#which is when I will finish second chapter

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Four

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd (Formula one AU)

CW: drinking,weed

WC: 4.4k

Notes: I think you guys will like this one 😏 (also possibly another surprise tonight if I’m feeling motivated)

The thing about being home — if you could call it that — was that everything slowed down just enough for Azzi to hear herself think.

New York wasn’t peaceful. The streets below her penthouse buzzed all night, a city on a loop of sirens and car horns and late-night laughter. But the windows were thick, the lights inside low, and the weed — just enough — made everything feel wrapped in velvet.

She lay sideways across her couch, wine glass on her stomach, and her phone in her hand. Her legs dangled off the edge, socks mismatched, half a playlist spilling from her speakers like smoke curling up the walls.

Neither Paige nor Azzi finished in the points in Canada. Just a truly terrible weekend.

Spain had been hot and brutal and fast.

Monaco had been worse — precision hell.

She’d gotten third in Spain and Monaco. Third.

And Paige had stood above her both times.

That fact settled in her chest like a weight she couldn’t quite shake. Not anger, not jealousy. Just… pressure. Paige was pulling ahead. Quietly. Efficiently. And worse than that — she wasn’t being smug about it.

They hadn’t even argued lately. Which somehow made it worse.

She was midway through a half-hearted scroll through her F1 side of TikTok when she saw it. Paige, in a black blazer and dark-wash jeans, standing in front of a logo wall at a brand event somewhere downtown. Probably SoHo. The caption was useless — something about brand activations and “American girl in the city.”

Azzi blinked.

She’s here?

In her defense, she was high. Which didn’t impair her judgment so much as loosen it.

Her thumbs moved before she could second-guess herself.

AF35: come over for a drink

AF35: not like a weird drink. i just have tequila and i’m bored.

AF35: you’re in nyc i saw

PB5: k

She didn’t expect a yes.

But twenty-five minutes later, she was lighting the stupid hotel-scented candle by the front door just as her intercom buzzed.

–

Paige looked… different in the hallway.

Same height, same attitude, same somehow-always-laced sneakers. But her hair was loose and soft and there was something casual about her — black hoodie, gray sweats, the faint shimmer of perfume that Azzi didn’t recognize but knew she’d think about later.

“Hi,” Paige said like it was maybe a mistake. Like she’d still bail if Azzi gave her a reason.

“You came,” Azzi replied, stepping back. “Not a trap, I swear.”

“Yet.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and headed for the bar cart. “Still like tequila?”

“I never said I liked tequila.”

“Well. It’s what I have.” She poured two glasses anyway, handed one over, and flopped onto the couch with the weight of a person who lived here.

Paige followed, sitting sideways in the armchair, drink balanced carefully, eyes trailing the skyline for a beat too long. The silence between them was comfortable in the way only people who have screamed at each other on radios could understand.

“How’s the city treating you?” Azzi asked eventually.

“It’s loud,” Paige said. “And weird. But good.”

Azzi smirked. “Welcome to my world.”

Paige shrugged. “I’m just here for the brand thing. Back to Minnesota in like four days.”

“Figures.”

Another sip. Another silence.

Then:

“You’re on a roll,” Azzi said, watching the way Paige tapped her glass once on her knee, thoughtful. “Monaco. Spain. That car is made for you or something.”

Paige grinned — a tiny, quiet one. “It’s not just the car.”

“Ugh.” Azzi threw her head back. “Say that again and I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

But it wasn’t venom. Not really. And Paige knew it.

They talked for a while longer. About the season. About the team. About how both of them still felt like they were fighting ghosts — old legends, old stats, old press narratives. Azzi’s PR boyfriend came up, almost accidentally. Paige raised an eyebrow.

“You know you’ll need one eventually,” Azzi said. “Or at least the media will say you do.”

“I’ll let them pick,” Paige replied dryly.

“Have you ever had a real boyfriend?” The question came too fast, too clean, but Azzi didn’t pull it back. She just watched Paige.

Paige blinked. “Define ‘real.’”

“That’s a no.”

Paige just smiled behind her glass.

And Azzi wasn’t sure if it was the tequila or the candlelight or the scent of that damned perfume — but something shifted.

Because suddenly Paige looked different again.

Not like a driver. Not like a rival.

Just… like Paige.

Azzi’s gaze lingered too long on the shape of her jaw. On the way her collarbones showed just barely beneath the hoodie neckline. On the way Paige tilted her head, asking a question Azzi hadn’t heard.

“Hm?” she said, eyes snapping up.

“I said — you okay?”

Azzi nodded, a little too late.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Paige raised her glass in a quiet toast. “To not crashing into each other.”

Azzi clinked her own glass against it. “Yet.”

And they drank.

Not as teammates.

Not as rivals.

Not yet as anything else.

But it felt like something had changed in the air between them.

And Azzi — tipsy and warm and barefoot in her own apartment — wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The glasses clinked faintly as Azzi set them down. The tequila buzz was warm now — not heavy, just humming under her skin. That soft, fizzy kind of buzz where everything felt slow but sharp, like the city had been dipped in molasses and lit with a thousand little neon flares.

She turned to Paige, lounging half sideways in the chair, one leg kicked out, the other bent beneath her. The hoodie had shifted just enough to show the edge of a tank top strap. Azzi’s eyes lingered for a beat too long. She didn’t look away.

“Do you smoke?” she asked.

Paige didn’t blink. “Why? You got some?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “If you tell the team, I will crash you in Austria.”

Paige laughed — a low, real sound — and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Guess I won’t tell the team then.”

Azzi pulled herself off the couch with a slight sway and disappeared into the bedroom. When she came back, she had a small tin in one hand and a lighter in the other. The joint was already rolled — perfect, tight, clean — the mark of someone who’d done this more than once.

“You roll that yourself?” Paige asked, amused.

Azzi settled next to her on the couch this time. “I’m good with my hands.”

A beat.

Paige’s smile twisted just slightly at the corner. “Noted.”

Azzi lit it.

They passed it back and forth in silence for the first few minutes, the smoke curling in thin ribbons toward the ceiling, lit softly by the candle on the table and the glow from the kitchen lights behind them. The city beyond the window blurred just enough to feel distant, like it couldn’t quite reach them here.

To say it loosened them up would be the understatement of the year.

Azzi leaned back on the couch, her body turned just enough toward Paige to make it obvious. Her laugh came easier now. Her eyes lingered longer. And she didn’t stop herself — not tonight. Not with the liquor in her blood and the smoke in her lungs and the city vibrating beneath them like it was waiting for something to happen.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” she asked, voice low and lazy.

“What?” Paige tilted her head.

“That Saudi podium.” Azzi’s eyes flicked over Paige. “You, top step. Lights all purple. Drenched in champagne and looking like… I don’t know.”

Paige blinked. “Like what?”

Azzi shrugged, but it was the most deliberate shrug in history. “You looked… golden. Or something. Glowing. I was high when I watched the replay, though, so maybe I imagined it.”

Paige’s voice dropped just a bit. “You didn’t imagine it.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet.

But something pulsed between them now. Something thick and slow and impossible to name. The tension wasn’t rivalry. Wasn’t hostility. It was… a question. An inch of space. A dare waiting to be taken.

Azzi handed the joint back. Paige didn’t take it right away. Just looked at her. Then finally reached for it, her fingers brushing Azzi’s — hot, electric, brief.

Azzi felt that touch all the way down her spine.

“You ever think about what happens if we keep trading podiums like this?” Paige asked softly. “Like — if it’s just us the whole season?”

