaded through his silver hair; you whispered Valyrian into his ears, soothing and pretty and soft. Jace wished he could understand it, but his mother never spoke it around them. Ser Harwin, being an Andal, only knew the Common Tongue, and so that was the language that Jacaerys had inherited instead the language spoken by kings.

Jace begged to you in his lowly, mongrel tongue, ugly and stiff unlike the melody of Valyrian: “Come with us, please. I know you'll like Dragonstone. No one will stare at us there, no one will whisper. You'll be happier for it.”

He was not surprised when you said no. There was no way you would ever leave Aemond, but he asked anyway, again and again.

“I can't do this alone,” he kept saying. “I need your help. I don't know how to be strong like you. How to be fire and blood.”

You smiled at him. Stepped away from Aemond’s bedside, then took his hands in yours.

“You need not worry, Jace. Your mother will guide you.” Your fingers were so gentle on his. “You will grow into a fine prince, an heir befitting the Iron Throne. And when you do, you can come back to the Red Keep—and you can take me to Dragonstone then.”

Jace tried very hard not to cry. Ser Harwin had made a promise like this before he left his mother—that he would reunite with Jace someday, that he would stay by his side then. But he had never come back, had been taken by the fire at Harrenhal, and then Jace found himself mourning a man whom he was not allowed to grieve—because Jace was not allowed to be a bastard, and so Ser Harwin was not allowed to be his true father.

But he did grieve. He hated losing Ser Harwin, and he could not bear the thought of losing you too.

“You’re not lying?” Jace asked. “You're telling truth?”

He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but you seemed not to mind. You only threw your head back, laughed. “Yes, I'm telling truth! It is my dream to get away from the Red Keep someday, Jace.” You looked at him, almost amused. “I’m counting on you to save me from the Hightowers, my prince.”

And Jace could not help but think, as you departed for King’s Landing and he for Dragonstone, how much he longed to do that. How badly he wanted to take you away from the place that called you both the children of sin, from the people that called him a bastard and you a whore. He wished he could have sworn it as an oath, for then you would know how seriously he would take it.

I will become a fine prince someday, he vowed privately, watching your ship grow smaller and smaller, then finally as it was swallowed by the mist. I will become an heir befitting the throne. I am a Targaryen, made of fire and blood. I am a Targaryen, no matter who my father was.

He woke up everyday and repeated those words like a mantra. Tried not to think about the possibility of failure—tried not to wonder if the lords and ladies of the Realm would revolt should he ever sit upon the throne. If the throne itself would reject a bastard, its edges cutting into his mongrel flesh. It was a solace that he heard you every time he questioned himself: It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jace. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless in the sky. You have a dragon. You have a dragon. You have a dragon.

He had a dragon.

“I have you, Vermax,” he would murmur to the creature in his clumsy Valyrian, and Vermax would rumble at him, reassuring.

The years passed. You exchanged letters with Jace, kept in touch, but the distance felt like a yawning cavern between you still. The older he got, the less certain he became that you ever thought about him the way he thought about you. After all, he was a child when you left; you were nearly a woman grown. Thinking back on it, you had obviously treated him like a child too, holding his hands and trying to soothe his fears with empty words.

Grow up, Jace, he told himself, every time he received a raven and found your letter shorter than the last. Forget about it.

And he did, for a while. He focused on his studies, his swordplay, his duty to the Realm. Several name days passed, and suddenly he was a man grown. His mother was speaking to him of potential betrothals, of Starks and Tyrells and the noble daughters of other great houses. His stepfather was telling him to see the whores in Spicetown since he refused to disgrace any of the servants, and their silks and perfumes were dizzyingly fragrant as he bedded them. The serving maids of Dragonstone and all the distinguished ladies who visited laughed and smiled pretty around him, fawning over his status—for even if he was a mongrel bastard, he was still a Crown Prince.

Jace found himself utterly disinterested in all of it.

Curiously, in some of those moments, he would suddenly think about your letters—shorter and shorter, fewer and far between, but coming still. Hello, cousin. How fare your studies? I find myself the object of whispers once more; what an exciting life people think I must lead. Last month I was leading Ser Criston astray and making him break his oath of celibacy; this month I am carrying Prince Aemond’s child. I wonder whom I will seduce with my temptress ways next month. Perhaps it will be Septa Falyse, or the High Septon himself!

Jace could hear your laughter in your words: carefree, lighthearted, just as you always were when it came to your reputation. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of all those rumours, of all those people speaking ill of you. Of knowing he could not return the favour of defending you as you once did him, now that the sea separated the two of you.

The whispers, though, were not something a Crown Prince should be worrying about, and you were not someone an Heir should be thinking about.

Grow up, Jace, he kept telling himself. Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget about it.

But when the day came that he finally had to return to the Red Keep—he could no longer forget.

As he boarded a ship to King’s Landing for the first time in years, he found himself remembering the words you once spoke to him when he was a child—the ones he clung to for years. They felt so fitting now that he’d learned of the Hightowers’ designs for you, of what the Hand intended to do.

You will be a fine prince someday, you'd said. Take me to Dragonstone then. Save me from the Hightowers, my prince. 

He would see you again, Jace thought. And if you so much as breathed the word, he would do everything that you asked of him all those years ago: steal you away from the Red Keep, protect you from the petty court that so often mistreated you, give you immunity from the family that spurned you both. Because now that he was a proper prince—a Targaryen, black hair be damned—that was something he could do.

He could save you from the Hightowers.

VI. JUDGEMENT, REVERSED

The coming of Princess Rhaenyra and her party was met without announcement, nor fanfare.

Were it not for Jacaerys’ letter to you, you would not have even known that they were going to be in King’s Landing. The tourney was coming up soon—less than a fortnight now—but their presence had nothing to do with it. Supposedly, Prince Daemon had some urgent business to discuss with the King and the rest of House Targaryen. Even Princess Rhaenys had joined them. What would be important enough for the Lady of Driftmark to leave her home was a mystery to you.

Until such matters made themselves clear, however, you would not worry over them. You were only thinking of meeting Jacaerys again. Although you'd received many messages from your first cousin over the years (his preferred raven now knew you well enough to squawk your name), letters were simply not the same as seeing one in person.

And of course it was impossible to see Jace in person. Queen Alicent became oddly bitter every time you requested leave to visit Dragonstone, and Wildfyre was always mysteriously chained up after such conversations. Aemond, as well, despised his half-siblings too much to meet with them during any of your visits to Spicetown, and he never let you go there yourself either.

You are a young woman, and it would be unsafe for you to venture out alone, Aemond always said. If you must go to Spicetown, I will accompany you and guard you from any… unsavoury characters that you may meet.

You had the sense that he was referring more to his nephews than any bandits or rapers, for it seemed not enough to him for guards from Dragonstone to be sent to accompany you.

You looked forward to seeing Jace again, unfettered by neither Aemond nor the Queen. You wondered what the awkward and insecure little prince was like nowadays, what sort of person he'd become. But as you had not heard any word of Rhaenyra’s arrival, you did not go to receive him at the gates—so you spent the day like you would any other. You broke your fast alone, neglected your needlework, neglected your prayers, and resentfully studied household stewardship. You loitered in the throne room, watching the Hand and the Queen settle various petitions. Today, it was mostly smallfolk worried about the price of food, a couple of petty land disputes between minor houses, and an interesting request from House Tyrell to legitimise a bastard—some knight who had served in the Dornish Marches. For some reason, Ser Criston kept looking at him with disdain.

Then, as a reward to yourself for your hard labour, you went down to the training yard in the late afternoon.

Your favourite pastime was watching Aemond practise his swordplay in the afternoons. You used to go for moral support, to encourage him whenever he was beaten—which he always was, because of his previously short and scrawny stature—but now it was always to encourage him whenever he clobbered his opponents, for he always did.

Ser Criston used to scold you for your attendance, saying that a young lady should busy herself with other activities. “You should be studying the Seven-Pointed Star right now, my lady,” he once said, probably at the behest of the Queen. “The violence of the training ground is not something that a woman should be witnessing so often in any case. Bloodshed is usually upsetting for the fairer sex.”

“I know not what you are talking about, Ser Criston,” you replied. You clapped Aemond’s shoulder then—drawing murmurs from onlookers, because hand-to-shoulder contact between cousins was scandalous if you were the one initiating it—and added, “there is nothing more important to me than witnessing Prince Aemond’s improvement on the battleground.”

Ser Criston gave you both questioning looks. “And why would it be so important to you, my lady?”

“Well,” you replied cheerfully, “Aemond and I have an agreement that if ever I am charged with murder, I will prove my innocence via trial by combat and he would be my champion.”

Ser Cole gave you an incredulous look. “Do you plan to commit murder, my lady?”

“No, Ser. It is merely a contingency in case someone should frame me for it. You never know what might happen with all the plotting and scheming in this Realm.”

You were actually speaking truth here: you and Aemond did come to this agreement soon after Prince Daemon Targaryen was taken to trial for the murder of his first wife, which he won by combat. You then went into an anxious spiral about what you should do if you hated your future husband and he was stupid enough to fall off a horse and die like Rhea Royce. Who would save you from a similar accusation?

Aemond immediately volunteered himself, perhaps too eagerly.

“You need not worry about me, Ser Cole,” you said upon seeing his perturbed face. “I wouldn't actually ever commit murder myself. You would know, since Aemond would prove my innocence.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “She would never be found guilty of any crime in the Realm with me as her champion,” he affirmed. “I think it is fair that the lady should be allowed to watch the sword representing her, is it not?”

Ser Criston could hardly deny a royal prince, so he merely sighed and picked up his morning star. “Whatever my prince wishes,” he relented. “Come—let’s give your lady a show.”

The knight had not since protested your presence on the training grounds. Ser Criston hardly even glanced at you today as you approached, weaving through the sparse crowd of knights, squires, and spectators while he and Aemond began their warmups. You were searching for a spot that would serve as the best view of their match, and it was pure accident that your gaze happened to land on an unfamiliar form among the hustle and bustle.

It was not the clothes that struck you—for they were plain, a nondescript black cloak over an equally dark tunic—but his face. Dark curls framing finely carved, fair features. An aquiline nose, a pair of delicate lips curled into an interested smile as he spoke to some companion you could not see. He looked like a Northman, possibly a Stark or an exceptionally beautiful Blackwood. You wondered if he was one of your potential suitors.

Naturally, you had to go introduce yourself. Purely to show your hospitality as a lady of House Targaryen, of course.

“Excuse me,” you said, in the clearest and prettiest voice you could manage. “Pardon me for the interruption, Ser, but I don't believe we’ve ever met.”

The stranger turned to you, his expression quizzical, but reflecting pleasant surprise. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his brows lifted—and a brief silence passed as you took in each other’s appearances.

You were only certain once you saw the three-headed dragon brooch on his cloak.

“Cousin?” the two of you asked simultaneously.

“Seven hells, Jace, I didn't recognise you at all!” you blurted out. You then glanced at his companion for the first time. Sure enough, it was his little brother—still young, but certainly not the small child you remember. “Luke! Gods, you've grown up too! I had no idea you’d arrived!”

Jacaerys made an irritated expression that was comically familiar despite his comically unfamiliar face. “The reception to our arrival was… subdued. Not etiquette to the standard that I would have expected of the Red Keep.”

“Ah. A folly of the Queen, I'm sure.” You smiled at them both. “Forget about her. I'll give you a proper welcome after this match—take you around the old haunts and whatnot. Wildfyre will want to say hi, too.”

“Match?” Jacaerys asked, but he was quickly answered by the violent clang of steel against steel.

Jace’s noble countenance dissipated as he moved into the crowd, beckoning Luke to follow. An excited grin spread across his face as he watched the two figures sparring furiously—as if he were again a child, spectating as Ser Harwin or the other knights of the Kingsguard fought with one another. Ser Criston and Prince Aemond were in another league altogether, of course—perhaps not in skill, but in savagery. They moved viciously and lethally, not bothering to hold back. The swing of Criston's morning star carried brutal weight, but Aemond was himself a lithe weapon, his body honed for the sole purpose of killing. You were unsurprised when his blade ended up pressed against Ser Criston’s throat.

“You'll be sure to win the tourney next week, my Prince,” said Ser Criston, but Aemond did not smile.

“I don't give a shit about tourneys,” he said, and you had to hold back a snort. Perhaps not when he was younger, but he absolutely did give a shit about tourneys nowadays. Not the pageantry or the petty social trappings, of course—but the reputation. Prince Aemond would be loath to seem craven or weak before the knights of the realm, and so he had no choice but to sign up for every tourney in King's Landing and crush every opponent he met.

Your amusement wore off when you noticed Jace and Luke beside you—how tense they'd gotten, how Luke was inching behind Jace. You could not blame them. Aemond had never forgiven Luke for taking his eye, no matter how many times you counselled him to lay it aside lest his rage drive him to madness. It chilled you how he spoke of Lucerys when reminded of it.

Even now, you discerned a subtle anger in Aemond’s body—tightly controlled, but there nevertheless—as he approached.

“Nephews,” he said, “have you come to train?”

Not even a greeting, you thought. Well, he does take after his mother in some ways.

“I'm afraid we’re only here to visit today,” Jace said, and you were surprised at the clean but sharp edge to his words. You did not know he could sound so much like a prince. “We must first attend to urgent matters before we’ll have any time for leisure.”

“I wasn't aware that the Crown Prince would consider swordplay a leisurely activity,” Aemond remarked. “Those princes who are truly of fire and blood, at the very least, do not.”

Fucking hell. Not even two minutes and the bastardy talk had already started. There was fury in Jacaerys’ eyes, and you stepped in before Aemond could fuel it.

“Jacaerys must be one of the few men of fire and blood who are also capable of diplomacy,” you said dryly, “as I know you are, Aemond, when you wish it.”

Aemond gave you a careful look, seeming more amused than anything else. “I wish it when my lady does.”

You smiled, placated. “I always like diplomacy. Hospitality, too. I'll be showing Jacaerys and Lucerys around before our family meets tonight—you are free to join if you wish.”

From the way the two brothers tensed, it was obvious that Aemond was absolutely not free to join. Your cousin had the grace to decline: “Thank you for the invitation, my lady, but I will give you the space to host them. You are better suited for it than me.” He glanced at Jacaerys, and said, “Do make sure you return her to me before it gets too late. I would worry about my cousin if she were out after curfew.”

Jace gave him a look that was as curious as yours.

“You need not worry. You know I would not let any harm come to our cousin.”

Aemond hummed, giving you a meaningful glance that you completely did not understand. “I’ll look for you at dinner.”

“I’ll be… sure to find you?” you replied with uncertainty, still reeling from his words. Return her to me. Aemond left before you could ask him his intent behind the phrase—because he always spoke with intent.

Jacaerys, himself, also seemed confused. “I didn't know my uncle was courting you,” he said, and you gave him a startled, bug-eyed look.

“He isn't,” you said quickly. “Queen Alicent would sooner die than let me besmirch the reputation and honour of her son.”

The elder prince frowned. “He was certainly acting like it, getting all possessive.”

“I suppose Aemond never liked it whenever we spent time with you,” Lucerys observed, looking somewhat anxious.

“He didn’t,” you now remembered. “Don't feel too bad, Luke. He was always like that even before he lost his eye to you.” Aemond loved to monopolise your time as a child and grew sullen whenever someone else had your attention—as if you were being wrongfully taken away from him and would never be returned. Sometimes you felt like a toy being fought over, tearing at the seams. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

“Childish of him,” Jace observed, watching his uncle’s back as he readied himself for another match. “Makes me inclined to take up all of your time tonight.”

You snorted. “That’s childish of you, too. Come on, let's go—at least catch up with me before you and your uncle maim each other.”

“I wouldn't do that to him,” Jace protested.

“I know. It was only a jest,” you reassured him. But an uneasy pit grew in your stomach as you thought of the way Aemond carried himself just now—how none of that lethal violence left his body as he approached his nephews.

It struck you then that you weren't so sure if the reverse was true.

VI. THE SUN

When you were alone with Jacaerys, his presence felt oddly familiar.

It was unusual, given that the prince was so different now. He had grown, and you had expected things to be strange and stiff between the two of you, but the conversation came easily once Luke departed. Jace’s laugh was the same as you remembered. His smile was the same. He rode on dragonback with you, his arms firm around your waist and his front pressed tightly against your back, and—

—that didn't feel the same, actually. You tried not to think about how he felt against you, how he had obviously grown lean and hard with muscle. It made your stomach flutter in a way that felt suspiciously similar to your reaction to first seeing Cregan Stark at court. You concentrated on the memory of the awkward, insecure boy with whom you had grown up, whom you could have never fathomed attraction to. Jace was the heir to the throne—you absolutely could not consider him desirable.

Also, if your stomach kept twisting like that, you would surely steer your dragon wrong and make all three of you crash.

Wildfyre, at least, did not see him any differently; he allowed Jace to ride him without complaint, and once you all landed outside the Kingswood, he kept clicking and prodding at your cousin with his massive snout, making the prince chuckle.

“I think he missed me,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. You were his favourite.” You glared at your dragon. “Traitor,” you groused in Valyrian, and Wildfyre snorted in response. You sighed. “Look at that attitude!”

“I think he's quite lovely,” Jacaerys said, voice smug. Wildfire crooned, as if in agreement, and snaked his long neck around Jace’s back, rubbing against him like a cat. You gave them both a dirty look.

“Sometimes I think you claimed him behind my back,” you complained, even though you could feel the bond between yourself and Wildfyre, warm and alive like a shared heartbeat. It had been present since the day you were born, as if it had formed while you were still in the womb. Still, there was a period of time before your official claim where Wildfyre adored Jace so much that you were convinced he would abandon you.

“You know that's not true. He's like a puppy around you.” Jace patted Wildfyre’s snout fondly, and the great old lizard chuffed like a dog. You saw the resemblance. “Vermax hatched in my cradle and he’s not nearly so affectionate with me.”

“Vermax is a sweetheart.”

“To you.” The corner of Jacaerys’ mouth lifted. “Remember how he nearly roasted Aegon the one time? And he never let Aemond near him, either.”

“Dragons are influenced by the feelings of their riders,” you pointed out dryly. “Vermax only detested them because you did.”

“Perhaps.” Jace scratched Wildfyre, fingers scraping against glimmering, emerald scales. The spoiled creature rumbled in a way that nearly sounded like a purr. “Are you saying that you’re as fond of me as Wildfyre is, then?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were glad that the two of you were alone and outside of the city. If anyone overheard you, or glimpsed your reaction, your reputation would have just been shattered forever. Worse yet, Jacaerys’ amused smile looked terribly handsome to you at that moment. You could not help but think, Well, I wouldn’t mind being pet by you either.

“I suppose your company is tolerable,” you said lamely.

Jace, of course, was not at all fooled. He turned to Wildfyre and said, in what you guessed was meant to be the Valyrian language, “We both know better, don't we?”

Wildfyre clicked in agreement, but your own reaction was not nearly so kind.

“My god, Jace,” you said, wincing. “Was that supposed to be Valyrian?”

He grimaced. “Was it that bad?”

“Terrible. What on earth is your mother teaching you? She's so fluent.”

“She never spoke Valyrian around us when we were children,” he explained, “so I never picked it up. Mostly, I learn from the maesters.”

“The maesters?” you repeated, appalled. You slipped into your native tongue, the timbre indignant: “No wonder you speak so poorly. You can't learn properly from maesters. You need to learn from someone who lives and breathes in the language!”

“There aren't many people in Westeros who do,” Jace replied in the Common Tongue. The two of you began to volley: Jacaerys in the language of Westeros, and you in the language of the old Freehold.

“Move back to the Red Keep. I'll teach you.”

“You’ve tried already. You were a poor tutor, remember?”

“You were a poor student.”

“That doesn’t change your own abilities. Could you even explain any basic grammar to me right now?”

“...you don't need to know grammar to talk.”

“No, but you need it to learn.”

“If I talk at you enough, you’ll pick it up eventually.” You gave him a mournful look, then tested his ear for your mother tongue: “However you do it, you should make more of an effort, Jace. You are a Targaryen, and a dragonlord besides. Valyrian is the language of your forefathers. How can you not know it?”

Jacaerys went quiet. “You know I have always tried,” he said, “to live up to my heritage as best as I can. I have neither Targaryen nor Velaryon features. People look at me and they see an Andal…”—he hesitated—“that is, they see a Strong. I have to show them I am more than that.”

Guilt gnawed at you. “Then I'll help you,” you said gently, in the Common Tongue this time. “Though truthfully, neither the language you speak nor the colour of your hair changes your blood.”

“Only you and Mother have ever thought so.” He looked away. “Apparently people used to think that my dragon egg wouldn't even hatch.”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Yet it did, and every unbonded dragon responds to you. Vermax and Wildfyre can both attest to your claim and heritage.” You gave him a reassuring look. “Anyway, cheer up. You have more talent at the language than Aegon, silver hair be damned. His Valyrian is shit awful.”

Jace laughed. “Is it really so bad?”

“You’ll see during the meeting tonight. Aemond and I will force some Valyrian out of him—look forward to it.”

His smile faded. “I need to talk to you about that. The meeting, I mean.”

You made a face. “You know I don't want to speak of politics right now, Jacaerys. I'd rather talk about literally anything else, in fact.”

“It would be unwise to do so.”

“I live every day trying to be wise in matters of the court. Please let me be unrepentantly a fool for once.”

Jace gave you a sorry look. “Could I spend the rest of the day in leisure with you, I would. But it would be a disservice to you not to tell you, cousin. It is why I asked for time alone with you in the first place.”

“You wound me, Jace. I thought you asked it for you missed me.”

“Cousin.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s hear it.”

He breathed deeply. “There will be an announcement, one that involves you. In truth, the Hand said to keep the matter quiet until we could meet as a group, but I didn't think it was right, and neither did my mother. The Hightowers are trying to hide from you what Prince Daemon discovered.”

You gave him a curious look.

“What did he discover, then?”

VII. DEATH

The world felt so distant.

The Targaryens were seated around the Small Council table. King Viserys was absent, his mind addled with milk of poppy, so the Hand sat in his seat while his daughter stood at his side. As if in interrogation, you were at the other end of the table—the object of everyone’s scrutiny—clad in a neutral blue.

It was a powerplay. Jacaerys had predicted that the Hightowers would do it, and he tried to help you prepare. You had planned together what you should say, but the Stranger had stolen your words, your focus, your wits. Otto Hightower spoke and his voice sounded far away, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your heavy breath and pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise, thrumming alongside your bond with Wildfyre. It was singing with a pain to match your own, for the feelings of a dragon are always influenced by their rider—and he, too, had loved your father.

Otto kept speaking. You did not know why he was even here, really, nor Queen Alicent. Princess Rhaenys sat to your left without Lord Corlys, because this was a Targaryen matter—a grief shared only by those of fire and blood. The Hightowers were outsiders.

“...we must allow ourselves time to grieve your father,” the Hand said, “but the matter of his inheritance should be quickly settled.”

“What?” you asked, voice faint. This is what Jace said would happen, you thought. I should not be surprised.

But here you were—speechless, stupid.

The Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra bristled. Prince Daemon, who sat on your right, openly scoffed. Helaena looked down, and even Aegon had the grace to keep his eyes on the table. He was feckless, a lecher, and he always quarrelled with you—but he was not cruel. He was not cut from the same cloth as his grandsire.

Even he disapproved.

Jacaerys was next to you, standing tall like a sentinel. Aemond watched from across the room, near his mother, in a shade of green so dull that it was nearly black—but green nevertheless.

Why was he not beside you instead?

“Please,” you managed to say, voice quiet. “I would like to hear the news from Prince Daemon himself.”

“As you should. This was not news that should have been delivered by a Hightower.” The Rogue Prince did not bother to hide his derision. “I was treating with the lords in Pentos, and they brought to my attention news of your father’s ship—the one that disappeared when he sailed for Lys. It came to light recently that pirates and sellswords accosted it. They sacked the ship, sank it. Then they took your father for ransom, but apparently he died not too long after from his wounds. Here is the proof.”

And sure enough, he laid before you what was unmistakably your father’s sword. It had been presented to him by the Lyseni while he was being hosted by the First Magister: a weapon from the former Valyrian colonies of Essos. Your mother had been by his side when he received it. In Westeros, she had been considered a common whore, but in Lys, she had been his beloved concubine—yes, a former bed slave, but respected nevertheless. She had thrived in the Lysene court.

You took the blade into your hands, unsheathed it halfway. It was pure Valyrian steel: ancient ore folded many times over, otherworldly hues rippling in daylight. Unlike the Valyrian swords kept by the Westerosi houses, this one had a name carved into it by a Qohori smith: Siglitanor. A word borrowed from Lysene Valyrian, a name chosen by your mother. The letters were as red as the Qartheen jewels encrusted into the guard, which was fashioned with Volantene elegance.

It was, through and through, a sword of Essosi antiquity.

For nearly ten years, you imagined that your father was somewhere in Lys, carrying this sword and speaking its language every morning, every night. Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. He would whisper these words into your mother’s ear in a courtyard somewhere, their plates filled with persimmons and mangoes and peace. He went to Lys and loved her too much to return. Yes, he abandoned you, but it was to take care of your mother, who deserved nothing less.

And now—now, this sunlit vision was turning to dust before you.

“Your Pentoshi friends—who told them this news?”

“Myrish sellswords who drank too much and bragged of their exploits. The Pentoshi thought I would like to know of their crimes against the Iron Throne and brought them before me. They're being held on Dragonstone now.” Daemon, for a moment, seemed reflective, and the sharp edge of his words softened slightly. “Your father was a skilled diplomat. It was his work that kept the Triarchy in line for so long. He died, and they soon after turned on us—and everyone else in the Narrow Sea. Pentos felt the loss of him as much as we did.”

“Yes, your father was quite the man,” the Hand agreed. “He was also skilled with his coin. He amassed great wealth in the Iron Bank, all profit from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities. The Iron Bank was never forthcoming with information until now—they thought him alive and kept this from us—”

The coin is mine, Jacaerys coached you to say. It is my inheritance. I will go to Braavos myself and oversee the wealth. By the laws of the Realm, a daughter should inherit her father’s lands and wealth in the absence of a son.

“What happened to my mother?” you whispered instead, still staring at the sword. It shared its name with the mythical blade forged by Azor Ahai, tempered by the blood of his lover. Your mother had been a fervent follower of the Red Temple; when your father asked her to name the sword, she chose to honour her faith.

Would R’hllor really have let her die?

“Yes, your mother,” Lord Hightower said. “Your mother is gone, of course—the Iron Bank was willing to make the assumption after seeing the sword and the prisoners. And as such, yours is the only name that they have listed in ownership of your father’s coin—”

“We may speak of the Iron Bank in a moment,” you said bluntly, interrupting him. “What happened to my mother?”

Queen Alicent breathed in deeply. She clearly meant to chide you for your tone, but Prince Daemon answered before she could, himself unbothered.

“The sellswords mentioned that a woman was present,” Prince Daemon relayed. “She was saved by one of the guards, and the two of them were never caught. The sellswords did not chase them for ransom—they thought her a common whore.”

Then a whore is not such a bad thing to be, you wanted to laugh. Though you had never thought so anyway, because if your mother was a whore, then surely a whore was something to be cherished and pampered. You had always imagined her in a beautiful manse across the sea, hanging on your father’s arm. The two of them were supposed to be laughing in the sun as they drank Myrish wine and wondered how you were doing. They were supposed to be making plans to return to King’s Landing someday, to see you when they received news of your betrothal. You wrote to them everyday when you were a child, asking them what sort of man who they'd like to see you marry. You sealed the letters and asked the sailors passing through Blackwater Bay to take them to your parents in Lys. I don’t know where they are, you admitted to the seamen, but it can't be hard to find a Targaryen prince. The sailors would agree, pat your head, and give you a persimmon or a mango or an orange. You did this day after day after day—because surely your mother would reply to your letters eventually.

Surely, your mother would never forget you.

“Is she alive?” you asked.

“Perhaps. Likely not. The Narrow Sea was a brutal place before I conquered it.”

“But if she survived, where would she have gone?”

“The ship was overtaken at Bloodstone, so likely Tyrosh.”

“Not King’s Landing?”

Daemon gave you a long look. “I will warn you against any wishful thinking, girl.”

It wasn't a wish, you wanted to say. It was a promise. Your mother loved you. She wept when she was forced to leave. Someday I'll come back, she said in Lysene Valyrian, kissing you on the brow. When your grandsire is long dead, I will return and see you again—R’hllor will assure it. And until then, He will protect you.

Your father was supposed to love your mother enough to stay with her. Your mother was supposed to love you enough to someday return. But now your father was a skeleton on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost at sea.

And you—you were all alone.

“I grieve for your loss, my lady,” the Hand said. “But we must turn to the matter of the Iron Bank. That coin was grown from the wealth of the Crown, and as such, it belongs to the Crown.”

“You really have no shame,” Daemon sneered, but the Hand did not flinch.

“The animals of the Reach are plagued with sickness this year. Food has risen in price, and the smallfolk are suffering. Time is of the essence. If the Crown could find the coin to alleviate their burden…”

“The Crown has its own coffers,” you said quietly. The Hand paused, as if surprised by your resistance.

“The coffers are not limitless.”

“The coffers should be managed well enough for hard years.” Your eyes burned hot, but they still met Otto Hightower with hard steel. “If the Master of Coin has misstepped in his stewardship of the Crown’s wealth, I see no reason why I should pay for it.”

“It would not be your wealth being paid. It is wealth belonging to the Iron Throne. Everything from the coin in Braavos to the sword in your hands—”

You could not help it: a laugh escaped you. “You mean to take even my father’s sword from me?”

“It is an heirloom belonging to House Targaryen, so it should be inherited by a man of House Targaryen. Dark Sister was passed to Prince Daemon and not to Princess Rhaenys, was it not? A lady has no use for a sword.”

“An heirloom?” You could not help it—you rose to your feet and held up the blade, and it shone true in the light of the sun. Helaena and Luke visibly recoiled at the bare steel, while Jace watched you carefully. “You think this is one of the swords brought over before the Doom? You think a Mormont or a Stokeworth would have a sword like this? Tell me, Lord Hand—can you read the name engraved here?”

“There is no need, my lady, for you to lose your temper—”

“It says Siglitanor. Do you know what it means? Can you even pronounce it?”

“The name has no bearing on its owner. You are fixating on irrelevant matters, my lady. I caution you not to be so irrational. The issue at hand is the inheritance of the sword, not its name.”

“The name bears relevance to the inheritance, Lord Hand,” you ground out. “It means Lightbringer, named after the sword wielded by the Lord of Light, R’hllor.” Alicent shifted visibly at the mention of your heathen god, her brow knotting, and pressure mounted in your throat, your heart. “No Westerosi heirloom bears the name of this sword, nor its craftsmanship—you may check with the maesters yourself. The sword was a gift bestowed upon my father by the Gonfalioniere of Lys. In his absence, it belongs to my mother, and in her absence, it belongs to me.” You laughed. “You wish to gut me of everything my father left to us, with no respect to our history or our rights.”

“Your father misunderstood your rights, as do you. He represented the Iron Throne in every excursion to the Free Cities, so all wealth and treasures he acquired should be returned to the Iron Throne. And let me remind you, young lady—when the law is misunderstood or transgressed, there are consequences for the criminal.”

You stared at him, incredulous—for while the Hightowers have never loved you, they have never openly threatened you.

The words hung heavy in the air, oppressive to all. Aegon was practically withering; Jace, tenser than you'd ever seen. Aemond appeared unbothered, his expression precise in its neutrality, and this cut deeper than any words from Otto Hightower ever could.

No one dared speak until the Queen cleared her throat.

“Father,” Alicent interjected, watching you carefully. “I do not think it wise to act rashly. The lady is our kin, and we should allow her some grace. Perhaps this is best solved through a formal petition. Let us give the girl a chance to grieve, then present her case to the Throne—if she will even want to make one afterward.”

“And who will oversee the petition?” you asked carefully, trying to control your voice.

Alicent delicately replied, “I will see to it that you are given a fair trial.”

“A difficult task,” you parried, “given that the Hand has overseen most petitions in the past half year while the King has been abed with illness.”

The Hand finally showed his displeasure, his tone severe when he said, “The Queen, in her grace, is offering you a means to avoid punishment for the theft of Crown wealth. It would do you well to show some gratitude.”

You tried desperately to suppress the strangled noise in your throat. Someone touched your shoulder. You glanced to your side; Jacaerys was looking at you, his dark eyes as calm as stone and earth, and you breathed deeply, the knot in your chest untangling some.

“Of course,” you finally replied. “Thank you, my Queen, for giving me the chance to defend myself from these accusations. I shall accept your proposal.”

Alicent nodded. “We find ourselves right now in grief and high passions as we mourn the loss of your father, but we will need time and prudence as we settle this dilemma he left.”

You nearly laughed. Grief is your excuse? you wanted to spit, for it was clear to you—and likely most people in the room—what was going on.

Only Prince Daemon had the nerve to voice it.

“Do you need time to settle this dilemma,” he asked, “or time to regroup? Clearly, you thought the girl would yield to your demands today while you blindsided her with grief. It appears you now need a new strategy.”

The Queen’s jaw ticked. “Good-brother, you misunderstand me. Inheritance law is complex and often at odds with compassion. It would be cruel to wrest away her father’s belongings from her”—Alicent glanced at your sword—“but at the same time, the laws of the Realm must be respected.”

“Fuck the law,” Prince Daemon snapped. “My idiot cousin got himself killed at sea and his sword was acquired by force. It belonged to the sellswords for years before I acquired it by way of gift. It now belongs to me”—you gave him a watery, furious look, but it soon dissipated, replaced by surprise—“and it is now my decision that it should belong to my cousin’s daughter.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending. Mollified. Daemon spoke then in Pentoshi Valyrian—not so different from Lysene Valyrian, but inscrutable to speakers of the Dead Valyrian taught in Westeros: “Viserys and I grew up alongside your father. We knew him well. He would have wanted Lightbringer to go to you—not these vultures.”

Daemon switched back into the Common Tongue as he took his leave, pale eyes cold on Otto Hightower.

“I will see you again during my niece’s petition, Lord Hand.”

VIII. KING OF CUPS, REVERSED

You did not go to dinner that night.

After the meeting in the Small Council room, you could not wait to get away from your family—Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers, and all. You kept yourself poised as you excused yourself, but you broke into a run as soon as you were out of sight, your father’s sword grasped tightly in your hand.

You knew it was a childish thing to do, to run away to Blackwater Bay and cry your eyes out. It was nearly as childish as the way you had just spiralled and crashed and burned in front of the Hightowers in that room, living up to every judgement placed upon you. A heathen who worshipped the wrong kind of god. A perpetual foreigner. The pathetic daughter of a lost whore and a dead prince—someone of such little social consequence that the Hand saw you as easy prey for your coin.

In the back of your mind, there was a growing list of things you meant to do to fix it all. You needed to ask Prince Daemon what rhetoric Otto Hightower was likely to bring up during the petition, for no one had politically jousted with that man more than he. You needed to steal all the ledgers of your father’s ventures in the Free Cities before Tyland Lannister could think of having them confiscated. Perhaps you should even appeal to Princess Rhaenyra for her aid, since her husband was going to be supporting your petition.

Most importantly, you had to think of how to maintain your standing with Queen Alicent while fighting for your inheritance. It would not do to win your petition now only to be met later with harm.

It was a long, intimidating list. You knew you should go back to the Red Keep and attend to it. But now the sun was getting low, a violent blood orange in a dimming sky, and you were still weeping bitterly on the rocky shore. You thought of all the passing ships you'd watched from this spot, all the persimmons and mangoes you cradled in your hands as you hoped your letters would reach your parents. Telling yourself that one day your father would return, and your mother not too long after.

You didn't even know why you were still in this fucking castle if your parents would never come back.

Prince Aegon found you like this: wailing into your arms, cussing out the Seven, cussing out the Iron Throne, cussing out Otto Hightower, shivering because the light was low and now you were getting cold.