Azzi’s eyes locked on hers. “It’s already just us.”

The joint burned low between them, and Paige exhaled slow.

Azzi leaned her head against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. She didn’t move away when Paige shifted closer, legs brushing now. Not quite on purpose. Not quite by accident.

She didn’t speak again for a while.

She just sat there, drunk and high and golden-warm, listening to Paige breathe beside her.

She wasn’t resisting anything. Not tonight.

And that was the dangerous part.

The joint was just ash now, curled in the tray between them. The city still shimmered on the windows, golden and indifferent, but the room itself had gone quiet. Almost too quiet.

Paige was close. Closer than before. Her leg was still pressed to Azzi’s, and neither of them had moved in a while — not even a twitch. Just this steady, measured breathing that filled the space between them, too soft to be anything but intentional.

Azzi’s voice came a little rough, caught in the stillness like a hand brushing against silk. “You ever had a boyfriend?”

Paige turned her head slightly. Smiled, slow. “You already asked me that.”

It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t teasing — just a quiet reminder.

Azzi’s mouth quirked. “Right,” she murmured. “Guess I did.”

But she didn’t take it back.

And Paige didn’t ask why she’d brought it up again.

Instead, Paige leaned in the smallest amount — not enough to close the space, just enough to acknowledge it. To breathe the same air. “You tryna ask me something else?”

Azzi looked at her, and for once, didn’t retreat. “Maybe.”

Paige nodded once, slow and steady, like they weren’t on the edge of something sharp and irreversible. “Then ask.”

And god, maybe it was the weed or the tequila or the glow of the city playing tricks on her, but Azzi suddenly felt fourteen again, like she was back at some middle school sleepover daring herself to admit something she wasn’t ready to name.

But she wasn’t fourteen.

She was twenty-two. A two-time world champion. And she didn’t want to keep pretending she didn’t notice the way Paige looked in candlelight or how her voice always went low when she got serious or how their rivalry had always been a little too electric to be just about racing.

So Azzi asked — not with words, not really.

She just leaned in.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

Paige met her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks or thunder. It was quieter than that. Softer. A confirmation more than a confession. The kind of kiss that didn’t need buildup because everything before had already been foreplay — all the races and podiums and fights and those stupid lingering looks in the paddock.

It was slow. And warm. And easy in a way that made Azzi forget about Monaco or Spain or Austria. For one second, there wasn’t a championship or a car or a headline. Just Paige.

When they pulled apart, Paige’s forehead bumped gently against hers.

Azzi let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “So I take it you like girls.”

Paige smiled again — that same calm, crooked thing that made Azzi want to throw something and kiss her again all at once. “Told you already,” she said quietly. “You just weren’t listening.”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond, but Paige cut her off with a second kiss — surer this time. No maybes left.

When it ended, Azzi’s voice was almost a whisper. “So what now?”

Paige tilted her head, eyes still half-lidded, voice brushing Azzi’s jaw like velvet. “Now we go to Austria… and try not to crash into each other.”

Azzi grinned against her skin. “No promises.”

–

Austria was fast.

And Azzi loved fast.

There was something about the Red Bull Ring that felt like it had been designed by someone who understood her. The uphill sweep into Turn 1. The high-speed descent into the back straight. That perfect balance of aggression and grace. Austria let her show off — not just as a champion, but as someone who knew the edge of control better than anyone else.

It was free practice. The skies were clear, the car felt dialed in, and Azzi was singing through sectors like it was nothing. She liked this track. No, she thrived on this track. And for once, the Ferrari felt like it was really hers again. Like it was working with her, not against her.

Which was good. Because the radios were still a mess.

“Mateo,” she called, breath calm through the corners, “are we actually connected this time or am I talking to god again?”

“God would’ve told you to pit five laps ago,” her race engineer replied dryly. “You’re good, Az. We’ve got full coverage. Mic’s working.”

“Well hallelujah,” she muttered. “That’s already better than Miami.”

“You say that every weekend.”

“Yeah, and I’ll keep saying it until someone gives me a headset that doesn’t cut out the second I’m about to brake.”

There was a pause. Some quiet chatter on the backend of the pit wall. Then Mateo’s voice again. “Data looks good. Sector 2 especially. You’re flying.”

“Told you,” Azzi grinned. “Austria loves me.”

“Don’t get too cocky. It’s only practice.”

“I’m not cocky. I’m fast.” She downshifted into Turn 4 like the corner owed her money. “There’s a difference.”

Another pause. “How’s the balance?”

“Better. Still a little stiff on exit, but—” She stopped, squinting at the digital display flashing on her wheel. “Wait. Is Paige on track?”

There was an audible blink in Mateo’s silence. “…Yeah. She just went out.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

“Why?” he asked slowly.

“No reason.”

More silence.

Then: “Do you want her sector times?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Why would I want her sector times?”

Mateo hesitated. “Because you ask for them literally every practice?”

Azzi rolled her eyes so hard she nearly missed her braking point. “Whatever. I was just wondering if she was on track. Chill.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Azzi could feel the curiosity building on the other end of the radio, but Mateo wasn’t stupid. He didn’t push. Just clicked his mic and moved on.

“Anyway, you’re coming up on a Red Bull. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Azzi exhaled, sharp and focused again. “Copy.”

But the thing was—

She had asked about Paige one too many times.

And Mateo had definitely noticed.

What he hadn’t noticed was that Azzi hadn’t spoken to Paige since New York. Hell, Mateo didn’t know they’d even seen each other in New York.

Not a word. Not a text. Not even a glance on the flight in. Which maybe wouldn’t be weird if they hadn’t made out in Azzi’s living room while the Empire State Building lit the sky outside her windows.

But they had.

And now they were back to cars and silence and championship points.

Azzi braked late, leaned hard into the corner, and caught the tail of a Red Bull just before the turn-in. Easy work. Fast and clean.

Yeah. She was fine.

Totally fine.

And maybe later she’d ask Mateo to show her Paige’s telemetry just for “technical reasons.”

Totally technical.

–

Austria loved her. Azzi knew it in her bones. Qualifying was a perfect display of that.

It was the feeling in her chest when she opened up out of Turn 7, the way the car practically begged her to take more speed into the corners, the way the sky stretched wide and blue above the rolling hills of Spielberg like it had cleared itself just for her. The Red Bull Ring was smooth, brutal, honest. No tricks, no street circuit secrets — just pure speed. And Azzi was fast.

She was so fast.

Her hot lap was clean, relentless, the kind that comes from instinct not calculation. No traffic, no mistakes, no hesitation. Just her and the car and the roar of the track laid out beneath her like a dare.

As she crossed the line, her voice came easy over the radio. Breathless, a little proud. “That was a good one, yeah?”

Mateo’s voice crackled back with something flat but hiding a smile. “Yeah… good lap.”

She let herself exhale as the car eased into the cooldown lap, coasting down through the gears like the whole world was hers again. Not that she needed confirmation from Mateo — she knew that was fast — but it was nice to hear it.

Then, like lightning, something moved in her mirrors.

Or not in her mirrors.

Past her.

Paige.

The red Ferrari blurred by in a flash of speed that made Azzi’s jaw click shut. Paige was flying. Like she’d hit a slipstream only she could see. The engine note was perfect. High, tight, cutting through the air like it wanted blood.

Azzi’s grip on the wheel tightened by half a degree.

The Ferraris were fast on the straights. That much was obvious. But that fast? That wasn’t just the car.

She said nothing.