“Hello, dear cousin,” he greeted, slurring. He made his way toward you, stumbling through the rising tide before stepping onto the rock you were seated upon. He reeked so badly of Arbor wine that you stopped crying just to wrinkle your nose.

“Gods,” you said, revolted, as he sat down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders. The last thing you needed was his grimy hands on your ass, which seemed to be their favourite spot to rest. “Get away from me, Aegon. I'm in no mood to humour you today.”

Aegon was so drunk that he yielded instantly when you pushed him: he yelped and tumbled onto his side, landing in a puddle of seawater and weeds. You would feel bad for him if you, too, weren't covered in the stuff—the tide had grown high and now your feet were soaked in it.

“I came to comfort you, and this is how you thank me?” Aegon whined.

“Since when have I ever wanted your comfort?”

“Since you are now in need of it,” Aegon said. He pointed at you. “You are in a miserable state.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, my prince.”

“Don't be so cold. Let me console you. Or if you won't let me console you, at least join me in my cups”—he held out a wineskin, which you suspected was nearly empty anyway—“and we can toast your father.”

“Keep my father’s name out of your fucking mouth,” you spat. “Is this your way of taunting me, Aegon? Rubbing salt in the wound that your grandsire and mother just left?”

“Gods, no. You think I wanted any of that to happen? You were not the only person who ran away as soon as that meeting ended, cousin.” Aegon uprighted himself, his knees knocking against yours. You did not push him away this time. “My grandsire—he’s not a very kind man, is he? And as for Mother… well, you know how she is. You are not the first person to be on the receiving end of either of their… machinations.”

“Are you trying to console me? Because it feels more like I’m meant to be consoling you.”

“I would not be opposed if you did,” he wheedled.

“Well, I'm not going to. Go away, Aegon.” You squinted at him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“My dear brother was worried about your absence at dinner, and only grew more fretful when the Strong bastards said they had not seen you either. He was nearly in tears, sniffling pretty like the Maiden, when he begged me to help him find you.”

Despite yourself, you guffawed at the image that Aegon had just conjured up.

“He said you'd either be feeling sorry for yourself in the dragonpit or you'd be feeling sorry for yourself by Blackwater Bay. I did not feel like wading through dragon dung, so I chose to look here while Aemond combs the tunnels.”

“Well, you've found me. Now you may go.”

“How am I to leave such a sorrowful, beautiful maiden alone?”

“Quite easily, actually. I may throw you into the sea if you don't.”

“No matter—I will swim back to you.”

“With the state you're in? Ser, you will drown, and I will be accused of murder.”

Aegon shrugged, opening his wineskin and taking a deep draught. “That's all well and fine. I'll be free then of the Red Keep, and you would walk away scot-free. You would not be found guilty—simply request a trial by combat, and my brother would be your champion. He will surely slay any foe who challenges you.”

You gave him a curious look. “Aemond told you of our private joke?”

“Err, no? I just think it’s quite obvious the man would kill for you.” Aegon gave you a confused look. “My brother makes jokes?”

“Yes,” you replied, but then you thought more about it. “No. It’s more like I make japes, and he smiles stiffly, and at times he humours me.”

“Ah, that sounds more like him.” Aegon took another swig of wine. “He’s always been a mirthless lad. I've no doubt you will be solely responsible for any joy in your union when it is formalised. Speaking of which, why has my mother not yet announced a wedding feast for the two of you? Surely she cannot mean to let you give birth to a bastard. She may not love you, but she would not disgrace you either.”

You put your face into your hands. “I cannot do this today, Aegon. Leave me. You may report back to your brother and let him know that I'm feeling sorry for myself out here.”

“No, my lady, I told you—I cannot simply leave.”

You gritted your teeth. “Why not?”

Aegon flailed wildly, wine swishing in his hand. “What if you walk into the sea while I'm gone? I would never recover from it. No, cousin, I will keep you safe until my brother emerges from the dung pit.”

“How chivalrous of you. I will not be drowning myself any time soon, though—I must first face your grandsire in that petition.” You quieted at the thought. Aegon’s buffoonery had distracted you for a fleeting moment, but now you were thinking once more of all the dread and the grief and the fury. “Seven hells. Give me that.”

Aegon smiled at you as you snatched the wineskin from him.

“See, my lady? There is nothing that a drink cannot fix.”

You snorted. “Will it fix this inheritance business for me?”

“I mean for it to fix mine.” Aegon began to pick the seaweed out from his breeches. “Perhaps if I drink myself blind often enough, my mother will disinherit me. Then Rhaenyra and her bastards can sit themselves on that blasted chair and I'll be able to live in peace.”

You were so wrung out that, for once, you could not find it in yourself to dance around the topic of high treason. “The Hightowers will never let you get away from the Iron Throne,” you said plainly. “They’ll never be secure unless you are suffering in that chair. Or your brother, if I should first drown you.”

“Please, cousin. Don't make me beg.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Aegon did not bother to hold back his own amusement, giggling openly.

“You know,” Aegon said, after his chuckles died down, “it may not be an option for me, but you could do it.”

You raised a brow. “What? Throw myself into the sea?”

“No, no! No drowning on my watch!” Aegon threw a piece of seaweed at you in reprimand, which you dodged. “I mean to say—you can run. Fly away on dragonback. Go to Braavos and get all your coin. Exile yourself in Lys and spend the rest of your life in decadence. God knows”—he groaned, sounding wistful—“it is what I would do.”

You considered his words. You had always stayed here for your father, and for your lack of coin and supporters. But your father was now dead, and you had so much coin that you had no need for supporters. “I suppose I could.”

“You'd need to go now,” Aegon said. “I would not tell a soul. Not even my brother.”

“Why help me?” you asked him, suspicious. The two of you had never been all that friendly. Close, perhaps, in the way that non-stop quarrelling would make two siblings close—but not friendly.

Aegon shrugged, as if unsure himself.

“Perhaps the day will come when I will wish to go to Lys and enjoy all the beautiful women there, far from the throne,” he slurred, “and when I do, I shall call on my dearest cousin to host me.”

“Surely, brother, you would not disgrace your sister-wife like that,” a third voice interjected. You and Aegon nearly jumped, seawater splashing around your feet. When you turned around, you saw Aemond—smelling strongly of brimstone and smoke, but not dung, you were glad to notice. He did not seem nearly so happy, giving you a long, severe look. “You were not at dinner.”

It all came back, then—the green tunic, the place next to his mother, his unreadable expression as he watched your humiliation in that council room. The memory robbed you of all your mirth.

“My apologies, Prince Aemond,” you said bitterly. “I lost my appetite when I learned of my father’s death and your grandsire’s machinations to steal his wealth.”

Aemond did not reply immediately. Aegon loudly cleared his throat, then somehow got onto his feet. He swayed from the wine and stumbled in the darkness of nightfall, but managed to walk away nevertheless.

“Well, now that you have each other’s company,” he announced, “I shall take my leave. Take care not to let our cousin walk into the sea, brother. It would break my heart.”

“You tried to walk into the sea?” Aemond asked sharply, and you sighed, tired.

“No, Aemond. It was only a jape. A bad one.”

“Hm. My brother does have a poor sense of humour.”

Aemond offered you a hand, and you studied it warily. When you did not take it, he finally said, “I did not know what my mother and grandsire planned to do in that meeting. The news of your father’s death was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.” A pause. “Though I would wager you had warning and counsel from the blacks.”

“Jace warned me because he cares about me. I did not receive help from Rhaenyra's faction—do you really think I would care to involve myself in petty spats over the throne?”

Aemond hummed. “I know my nephew has great love for you, but it was not him to whom I was referring.”

A blinding, hot flash of anger rendered you speechless for a moment—how dare Aemond drag succession politics into this? But the rage quickly passed, giving way to clarity. For it must have been a great sum that your father had in the Iron Bank, if Otto Hightower desired it. And if it was great enough for him to seek, then it was also great enough for Princess Rhaenyra to do the same.

Aemond watched as you pondered this, your eyes dropping to your soaking, seaweed-ridden feet.

“Fine. You're right. But why didn't you come to my side once you realised what was happening?” you asked quietly. “During that meeting, I mean.”

“It would not have helped you.”

Yes, it would have, you wanted to cry, I'd have felt better for it. But Aemond was too smart and too serious to entertain such childish notions: you knew he was speaking in purely strategic terms.

“No,” you admitted, “but it would not have hurt, either.”

“Alicent cares greatly about the appearance of unity among our family. Were I to break it, she would cease to trust me, and it would be that much harder for me to help you.”

“And how would you help me?”

“What would you want to be helped with?”

You looked up at him balefully. The money, the inheritance laws, the petition—there was no way that Aemond could do anything about any of it, not without alienating his mother. You had half a mind to ask him to throw you into the sea after all, but based on his earlier reaction, he would likely lock you up in your room if you made such a jape.

With nothing else in mind, you simply said, “I don't want to give up this sword.”

He arched his brow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Well—no.” You brought a hand to your temple. “It’s more complicated than that. I do want to give up this sword, eventually. But to someone worthy of it.”

You stared at Lightbringer, trying to imagine it in someone else’s hands. Hands that did not belong to your father, but someone who loved you as much as he.

Laughable, as the Hightowers would never let you marry for love.

“Here is what I think, Aemond,” you started. “If this petition works out in my favour, all of my suitors will suddenly be from houses allied with your mother’s faction. I will be made to marry a lord who is in Otto Hightower’s pocket, and he will inherit my father’s sword—and all of that coin in Braavos, too.”

Aemond considered it. “It is fair speculation. You do know how my grandsire thinks.”

“Well, I was raised by his daughter.” When Aemond did not argue with you, you bleakly asked him, “What should I do, then? When I am married to a man who intends only to steal from me, on behalf of the Hand?”

“You could always pray for your lord husband to fall off his horse. I would make sure to prove your innocence after the tragedy.”

You stared at him, as gobsmacked as Aegon was earlier. “Aemond, did you just tell a joke?”

“Would it bring you any comfort if I said no?”

You made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. When Aemond offered you his hand again, you took it—standing with his help, shivering as your body was exposed to the night wind. A cloak smelling of smoke and ash was placed on your shoulders, and you gratefully accepted it.

“You no longer wish to marry,” he guessed, watching you fumble with his mantle.

“I wish to marry someone of my choosing.” You found that no words in the Common Tongue could quite capture your anguish, so you relied on your Valyrian: “I did not mind the idea of being used by your family, so long as I could live safely. But I cannot bear the thought of anyone using what once belonged to my father. It is”—your voice broke, but you did not cry—“all I have left of him and my mother.”

“I understand,” Aemond replied, his Valyrian soft, lacking its usual cunning edge. “Focus on your petition for now. Worry not about your betrothal. I will handle it.”

You closed your eyes. You had no idea what he could do, but you trusted him. Aemond was brutally efficient in matters of court and power; you could rely on him.

“Alright,” you said. “I shall count on you.”

The nighttime breeze swept your body again; you shivered, still wrestling with the cloak. Aemond evidently tired of watching you struggle; he brought up his hands and straightened the mantle out for you.

“Are you really thinking of leaving?” he murmured. You blinked, not understanding. “You and my brother—you spoke of leaving for the Free Cities.”

You gave Aemond a long look. His expression was inscrutable, but certainly not happy. There are few people in this world who would worry about me, he had said not long ago. And you had told him, not long after: Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.

If you left for Lys, that would no longer be true. You imagined Aemond alone at court, dealing with whatever designs his mother and grandsire had, with only his drunk brother and strange sister for allies—and you, an entire sea away, missing every letter the sailors were meant to give you.

“I could not,” you confessed. “Even if I tried, I think I would eventually have no choice but to return to you.”

He hummed. “Good. I fear I would not have been as kind as my brother in conspiring for your escape. You might have found yourself in trouble with me.”

“Another jest from you?” you remarked. “What a strange day this has been.”

Aemond’s mouth curled, but he did not reply. He merely fastened his cloak of ash around you until it was tight around your neck. And for a moment, in the strange and unreliable light of the moon, his smile looked almost unsettling.

END PART II

notes: oh god this chapter was so long now that I'm looking at it posted as one piece (versus ao3 where I split it up). you are truly my ride or die if you read all that. but anyway, below are some notes to help clarify parts of this chapter in case you are confused-

clarifying ages:

There's 2-3 year gap between the reader and Aemond/Jace

Jace in the first scene is initially 10, and you are 13 (text refers to you as “nearly a woman” since it was ye olde times, but you were really both kids)

In the present day, the characters are all in their late teens/early 20s.

timeline and other notes:

This chapter (and story overall) diverged slightly from show canon; Corlys Velaryon has not yet gotten injured so the Driftmark succession petition has not happened. This is still the blacks’ return to court for the first time in years though, hence why some of the events played out similarly to that episode.

Jace feels a little more mature in this chapter than he did in the end of S1 (he is closer to how he behaves in S2), and that is because of two things: (1) he is aged up slightly so he is naturally more mature; (2) I thought he was hotter in S2 and wanted to write about that version of him instead lol

[bunnys-kisses]

Hi bunny, I recently found ur page and have been binge reading ur posts, you’re so good!! I have a big order. Peach cake, Red velvet cupcake and a pound cake with strawberries. With a side of with dark hot chocolate and a glass of water, George Russell🙈… if it’s too many details do it however you want bcuz your writing is amazing <3

bakery menu

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! i love getting orders! i accept more than just formula one so i'm always happy to try different fandoms. so please! check it out! and thank you lovely anon, i'm happy you love my work! and thank you for submitting a george russell order because i've gotten people asking for him! so thank you! i hope you love it <3

peach cake: ("if you spill a drop, we start all over.") + red velvet cupcake: ("if you don't like being called a whore, then stop acting like one.") + pound cake with strawberries: ("you know i hate going over rules, but just because i like seeing you embarrassed, i'll tell you them again.") + dark hot chocolate: (sub!reader) + glass of water: (aftercare) served by george russell (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, sub!reader & dom!george, rules & punishments, spanking, sparkling water, jealousy, aftercare, doggy style,

"you're so lucky, honestly he sounds like a prince charming!" you once heard from someone when you were talking about your boyfriend, "george just seems like such a sweet guy. like he double checked to make sure that roses wouldn't make your cat sick? most guys can barely get flowers!"

you felt your ears burn at her words and nervously played with the bracelet around your left wrist. there was on charm on it, letter 'g' for your beloved. your boyfriend, your biggest fan.

your dom, george russell.

but even men who looked like princes in fairy tales could be a little jealous. george often appeared himself to be a very sweet guy, who'd never actually hurt someone. he was a force on the track and would do what he needed to win, but he'd never put his hands on another driver. he'd never get in their face or try to get violent.

but as he watched lando norris try his hardest to pick you up, george really wanted to knock some sense into the driver. just because a woman didn't wear a neon sign that said 'taken', it didn't mean they were free game to flirt with.

and you, the future mrs. russell, should know better. even though the weight of the bracelet you wore wasn't too much. he hoped that it was enough of a reminder to behave. listen to the rules that george had laid out for you.

when lando touched your bare arm, and you stepped back a little. george knew that he had to step in. he was at your side rather quickly, smiling at lando. he wrapped an arm around you.

"see you've met my girlfriend, mate." he smiled, putting all of his charm into it, "i was looking for her." his hand snaked to your ass and you gave it a firm squeeze. you weren't off the hook.

"oh this is-" lando looked at you, "i didn't recognize her, mate. i'm so sorry!"

george was a little unconvinced when he replied,"yeah, a haircut can do that." even though you hadn't styled your hair differently in years. george didn't get too aggressive with the fellow driver because now that he was close to him, he could see that the drink in his hand was large and his stance implied it wasn't the first one of the evening.

but, george made sure that you didn't have a drop of alcohol. so while lando was drunk, you were well aware of the rules that your dom had set for you. the driver leaned to your ear and said, ""you know i hate going over rules, but just because i like seeing you embarrassed, i'll tell you them again."

and you swallowed, knowing you'd get a lecture when your boyfriend steered you away from the drunken racer. you felt the tip of your ears grow hot and you played with the bracelet. despite how nervous you felt, george was all smiles as he told lando to have a good night.

as you walked away, your lover's voice was hot in your ear, "no flirting. remember? you are mine, and i don't need other men getting their hands on you." he held you by the back. he kissed your cheek softly, "when rules are broken, there are punishments." this was part of your dynamic.

you knew there would be a punishment when you got home and you were right. a bottle of sparkling water from the grocery store was opened. and with you on your knees, opened your mouth. this was a punishment of endurance and being unbreakable. george poured a mouthful in your mouth then closed your jaw. he said, "if you spill a drop, we start all over."

you nodded before you got up onto your feet. your legs shaky as he put the bottle down on the nightstand. you held the water in your mouth as you got over his lap. you could feel his hard cock against your stomach. the goal of the punishment was to hold the water in your mouth even if the carbonation made your eyes run. and george spanked you for every infraction you did.

"you're a whore." he said as he rubbed your bare ass. he stripped you down to nothing as soon as you got home. you were to be laid out naked for him. he on the other hand was still in the shirt and slacks fro the party. it only added to the dynamic, you were exposed for him while he got to stay dressed. he slapped your ass, "you're a whore, you let norris get his hands all over you. you know if you let him suck on your pretty breasts or fuck your poor pussy, you'd be thrown away by the next day." he landed another spank across your ass.

you whimpered, trying to hold the water in your mouth. the spanks made it hard to not choke on it or have to drip out of your mouth. the bubbles of it made you feel discomfort in your face. but you had to be good.

"but not me. i'd never do that to you." he said softly, "you are my treasure. you know there's rules, that you have to be well behaved for me. or else we're going to have problems. you're my girlfriend, my love, my submissive." he landed a few more spanks across your ass, he watched your body shake with each of his slaps. but you didn't spill a drop.

the knowledge of that made george smile to himself. it wasn't hard to train you to be an amazing sub, you were always so eager to make him proud. you took your punishments with grace. he landed a few more smacks across your ass, "but you are my whore in the end. my responsibility to teach and fuck." he groped your bruised ass which made you whine.

you kicked out your legs as if you were trying to say that you weren't a whore. that you were a good girl, but it was only met with another hard smack across your cheeks. you arched your back and whined more.