Mateo said nothing.

They didn’t have to.

The final runs came next. Azzi and Paige lined up in sequence, separated by barely ten seconds. Out laps were quiet, focused. Tyres warmed. Brakes dialed in. The sky over the circuit held a gold hue now, late afternoon light turning everything cinematic. Austria always felt like a movie.

The last lap was a weapon.

Azzi wielded it like one.

It was push-lap aggression and pedal-to-the-floor clarity. She nailed every apex, bled speed in all the right places, trusted the car so fully it was like they shared a pulse. She couldn’t see Paige ahead of her, but she could feel her. Somewhere out there, carving a line just as precise. Two Ferraris. No room for error. The ghost of Red Bull in the data screen.

As she crossed the line again, Mateo’s voice came back, louder this time. “1st. For now.”

Azzi didn’t ask for Paige’s time. She didn’t need to.

But then the live board updated.

1: Azzi Fudd

2: Paige Bueckers (+0.091)

She blinked. Not even a tenth between them. Paige had flown.

Back in the garage, the mood was light but wired. Mechanics bustled, tire blankets hissed, engineers gathered around screens like priests at an altar. Azzi climbed out of the car, yanked off her gloves, and checked her phone while Mateo reviewed telemetry.

And there it was.

Someone had posted a meme. A freeze-frame of Red Bull’s team principal looking like he’d just swallowed battery acid, overlaid with the caption:

“Red Bull Ring? Not anymore. Welcome to Ferrari World.”

Azzi smirked and double-tapped.

This was her track. Always had been.

But Paige… Paige was right there. Nipping at her heels. And if she was this fast here?

Azzi pulled her helmet off and ran a hand through her hair, skin still burning from the heat of the drive. She didn’t know if they’d talk before the race. Didn’t know what she’d say.

But one thing was clear.

Tomorrow, they were going to humiliate Red Bull.

And maybe — just maybe — each other.

–

It was a pretty race.

That was the only word Azzi had for it.

Not brutal. Not technical. Not desperate. Just fast. Smooth. Controlled. A ballet of apexes and throttle curves set to the music of the engines and the glint of the sun off red carbon fiber.

Spielberg gave them blue skies and perfect temperatures. No wind, no chaos, no variables. The kind of race that let you breathe through the straights and think through the corners. The kind that reminded Azzi why she loved it. Why she needed it.

From lights out, the Ferrari twins were untouchable.

Paige got the better launch, slicing into Turn 1 like she was born for it. Azzi stayed close, shadowing her through the first lap, reading every move, every lift, every millimeter of steering angle.

By Lap 7, she made the pass down the straight with DRS — textbook clean — and Paige didn’t fight it. Not yet. Not there.

But a few laps later, Paige took it back. Same corner, different line. She braked later, harder, but still smooth. Always smooth.

Back and forth they went.

No wheel banging. No dirty air tantrums. Just two of the best drivers in the world showing exactly what that looked like.

Red Bull couldn’t catch them. Not even close. Mercedes looked confused. McLaren hung around 5th like they’d forgotten how to climb. Somehow, both Williams drivers ended in the points. But Ferrari? Ferrari was painting lines across Austria like it was theirs.

And maybe it was.

By Lap 50, Azzi took the lead again — and this time, she held it.

The tires were still in a good window. No overheating. The car felt light, eager. She could feel how close Paige was behind, matching every sector, every turn-in, every breath. A second and a half at best. Nothing.

But Azzi didn’t flinch.

Not once.

She crossed the line and exhaled — a sharp, satisfied breath that sounded like relief and pride and ownership all at once.

Mateo’s voice came through her radio, beaming. “P1, Azzi. That’s a win.”

Then came Fred’s voice, warm and crackling but clear. “Beautiful job, both of you. Real racing. Proper Ferrari racing. Great points for the team.”

Azzi smiled into the sweat of her helmet.

And Paige?

Paige crossed a second and a half later, still fast, still right there. If she was annoyed, it didn’t show. She pulled alongside Azzi on the cool-down lap, gave the smallest nod. Respect. Approval. A quiet yeah, you got me.

After they parked the cars, when the helmets came off and the engineers swarmed, Azzi turned, expecting a pause. A beat. Maybe even another day of silence.

But Paige stepped forward and stuck out her hand.

They met in the middle with one of those classic teammate dap-hug combos — just a beat longer than strictly professional. Their first time doing it. No words, just shared breath and hot skin and adrenaline still buzzing in both their veins.

Fred came over, clapped them both on the shoulder, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Because maybe he had.

They’d gone 1–2 in Austria. On Red Bull’s turf.

Clean. Fast. Beautiful.

And for the first time in this increasingly tangled championship fight, Azzi wasn’t just racing against Paige.

She was racing with her.

–

The post-race debrief room was too bright, too cold, and way too full of old men who hadn’t touched a steering wheel in years.

Azzi slouched a little in her seat, arms crossed, still in her race suit with the sleeves tied around her waist. Paige sat a few chairs down, sipping water and tapping her foot against the tile floor. The high from the Austria win hadn’t worn off, not really — but it was already being buried under media directives, sponsor guidelines, and the endless grind of image control.

Fred Vasseur stood near the door, not speaking. Just watching.

It was the PR team that ran this show.

“We want to build a dual narrative,” one of them said, gesturing toward a sleek slideshow that none of the drivers were actually watching. “Two champions, one team. The key is in balance. Equal exposure. Shared press. Cohesion.”

Azzi blinked. That last word sounded like a threat.

“We also think less ambiguity between you two would be good for the public,” another PR rep chimed in, glancing toward Paige. “You’ve both been… intense. In interviews. Online.”

Paige didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow like she was waiting for them to get to the point.

“We’re not saying don’t compete,” the woman clarified. “We’re saying show unity. Respect. Mutual support. The fans love a duo dynamic. We want to lean into that.”

Azzi felt her jaw tighten. “So we’re supposed to be a brand now.”

The room went quiet for half a second too long.

“Well—” a third person finally said, smiling too much, “—you are Ferrari.”

Fred didn’t stop them. He just kept watching.

There were notes about what to wear in certain press appearances. How many mentions of each other were “ideal” for interviews. Even brand-approved phrases: It’s always about the team. We push each other. We race hard but fair.

Azzi tuned most of it out.

By the time the meeting ended, she had half a headache and a full tank of irritation. The PR team filed out quickly, chatting about logistics and fan events and Monaco footage still trending. Paige lingered in her seat a beat longer, arms on her knees, staring at the floor.

Azzi stood. “You good?”

Paige looked up. “Yeah.”

The room was emptying. Fred had already disappeared somewhere, probably to make peace with a sponsor or shut down another Red Bull rumor.

Azzi walked over, thumb hooked into her waistband. “Wanna get some air?”

Paige nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

They didn’t talk until they were out in the hallway, walking side by side past team offices and winding corridors. Eventually, they found a spot near the back lot — quiet, shaded, warm from the summer heat still lingering in the concrete.

For a minute, neither of them said anything.

Then Paige broke the silence. “That meeting was bullshit.”

Azzi snorted. “Total bullshit.”

“They want us to be a duo, but only if it looks how they want it to.”

“Like a tag team with no heat,” Azzi said. “No edge. Just smiles and synergy.”

Paige leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “You think they know what happened in New York?”

Azzi looked at her. “Do you?”

That got a real smile out of Paige — lopsided, dangerous. “Nope.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Azzi chewed on the edge of her thumbnail. “You were good today. Clean. Fast.”