"if you don't like being called a whore, then stop acting like one." he said as a warning. he took you by the jaw to look at him. your craned your neck to get a good look at your prince charming. he smiled, "swallow. then hands and knees."

you swallowed and nodded happily. and like a good girl, you opened your mouth to show you swallowed it all. you earned a pat on the cheek, which made you melt a little. you got off his lap, leaving pussy slick across his black slacks.

george noticed it and chuckled lightly before he started to unbutton his shirt. you were a messy little slut, but george adored you. he was only rough because he knew it was best for you. you were a smart girl, you just needed reminders. once he was out of his clothes, he saw you with your hips raised. ready for him as always.

"my beautiful girl." he said as got himself behind you on his knees. he admired your beauty from behind. he could feel the heat of the bruises on your ass when he placed his hand across one of the cheeks. oh, you were perfect for him, "see, norris could never have you like this. no, no. he wouldn't know what do with himself. he'd probably finish before he started." he chuckled as he gave your ass a pat. he pushed his cock all the way into you, you were beyond soaked that it was so easy for him

he started to move his hips, he pushed you into the covers by your shoulders and had the perfect angle to fuck you. you looked so pretty as you took him. you really were a good girl, the farthest thing from a whore. but he knew it excited you when your prince charming, george russell, called you such sick names. it made you hot all over, just as when he fucked you with heavy thrusts.

"ah, george. sir." you arched your back as he hit the softest parts of you. you felt like a dream, you were a fairy tale princess. from your cute face to how you dressed. to how you were good with everyone but always perfect for george. you took his cock perfectly, made for him like you came from pages of a story. it was why he need to fuck you was always so strong.

"perfect little whore." he said, his voice tinged with praise.

you moved a little bit and felt your knees start to hurt from the feeling of it all. you felt a thump in your chest from his words. you held onto the pillow under your head. your ass stung from the feeling of the previous slaps.

"see what happens when you behave. you know i'll take care of you. always, but you have to remember our rules. they're to keep you safe. you are the most important thing to me. that's why i hate when you're a whore." he continued to thrust up against you.

you believed him. that was why you put so much trust into him.he never steered you wrong. you loved him so much. and he loved you, even when he called you names in the safety of your bedroom, you loved him more than anything.

his thrusts were focused and they made you squirm. it made it feel like he was nudging up into your stomach and it took the air out of you. your pussy was a fit for him.

you held onto the covers with your back arched. you panted heavily into them. everything was hot in your body, you panted heavily into the sheets. "please, sir."

"you know i love you, and this all happens because i love you so much. and i know how good you could be for me." he said hotly into your ear, keeping you pinned to the bed.

the blood rush made your toes curled and you came with your hands buried in the soft sheets of your shared bed. you gasped into the pillow and you back arched. it was all too much, you almost had tears in your eyes.

he finished after you did, then slowly came to a stop. he pushed his entire length into you and bottomed out in you. he shuddered and coughed out a moan. his grip on you was tight. and you came once more from the intensity of it all. the sparks in your brain came alive.

your back arched as you felt him slow down and stop. you both tried to catch your breath before george pulled out and wrapped himself up around you. he got the covers over you and kissed at your face with love.

"do you need water?" being a good dom meant aftercare. especially from such a production. he peppered your face with kisses and held you in his arms, "i think there's something in the fridge you could snack on."

you looked at him and cupped his face gently, you said with half-lidded eyed, "just some water. when i can think again maybe a shower, sir."

he kissed your lips and said, "perfect, good. my good girl." even with the bruises across your ass, you felt on cloud nine. there really was nothing like having a dom. especially the kind like george. your prince charming <3

[peachypinkygloss]

dior girl ✰ park jimin

Park Jimin is one of a kind. When he wants something, he gets it, no matter how hard it can be. He's not scared to get his hands dirty. If he had any morals, maybe he'd consider his obsession with you getting out of hands. But this man has absolutely no morals.

୨୧ pairing: designer!jimin x model/fem!reader

୨୧ genre: strangers to lovers, age gap (21 & 38), smut, slight angst

୨୧ word count: 8.1k

୨୧ warnings: unrealistic depiction of the fashion industry, alcohol consumption & mention of drugs use, manipulation & corruption, jimin isn't a good person (especially not to oc lol <3), violent sexual thoughts, jimin's a sadist (my fav headcannon :D), heavy dom/sub dynamics, hard dom!jimin, unprotected vaginal & anal sex, anal play (use of a buttplug), my new headcannon: jimin likes giving anal, dacryphilia, praising & degradation, oral sex (m), face fucking, aftercare ig because yes jimin's a sadist but he still has a heart.

a.n.: yup so idk if you guys were expecting that... but i did say none of the characters were ethical lmfao so 🤷🏻‍♀️ i really, really hope you like the first part, i've worked hard on it even though it's not super long. so please, reblog and tell me what you thought about it! <3 as always, don't like, don't read.

[dior girl moodboard] ["older" masterlist]

His studio is his sanctuary. It's the only place in the world he can spend hours in without even noticing the moon setting or the sun rising. In his studio it feels like the time doesn't exist or that it's just a futile detail that doesn't have much importance.

When he's creating a piece, nothing around him matters. The only things he's willing to give attention to are the placements of the needles on the fabric, the little lines that form the pattern of the clothing, and the way his scissors cut through the satin material of the dress he's designing.

He's thought about this design for so long and he finally got the opportunity to make it. He's thought about the colours of the dress and also of the seam, about the length of the hem and the sleeves, how deep the neckline should be and if lace would be suitable.

He doesn't even recall how many sketches he's made of the dress. At some point it was consuming his entire mind, this dress the only design he could draw and think of.

Now that he's finally creating it, he has the feeling that it's going to be the best piece he's ever made. He already sees everyone talking about it, saying how much of a genius Park Jimin is. It's going to be the design of the year — of the century.

He still misses something, though, and it might be the most important part of the design. He needs a model, the perfect body to wear his piece and present it to the fashion world.

It can't be anybody, it must be someone who's confident, who always has their head up and who radiates elegance and sports a unique beauty.

Jimin still hasn't found this person. He constantly searches for them, but never finds them or when he thinks that he has, he discovers flaws he cannot unseen.

All the Dior models are great, but not enough. They don't spark anything in Jimin when he watches them strode down the catwalk. He's checked upon the apprentices and the newer models the company has hired, but he saw no one extraordinary.

Until today.

He hears steps against the wooden floor of his studio, entering the place without knocking. "Ah, there he is!" A manly voice exclaims, Jimin immediately recognizes it as his friend's, Sungwoon. "I have someone to introduce you."

Jimin raises his gaze up from his working table and looks at Sungwoon who's accompanied by a beautiful, young woman. He's then suddenly interested, contrary to usual where he doesn't really care about the many girls Sungwoon brings, claiming each one as the new phenomenon of the fashion industry.

When Jimin turns around, he eyes you up and down, barely glimpsing in Sungwoon's way. It's all it takes, one simple glance and he knows you're the one he needs — the one he wants and has to ruin.

Sungwoon introduces you both and when your name is pronounced by the man, sounding so charming and delicate, he's certain you're the model he had been waiting for since a long time.

You seem shy, arms locked behind your back, but you stand up straight and have a polite smile drawn on your face.

"I thought maybe you'd like to get to know each other, right?" Sungwoon raises his eyebrows in Jimin's direction. "Everyone's fond of her," he smiles and pats your back, encouraging you to speak up.

"Thanks," you smile back at Sungwoon before glancing back at Jimin who still hasn't looked away from you. "I've been a big fan of your work since I was a little kid, Mr. Park. You've inspired me to become a model."

The way you say his name has his cock twitching in his pants, filthy thoughts of him spanking your butt while you cry his name invading his mind.

He can sense your vulnerability, your willingness to submit. Who would he be to deny you that? Him, who is so eager to dominate the ones he's attracted to, to break but also repair them.

He knows it when someone's fragile, hiding their weaknesses under fake confidence. He doesn't know you, but he recognizes the pattern almost instantly. What can be broken can also be repaired and you're asking him to break you.

"I'm glad to hear that," Jimin says politely, a slight smile tugging on his lips. He's not the type to smile — stretch the corner of his mouth upward to imitate the person in front of him, he finds it useless. But for you, he'll do it, just so you trust him because you're so desperate to give yourself to the opposite sex.

"Park, you were wondering who'd be part of the fall show this year," Sungwoon begins, looking at you like you're the most irradiant ruby in the world. "Well, you have her in front of you." You giggle softly at the man's words, nodding your head at him and then looking at Jimin as if waiting for some praises.

Jimin faintly smiles, seeing your eyes glimmering and he curses himself for not finding you first. You'd have been his by now, his to praise, to kiss, to fuck, to destroy. But he swears, if he happens to break you, he'll gratefully keep you safe close to him.

๑♡՞

T H E N

"Careful," Jimin softly says as he catches you up from falling on the floor. You let out a high pitched laugh, as if all of this is a big joke, and push him back with a hand on his chest.

"I'm fine," you answer, shrugging him off with a flip of your hand. You stagger from left to right, leaning against the wall when you almost fall a second time. You laugh it off again, halting your steps.

Jimin looks at you with a cringe expression, eyeing the people behind, sporting worried looks on their faces.

You all went out after the show; models, designers, directors, stylists... everyone. It wasn't your plan to get drunk, Jimin knows that because you're not supposed to drink alcohol since you're on a very strict diet. A glass from time to time isn't so bad, but your consumption clearly surpassed just one glass tonight.

It's not really your fault, though. Technically yes, since you're the one who swallowed all of the glasses of wine, but you had a little help.

A little help from Jimin himself.

When you weren't looking, he poured more alcohol in your glass and to his satisfaction you've noticed nothing and gulped everything. Sure, you got a bit suspicious, wondering how you had only drank so little when you remembered swallowing more than that.

But Jimin assured you it was only your first glass, so you drank, and drank, and drank... Until you were more than tipsy.

You've received nasty looks from your colleagues, especially the other models who weren't drinking a single drop of wine, and yet, still weren't awarded with the status of the 'face of Dior'. How ironic that the drunkest girl in the room was the face of Dior and the little protégée of Mr. Park.

Years and years of training, countless sleepless nights, meals that are as nutritious as birds seed... All of the efforts in the world to have your biggest dream stolen by a model who is in the industry for less than six months.

Their rage is understandable, but Jimin couldn't care less. In fact, everything is going as planned and he can't fuck things up now. No, because if he does, all of the things he has done until now will be completely irrelevant.

"I'll... I'll bring her to our room, you can go out without us," Jimin announces, watching you sit down on the floor in the middle of the corridor.

"Will she be okay?" A stylist asks.

"Of course. I'll take care of her."

He waits for everyone to be gone before he gets you up from the floor and leads you both to your hotel room. When you're in the room, he sits you down on the bed.

You don't say anything as he takes off his jacket and loosens his tie. He crouches down in front of you to remove your heels and he does the same with his shoes, leaving them at the entry.

When he comes back, he sees you quietly crying, the features of your face contorting into a sad expression. You've slightly sobered up, harshly coming back to reality, realizing how much you've embarrassed yourself tonight.

"What did I do?" You ask, looking up at him with teary eyes. "I fucked up, didn't I?"

Jimin sits down beside you, lifting your head up with his index under your chin and his thumb over it. "There's nothing that can't be repaired," he states in a soft voice, so low it sounds like a sweet whisper — a secret, a confession only you can hear. "Right?"

You sniff, wiping your tears away. You nod your head in agreement, slightly reassured, hoping Jimin will fix your mistakes. Your foolish mistakes, done by the carefree of a twenty-one year old.

"Shh, baby, shh," he softly murmurs, cradling your head in his hands and gently laying your face against his chest. You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him tighter and tighter til suffocation.

He strokes your hair delicately, placing a sweet and warm kiss on the top of your head.

Someone as vulnerable as you contains a lot of emotions. He has to deal with them, which doesn't bother him at all. He wants you the way you are; sad and pitiful.

"Everything's going to be fine," he promises, but it's not entirely the truth. Not everything will be fine, though it'll be in the end, he thinks — he hopes.

You eventually pull away from his embrace, just enough to look at him. It seems like you're searching for something or maybe waiting for something, your eyes desperately staring at Jimin as if his simple presence will make all of your problems fly away.

You throw yourself at him and kiss him on the lips, fingers pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck. He reciprocates it, knowing you like your kisses sloppy and messy, wanting Jimin everywhere on you to remind you that he's always there.

You bring him closer, crumpling the material of his white shirt between your fists, moaning and whining as your teeth clash together at how roughly you kiss each other.

Jimin breaks your exchange first, both catching your breaths. His eyes observe you quietly as you look at him like you're still waiting for something.

"Did you do what I told you to?" He questions you, referring to your conversation of a few days when you came to his studio to try on his dress.

You were a bit stressed out, putting on the clothing like you were scared you'd rip it. He still remembers the way the satin was sliding up your body, hugging your waist and ass perfectly. He was baffled at how incredibly well it suited you as if he had made it exactly for you.

And maybe it was made for you, after all.

Because when he saw his creation on you, he knew you had to wear it for the runway. It has to be you, he'll accept no one else.

Jimin will make you walk the runway wearing his dress — the last time you'll ever step on the catwalk. After that, he'll keep you away from the rest of the world. He'll refuse anyone to see you because you're going to be his.

His forever.

"Yes," you nod your head, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Tell me what you did," Jimin softly demands, holding your chin in his hand, mouths inches away from each other.

You're too shy to say it out loud and that's why he wants you to tell him. Also to be sure you did everything correctly, but mainly because he wants to see you embarrassed.

"I prepared myself for you..." You begin, holding eye contact even though you feel your face heating up just thinking about all the things you've done per his request. "I... I used lube both on me and... the toy," you continue in a shy tone, so low Jimin wouldn't hear you if he wasn't so close.

"Where on you, sweetheart?" He interrupts, wanting each detail, each little thing you normally wouldn't have done if it wasn't for him. And all while thinking of him.

You swallow, "On my ass, Jimin," you answer in a whisper. "I stretched it out for you, using the toy like you told me," you finally admit.

"Good girl," Jimin purrs. "Let me see it then."

You proceed to strip off of your dress, now used to be nude in front of him, and slide your panties down your thighs, discarding them away on the floor.

You get back up on the mattress and position yourself on all fours close to the edge of the bed. Jimin stands up and goes behind you to have a closer look at your ass.

His veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, revealing your rim to his insatiable, sadistic eyes. You glance over your shoulder, curious of what he has in mind and what he has prepared for you.

You softly gasp when he spits and lets the globe of spit drip down between your asscheeks, rolling over your puckered hole. You clench around nothing, relieved to have his attention, to finally feel his hands on you instead of the usual touch of yours.

He sees that your ass is a bit looser than the last time he saw it, but it still clearly needs more preparation to welcome his girthy cock — though it's not like he cares that much if you're prepped enough or not.

He passes his thumb over your tight muscle, circling it and smearing his saliva over it. He wants to fuck it so bad, destroy it and do unbelievably violent things to you. Should he tonight? Should he show you his dark and evil side?

He's choked you before — smacked your ass hard til you felt your skin stings, overstimulated you to the point your orgasms were just spasms passing through your body, fucked your throat while you were drooling all over yourself, and tied your legs and wrists together to restrict your movements.

So fucking your ass can't be that bad, but the thing is Jimin wants it to be bad. He then wonders what would happen if the line is ever crossed. Would you endure it, would you defend yourself? Would you shut the fuck up and take it like you're asked to?

But you trust him so much — with all your pathetic being — and he thinks you'd let him cross any lines he desires to. He probably already has crossed multiple lines, and being the poor, sad girl that you are, you said nothing.

You truly are extraordinary.

He gives a slight slap to one of your asscheeks, groping both of them after, feeling how soft and tender your flesh is. "You did good, sweetheart," he comments in a honeyed voice that has you mewling, sounding so smooth and sweet. "How about we play with it a little?"

He lifts up a brow at you and you nod sheepishly, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. "Yes..."

"Great," he says in a low tone, running his hands one last time over your ass before going to take something from his suitcase.

"What is it?" You question, your curious eyes landing on the small object he's holding.

Jimin brings the object to you, something made of metal, the end having the shape of a cone and a pink gem placed on the top. "A gift for my princess," he replies, opening the bottle of lube he brought as well.

He applies some lube around your tight hole and on the butt plug, and carefully pushes the head of the toy in your ass. You gasp softly, feeling it slowly stretch you out, sinking in gradually as Jimin holds your cheeks apart.

"Mmh, feels good, Sir," you moan, arching your back and pushing your butt closer to Jimin.

When the plug is all the way in, the pink gem peeking out between your two globes of flesh, he smacks your other cheek, making it jiggle from the harsh hit.

"Is that so, dirty girl?" He wonders, gripping your hips and colliding his hips with your butt, sensing his big bulge pulsing under his pants. "You like it when your little ass gets stretched out?"

"I like everything you do to me," you say with a content sigh, pussy clenching around nothing as your ass gets used to the small butt plug.

Jimin genuinely thinks he can't find better than you. You were so shy in the beginning, looking like a lost puppy wherever you went. You just needed someone bigger and older to show you the way — though you were too dumb, and still are, to realize he was leading you to the wrong path.

It's not like you seem to mind, anyway.

After all, you both got what you wanted; you, male attention, someone to rely on and be protected by, and him, a woman to break and keep with him forever.

He lets go of your hips to unbuckle his belt, pulling the leather material out of the gold loop with the luxury Dior logo on it. He lets the two ends of the belt hang off, not bothering to remove it completely, and tucks the fly of his pants down.

He finally frees his cock from the confines of his boxers, springing up and slapping against his stomach, the bit of pre-cum escaping from his tip dampening his shirt.

"You're so good to me, princess," he praises as he wraps a hand around the base of his engorged cock, aching and begging to be nestled in your cute little pussy.

His head pushes at your entrance, never fully entering, only teasing your hole and stimulating all of your sensitive nerves. He watches how his cock stretches your cunt, your walls expending to receive his bulbous tip and then closing down when he pulls out.

"Sir, please, want more," you beg him, pushing your ass on him to have his dick back in you. You let out a little whimper when Jimin holds your hips in place, stopping you from wiggling your butt side to side against his thick cock.

He hums and slaps your ass harshly, your skin stinging after. "Want my cock in your needy little pussy, baby? Is that what you're crying for?" He asks, teasing even more by swiping the head of his penis between your pussy lips, a string of your arousal sticking to his angry tip.

"Yes," you say back quickly and desperately, arching your back, literally presenting yourself to Jimin. "Been so good, don't I deserve it, Sir?" You softly murmur, still looking over your shoulder to see his gaze fixated on your quivering pussy, cock head sliding up and down over your sex.

"You do..." He responds distractedly, licking his plump lips, his fingers touching the pink gem peeking out from your ass. You're always so good and obedient for him, he even wonders if you ever did something that genuinely pissed him off before.

When he really sinks in, his head passing the barrier of your sweet pussy, he groans deeply, feeling your walls deliciously enveloping his hard cock tightly.

You moan in unison as he bottoms out in you, his balls touching your wet and warm pussy. He bends his back over yours, running his hand up your spine, feeling all the little bumps of it until he reaches your head and shoves it against the mattress.

You whine when he starts pounding into you, his girth stretching you out so well, leaving you panting and moaning loudly. His other hand holds your hip against his dick, fingers digging into your skin, leaving permanent marks on your body — as well as on your mind and your soul.

He already sets a hard and rapid pace — fucking is never soft or loving with Jimin, it's violent, long, and agonizing. It's a way to be himself, the real and dark version of himself he hides in public and releases when he gets intimate with you.

You surprisingly got accustomed to it, embracing it as if it was your destiny, the reason for your existence; to be his personal slut, the little toy he likes to play rough with. And you've accepted it, like you had no other choice but to be fucked into oblivion by Jimin whenever he feels like it.

"You like that, baby? Huh?" He growls, as if you're the disgusting one for liking the way he treats you, ravished and delighted to have his girthy cock sliding against your velvety walls. "You like it when I fuck you hard like this?" He repeats and grips your hair, pushing your head against the bed covers with more strength.

You babble out something, voice caught in your throat, too out of breath to formulate a simple sentence. You then only nod, your cheek squished against the mattress, Jimin's hand still pushing down on your head.

His mouth hangs open to let out heavy breaths and his eyes are focused on your face, watching the little translucent pearls fall on your face and on the covers. Your pussy swallows all of his girth, clenching so tightly it has him groaning and saying profanities under his breath.

It's sick how it makes his cock so fucking hard, leaking so much pre-cum in you and twitching avidly by seeing you struggle to breathe. You crumple the bed sheets between your little fists, doing everything in your power to keep your ass up for Jimin and not slump down on the bed from the hard thrusts he's inflicting on you.

He snaps his hips against your ass and the entirety of his length is covered in your wetness, a white ring made of your cream circling the base of his cock.

His hand holding your head descends to your neck, enclosing it with his fingers, the coldness of his silver rings contrasting with the hotness of your sweaty skin. He squeezes a little, just a bit so you know who's in control, so you never forget Jimin controls you — that he controls your life and thoughts.

With a grip on your hair, he brings your torso up, arched back against his chest. The material of his shirt sticks to your skin, coated in a thin layer of sweat. He continues to pound into you, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy rapidly, as he holds you by the throat, lewdly licking a long stripe along the side of your face.

You shudder in desire, hair standing up on your delicate arms. "You're my little whore, aren't you, baby?" His mouth is right beside your ear as he whispers dirty things to you, his lips touching your hair, damp at the nape of your neck. "So fucking compliant... You want to please me so bad like the slut that you are," he mouths the words against your hair, cock pulsing hard in your cunt.

His free hand that doesn't have a hold around your throat slides down your body, passing over your belly and reaching your puffy clit. The sharp zipper of his pants graces the flesh just under your ass, irritating your skin and making it itchy.

You clench around him when his digits find your sensitive bud, circling it sensually and slowly, the complete opposite of his hip thrusts.

"Yes, want to please you, Jimin," you gasp, bucking your hips at the feeling of his rough fingertips on your pussy. He grunts when you address him by his name, loving how it sounds on your tongue, so sweet and timid.

He remembers the first time you moaned his name; you were sprawled across his expensive leather couch, blindfolded and hands attached together with his black tie. Intense for your first time with him, but it was also the last time he's ever been that gentle with you.

It was when his cold fingertips graced the skin of your stomach that you let out a squeak followed by his name, said in the quietest moan. He had then stopped his movements and looked at your face, an expression of distress painted over your features.

He had realized how frail and weak you actually were, needing your most important sense to be at ease. That's why he had blindfolded you, to show you how dependent you are of him, how impossible it is for you to live without him to guide you.

He pushes your jaw to the side so your lips can meet his in a feverish kiss, wet tongues mingling together, drool dripping down from the corners of your mouth. He continues to ram his cock in your now soppy and messy pussy, the sound of skin against skin resonating in the hotel room.

He traps your bottom lip between his teeth, making you whimper and close your walls around his girth once again. Your little hands grip the material of his trousers, keeping him close and holding on to something because the hard cadence of his hip thrusts push you forward, breasts bouncing up on your chest.

"Fuck," he curses and he suddenly stops, steadying his hips against your butt. You let out a whiny moan as Jimin lets go of your face and hips.

You're sad to have your pleasure ripped away from you so hastily, but you don't have the time to complain, Jimin slipping out of your cunt and pushing you down violently on the mattress.

You turn around on your back to see him unbuttoning his dress shirt and throwing it on the floor, revealing to you his beautiful chest and defined abs. He gets rid of his pants and socks after, finally removing his boxers, the only things remaining on him being his rings and the watch crowning his right wrist.

His cock glistens in your juices, more pre-cum leaking from his swollen tip and twitching avidly against his stomach. Even though him fucking you while being all dressed and you completely bare is a way to humiliate and degrade you, he also likes to be naked sometimes.

He loves skin to skin contact, how your bodies stick together because of all the sweat coating you. It's addicting, it's rougher and it creates more friction — more pain.

He doesn't mind being naked too because he knows how to dominate you either way. He doesn't find it embarrassing, on the contrary, it makes him scarier and hungrier. While you shiver without your clothes on, curled up on yourself, Jimin is imposing, his cock thick and girthy enough to split you in half.

He crawls back to you, hovering over you like a predator had caught his prey, boring his eyes into yours. You look at him in awe, always waiting patiently. You feel his cock against your thigh, thick and veiny, your hole pathetically quivering — missing his size stretching out your pussy.

He sneaks a hand between your legs and reaches the little pink gem, ready to get it out. "Take a deep breath sweetheart," Jimin instructs and you inhale deeply.

He doesn't waste a second, pulling out the butt plug out of your ass. You scrunch your eyes shut at the pain, exhaling when it's done. He carefully sets it on the nightstand, coming back to you after.

He bends your legs over your stomach and looks at your ass, just begging him to fuck it, shining with lube and arousal that leaks from your pussy. His erect cock is just so close to it and Jimin could slide right in with one movement of his hips.

He lets go of one of your legs to grip his engorged erection, a little gasp escaping your lips when he presses the head of his cock at your tight hole, threatening to sink in.

"Sir," you sigh, not sure if you're ready for that. It always burns no matter how good you prepped before and he knows that. That's why he's so tempted, that he's staring so obsessively at your rim.

Will it hurt you? Will you grip his biceps in an attempt to dissuade him? He wants to see those tears falling from your eyes again, he wants to lick them and tastes your pain. He feels more blood rush to his penis at the mere thought of hurting you.

Give him all of your pain, he'll fucking take it whole and cherish it. He wants it — he needs it. Accuse him for having a sick and twisted mind, accuse him for everything you've ever been hurt by because he'll gladly take the blame.

"I know you can take it," he says in a low tone, glancing up at your face as he applies just a bit more pressure to your ass hole. "Can you, baby?" Jimin asks, waiting for you to admit how much you want it, how badly you want him to destroy you.

"Yes..." You whisper back, a long shiver running up your spine as his eyes pierce through you.

"Yes, what? Tell me, sweetheart," he demands, and it's as if he doesn't care about your response whatsoever because the next thing he does makes you yelp in pain.

His tip has entered you, the burning sensation forcing you to scrunch your eyes shut, your instinct thinking it'll protect you.

"Yes, I- I can..." you stutter and as expected, you dig your nails in the flesh of his biceps — only fair to hurt him in return. "I can take your cock in my ass..."

You take a sharp breath, eyes slowly opening, all watery and painful. Jimin groans at that, stuffing more of himself in your hole. "Good girl," he praises, voice raspy, ending with a deep grunt.

He stretches you out completely, his dick in no comparison to the toys you've used to prepare yourself. You open your mouth as he pushes himself in gradually, tears streaming down your face when you blink.

The tears roll down the side of your face and Jimin can't help but be turned on, leaning in to kiss your face and collect some of your tears, tasting the saltiness of them on his tongue.

"Jimin...!" You look at him with the saddest and most hurtful gaze, tears rolling down your face. "It burns," you add in a quiet voice, now scratching his back, leaving long red trails on his skin.

"I know, baby, I know," he softly murmurs in your ear, a husky moan leaving his mouth when he's completely nestled in you, balls touching your ass. "You're so tight, fuck," he sucks air through his teeth, not moving until he estimates he's waited long enough.

He gives warm and wet kisses to your neck, descending to your collarbones and groping your breasts, slowly starting to move his hips. You lock your legs behind his back, wanting him as close to you as possible despite the pain he's inflicting on you.

He loves knowing it hurts you because it makes it more pleasurable to him somehow. The pain will go away soon anyway, that's why he doesn't bother to stop or slow down. You have to get used to the feeling first.

He wouldn't go too far to hurt you. The choking, the hair pulling, the smacks... He keeps it for the bedroom, but he won't lie that there's a part of him that wants to ruin your life, ruin everything you've accomplished so far just so he can see those sad eyes of yours and hear you ask him for help out of desperation.

It's not even sexual, he just wants to break you, that's all he desires. Though your life is something he wants to destroy, it's more of a way to have you dependant on him after. If your career is no longer successful, your solution is Jimin because he's the only person in your life capable of taking care of you both emotionally and physically.

His teeth chew on the tender skin of your neck while his hand travels all over your body, many veins popping out along his strong arm. The cool sensation of his rings on your stomach makes you shiver, his finger gently circling your clit to make the pain more bearable.

His cock slides in your hole back and forth, your ass slowly but surely taking the size of girth. Many curses leave Jimin's mouth, your ass probably the best he's ever fucked. You feel so good around him, you're tight, but you loosen easily, making it so, so pleasurable for him.

His hand that was roaming over your body comes to close around your throat and he turns his head to your side, lips brushing over your temple. "Yeah, just like that, baby," he mutters under his breath, his nose pressing down on your hair as he murmurs the words to you. "Just like that..."

A choked moan is all you can respond, eyes rolling back in your skull as Jimin splits your ass open, fucking his thick cock into you. His hot breath hits the side of your face, his chest heaving rapidly while you claw at his back, white scratches appearing on his skin.

He sweetly kisses your temple as he pounds into you, not tightening his hand around your throat, just holding you in place — always letting you know that he is always in control.

Your tits slightly bounce up and down on your chest, little whines coming out of you each time Jimin bottoms out. It starts feeling good for you — really good — and you think that this pleasure is totally worth a bit of pain at the beginning.

You grip the hair at the nape of his neck and bring him in for a kiss. He accepts it, kissing you back as if he wants to possess your whole mouth, biting and licking your lips. You moan into his mouth, twisting his hair between your fist and sinking your nails into the flesh of his back.

He backs away from you a little, his plump lips glistening in both of your saliva, and places his two palms on your boobs. He feels your perky nipples under his hands, just loving how plushy your breasts are, fitting perfectly in his palms.

He keeps thrusting in you as he gropes your tits and you bring your hands over his, looking into each other's eyes. He lowly groans, holding eye-contact with you.

You feel his veins under your palms, your pussy clenching around nothing but air while you run your hands all over his arms. You enjoy the sensations of his pulsing veins under your small fingers as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, staring into Jimin's dark eyes.

"Jimin..." You moan his name, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his hard cock entering and exiting your tight hole. Jimin takes the opportunity to smooch your neck again as you expose it to him, his full lips delicately pressing down on your throat. "I love it," you sigh pleasantly.

He hums, the sound coming deep from his throat. He wants to hurt you, yes, but he likes it even more when you love the pain. He just knew you were exactly like him when he first saw you. He had the feeling that you needed someone like him, someone that'd push you to your limits and make you discover a new type of pleasure.

And he was right because there's not one time where you told him to stop.

"My dirty girl," he purrs in response, bringing his lips up to your jaw. He slowly rolls your nipples between his fingertips, pinching and pulling on them. "You're stupid, but so, so good for me, baby," he groans in your ear, gritting his teeth as he feels his balls tightening.

He slowly halts his hips movements, letting out heavy breaths as he eventually pulls out of you. You gasp when he does so, already missing his cock stretching out your ass.

You're both trying to catch your breaths, Jimin raising himself up from you and getting out of the bed. His erection stands tall against his stomach, bouncing up as he walks to the front of the bed.

You watch him getting away until he orders you to follow him. "Come here," he says softly and you don't make him wait. "On your knees," Jimin commands when you're facing him, sinking down to your knees after.

He places a hand behind your head and the other around the base of his dick, guiding the head of his cock toward your lips as he pushes down on your head.

"Here, baby," he instructs in a low voice. "Take it in your mouth." You part your lips to welcome Jimin's length, his bulbous tip shining in pre-cum and your juices under the light of the hotel room.

He immediately moans when he enters the warmth of your mouth, his heavy cock sliding on your wet tongue. He doesn't let you have much control, pushing his dick in your mouth until your nose touches his pubic hair.

You relax your jaw for Jimin, allowing him to stuff your mouth full of his cock. He looks down at you, watching the way your lips wrap around him tightly, your eyes starting to water. He still holds the back of your head with one hand, guiding you over his stiff erection and you moan obscenely around Jimin, drool dripping down on your chin.

He begins to fuck your mouth, forcing you to take the whole thing each time he bottoms out. He moves his hips back and forth, obsessed with the way his girth appears and reappears between your lips as he uses your mouth as he pleases.

"Shit," he hisses when you hollow your cheeks, making it more pleasurable for him. "You're a fucking cockslut, aren't you, baby?" He says breathily, his eyes not once leaving his cock penetrating your mouth over and over again.

You whine around him, surely agreeing with what he said. It sends deliciously vibrations through his entire body, the sounds of your moans and hearing you gag around him is so arousing to him. He wants to hear more so he literally uses your mouth like a toy, snapping his hips against you, his balls slapping your chin.

He lets out a deep moan, your cheeks now damp and eyelashes all wet because of your tears, eyes stinging as Jimin fucks your throat like a mad man.

"Stroke your clit," he manages to say between two heavy breaths. "You can get off by yourself, right? I know you're soaking wet just by letting me use that pretty mouth of yours," he mocks you, but he knows he's right. Whatever he does, your cunt is always dripping wet.

You whimper again, doing what he told you to and sneaking a hand between your thighs to play with your pussy. You part your legs wider as you circle your clit with your finger, Jimin's hooded eyes lazily watching you playing with yourself.

Your right hand is laying on his thigh while the other is operating between your legs, pleasuring yourself to the sounds of Jimin's moans and the feeling of his stiff cock weighing down on your tongue.

You do your best to breathe through your nose, swallowing around his length and flattening your tongue underneath him. Your juices drip down your inner thighs, your finger flickering over your sensitive bud smoothly because of your arousal.

The whole room is smelling like sex, an odour that Jimin can't ignore, loving it so much. Your lips glide so easily over his hard cock, completely covered in your spit and still some of your wetness, tasting yourself on him.

"Ah, fuck," he curses, his head rolling back on his shoulders, eyes still strained down on you. He feels the familiar burning sensation at the pit of his stomach, indicating he's really close to his orgasm. He stops thrusting in you. "Go on the bed, baby."

You're taken aback, but you follow his order, pulling him out of your mouth and laying your back down on the mattress close to the edge. You beautifully moan when Jimin penetrates your pussy a second time, bending your legs over your stomach.

"Oh, god," you cry softly, being pounded onto the bed by him right away, tits moving up and down on your chest.

His hands are positioned on each side of your shoulders, snapping his hips against yours so harshly you feel your skin stinging. You keep doing circle motions on your clit, now faster and impatient to reach your high.

You let out a high-pitched moan when Jimin suddenly steadies his hips over yours, dropping down to his elbows as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. "Holy fuck," he grunts, gripping the bed sheets tightly in fists beside your head as his cock twitches in your pussy.

"Yes, yes," you quietly exclaim, your clitoral orgasm passing through you, making you arch your back and buck your hips.

Your hole clenches repeatedly around him and he finally comes undone into you, shooting long, thick ropes of cum deep into you. He empties himself in your wet cunt, cumming just after you.

When he slips out of you, more spurts out of his tip, landing on your pussy, covering it in his creamy cum. You moan at the warm sensation, always loving how it feels both in and on you. Some of his seeds dribble out of you, dripping down to your ass.

He stays above you for some time, catching his breath and looking at the mess he made on you. He stares up at your face, seeing how fucked up you look, hair in a nest and eyes reddened.

Later, Jimin is in the shower, washing his hair and his body, passing a soft cloth soaked in soap over his chest. He lets the water fall over his head, wetting his black locks. He stays maybe a bit longer than normally, staring at the tiled wall.

He thinks about you, about all the things he's planned. He revised everything in his head, imagining you walk on the podium wearing his design, people looking at his piece with admiration in their eyes.

He thinks about all of that that will go down for you after the show, getting fired, losing your career and your fans. Many articles talking about your excessive use of alcohol and drugs, saying how tired and sad you look beside Jimin.

You won't last long, you're too weak anyway. A downfall like this is unconquerable, nobody recovers from that, and surely not a model who will be thrown out of the industry as soon as you turn twenty-five.

Jimin knows the industry, he's been in it for years now. He's aware of how cruel it is, how difficult and harsh it can be on fragile little girls like you.