“You too,” Paige said. “Didn’t miss a beat.”

Azzi looked at her for a second longer than she should have, then dropped her eyes. “Cool.”

Paige shifted on her feet. “So… are we good?”

Azzi hesitated. The weight of that question wasn’t just about the race. Or the meeting. Or even New York.

But she nodded. “We’re good.”

There was a pause.

Then Paige reached over, just briefly, and tapped her knuckles against Azzi’s wrist and walked away.

Not a handshake. Not a hug. Just something in between.

A little contact. A little understanding. A little we’ll figure it out

[just-some-random-blogger]

Bruhhh I can't believe I haven't responded to this when this lives in my head rent free sama talaga ng ugali ko Minsan eh 😭💔

First of all, kailangan mong malaman na binabasa ko ito pauwi ss trabaho tas yung katabi ko sa jeep was like 🤨😒🫩 habang humihiyaw ako sa tawa HAAHAHAHA LOL okay mej oa yung hiyaw pero HAHA DI KO TALAGA MAPIGIL TUWA KK WHAT IF HALIKAN KITAAAAASAA 🥰🥰🥰😫😫😫. Second of all, going through this again is really motivating me to finish the next part 😤✊ RAHHH

I'm so happy you like the Harwin-Rhaenyra subplot they really do be just having their moment while daemon and YN are going through it 🤣😭

AND GWAYNE AND YN TWININIM PLOTLINE 🥺😫💔 I LOVE THEM AND IM GLAD YOU LOVE THEM TOO BECAUSE ITS GONNA BE IMPORTANT IN THE NEXT PART

Opp— 🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️

Servant snitching HAHAAHAH. Yeah Otto on his last straw. He's gonna snap soon. Fr. I honestly love it when control freaks slowly have the control taken from them and they start to spiral. MMMM DELICIOUS.

AND THE PICS OF HOW YOU IMAGINE DAEMON REACTED HAHAAHAH BBB HAHAHHAAHHAHAHAHAHA ITS SO GOOD SO FUNNY HAHAHAHA GAGO HES SO haha miss you coded fr HAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA JEJEMON AMP HAHAHAAAHAHAHAH DAEMON JEJEMON CONFIRMED HAHAAHA I WISH MY NON FILIPINO READERS UNDERSTOOD HOW FUCKING FUNNY THIS IS HAHAHAHHAH

Fuck— here we go.... I swear I will personally deliver a wheelchair and nebulizer for her, LMAO

WHEELCHAIR AND NEBULIZER HAD ME GAGGEDDD HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA FUNNYYYY HAHAHAH

And you're so right RHAENYRA IS A DIVAVAAAAAA

Aegon loving YN so much is so important to me because alicent is like spiraling over motherhood (and I do not blame her at all her baby daddy is a casually decaying corpse mama) so YN is the calm for him and 💔💔💔💔

Caraxes will get better 😤✊💯💯

DAEMON JUST FINALLY BREAKING DOWN IS SO IMPORTANT FR. YOU DONT EVEN KNOW AHHH I NEED TO FINISH THE NECT PARTTTT. The pictures you added of lovers hugging is REALLY SO THEM. I was imagining the images you added in your reblog before when I wrote this scene 🥺🫶 you're an influencer to me. I'm SOOOO happy you like the longinggg 🥺🥺 it's soooo important frrr PLEASE IM SO HYPED TO FINISH THE NEXT CHAPTER UGHHH I LOVE YOU MUCH

AND THE LAST PIC 😭😭😭😭🫦😭

YOU SHOULD SEE THE NEXT CHAPTER HHAHHAHAHAHAH

MAHAL NA MAHAL KITA MAHAL PRAMIS BINASA KO ITO AGAD I JUST HAVE TO MENTALLY PSYCH MYSELF UP FOR REPLYING WHICH IS WHY IT TAKES SO LONG 😭😭😭😭

Tormented Spirit | 21

Part 1 [...] 20 21 22

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, hurt no comfort, ,mild smut, emotional constipation, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: if you voted on the poll, HAHAHAH. also realized hobert hightower is lord of oldtown and has a son named ormund so canonically, gwayne is not heir to oldtown... anyway gwayne is ig just waiting for his uncle to die here LMAO. i found out about moonblooms on the asoif wiki, but it didnt say anything about it so shhh just roll with my lore bout it ok. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @astrogirl01

"Good morn, my princess," says Break Bones as he enters Rhaenyra's chambers.

Rhaenyra, who had her servants attending to her, turns to him from her vanity, "Ser Harwin."

She dismisses her servants and comes to a stand. She smiles, linking her hands together. Harwin's gaze falls upon her belly.

Rhaenyra notices and steps closer, rubbing the bump that was not so apparent yet in her frock, "would you like to feel?"

Harwin nods. He places a gentle hand upon her, rubbing the area with utmost reverence. Joy makes his heart thump. His mouth curves upward, "the child is blessed to have a mother like you."

The princess feels a tingling within her. She kisses him, quick and chaste.

Harwin does not dare deny her and meets her lips with as much warmth as he could muster. He wants nothing more than to worship her with his love, but he steels himself and steps back the moment she pulls away.

Rhaenyra places her hands on her belly, "I'm terribly hungry."

He nods, offering his arm, "I've already had the servants prepare your meal. Ser Laenor awaits you in the solar."

As two saunter down the hall, Harwin takes the opportunity to give her the letter addressed to her.

Rhaenyra takes the folded parchment and raises a brow at dragon emblem, "when did this arrive?"

"Late last night."

She scoffs, breaking the seal, "I bet my uncle asks me for another favor," she shakes her head, "why he does not simply write to his wife, I do not know."

The princess begins to read the letter in penned in High Valyrian.

ℜ𝔥𝔞𝔢𝔫𝔶𝔯𝔞, ℑ𝔱 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔠𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔫𝔢𝔴𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔶 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔞. ℑ 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔰 𝔞 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱. ℑ 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔠𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔥𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔲𝔦𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩. ℑ 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔰𝔰 ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶, 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯.

Her brows furrow at the next part she reads.

ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔰𝔨 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔢𝔩 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔦𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔢, 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢. 𝔑𝔬𝔯𝔳𝔬𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔢𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔠𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔳𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔓𝔢��𝔱𝔬𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔞𝔫 𝔢𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢. 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫.

She stops in her tracks. Harwin pauses beside her, eyes attentive. Rhaenyra looks at him, "has he or has he not written to Lady Hightower?"

"Daemon?" Harwin thinks for a moment and shrugs, "as far as I know and what you've told me, he has left her waiting in silence."

Rhaenyra turns back to the paper and translates a line for him, "I will not ask you to compel her to respond to me-" she looks back at him, "- has he been writing letters and has she been ignoring them?"

"I..." he shakes his head in disagreement, "have not known the princess to be nearly as petty or meanspirited."

Rhaenyra's brows furrow in silent agreement.

"Erryk Cargyll has mentioned to me how her health has slowly met another decline since her husband's leave."

She motions vaguely, "I do not believe she could stand storing his letters away without reading them either."

"Perhaps his letters have gotten lost as they were delivered."

"Mmm," Rhaenyra hums in disbelief as she begins walking again, "I would believe it if I believed Daemon only wrote to her once. You may argue he's not a man of many words but he is undeniably a man of action."

Laenor comes to a stand when his wife enters the room. "Good morn, my dear," he smiles and reaches for her hand. He kisses her cheek and notices Harwin's entrance. "Mmm, a very good morning, it seems."

Rhaenyra does not react to her husband's teasing remark.

Laenor only then realizes she looked rather distressed, "everything alright?"