But that's why he's here, to take care of you once nobody will want you anymore. That's the goal, after all; you to be finally his — solely and completely his.

"Jimin?"

Your voice reaches him, turning his head in your direction, seeing you hesitantly entering the shower with him. He opens his arms, inviting you to come closer and you do, hugging him and laying your head down on his wet chest.

"I love you, sweetheart," he softly murmurs against your hair. "I'll never leave you, you know that, right?"

You nod your head, looking up at him and meeting his gaze. "I love you, too."

๑♡՞

A F T E R

The runway went incredibly well. Celebrities and journalists were all gathered for the fall show, totally amazed by every design and the models that were wearing them.

But there was one specific piece that everyone was willing to say was the best.

Jimin was satisfied to see that his name stood out among everyone else's, being called more times than Dior itself. He predicted it; it was the creation that every guest remembered, the dress that the fans were only talking about.

He'd take all the credit, he was the one who imagined it and then sewed it after all, but he has to admit that you had contributed to the fame a lot.

Being the beloved face of Dior only made people talk more about it and that was what Jimin needed.

But everything has an end, doesn't it?

When Jimin comes back to his apartment, the place is silent except for the TV playing, as he thought it would be. You're looking through the window, watching the city living at night while it's raining. You're sitting on the sofa, not even acknowledging his presence as he enters, getting rid of his shoes.

You're not much of a talker since you've been fired from Dior a few days ago just after the fall show. He understands your wish of remaining silent, needing a bit of space to process everything that has happened the past weeks in your small head.

It was going to happen soon enough anyway. You've been to your photoshoots completely drunk, sometimes just going in with a hangover, but of course it didn't help your case at all.

Jimin was guilty for letting you drink alcohol so soon in the morning. No need to deny it, he was even the one for dropping you off at work like that. Well, he had to do it if he wanted people to notice how far you've fallen.

He doesn't feel bad, though. Your career wasn't going to last with Jimin's sabotage or not. He did you a favour, you should be thankful.

You can't handle being a model. If you could, none of that would have happened. You wouldn't have gained weight, you would have been suspicious of the amount of calories Jimin was feeding you. The bottle of wine wouldn't have been so tempting and smoking weed wouldn't have ever occurred to you as a good idea.

Some people can, others can't and you're one of them. You shouldn't be ashamed of it, sometimes things just don't work out like we would have wanted them to.

"Did you see the article they wrote about me?" You ask, already knowing he's walking up to you without looking. "You surely did, I bet that's all they're talking about..."

He sits down beside you and you eventually turn around, facing him. You care so much about what others think of you. It must be so tiring having such a low self-esteem. He can only imagine it; seeing you look through the window like a sad puppy, your life finally making sense when Jimin comes home.

"I did, but nothing of that matters to me," he answers, the most honest he's ever been. And even if he had to lie, it's not like you wouldn't have believed him. You always trust whatever he says.

You don't reply, your head still filled with many thoughts.

"Hey, come here," he softly tells you, patting his thigh. You straddle his lap, setting your hands on his shoulders. He cups your chin, forcing you to look at him as you keep avoiding his gaze. "Whatever they say, whatever their name is, nothing will ever be more important than you."

Because who is he if he lets some article affect the way he sees you? He's known you since the beginning of your career and he stayed til the end of it.

He knows you better than everyone else. He was with you during your highs and lows and he'll still be there for the next ones. There's nothing in the world that could make him leave you. After everything he's done to have you, there's no way he'll go away.

How cowardly of him if he does. He can't leave when he's promised he'd heal you — close all of your past wounds and create other ones.

He may be selfish, but there's one thing that he isn't and it's a fucking liar. He sticks to his words, and when he says he'll never leave you, that means he'll never, never abandon you — he'll never leave your side, not even once. He can't risk it.

๑♡՞

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taglist: @mcsalterego @blueberryarchive @gyukookswhore @bloopkook @ot72025 @mrsminho @ownthesunshine @dahliadaenerys

[sinning-23]

Hello,

How about a LA luffy where he's dating Reader and he keeps talking about her but no one believes him until she comes and rescue them or something I know not much details but please take this to your account English isn't my first language so excuse me

OMG THIS IS PERFECT! Thank you for the request! I apologize for taking so long to write it I've been so busy and full of writers block its insane! I added a little twist with his and made th reader a gunslinger sooo yeah(for the plot) Anywa here we go! Enjoy

Warnings: None

The strawhat crew was becoming increasingly irritated with how much Luffy would speak of this mystery woman who he claimed to be his 'girlfriend'. In all honestly, neither of them thought he had the romantic capacity to even GET a girlfriend to begin with. But the way he spoke of her...it couldn't all be lies could it?

He mentioned how you'd saved him with your remarkable skills as a gunslinger and you were an amazing shot. He gushed about how it took only one bullet to kill three men who had threatened him and when it was all over you 'pepper his face with kisses'. How you were always there to save him more times than not and that you were just absolutely beautiful. The 'prettiest girl' he'd ever seen as he told it.

"If you guys are so in love why didn't she join you on this little pirate adventure." Nami quips, eyes rolling at the most recent story Luffy had explained. He only tilted his head and smiled as if the answer was just so obvious (it wasn't.)

"It wasn't her dream." He smiles, rocking back and for a bit as Zoro finished off his drink before speaking.

"This wasn't exactly our first choice either but here we are." the swordsman smirks, his arms crossed over his chest.

The smirk was soon replaced with irritation when the waiter went to speak.

"That's different. Besides, I'm sure Luffy wouldn't leave a woman like that all on her lonesome. Right?" Sanji questions, more so trying to convince himself Luffy had more sense than that. But the brunette only shakes his head.

"Nope, she said we would cross paths again one day and I let her be. It was a deal! And now I get to wait until one day I see her beautiful face again." And before anyone could protest or pry any further, Luffy stuffed his face with food.

A sigh rang out from Nami as she leaned against the seating of the booth they're in, only to quickly shoot back up with wide eyes. Since Luffy's bounty had got a hell of a whole lot bigger, there was always the occasional run-in with someone who claimed they'd be getting their money sooner rather than later.

On this particular night though, a gang of about 6 or 7 had strutted up to their booth and slammed his bounty on the cracked wood of the table, making it shake. Zoro paused, debating if these idiots were worth the fight and Luffy continued to eat without a care in the world.

"I'm getting that bounty tonight." Then, what they all assumed was the leader spoke, his hand drawing his sword. This could have gotten ugly rather quickly but the fight seemed to be over with the sound of fired shots ringing through the eatery.

It was so quick you'd almost miss it…each shot followed by another, and one by one each of the men dropped like flies, screams and gasps of frightened patrons filling up the space momentarily. From the darkened corner of the bar stood a woman in a rather large coat that almost touched the floor.

The revolver in her hand rattled before she tucked it away into one of the many pockets that adorned her body. She was a decent height, and her hair was pushed out of her face most likely to keep her line of sight from being obscured. Finally, the once look of disgust that was painted over her features was filled with joy as she stepped over the bodies of the men she'd just laid to waste.

"Luffy!" She squeals, practically vibrating as the Stawhat leaped form his seat and embraced the mystery woman.

This wasn't the usual hug though, Luffy had simply lifted the lady and twirled her, his face buried in the crook of her neck and she giggled and tangled her fingers in his hair.

"I'm sorry did we miss something?" Nami quips, looking to the rest of the crew to confirm they were just as lost.

"This is her! Remember the girl I've been talking about!?" He practically shouts, his hand secure at your waist as that iconic smile plays over his lips.

Oh okay it was finally starting to make sense. Two cinimon rolls but one can and will kill you if they so desire...well-

Nami is the first to laugh, disbelief filling her but the closer she looks the more her laughter and smirk dies down. Luffy's hand was firm at your waist, yours on his chest as you flash a content smile.

"Y/n, meet my crew!" Luffy introduces as you jut your hand out happily, meeting that of whom you soon learn is Usopp and Sanji. Nami was next and Zoro simple noddded in your direction.

"You really know how to pick em! Congratulations on this bounty by the way love." You hum, pressing kisses over Luffy's freckled cheeks.

Damn how much love and affection could you give? It was like every two seconds your lips were pressed somewhere against their Captain’s face! And he didn’t seems to mind at all! Well, not that Luffy was bothered by it but still! With one last kiss to your boyfriend’s face, you usher the crew out of the eatery, sliding the bartender some extra berrie to apologize for the ruckus.

The two of you looked so inseparable like that, hands interlinked and swinging back and forth simultaneously.

“You know what this means don’t you. Usopp teases, sticking his hand out awaiting Nami to fulfil her end of the bargain.

She swears in defeat roller her eyes before paying.

Who wouldn’t make a bet on something as outlandish as their captain having a girlfriend!?

[edenesth]

TWTHH Spinoff: Stitched Hearts [2]

Pairing: dressmaker!Hongjoong x noblewoman!reader

AU: historical au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 7.7k

Summary: Throughout his entire career, Hongjoong has received nothing but praise for his work. Never once had anyone suggested his dresses were anything short of perfection. That is, until he met the youngest daughter of the Baek household—the family's black sheep, an enigmatic spinster whom he found utterly confounding.

Part 1 | Main Story | Spinoff Masterlist

"Go home, hyung, and think carefully about what I've said," Yunho insisted, ushering the dressmaker out of his clinic, "I really can't talk right now; I need to close up."

As Hongjoong made his way back to his shop, an internal struggle ensued between his mind and heart. His mind urged him to proceed with the job, reminding him he had no reason to be so troubled. Yet, his heart protested, insisting that it wasn't right. By going along with this, he would be complicit in someone's unhappiness.

Various scenarios played out in his mind as he imagined the aftermath of the makeover he was about to undertake. There was no doubt that you would attract attention from all directions, which wasn't the issue. He could picture potential suitors vying for your hand, but the thought unsettled him for reasons he couldn't quite grasp.

By the end of the night, his rational side prevailed, leading him to choose to proceed with the job. He concluded that entrusting another dressmaker with your makeover was out of the question; after all, he was the best in all of Joseon. You said it yourself; what you liked or wanted did not matter. If you were willing to comply with your family's wishes, then who was he to object?

He chastised himself for letting his emotions cloud his judgement. Despite feeling bad for you, he reminded himself that you were simply another customer. He shouldn't allow himself to be so affected by matters that were none of his concern.

Over the next few days, he dedicated himself entirely to crafting the most exquisite hanbok. He meticulously coordinated every detail, ensuring it would meet the approval of your family. As he finalised the sketch of your ensemble, along with the hairstyle and makeup he envisioned for you, he couldn't help but notice the absence of a smile on his drawing of you. It dawned on him that he had never seen you smiling, not even once.

Although a part of him entertained the idea of coaching you to flash a killer smile, his heart twinged at the realisation that any smile he coaxed would be forced, "Snap out of it, you idiot!" he scolded himself, shaking off the unnecessary thoughts and redirecting his focus to other aspects of the design.

In the meantime, Hongjoong's name seemed to echo through your days ever since his arrival. Your family would lavish him with endless praise for his dedication to his craft, simultaneously lecturing you for not being more courteous toward him, for expecting him to seek you out without you bothering to greet him upon his arrival. If only they were aware of the cruel words he had uttered to you recently. Would they still support him so fervently? Perhaps they would side with him and reprimand you even further for not showing him enough appreciation.

"My dear, why not try being a bit more hospitable today and give Mr. Kim a little tour during his visit, hm?" your mother suggested during breakfast, her tone tinged with exasperation, "It's hard to believe he's already been here twice and has only seen the library and your quarters. Take him around the gardens, at least, will you?"

You pursed your lips, feeling a hint of irritation rising within you, though you didn't show it, "But mother, he's here to work. He's not a guest. Why should we extend such hospitality to him?" you muttered, taking another bite of your food.

Haeun scoffed in response, "Are you even listening to yourself? Mr. Kim is doing you a huge favour. He even closed his shop just to come here for you. The least you could do is show him some courtesy," your father and brother instantly agreeing with her.

Feeling frustrated, you decided to keep your mouth shut, realising that nothing you said would ever satisfy your family when they teamed up against you to highlight your supposed shortcomings.

This is dumb, he's getting paid anyway.

"What a pleasant surprise, Miss Baek! How kind of you to finally greet me and offer to take me on a tour!" the dressmaker exclaimed with raised brows as he was met with your blank stare while you stood waiting by the entrance of your family estate.

Shaking your head, you gestured for him to follow you, "Trust me, Mr. Kim, it's not my idea, and I dread this as much as you do. Please endure it for a bit for the sake of pleasing my family."

He blinked, trying not to let your bluntness affect him. He should know better than to be surprised by your straightforwardness by now. Nodding quickly, he rushed to catch up to you, already several steps ahead, apparently unconcerned whether he was following or not as you began the tour, "Right, my lady! Of course!"

Amused, he chuckled softly to himself at your bored expression as you walked past main areas like the living hall and dining hall before reaching places he recognised. Speaking in a monotone, you pointed out, "You've already seen these places. This is the library, and my quarters are just over there, but you already know that."

Turning to him, you furrowed your brows, "Is there anything funny?"

Biting his lip to suppress his laughter, he shook his head, "Not at all, Miss Baek. Please continue," he reassured, finding your reluctance somewhat endearing.

His eyes widened in wonder as you both arrived at what appeared to be a small play area for the children, "This is a mini playground my father had our servants create for his grandchildren," you explained, gesturing toward your nieces and nephews who were running around joyfully, their laughter echoing through the air. Glancing over at you, he noticed a hint of envy in your eyes, as if you longed to experience the simple happiness the children were enjoying.

After a moment, you took a deep breath and shook off the sentiment, "Well, let's move on to other areas then. I'm sure you don't have all day, Mr. Kim," you said briskly.

Without giving him a chance to reply, you headed off in another direction. He sighed before running after you again, silently cursing you for keeping him on the move. Yet, despite that, he couldn't find it in him to muster any irritation toward you. There was something about your behaviour that felt refreshing. For once, he appreciated being treated simply as another person, rather than being placed on a pedestal for all his accomplishments or appearance.

Arriving at your next location, you remarked rather sarcastically, "Of course, we can't forget the most crucial place in the entire estate, the kitchens," your voice hushed to avoid attracting attention from the busy maids for fear of disrupting their work.

Just as you were both about to leave, a burst of laughter echoed through the kitchen, accompanied by a blunt remark, "I bet the young miss will end up divorced early in her marriage, even if she miraculously finds a suitor after the makeover Mr. Kim gives her. She's an absolute nightmare! What sane man could tolerate her for long?"

Hongjoong felt his blood boil at the audacious words, growling under his breath, "How dare they—" He clenched his fists and took a step toward the door, seemingly ready to confront them.

Surprised by his reaction, you reached out and grasped his wrist, causing him to look down at your hold before meeting your gaze with a questioning expression. You sighed heavily, "Forget it, there's no point in doing whatever you intend to do. I'm already hard to like as it is, and I don't want them to dislike me even more than they already do. Let's just get out of here, Mr. Kim."

Feeling a pang in his chest, he couldn't shake off the aggravation that washed over him at the acceptance in your tone. The realisation that you were well aware of everyone's dislike towards you, yet you had resigned yourself to enduring it, stirred an unsettling mix of emotions within him. Just how long had you been suffering all this alone?

When he remained rooted in his spot, you squeezed his wrist and whispered, "Please, can we just go?"

With a defeated expression, he squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, "Fine, as you wish."

As you both left the kitchen behind, his mind buzzed with unanswered questions. Why wouldn't you stand up for yourself? And why wouldn't you let him be the one to defend you? It frustrated him to no end. He couldn't comprehend how someone as strong-willed as you could endure such treatment.

The weight of your silence hung heavy in the air, leaving him feeling helpless and conflicted. He wanted to reach out, to offer some form of solace or support, but he couldn't find the right words. Instead, he walked alongside you in silence, his mind racing with thoughts of how to help you.

Glancing at him, you could easily discern his struggle to contain his annoyance. But what you couldn't understand was why he seemed more bothered by it than you, especially considering his apparent dislike toward you. Eager to move past the incident, you decided to follow your mother's suggestion and led him to the gardens.

"I hope you like flowers, Mr. Kim," you offered as you strolled among the blooms, "These are some of my mother's proudest collections, gathered from other provinces."

Relief washed over you as he appeared to be distracted, showing genuine interest as he examined some of the rare flowers not typically found in this area.

Giving him a moment alone, you scanned the area, straining to hear a faint meowing. Your eyes widened and you gasped as you spotted a cat stranded atop a tree. Without hesitation, you rushed forward, calling out, "Don't worry, kitty! I'll rescue you!" Your hands reached for the tree branch as you searched for a secure foothold to climb.

"Ooh, this one's pretty! Where did this come from?" he pondered aloud, his brow furrowing at the lack of response. Glancing up, he did a double take upon seeing you attempting to scale a tree.

Hastening over, he halted your ascent with a firm grip on your arm, "I turn away for one second and—have you lost your mind? What in god's name do you think you're doing?!"

Clicking your tongue in frustration, you pointed to the poor little distressed animal above, "Let me go. I'm going to save the cat, whether you like it or not."

The dressmaker sighed in exasperation, slapping a palm against his forehead as he observed the determination in your eyes. With a roll of his eyes, he relented, "Ugh, fine. Step aside, I'll do it."

You huffed, conceding to his offer, and relinquished your position. As he handed you the bag containing your latest hanbok, he rolled up his sleeves, muttering to himself, "I can't believe I'm doing this," before proceeding to climb the tree with surprising agility. However, he soon realised the tree was taller than expected, and panic gripped him as he reached the top, letting out a startled yelp, "Oh my god, this tree is way taller than I thought!"

"Quit wasting time and save the cat!" you urged, frustration creeping into your voice. When he shot you a glare, you narrowed your eyes and challenged, "If you're so scared, get down here then! I'll do it!"

"No, no, no, don't you dare! What kind of man would I be to let you do it, huh? You stay put and wait down there," he insisted firmly, before reaching out tentatively for the frightened animal, "Come here, kitty. It's alright, just come to me and you'll be safe."