She says your name. It makes him stiffen. The princess leans into him, "you saw her yesterday, did you not?"

"Briefly," the prince sighs, "she was rather forlorn and reserved yesternight. Her explained she's become languorous in anticipation of her nameday."

"When is her nameday?"

He makes a face, "today."

"Today?!" her expression falls, "why— is there nothing planned for her? I hear no bustle of servants at all."

"She says she wants for nothing than to sleep. It has become difficult for her to."

Rhaenyra shakes her head and hands him the letter, "konir sagon daor sȳz." That's no good.

Laenor's brow quirks at the parchment. His eyes widen when he sees the broken seal, "Daemon?"

She nods.

He reads the letter, finding himself scoffing, "mazverdagon zirȳla naejot udligon? Hae lo ēza bardugon naejot zirȳla." Compel her to respond? As if he has written to her.

"But he clearly means to say he has," Rhaenyra gestures, "emagon ao mirre known zirȳla naejot nektogon zȳhon udra?" Have you ever known him to mince his words?

"Pār skoriot issi se rūniapos?" Laenor shrugs. Then where are the letters.

"Pār skoriot issi se rūniapos?" she repeats, emphasizing 'where'.

Across Westeros, an altogether separate letter has finally reached the heir of Oldtown. Gwayne has much to do today, as is planned in his honor. His uncle has set a hunt at noon and his friends have traveled to the city to share drinks after. The day bears festivities he is most excited to participate in, but the waxen sigil of House Targaryen, still unbroken upon his note, has evoked languishment.

He decides to break his fast before reading, as he knows he will not be able to stomach anything else after. Every soul he passes greets him and wishes him well. With every thank you he speaks in response, he feels as though the letter from his sister grows heavier in his breast pocket.

Gwayne consumes only half his meal. He cannot stand to keep himself in suspense any longer.

𝔐𝔶 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔫, ℑ 𝔟𝔦𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞 𝔧𝔬𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔡𝔞𝔶. 𝔐𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔡𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔡𝔬𝔪, 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔳𝔢. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔲𝔩, 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯. 𝔐𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔠𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔩𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔢'𝔳𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔠𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰, 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔫𝔢. ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔦𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 ℑ 𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔬𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔬𝔴𝔫, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔢. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔰𝔬 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔩𝔶, 𝔪𝔶 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩, ℑ 𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔶, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯. 𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔡��𝔢𝔰, 𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔬, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 ℑ 𝔡𝔬... 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔭— ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔰𝔞𝔡𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔲𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔥. 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔐𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔯, 𝔡𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔖𝔪𝔦𝔱𝔥, 𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔐𝔞𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫, 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔢, 𝔢𝔫𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯, 𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔖𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔊𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔫𝔢. 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔫.

"Milord?"

Gwayne sniffles as he lifts his gaze. He scratches his eyes and clears his throat. He offers the servant a soft smile, "good morrow."

"Good morrow," she beams and curtsies. She, just as everyone else, was deeply infatuated by him. She links her hands together, "the cooks wish to ask if you will be serving cake at the ball this eve?"

He folds his letter, "orange cake only."

Her brow furrows, "but do you not prefer blackberries, milord?"

"I do," he nods and drinks some tea.

The girl thinks for a moment. The next, her brows are up, "ah..." she rubs her hands, "is for a lady?"

Gwayne stares at her.

"I hear many are attending the ball in hopes of becoming the future Lady Hightower," she attempts to contain her giggle, "I see she does love oranges."

The thought this girl no longer knows of you pricks his heart like a needle, "tis not a future but a past Lady Hightower that loves oranges. My twin, who is now a princess of House Targaryen."

The girl stiffens.

"You would have loved her. She has wished to meet the future Lady Hightower longer than all else..." he stops, recalling how you would find joy in imagining Gwayne's wedding on days you were most sick, "myself included."

Gwayne comes to an abrupt stand after, his appetite far beyond him now.

He goes to the gardens where pinkish Moonblooms quiver under sunlight, their petals adamantly closed, wanting only spread to spread beneath the radiance of the moon. They were your most favorite.

Gwayne he reaches for a flower as a recalls a distant memory. He was rather coldhearted when you were much younger, not liking that he had to share most things with you. He recalls plucking the Moonbloom you were smelling only to trample it with his heel.

Though tears found your eyes so oft now, you did not cry when he had done this. In fact, you exacted equal violence upon him as he did the blossom. How easy it was for you to tackle him then and beat him brown and blue. Father came soon after, shouting with a raised ruler.

Each nameday he's thus celebrated alone, Gwayne reminisces over such memories. He's sent you Moonblooms many times over, on your nameday and not, so you could have a piece of home where you now live. They refuse to grow in your garden however. The plant barely manages the travel to King's Landing to begin with, and the climate there too warm. This is why the Lord Hand brought in pink roses for you.

He sighs as he gazes upon the flora, realizing they were so much like you— beautiful and unable to flourish in the city of dragons.

"Milord Gwayne."

Gwayne turns to the man who bows at him.

"Lord 'obert is 'ere."

He nods and points, "make sure to have moonblooms out in the ball later tonight."

The servant nods as Gwayne passes him.

For all of his honors, he honored you with this ball. Oldtown might forget its heir celebrates the day with his sister, but your twin will never forget all his days have been lived in tandem.

If treatment of others was the basis of genetics, one would never think Gwayne was son to Otto. Though the senior Hightower was not outright cruel, he was always rather stern and impatient. True, he was required much as the King's Hand and it surely helped his temper be what it was; still, it was a wonder any of his children were temperate at all.

Even now, as the old man looks up from the papers on his desk, his voice is hard, "enter."

A servant comes in and curtsies, "milord Hand."

Recognizing her, Otto straightens up and tilts his head, "come," he point to the side of his chair, "close."

The servant curtsies again, head lowered as she makes his way towards his desk. To her, the air felt thicker the closer she got She daren't look at him and clears her throat before whispering, "it is the princess, milord."

"Princess?"

"... your daughter."

"Is it grave?"

She shakes her head rapidly.

Otto looks back at his papers and begins flitting through them, "continue."

"She has left the Keep again... with her wards."

He sighs, leaning an elbow on his table, resting his head heavy on it.

"I did not see it myself, milord, but the others say they... swam together... undressed."

"Do you know where they swam?" Otto turns back to her, irritated by the empty speculation.

She shakes her head rapidly, "n-no, milo-"

"Then if that's all, go," he points to the door, turning back to his ledgers.

The girl curtsies with fidgeting hands, curtsying again before running out the door. She was so frightened she forgot there was something else that she had to say.

When she has the nerve to come back, the servant finds in the hallway, "m-milord."

Otto barely spares her a glance as she runs up to his side. "Yes?" he drags out with disinterest.

She sharply tries to catch her breath, "the gate-" huff, "- many letters and parcels have arrived for princess H-"

"What?" Otto stops.

She gasps as she comes to a halt.

"For my daughter?" he narrows his eyes.

She gulps and nods.

"Well, if it is for her, then you know it passes through my office first."

She clenches her jaw, "y— y-yes-"

"Then why are we having this conversation? Why are the letters at the gate?"

"The-" she shakes her head, "the guards were unsure of sending the parcels along with them, which is why they kept them all—"

"Where are the parcels from?" Otto raises a hand.

The servant stares at him, not knowing what to say, as they were sent from far and wide.

"Well?!"

She shakes her head, "e-eh many... are from her lady-friends in Oldtown."

He furrows his brows, "what?"

"Eh— ... Ser Gwayne has sent Moonblooms for her again."