With bated breath, you observed as his hand shook pitifully. Slowly but surely, the animal inched closer to him, bit by bit, until it ended up snugly in his arms. A sigh of relief escaped you as he succeeded. Holding the rescued feline close to his chest, he carefully made his way back down.

As soon as he handed the cat over to you, his legs gave out, and he sank onto the ground. His face was blank, as if he were still trying to process what he had just done. The last thing he expected when coming here today was to do something like this.

Seeing his defeated posture, unlike his usual composed demeanour, you couldn't help but let a smile sneak onto your face, eventually bursting into a fit of giggles as you replayed the scene in your head. At the sound, he glanced up, captivated by the melody of your laughter. Frozen in place, his heart skipped a beat as he beheld your smile for the first time, genuine happiness lighting up your features. At that moment, he realised your beauty, wanting nothing more than to see that smile more often.

How pretty.

Since that day, both of you appeared to have grown more at ease with each other. He abandoned the formalities, as you urged, and shed the false pleasantries. Finally, he felt comfortable enough to be his true self around you, letting his unfiltered thoughts flow freely and speaking his mind without reservation. You didn't seem to mind, especially since he hadn't intended any offence with his words.

While you wouldn't go as far as calling yourselves friends, there was a comfort in each other's presence that had developed. Even in moments of silence, there was never any awkwardness, only an unspoken understanding between you, a connection that required no verbal declaration; you simply understood each other.

Over Hongjoong's recent visits, a routine had formed. You would courteously greet him at the entrance before guiding him to your quarters. There, he would assist you in trying on the hanboks he had crafted, ensuring they fit perfectly and required no further alterations. He would experiment with different makeup and hairstyles, exploring which suited you best.

After weeks of diligent work to assemble the perfect ensemble for you, today marked the culmination of his efforts—the day he would finally unveil your complete makeover. With an array of hanboks he had brought from his previous visits, they were sufficient to constitute an entirely new wardrobe for you. This was the moment your family had eagerly anticipated, the outcome they had engaged the dressmaker for. He observed you scrutinise the items he had meticulously prepared, your expression unreadable.

"Are you ready, Miss Baek?" he inquired.

You shot him a look that seemed to convey 'are you kidding me', your lips pursed, "Does it matter? Just do what you have to, Kim."

With a nod, he began with your hair and makeup, his heart quickening with every movement under the weight of your attentive gaze, fixated on his handsome features. Unbeknownst to him, you held your breath whenever he moved a little closer to perfect your eye makeup. Cursing himself, he attempted to steady his trembling hands as he moved on to your lips, "Could you please look away or close your eyes?" he requested.

"Why?" you inquired, devoid of any jest.

He sighed, "Look, it's... it's distracting, okay? I find it hard to concentrate when you're watching me so intently."

Rolling your eyes, you acquiesced and closed your eyes, "And you claim to be a professional," you remarked.

For once, he lacked the energy to retort, his heart dancing with sensations he had never experienced before. Despite having applied makeup for countless women, he had never encountered such a physical reaction. Puzzled, he struggled to understand the inexplicable effect you seemed to have on him and his poor heart.

"Everything's finished, except for putting on the hanbok," he announced, placing his tools aside before excusing himself momentarily as your maids began assisting you with one of the most elaborate hanboks he had produced. Stepping outside your quarters, he was taken aback to see your entire family assembled and waiting. Bowing respectfully, he greeted them, "Ah, you've all arrived right on time. Miss Baek is almost prepared."

Hajoon stepped forward, extending his hand to shake the dressmaker's, "With your assistance, I'm certain she'll look stunning. Thank you so much for your dedication, Mr. Kim," your parents chimed in, expressing their gratitude for his hard work.

Suddenly, the attention shifted as one of your nephews pointed towards the entrance of your room, exclaiming, "Look, a princess!" All eyes turned to catch a glimpse of you.

A chorus of gasps escaped from your family members as they beheld the sight before them. Your family was overcome with awe, your mother and sister shedding tears of joy as if you had finally fulfilled their deepest wishes. Turning around, Hongjoong's breath caught in his throat as he took in your completed transformation for the first time, mirroring the astonishment of everyone else. You appeared breathtaking, meeting society's standards of perfection and seamlessly fitting into their expectations. Yet, the absence of joy in your expression failed to bring him satisfaction.

She's not happy.

In truth, a foolish part of him clung to the hope that you might still be impressed by your transformation once you had seen your beauty, despite knowing your reservations. He harboured a fleeting expectation that your initial reluctance stemmed from never seeing yourself adorned in such finery before, and that your perspective would shift upon witnessing your present appearance. But he knew he was wrong as soon as he observed your evident discomfort, your fingers clutching the hanbok's skirt tightly, your gaze averted while your family showered you with adoration.

Confusion enveloped him at that moment. He should have felt elated that his vision had come to fruition; your family's satisfaction with his work signalled the success of his mission. However, instead of joy, remorse consumed him; your family's praises fell on deaf ears, and all he could see was the despair in your hunched shoulders.

"Mr. Kim, this is utter perfection! You've truly outdone yourself! Please join us for dinner tonight before you leave! It's the least we can do for all the work you've put in over the past few weeks!" your father invited, excitement evident in his tone.

Normally, he would reject such offers, but he realised he wasn't ready to leave you just yet. With only you in mind, Hongjoong accepted, "It would be my pleasure, Official Baek."

Seated beside you in the dining hall that night, the dressmaker did his best to engage with your family members. However, his attention kept drifting back to you, noticing your silence as you picked at your food, showing little appetite. He grew concerned seeing you repeatedly reach for the wine glass, drinking more than eating. Haeun's disapproving glare didn't escape his notice.

"That's enough, maknae. No man likes a drunkard for a wife. With your enhanced looks, you'll be attracting a suitor real soon. Now's the time for you to start training to be a proper lady," she scolded.

Hajoon chortled, "Let her. Perhaps she'll be a better wife when drunk. That version of her might be more tolerable than her usual self."

To Hongjoong's dismay, your sister and parents joined in the laughter, despite your brother-in-law and sister-in-law exchanging apologetic glances in your direction. At that moment, he lost his appetite completely as he watched you quietly enduring it all, much like when the maids made fun of you.

Before he could inquire if you were okay, your father addressed him, "Mr. Kim, we apologise on our youngest's behalf for any trouble she may have caused you. Surely, she couldn't have been easy to work with. We will compensate you nicely for all your efforts."

Wanting to use the opportunity to stand up for you, he plastered on his most professional smile and spoke, "Not at all, my lord. Miss Baek has been an absolute pleasure to work with. She's remarkably selfless, unlike many customers who approach me solely for superficial reasons. Despite her reservations about fashion, she wholeheartedly complies for her family's sake. And I deeply respect her for that. The opportunity to make her clothing is reward enough for me. I consider myself fortunate to have such a client."

His response surprised everyone, including you, with its sincerity and absence of flattery or deceit. Your mother blinked, ashamed of herself for laughing moments ago, "Oh, that's reassuring to hear. Perhaps we should give her more credit for her efforts."

The atmosphere turned slightly awkward after the dressmaker's indirect words, making it clear he disapproved of their conversation about you. It seemed as though his remarks had prompted them to reflect on their behaviour, recognising the cruelty of mocking their own family member. Despite your usual straightforwardness, they understood that you truly never meant to hurt anyone's feelings. Guilt washed over them as they realised their earlier actions had been intentional and hurtful.

Absorbing the aftermath of Hongjoong's defence of you, a surge of emotion welled up inside you. His words resonated deeply, touching a part of you that had longed for such validation. No one had ever stood up for you in such a manner, not even your own family, who were supposed to be your closest allies. To hear someone speak so kindly of you, with genuine sincerity, was a rare and precious gift.

Looking up at him, you felt a warmth spread through your chest. Perhaps, in that moment, he had become more than just a dressmaker to you. Maybe, without him even realising it, he had earned the title of friend.

As he gently confiscated the wine glass from your hand and replenished your bowl with food, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of your lips. His gesture felt like a moment of genuine concern that warmed your heart. Whether or not he realised it, he was showing you a level of care you hadn't experienced before, and it felt comforting to be treated with such thoughtfulness.

"Stop drinking so much and eat more, my lady. You'll be sick if you keep up like that," he lectured with a soft grin.

You wondered if this was his way of showing that he cared. Regardless, it felt nice to be looked after, to have someone pay attention to your well-being in such a simple yet meaningful way. As you took a bite of the food he had placed before you, a sense of gratitude washed over you, grateful for his unexpected kindness in a world that had often felt cold and indifferent.

After the meal, he said his farewells to your family but insisted on walking you back to your quarters before departing. Upon reaching your room entrance, you turned to him, saying, "Well, I'm here safe now. You can leave, Mr. Kim."

He scoffed lightly, "Would it hurt to have a little chat before I go?"

Taking a seat on the short staircase leading to your room, he patted the space beside him, gesturing for you to join him, "Come on. I don't know when I'll see you again after this. Let's just... talk."

Your heart felt uneasy at the reminder that today marked the grand finale, and with it over, his job here was considered done. He would have no reason to visit your family estate unless summoned. Reluctantly, you settled down beside him on the step.

Despite his desire to converse, there was a moment of silence as you both pondered what to say. The ambience was filled with the chirping of crickets and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze as you sat side by side, your shoulders lightly touching. Mustering his courage, he finally broached the subject, "Be honest with me, Miss Baek. Do you hate my designs? I've noticed your unease since you put them on."

Gazing down at the vibrant hanbok adorning your frame, feeling the weight of the accessories on your head and the unfamiliar thickness of the makeup on your usually bare face, you let out a sigh, "I don't hate them. It's just... honestly, I don't feel worthy of such finery. They're undeniably beautiful, but they don't resonate with who I am. And if this is what it takes to attract a husband, I can't help but wonder... what good is a man who would only value me for my looks? What kind of marriage would that be? The maids had a point. Any man fooled by this appearance would likely end up divorcing me."

Frowning, he turned to you, seeing the rare display of emotion as your eyes glistened with tears, "That's not true, why would you think you're unworthy?" he questioned, genuine concern evident in his voice. Though he wanted to agree that a man like that did not deserve to be with you, he opted to address what truly mattered.

You let out a humourless chuckle, a sound that tugged at his heartstrings. It was unlike you to expose your vulnerabilities in such a manner. Perhaps it was the comfort of Hongjoong's presence or the effects of the alcohol. Or maybe it was a combination of both. You shut your eyes as your world began to spin, whispering, "I've never been good enough for anything or anyone. My parents made that abundantly clear since I was a child. Nobody has ever truly liked me, and don't pretend otherwise, I know you disliked me too. I just... I'm so tired. I want to be loved for who I am. Is that too much to ask...?"

It really isn't, my lady. I'm right here.

Your voice trailed off, a tear tracing down your cheek as you rested your head against his shoulder, succumbing to exhaustion. His heart ached as he hesitated, then gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders. Once he was certain you were truly asleep, he carefully slid his other arm beneath your legs and carried you into your room.

The dressmaker felt as if his life hadn't been the same since taking on that job. It had been nearly a week since he last saw you, the image of your tear-stained sleeping face lingering in his mind as he tucked you into bed. A heavy weight settled in his heart as he silently bid you farewell that night, making his way home with a sense of numbness.

Every day after that felt unsettling.

The initial satisfaction he anticipated from accepting your sister's job offer eluded him. Thoughts of you consumed his mind relentlessly. He wondered about your well-being—whether you were eating properly, sleeping soundly, finding happiness. Despite his yearning to see you again, even just a glimpse to ensure you were okay, he knew he had no reason to visit the Baek estate. The job was completed, and he had received his payment in full. Alongside the surge in his reputation, he had earned widespread recognition for transforming the once pitiful youngest Miss Baek into the stunning beauty you are today.

Consequently, his business flourished. Recognising his inability to change the situation, he threw himself into his work, attempting to maintain a semblance of normalcy. Day after day, he laboured tirelessly in his shop, his pockets filling up, yet his heart growing emptier with each passing moment.

"Huh, who would've thought this day would come? It seems someone could rob you in broad daylight, and you wouldn't even notice," the sudden familiar deep voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Looking up, he found Seonghwa standing right beside his work desk, "What's up with you, Kim Hongjoong? Need a break?"

"I told you, he's been acting all weird since he completed the Baek family's job," Wooyoung chimed in, appearing behind the general.

The dressmaker blinked, "Wh-what are you two idiots doing here?"

Seonghwa scoffed, "Oh wow, is that really the way to greet your friends who care enough to come check on you?"

Flustered, Hongjoong cleared his throat and returned to work, "Why do you have to check on me? I'm doing just fine."

"Are you really? That's not what Yunho told us. It sounds like someone's finally having girl problems," the investigator retorted.

The general grinned, "You know, for someone who gives so much relationship advice, you're rather terrible with matters of the heart when it comes to yourself."

With a sigh, the dressmaker rolled his eyes, "I don't have any problems. You two should worry about yourselves instead. Haven't you heard? Taken men have more issues than single lads like myself." The two had been exceptionally insufferable ever since the younger man had also begun courting his precious Miss Han, always borderline making fun of the rest for still being single.

"Really? So you're not bothered that Miss Baek has finally found a suitor?" Wooyoung teased. At that, Hongjoong dropped the pencil in his hand, head snapping up with wide eyes, "What did you say?"

His friends exchanged knowing grins before the younger one repeated, "I said, the youngest miss of the Baek family has finally found a suitor. The eldest son of the Yoon family has asked for her hand in marriage."

The dressmaker felt his heart drop, "The Yoon family...? Aren't they the ones on the verge of bankruptcy?"

Seonghwa nodded, "That's correct. I guess they must be taking the opportunity to forge a union with the Baek family to save themselves financially. I suppose it wouldn't be so bad now that the youngest miss is finally pretty enough to marry."

"Don't you dare say that about her; she's perfect the way she was. Her appearance doesn't define her," Hongjoong growled, glowering at his friend for the first time.

Rather than reacting negatively, his friends applauded his response, the older man smirking, "Congratulations, you're in love."

"I'm not—"

Wooyoung sighed in exasperation, "Listen, it doesn't matter to us whether you think you're in love or not. But if you aren't, I suppose it wouldn't matter that today is the day the Baek and Yoon families formalise the engagement. Do what you will with that information; we have a double date to enjoy."

At that moment, he came to the realisation that what he had been feeling all along was love. Looking back, he should have recognised the signs from the very beginning; despite his irritation with you, genuine anger never surfaced. The incessant thoughts of you had been consuming every moment of his life, a clear indicator in hindsight. Yet, he couldn't fathom why he had persisted in denying it. It was evident that he wasn't fooling anyone except himself.

The dressmaker's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he watched his friends leave his shop, "W-wait!" he called out, his voice tinged with a hint of nervousness, "Thanks, guys. I appreciate the help."

With a playful wink, the general teased, "Atta boy, go get your girl. I'm looking forward to making it a triple date next time."

God, I sure hope she feels the same.

Meanwhile, you wandered through the gardens of your estate, accompanied by Byungho, the eldest son of the Yoon family and your soon-to-be fiancé, a sense of unease lingered within you. The suddenness of his proposal, along with his family's involvement, left you in a state of shock. While you had anticipated attracting suitors after your makeover, you hadn't expected everything to unfold in less than a week. Despite Byungho's outward appearance of kindness, you didn't know how to feel about spending the rest of your life with him.

Besides, you weren't entirely clueless.

You'd heard all the rumours circulating about his family's financial troubles, stemming from a failed business venture that had left them on the brink of bankruptcy. You understood that his proposal wasn't solely motivated by your newfound beauty; rather, you were seen as a solution to his family's predicament. And since he was still unmarried, it would be like killing two birds with one stone.

Even as you walked alongside the man who was supposed to be your future husband, your thoughts were consumed by a certain dressmaker. Amidst the familiar scenery of the garden, memories of your shared moments played on a loop in your mind.

Like the cat you had rescued and set free, you couldn't help but wonder about both of them—the stray animal and its saviour. Did he ever think of you, even fleetingly? The maids had recounted the events of your final night with him; how he had carried you back to your room and tucked you in with care. You regretted being influenced by alcohol, wishing you had bid him a proper farewell.

Now, you knew you would never see him again—the first person to show you genuine kindness despite a rocky start, the first to truly care, the first you had considered a friend... and perhaps more.

I miss you, Kim Hongjoong.

Little did you know, he stood just outside the entrance to your family estate, struggling to catch his breath. He pleaded with the guards stationed at the gate, conveying the urgency of his situation, "Please, I left behind a crucial tool that I need to retrieve."

"We apologise, Mr. Kim, but the Baek family is hosting important guests today, and we cannot permit entry to outsiders without a valid reason. Perhaps you could return tomorrow," the guard explained respectfully, bowing his head in apology.

As he regained his composure, a sense of desperation gripped him. He knew exactly who those guests were and the purpose of their visit. He couldn't afford to wait until tomorrow; he had to be there to stop it all now. However, he couldn't reveal the true reason to the guards, fearing it would only lead to his expulsion from the premises.

Summoning his typically fearless demeanour, he planted his hands on his hips and fixed the guard with an unamused stare, "Listen, I have a significant client waiting on her hanbok for tomorrow. If I lose her business because of this delay, will you take responsibility for my losses? I doubt your salary could cover the cost. So, soldier, are you prepared to shoulder that burden?"

The guard swallowed nervously, "I-I..."

Rolling his eyes, Hongjoong pressed on, "All I need is a moment to retrieve my belongings. What harm could my brief presence possibly cause? Do you think the guests will be bothered by a mere dressmaker dropping by to pick up his things?"

Lord forgive me for deceiving this poor man.

Finally relenting, the guard stepped aside, "I suppose you have a point, sir. My apologies."

As soon as he was out of the guard's line of sight, he moved stealthily like a spy. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself and face a barrage of questions. His heart raced in his chest as he scanned every corner frantically in search of you. Inside, the living hall buzzed with activity, hosting both your family and the Yoons. However, you and the eldest Yoon son were conspicuously absent. Panic and protectiveness surged within him at the thought of you being alone with another man.