His face falls and his hand comes to his forehead. It came together then. The parcels were presents and today was your nameday. He wipes his beard, "Seven be good."

He had forgotten. He nearly sprints to the gate.

When he arrives, his heart leaps into his throat when he sees you there already sorting through the deliverables with the Velaryons. One of your wards is also present, and he immediately makes his approach know by greeting him, "Lord Hand."

Otto grits his teeth, ignoring him, eyes fixed on you, "daughter."

Laenor grips your arm and Rhaenyra comes before the old man, lips pursed but expression otherwise blank.

You turn from the pile of letters in your hand to your father. You tense under his gaze but manage the faintest of smiles, "my lord."

"You are awake. I-"

"It's not that early," Rhaenyra interrupts.

Otto turns to her.

She offers him an innocent smile, rubbing her belly for effect.

You notice your father's jaw feather. He turns back to you and pulls a smile, "blessed nameday, my girl. When will you and your sister go to the temple to pray? I should like to join you."

Laenor watches him shift where he stands. He notices the way Otto's eyes flicker over to your letters ever so subtly.

"Ah," you shake your head, "she had morning sickness today. I doubt she would like to leave her chambers at all."

"What does she plan to do with you today then?"

You lower your gaze.

Otto notices and steps forward.

"I think she may have forgotten it is my nameday. She is so-" your words end with a gasp.

Otto tenses.

Rhaenyra whips her head to you, "what is it?"

You tremble as you pick a letter from the pile. Laenor sees the red waxen seal, instantly recognizing the emblem. He flinches when you drop the other letters, and tries to catch them. He picks up what he does not.

Otto gulps when you open the letter, its seal falling to the floor. Though his sight was not as it was before, he knew the wax was marked with a dragon, not because he could see it, but because your eyes instantly watered as you began to read.

He calls out your name when you start panting.

Laenor gasps yet again, his effort of picking your letters for naught, as they all fall you topple on your place.

Rhaenyra calls for you next, and it is then your ward is alerted. Erryk turns to you, now on high alert.

The princess pushes past your father, taking your hand, preventing him from coming any nearer, "what's wrong? Do you—"

"He thinks I hate him." you inhale sharply, feeling your chest was about to collapse into itself. The letter grows heavy in your shaky hold and your eyes blur with tears. Your voice is incredibly faint, "I- I did not ignore him- I—"

Yet Otto hears it. He stiffens, "has he accused you of ignoring h-"

"Cargyll!" Rhaenyra barks, cutting your father off.

Erryk circles over, "princess?"

"Bring her to her chambers at once," orders she.

Laenor panics when your legs begin to give in and he struggles to keep you upright. He is next to call your name.

Erryk does not speak but he pushes towards you and sweeps you into his arms.

Otto grits his teeth, "she needs a maester!"

"She does," Rhaenyra snaps as your ward walks away with you, "go send for one to my aunt's room immediately."

Otto nearly scoffs in disbelief, "she s-"

"No, no," she raises a finger, "it is a command." She then walks off with her husband.

Aegon is outside your door when Erryk comes speeding with you in his arms. At first, he was excited, and raised his toy in the air, then he was still when he was ignored by the knight.

The boy follows and stands at the foot of your bed, "auntie?"

Erryk turns, tensing at the sight of the young prince, "Aegon." He makes sure to set your limp body properly on your bed before marching towards the approaching boy. He prevents him from coming any closer, and urges him to the door, "go back to your room."

"But," he looks up at him, "it's aunt's nameday and I brought her a gift," he raises the toy.

Erryk nods, "she is tired, prince. Sh-"

"But you said that yesterday!"

Before Erryk can reply, Rhaenyra and Leanor walk in. The latter comes up to you, whereas the former freezes in front of her father's spawn. She takes a breath, "take him to his room."

The knight nods.

"But my gift!" Aegon raises the gift.

Rhaenyra watches them wrangle then walks over with a sighs, "I'll give it to her when she-"

"NO!" he cradles it tightly to his chest. He shakes his head, "I want to give it!"

She clenches her teeth, thoroughly vexed by his rotten reaction, "if that is so, you will have to wait until she is awake."

Aegon's nostrils begin to flare and his eyes begin to water.

Her stomach twists as the boy scratches his eyes. What manipulative ploy.

"Is she going to die?" his voice wobbles.

Erryk and Rhaenyra's faces fall. The latter quips, "what?"

"She's sick," the boy mutters.

Erryk kneels down, "hush, my prince. Your aunt is not going to die."

Rhaenyra watches Aegon begin to weep into the knight's chest. She hears him wail, "but Caraxes is going to die."

"Says who?" she blurts.

"The keepers..." he sniffles, "I heard them sister," he looks back.

She does not appreciate the term at all.

"Issa jāre naejot morghūljagon lo Daemon gaomas daor māzigon aderī." He is going to die if Daemon does not arrive soon.

Rhaenyra's brows raise. Her voice is less harsh now, "vestis bona?" They said that?

"Kepa geptot naejot dohaeragon caraxes, yn daorys geptot syt muña," Aegon scratches his eyes. (Paternal) uncle left to help Caraxes, but no one left for (maternal) aunt.

In this moment, Rhaenyra realizes, finally, the small thing was a mere innocent child. She frowns and offers her hand, "would you like to wait for her wake with me?"

Aegon immediately nods and takes her hand.

No matter how sweet the gesture, it was pointless, for you do not wake.

𝔐𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔤𝔫𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫… 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔪𝔢? ℑ 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯 ℑ 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔰𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥, ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔫 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔱. 𝔇𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 ℑ 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢. ℑ 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔓𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔰𝔥𝔦 𝔫𝔬𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬'𝔰 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔢 𝔞 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔞'𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔴 𝔟𝔢 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪𝔰 𝔰𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔞𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢, 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶, 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔥, 𝔰𝔬 𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔯. ℌ𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔶𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔶, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔞 𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫, 𝔦𝔣 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱. ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔥𝔶 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 ��𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔰𝔢, ℑ 𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔩, 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔯𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔯 ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔰 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫. 𝔗𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢. ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫, 𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔪 ℑ 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢. 𝔐𝔶 𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔢𝔞 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱. ℑ 𝔱𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔭𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 ℑ 𝔩𝔦𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡. 𝔗𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔢. 𝔓𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔱𝔢.

A fortnight passes. Exactly on that night, Daemon arrives. He is breathless when he gets to the pit. Caraxes doesn't even more when he touches his uncharacteristically cold snout. He immediately procures the pepper balm and begins to shove his dragon awake.

"Māzigon, valītsos. Iksan kesīr sir, ipradagon." Come, boy. I am here now, eat.

Daemon does not let the dragon's unresponsiveness concern him and only shakes him harder. Soon, he begins to break a sweat, literally and figuratively.

"Caraxes."

The dragon's head turns, only because Daemon has forced it to.

The prince begins to feel his heart pound and eyes water, "ñuha raqiros. Iksan kesīr sir. Gaomagon daor sagon hae bisa." My friend. I am here now. Do not be like this.

Daemon procures the herb he had toiled over, gripping it tightly in hand, "ipradagon bisa ysartia se sagon sȳrkta. Nyke jorepagon ao." Eat this pepper balm and be better. I beg you."

He tries to force the handful into the beast's jaw, but it's pointless as his teeth are clamped shut. He tries to push his fist against the fleshy corner of his mouth.

Caraxes finally makes a sound. A pained one at that.

Daemon takes a sharp breath of relief, "māzigon va, Caraxes. Ipradagon." He rubs his snout. Come on, Caraxes. Eat.

The blood wyrm reluctantly opens his mouth. Daemon quickly feeds the pepper balm to him and strokes the side of his face. "Good," he sighs, "bisa kessa mirre. Kessa." This will work. It will.

He only lets himself feel a sliver of relief when he sees the dragon swallow. Caraxes makes another pained sound. It brings him to tears. He embraces him, "I'm sorry," he rubs his cracking scales, "I'm here now."

Caraxes leans into him.

Daemon is equally reluctant to leave Caraxes but eager to so to find you. He leaves the pit when a keeper comes to see to his mount.

There is an eerie silence in the halls. He tells himself it only is because it is the hour of the wolf, but finds dread building tightly in his stomach the closer he gets to your chambers. He is mentally prepared to face your wards but he is grateful to see neither Cargyll porched out your door.

He calls out your name almost involuntarily as he walks inside the dark room. He slowly makes his way to your bed. He gazes upon your form and reaches out. His eyes widen when he realizes there was no one there. He lights a candle.

The room is empty. He takes a breath, telling himself not to jump to conclusions.

Daemon goes to the nursery. The door opens with a creak and he slowly walks in. There is a light on the bedside table, thus why he easily finds Aegon curled in an odd position. The boy looked bigger now, as did his sister Helaena, sleeping on the bed beside his. He leaves the room.

He looks for you in the gardens, in the library, in the godswood, and he finds only that his heart quickens more and more each place. He is loath to go to the temple, but even there he goes, and finds nothing but silent gods.

He is erratic when he gets back to the Keep. He is greeted by the nightguard stationed at the gate. He stops, ready to ask him about you, but fear hooks his tongue down. He realizes then he does not want to hear of you from a guard.

The next moment, Daemon is banging on Alicent's door. He pulls away from the door when he hears a baby wailing. It takes a long moment before the door opens.

"What is ha-" Alicent, exhausted looking, babe in arm, freezes when she sees him. "D... Daemon?"

He is already in tears, "I cannot find her."

If the baby wailing in her arms was not enough to wake her, the sight of the Rogue Prince falling apart in front of her was. The remnants of the sleep she had just found flees her wholly.

Daemon leans his face into his hands as a weary sob slips past his lips, "I cannot- I looked for her everywhere."

The babe baby cries a little louder. She turns to her newborn, "shh... Aemond—"

He says something incoherent.

Alicent looks back at him.

Daemon sniffles and wipes his face. He shakes his head, "is she dead?"

Aemond shrieks so loud it makes his mother flinch.

Daemon pulls his head back. The child is miserable and so was she. He feels bad. He mutters, "I did not know you gave birth again."

Alicent does not hear him, as Aemond is too loud. She goes back inside and tries to soothe him by rocking him in her arms.

Daemon stands outside her door, unsure of what to do with himself.

A few moments later, Alicent remembers Daemon. She looks at him, "come in! I mean-" she shakes her head, then turns back to Aemond.

Daemon reluctantly walks in.

Alicent turns her back and decides to breastfeed. Aemond immediately latches and calms.

Daemon looks around the room, wishing you'd somehow appear.

"She's not dead."

He freezes.

"She's probably in the temple if she's not in her chambers."

She gets no response. Alicent is so focused on nursing her child she does not realize it was so until she turns. Again, she is shocked as is now curled on the floor.

"Daemon!" she gasps.

He is face down, sobbing on his knees.

Alicent walks over, perturbed by the looks of him. She figures he is in deep desperation and racks her brain on whereabout you might be. She shakes her head, "I've known her to go out for a late night swim. Perhaps she-" she stops herself, realizing what she was about to say next.

He lifts his head, "with her wards?"

She clenches her teeth and begins to rock Aemond, for both her babe's and her own sake. She slowly walks to the cot.

"Do you know where she swims?"

Her heart races at the question. She does not know if she should say.

Sensing her trepidation, Daemon shakes his head, "please," he comes to a stand, "I have to see her."

Alicent manages to bring Aemond back into his cot.

"I need to see her."

Alicent fixes her robe before turning back to him. She cannot help the gasp that leaves her when her good-brother squeezes her arms. It was not meant in aggression, he could tell by the franticness of his gaze, yet all the same it brings a shiver down her spine. The queen nods, "I will bring her here."

His heart leaps into his mouth, "you-"

"Watch Aemond."

Daemon is caught off-guard when Alicent walks off. He is stunned by the request and slowly walks over to this Aemond.

The boy is tiny. He looks bald and eyebrowless, but he knew that his silver hair was merely translucent. He stirred ever so slightly, and it led Daemon to believe he won't be falling into a deep slumber any time soon.

He does not know how long he stands in front of the cot, but he does know it was long enough that he had to sit down. He realizes then, he was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, notably in your arms, against your bosom. He hadn't realized he began to doze off until Aemond begins to wail.

Daemon stands and stares at the child. He cannot breastfeed him to slumber! The small thing flails his arms around.

He reluctantly reaches for him and begins to rock him. He shushes him and rubs his cheek. He walks around the room, bouncing Aemond gently, but all it seems to do absolutely nothing.

In the end, he sits back down on the floor in front of the boy's cot, resigning to the fact he will not get him to calm down. Ironically, Aemond's wailing gradually dampens to a halt.

The prince's eyes are heavy as he gazes upon his nephew. He sniffles as the babe yawns, "is this what it's like to be a father?"

Before he knew it, Daemon's thumb was tracing his tiny nose and tears were finding his way back to his eyes, but not of sadness... of joy.

He thinks of you.

He thinks this must be what you felt when you met Aegon. He wipes his tears on his shoulder, "I understand now."

Daemon's gaze turns to the door when it opens.

"Daemon?"

His heart leaps into his throat. That was unmistakably your voice. He slowly comes to a stand, wanting to speak your name in response, but suddenly unable to make a sound.

Two figures walk in. He recognizes Alicent first, and stiffens at her concerned expression. She reaches for Aemond and he sheepishly mutters, "he began to fuss, I-"

Alicent walks away with her babe and Daemon freezes when he sees you.

Even in the dimness of the room, you could recognize how distraught he looked, and he could see your hair was wet. Your eyes water as you reach for him, "Daemon."

He shudders when your icy fingers brush his tear soaked cheek. Before you could say another word, he pulls you into a tight embrace.

You had gone swimming, and though the water in the lake was cold at this hour, it still rendered you calm. The truth was, you could not sleep and went for a swim on your own. You hadn't done so in a while, and you realize now it was the gods' will, to prepare you for your husband's return.

Daemon buries his head into your neck as he locks you against him. He was intent on warming your form and melting your ribs into each other. He feels a sob creep up on him.

You brush your hand against his back and muffle against him, "you're here."

He rubs his nose into your skin.

"Have you given Caraxes his medicine?"

He nods against you, kissing your skin, "I wish to sleep."

You try to pull away, but he does not release you. You grunt, "alright. Let's go back to our chambers."

"I will not release you," he leans into you, feeling exhaustion begin to weigh his body down.

"You do not need to," you slowly push him off, "but we must walk back to our room."

Daemon has no fight left in him. He loosens his hold just enough that you can stand beside him with his arm over your shoulder. You offer a smile to your sister as you bring your arm around Daemon's back. Alicent smiles in return at you as you leave.

The walk to your chambers is sluggardly yet hurried. Daemon can't seem to decide if he wants to break into a sprint or just crash into the floor with you. He insists on resting his forehead on you. You rub his chest, "just a bit more, my love. The walk is not that far."