He felt a wave of relief wash over him when he discovered your quarters were vacant. The mere thought of finding you with another man in your room made his stomach churn with jealousy. Passing by the library, he was once again grateful to find it deserted. These were sacred spaces shared only between the two of you, and he refused to let anyone else intrude upon them.

Finally, a sense of calm settled over him when he spotted you in the garden with your prospective betrothed. Taking cover behind a nearby tree, he strained to eavesdrop on your conversation while contemplating his next move. Walking up to you and blurting out his feelings like a madman seemed out of the question. Not only would it be reckless, but he also had to consider what your family would think of him if he acted so impulsively.

He needed to devise a careful plan of action.

Perking up, his attention sharpened as he heard the eldest Yoon son's words to you, "My lady, we've been here for a while. Would you perhaps like to have some tea in a more... secluded spot?"

Hongjoong's blood ran cold at the suggestion, his fists tightening involuntarily until he heard your firm response, "I'm not in the mood for tea, Byungho. If you want some, feel free to go ahead and enjoy it yourself. I'll be right here." A surge of pride swelled within him at your characteristic straightforwardness.

That's my girl, you tell him.

A tense silence hung in the air before Byungho's frustration reached its boiling point, "Enough of this, I've had it with you," he burst out, "Do you honestly believe that just because you've become more attractive, you're suddenly something special? Do you know what men outside are saying about you? Sure, you finally look pretty enough to marry, but they would have considered you if only you were a couple of years younger. Take a good look at yourself in the mirror, you're old. Be grateful I'm willing to marry you. You have no right to be playing Ice Princess with me right now, you hear me?"

The dressmaker's blood boiled as he listened to Byungho's disrespectful tirade against you. Unable to contain his anger any longer, he emerged from his hiding spot and strode purposefully toward the two of you.

"Look who's talking," he interjected, his voice laced with fury, "If she's so undesirable, why the hell are you and your family here begging to have her hand in marriage?" He narrowed his eyes at the bastard, his words dripping with disdain, "Look at yourself, Yoon Byungho. You're going broke and are relying on a woman to save yourself. I don't think you should be the one to talk."

Byungho's face turned red with anger as he shot back, "Who the hell do you think you are? Wait a minute, I know you. Aren't you just a lowly dressmaker? You have no right to speak to me like that."

But Hongjoong stood his ground, undeterred by Byungho's attempts to intimidate him, "I may be a dressmaker, but at least I have the decency to respect others," he retorted, "Unlike you, who seems to think you can treat people however you please just because of your family name. Would you prefer to back off on your own, or would you like me to repeat your earlier words to Official and Lady Baek word for word? Do you reckon they'd still want such a son-in-law?"

As the tension between them escalated, you watched in shock, unsure of what to make of the confrontation unfolding before you.

You didn't know how to react when Byungho scoffed in disbelief, "Whatever, I can't stand her anyway," he said before turning to you, "And you, don't come crying to me when you can't find someone to marry."

"Oh, don't you worry, she won't," the dressmaker sneered, watching the despicable man huff and stalk off.

Still in a state of shock, you blinked rapidly, trying to process Hongjoong's sudden appearance and his unexpected action in ending your engagement so abruptly, "M-Mr. Kim...? What have you done?"

He narrowed his eyes at you, "What have I done? More like, what are you doing, woman?" he retorted.

"I haven't done anything," you fought back.

"Exactly! Were you really just going to marry that douche of a man if I hadn't shown up? Even after he said those things to you? Don't you want to be happy?" he questioned.

Massaging your temples, you struggled to understand his point, "I don't get it, Mr. Kim. What are you trying to say? You know better than anyone my happiness never mattered."

He ignored your question, "Of course, it matters! And what the hell are you wearing?!"

Confused, you looked down at the hanbok you were wearing, one of his designs, "What do you mean? This is your—"

"Only wear what you want and do what you want! Why should you be so unhappy? This is your life!" he interrupted, frustrated.

Exasperated, you sighed, "In case you haven't been paying attention, no man will ever want me if I were to—"

He cut you off, gripping your shoulders firmly as he looked into your eyes, "I do! I want to be with you, okay? Your happiness matters to me more than anything else!" he declared before bravely pulling you into his arms. He felt like he could finally breathe again when you lifted your arms to hug him back.

A week had passed since that pivotal moment, and it was remarkable how one single moment could alter the course of your life. Hongjoong's unexpected intervention had changed everything. Byungho's decision to call off the engagement had left both families in shock, particularly his own, given their desperate need for financial assistance. The bastard was more keen to preserve his reputation, fearful of the repercussions of his outburst towards you. Strangely, your family seemed somewhat relieved by the turn of events, although the reasons behind their reaction remained unclear.

Eventually, it became clear when the dressmaker approached them, seeking permission to court you. The knowing grins exchanged among your family members answered your unspoken questions.

Haeun's laughter, unexpected to both you and Hongjoong, was joined by Hajoon's, "I knew it! I knew there was something between you two! Your actions spoke volumes, Mr. Kim, especially your protectiveness towards her that night. We've been waiting for you to realise it."

Your parents nodded, "You have our blessing, Mr. Kim. So long as our youngest is happy. But ultimately, it's her consent that truly matters. You should ask her if she's willing."

The dressmaker hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he reached for your hand, "I did ask her..." His nerves eased when you willingly intertwined your fingers with his, "And she said yes."

And ever since that moment, he hadn't let you go for long, always claiming to miss you. Though you were too shy to admit it aloud, you felt the same. Now, as you stroll along the bustling streets of town for the first time in what feels like forever, his hand securely holding yours, he shows you around, "Come on, beautiful. There's still so much to see."

He slowed his pace, noticing the slightly overwhelmed expression on your face, and wrapped an arm around your shoulder, "Are you feeling alright, darling?" he asked, scanning the surroundings, wondering if you were perhaps feeling insecure due to any stares, "Is it the hanbok? I promise I'll make an even simpler version next time."

You shook your head immediately, "What? No! I like this, Joong, I really do," you said, smiling down at the simple yet elegant pastel-coloured fabric he had picked especially for you. He had replaced all the previous ones he made for you with a new batch of minimalistic hanboks you'd prefer.

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he persisted, "Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything."

You chuckled softly, and he felt a flutter in his chest at the sight of your beautiful smile, "Of course, you know I can't lie to save my life."

His laughter echoed with realisation, "That's true, how could I forget?"

Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, you leaned your head against his shoulder, your favourite spot, "I was just thinking..."

"About what?"

You blushed, "About us."

As you reached a serene little bridge spanning over a gentle river, you both paused to admire the tranquil scene below, leaning against the ledge side by side, "What about us?" he asked.

Turning to meet his gaze, you softened, "I just find it amusing how we ended up like this, together. I recall how much you couldn't stand me when we first met, and I thought I'd never see you again once the makeover was done. Yet... here you are."

He grinned warmly, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, "Here I am, my darling. I was an idiot then, but I have no intention of ever leaving your side again."

Your heart brimmed with joy, a sensation you never thought you'd have the pleasure of experiencing. Similarly, Hongjoong felt a sense of pride as he observed you gradually opening up, becoming more at ease in expressing your emotions around him. He was proud of the progress you had made.

Caught up in the moment, he summoned the courage to finally kiss you. Truth be told, he had been searching for the right moment to share your first kiss but wanted to respect your boundaries. He knew you must have been new to all this, and to be fair, he wasn't much more experienced than you. While he had seen many couples throughout his life and displays of affection were nothing new to him, he lacked firsthand experience. He often wondered when would be the right time to take such a step.

Sensing his gaze fixed on your lips, your breath caught in your throat. Was the moment finally here? Were you about to share your first kiss? You closed your eyes instinctively as he leaned in, taking it as his cue to press his lips against yours.

Here goes nothing.

As your lips met, a rush of euphoria swept through him when he felt you kissing him back softly, enjoying the sensation of your lips on his. Slowly pulling back, you both broke into shy smiles, "That felt nice," he said, and you nodded in agreement, "It really did." Just as he leaned down again, intent on kissing you once more, you were both snapped out of your trance by the sound of a child yelling for help.

Reaching for his hand, you immediately pulled him towards the source of the commotion, only to find a little girl pointing to the top of a tree, "Help, please, somebody help my poor little kitty!"

You couldn't help but burst into giggles at the familiar scene as Hongjoong shook his head, "Nope, absolutely not. Someone else can help her," Pouting, you tugged at his arm, "Please, Joong? We have to help the poor thing! I'll give you a kiss when you do."

His jaw dropped before determination filled his being, "You know what? Deal. You best not go back on your words, woman."

Rolling up his sleeves, he approached the tree with a shake of his head in disbelief, "Goodness, the things I do for her," he muttered. But as he glanced back and saw the beautiful smile on your face, he realised he would be willing to save a thousand, no—a million more cats if that's what it takes to make you smile like that every day.

Anything to make you happy, darling.

If you haven't already read the first bonus chapter of TWTHH, please do so soon! I'll be working on the second bonus chapter after this hehe also, I hope you're all excited for Yunho's spinoff next!

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[unteriors]

Since you're Australian, why are so many of the posts from the US? Did you start with Australia and then move onto other countries once you'd felt like you exhausted it? Or is the US particularly interesting for your purposes?

A big part of the reason is the enormous difference in scale. Australia has about 25 million people, versus 300 or so million in the US. Each of the 50 states has at least one or two major cities, most have many more than that. In addition to the volume of real estate imagery produced by this market, there are a few things about the US in this context which draw me in from an Australian perspective. One is how real estate listings weirdly embody how much more visually apparent the harmful economic forces of the past 50 years are in American society than they are here or elsewhere. Australia's welfare state was developed roughly during the same time as in the US, and has similarly been cut back since the 1970s. But it was always much weaker in the US than in Australia or Western Europe, and correspondingly the effects of its deterioration - along with other economic trends - have been much more visible than they are here. The way this is played out in terms of localised funding for public services means that many American cities have pockets (of varying sizes) where poverty and other forms of systemic oppression are concentrated and left open to the elements. The sort of stuff Jacob Holdt documented in his photos in the 70s, or that you see in a lot crime films and thrillers with location shooting. Gentrification and other forces since then have pushed these pockets into other areas and made some places seem less grim, but from what I've heard it seems like it would be hard for the average person in the US to ignore that these large, systemic problems exist. Conversely, in Australia, this kind of intense poverty has been pushed into the margins of society during the same time period - to remote communities (where people suffer from chronic diseases that have been eradicated in most other wealthy countries), country towns with shrinking economies, or to the fringes of larger cities (where people sleep in their cars in parking lots, or multiple families form sharehouses to afford $400-500+ pw rents). Though as things have gotten worse, particularly since COVID, it's getting harder to ignore. But still there's a substantial part of the population here who have grown up in ignorance of any of the larger, percolating structural problems in Australian society, and who proactively retain that ignorance into adulthood.

I think you can see these different perspectives play in out in real estate listings. In most American states, even in most of the towns I've looked at, you can see a broad spectrum of living conditions (and commercial interpretations of ideal living conditions) - from burnt out trailers, to overpriced renovated shitty older houses with cheap grey vinyl flooring and white walls, to clearly lived-in time capsules to McMansions to actual mansions. Some photographs are clearly shot by owners, others by real estate agents with a great variety of care and attention to detail (from elaborate staging to crime scenes). Rightly or wrongly, I feel like I get a broader, more honest (or at least more direct) feel for the housing crisis. It's a more honest horror film.

Australian listings, I think in part due to concentrations in corporate power in the real estate industry (similar to other monopolies that have formed in our economy), tend to more heavily adhere to the visual language of advertising and are more heavily regulated by agencies. The problems still exist, the housing market here is among the worst in the world and little effort is being made to address the underlying structural issues, but you can see the lack of will to acknowledge these issues in the level of gloss that's applied. You can look at a listing of an older house in Western Australia, for instance, and know for a fact that it's riddled with asbestos and probably has several other structural issues, but most likely enough time and effort will have been spent on staging and lighting and maybe surface-level renovations that it will seem otherwise fine. Lots of turds that have been polished successfully enough that you need insider knowledge to properly identify them as dogshit. Incidentally, I spent part of my childhood in a house built in the 1960s that had asbestos in the walls and ceiling.

I'm still interested in images from Australian listings (and other sources) though, I just look for other things that are interesting. Anything that runs contrary to the artificially positive, limited world view that advertising promotes. Even if its a poorly-lit time capsule that is directly aesthetically opposite to the ideal of house-beauty at the moment, or an obviously run-down house that has had every realtor photography trick in the playbook thrown at it until it becomes deeply uncanny. And it's always interesting to see what other people find interesting; I genuinely think the housing crisis underwrites every other political issue we have to contend with, its tendrils extend in many different directions, and I think this also means imagery like this can reach people in a diversity of ways. Aesthetically, nostalgically, inspiring fear and self-loathing and horror. All good sources of inspiration for creativity.

[room-surprise]

How Old Is Thistle?

(EDIT: I've made a follow-up post to this one that goes deeper into the math and additional evidence that the 5:1 ratio is correct. You can read it here!)

I've seen people debating this and a lot of folks insisting that Thistle is a child, and since Thistle just debuted in the anime, I wanted to do a full write-up to help myself and others figure this out.

We don't know how old any of the Merini family members are exactly, so the best we can do is guess based on the information we have, but after carefully studying the manga, I think Thistle is at least a teenager, but much more likely a young adult, and definitely not a prepubescent child.

Here's what we know:

EDIT: Depending on what translation you read of some of the extra materials, Freinag implies that Thistle is the same age as some of his advisors.

Here's a detailed translation of this panel from my friend Fumi:

Elves age 5 times slower than tall-men.

16 year old tall-men in Dungeon Meshi's medieval time period are adults, they commonly join the military, get married, have children, etc.

An 80 year old elf is an adult. Pattadol is 82 and she's a lieutenant in a military unit. It's her first job and she's obviously a rookie, but Captain Flamela tells Pattadol to accomplish her mission or die trying.

Many fully adult elves look like what we might consider children or young teens, because they're short, petite, and have androgynous features.

An average elven adult is around 150-155cm tall (5 ft), meaning some are shorter than that, and some are taller. Thistle is 130 cm, which is short, but not unheard of.

Fleki is 130 (26) years old and she's 140 cm tall (4'7")

Otta is 137 (27) years old and she's 130 cm (4'5") tall, the same height as Thistle!

They are both women, but there's probably plenty of elven men in their height range.

Just so we can compare Thistle to some adult elven men, Mithrun and his brother are probably adults (or close to it) in the panel on the left.

Mithrun (in this image) is somewhere between 75 and 144 (probably in his 80's), and his brother is older than him (so he could be in his late 80s or 90s). As you can see, they don't look that different from Thistle, Otta or Fleki.

So, how old is Thistle?

(Spoilers below the cut)

Thistle was brought to the royal court as a child (found on the street, stolen or purchased, we don't know how they got him). At the absolute youngest I'd guess Thistle is 25 years old here (so about 5 years old for a tall-man.) He can already play the flute, and possibly the lute, and most children that aren't prodigies can't handle playing an instrument (physically or mentally) until they're around 5.

EDIT: We now know that Thistle is the same age as Freinag, the king that takes him in! So Thistle must be at least 25 years old in this comic, though realistically he could be anywhere from 25 to 40 based on how Kui drew Freinag.

He lived in the court for an unknown amount of time, Freinag hasn't changed much but Thistle appears to have aged a little, so let's say it's been 5 years and Thistle is 30 (6) when Delgal is born. More than 5 years could have passed, but I'm trying to keep the numbers low.

Delgal gets married and has a child. Delgal should be at least 15 at this point, but since he has a full mustache before his wedding, I think he's in his 20's, since teenagers tend to not be the best at growing robust facial hair.

(He has a full beard by the time Eodio's a young child.)

Thistle puts the kingdom inside the dungeon around this point, however, people are still aging: Delgal's grandson Yaad is born, and Eodio is clearly a young adult here, probably in his 20's. Therefore, there is NO REASON to assume Thistle stopped aging. "The dungeon lords don't age" is a common fan headcanon I've seen people spreading, but it has no clear canon basis.

Yaad ages until he looks about 13-15 years old, and at this point all of the people of the kingdom and Thistle appear to stop aging, and 1,000 years pass.

So, the youngest Thistle could possibly be, if he was 30 (6) when Delgal was born, if Delgal was 15 when he had Eodio, and Eodio was 15 when he had Yaad, and Yaad is 13 years old...

Is 73 years old, which would make Thistle about 14.6 years old by tall-man standards.

HOWEVER, I think it's VERY unlikely that all the characters are that young.

I think it's clear from Kui's drawings that Delgal and Eodio are not 15 years old when they become fathers, and that Freinag is at least 25 when he takes in Thistle.

If we assume Thistle was 30 when Delgal was born, and Delgal and Eodio were both at least 20 when they had children, even if Yaad is only 13 years old, that makes Thistle at least 83 years old (16.6), and makes him older than Pattadol, who is an adult at 82.

However, I think it's entirely possible that Thistle was anywhere from 40-50 when Delgal was born, and Delgal could have been anywhere from 20 to 30 when he had Eodio, and Eodio could have been anywhere from 20-25 when he had Yaad. If you use the maximum ages, and assume Yaad is 15, then Thistle could be as old as 120 (24).

I think a reasonable middle ground is assuming Thistle was 30 (6) when Delgal was born, Delgal had Eodio at 25, Eodio had Yaad at 20, and Yaad is 15... Which would make Thistle 90 (18) years old.

This of course says nothing about Thistle's emotional maturity or sanity, he's obviously stunted in some ways, but the point I want to make here is:

Thistle's age could be anywhere from 14.6 to 24 at the most extreme, but more realistically he's somewhere between 16.6 and 18.

And that's not even counting the thousand years that he's lived since then!

And that's all I've got to say about that 🙏🙏🙏🙏

(EDIT: Follow-up post with additional evidence here.) EDIT 2: I've seen a lot of people talking about the page Kui drew talking about elven earmuffs. It's considered just barely okay for Pattadol to wear them, but it's ok for Thistle to wear them... In which case I'd say Thistle could be any age younger than 83. That's handy as it knocks out some of the older ages!

So in that case Thistle's age is between 73 years old and 82, which makes him developmentally between 14.6 and 16.4!