"My love," he repeats in the lowest of voices, "am I your love?"

You do not hear him.

When finally make it to your bedroom, another wave of exhaustion weighs Daemon down. He crashes into the bed once he is near, tears pricking his violet eyes yet again with just how relieved he was to finally be here with you.

He wipes his face as the knot in his back unfurls at the feel of the downy blanket beneath him. He turns to you and sits up in a panic when he finds you weren't directly beside him.

You were merely getting the both of you clothes to change into, yet twas paramount for Daemon to be by your side. You say nothing as he comes behind you, gripping your skirt. You notice it once you turn to him and frown, "you need a change of clothes."

Daemon nods and immediately takes the clothes from you. You, yourself, change as well. He changes as if he was in a race, and kicks all his worn garments to the side. When he sees you slightly struggle, he helps you, The slivers of skin he manages to behold halfway through your changing washes half his sleepiness away.

Before you could thank him for his help, he has you locked in his arms again, head buried into your neck. You whimper as he pushes you into bed. Neither of you react as he pulls you atop him as he falls back into the sheets.

Daemon positions you like a blanket but embraces you like a pillow. He breathes you in as he feels your body. He is so overcome, he does not notice you had been doing the same thing until you take his cheek. He grits his teeth, anticipating you telling him to stop.

You gaze upon his face, trying to discern if something changed with him while he was gone.

He is self-conscious beneath your gaze. His lips part to speak some sort of defense, but he does not know how to defend himself from you.

You comb his hair back, "your hair is longer now."

His stomach drops at the sentiment, at the fact you noticed, at the fact you were keeping track. He brings his hand to your nape, gently tugging at the roots of your hair.

You stare at each other for what feels like a hour and a second all at once.

You notices the slowness of his blinking. Your brows furrow and your lips pull down into a pout, "go to sleep," you pat his shoulder, "you are exhausted."

"No," he squeezes your hip, "I am in love with you."

You are dumbfounded. You don't know if you should laugh or cry. You do neither and simply kiss him.

He does not hesitate. The moment your lips are on his, he comes alive. He pushes you into him from your hips as he attempts to show how deep his need for you is with his mouth.

The whimper that leaves you between kisses makes his loins burn. He reaches for your thighs, tugging at your clothes until he could feel your bare skin. He helplessly groans against you when his fingers find the softness of the back of your leg. You feel yourself get worked up at his ministrations.

You pull away, breath hitching at the sight of him chasing after you.

Daemon gulps as you look down on him.

You sigh and place your hands on the sides of his neck, "it's too late for this."

He pants, throwing his head back in thought, "...you mean... too soon," he looks back at you, "I can work for it," he tucks hair behind your ear, "please let me."

Your brows knit. You shake your head, "you have just returned from Essos. You can barely open your eyes. You are exhausted."

"In need of you is what I am," he strokes your jaw.

"You wrote to me that you were sleepless."

He freezes. He is in disbelief, "... you read my letters?"

"Letter," you suck in a breath, "I received only one... the one where you said I hated you. I replied to it as well, but it seems you did not get it."

Daemon's brows knit. He shakes his head, "what... what was your reply?"

"That it is not in my desire to torment you."

His throat tightens, "I know I-"

"That I do not hate you."

He perks.

You notice.

"Y-you don't?" he chokes up

You shake your head, "I would not have missed you so greatly if I loved you less."

He call out your name. You brush your thumb on his wobbly lips.

There is no more hesitation left in him. He kisses you with confidence, confidence he had lost and which was replaced by feverish yearning. The Rogue Prince is awakened, and he was dying to have his way.

Daemon flips you over, unabashedly moaning as he pushes himself between your thighs. He grips the fleshy area for dear life as he dares to nip your lip.

The sound you make in response to his grinding hips nearly makes him finish in his pants. He whines when you break from his kiss.

"Daemon," you grip his shoulder, "we ought to sleep."

"And we will," he nips your ear, "after I spill my love in you."

Your breath catches in your throat.

He kisses you hungrily, "please," he whines the same word in High Valyrian, "kostilus."

"Will you not overexert yourself?"

His belly rumbles, "I will happily die once I feel your cunt around my cock."

"Daemon!"

He groans, "please-"

"I'm being serious."

"And you believe I jest?"

"I do not want you to die after we make love!"

He stills. He clenches his jaw and kisses your cheek, "I... I will not..." he shakes his head and kisses you sweetly, "forgive me. I swear to you, I will be alright."

You probably should fight him off for the sake of his health, but you truly did not want to.

It was a quick affair, impatient and terribly needy. Neither of you spoke, and neither of you cared to get naked. You just needed to be together now.

The next thing you know, you're on the precipice of a stormy peak. You were tightly wrapped around him, arms, legs, cunny, and deathly unwilling to let him go. He was deep inside you, aching to make you feel good, loathing to ever pull out.

It was a wonder to him that he lasted as long as he did, and when he finally did come, the intensity nearly makes him pass out. The last of his energy is spent on the quaking thrusts of his hips. He wanted nothing more than to finally succumb to his fatigue, but the sight of your parted mouth urged him to keep his focus.

Daemon's thrusts quickly grow languid, so he finishes the job with his fingers. The feeling of you tightening around him nearly arrests his heart.

He relaxes atop you as your peak continues to tingle through your toes. You pepper him with affection that he is already numb to in his slumber.

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same — sometimes with a fresh coat of paint — and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive—you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit—big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right — you’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body—from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster—or Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard—it sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you — because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent — but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down — from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Orgasm of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry — it’s your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear — loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private — that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

[curiouspupsicle]

Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (4/25/25) - Sexy Moments (that aren't explicit)

A glance. A touch. A breath. Sometimes the sexiest moments appear perfectly innocent--on the surface. These fics might just convince you that the sexiest moments aren't always explicit.

(please, only 18+ below)

Recently I remembered something that may explain why I don't find Explicit fics as sexy as many people seem to.

One of my first jobs out of college was for a doctor running clinical trials of experimental drug treatments for people living with AIDs (yes, I'm old; be thankful if you're young enough to only know about the AIDS/HIV crisis by reading about it).

She assigned me the task of editing a safer sex manual. Are you surprised to know I would never curse anyone with the hell of sitting across a desk from your boss discussing the importance of proper nail care before engaging in anal fisting?

So, yeah. that could be one reason I prefer subtlety when describing intimate moments in fics. Luckily, there are some gifted writers who create very sensual scenes that aren't explicit.

(Note that some of these fics are rated E; but the moments I'm highlighting are not.)

Let's start with @hermiola's Growing on Me (M), containing the scene that inspired this category. Crowley is a fading rockstar struggling to complete an album. Aziraphale is the writer he's paired with to finish the lyrics at a remote retreat on the Isle of Skye.

The bicker/flirting is delicious. The seduction competition is teasing. But the sex appeal ramps up to 11 with Crowley singing the Clash's Should I Stay Or Should I Go at the local pub in chapter 7. And Aziraphale isn't the only one in the audience affected.

Prolific fic writer AppleSeeds wrote a sexy manicure in Eden Nails (T). Aziraphale gets his nails done by Crowley at the new shop in the neighborhood. This fic is nearly all manicure. It's beautifully written and very sensual.

Next up is Feast (E) by @ashfae and @mostlyjustgoose. Aziraphale is lonely while Crowley sleeps through the Covid lockdown. So he plans a magnificent dinner for the pair to catch up--a truly seductive meal.

"Not just dinner, his pounding pulse sings. This will be a temptation worthy of a Serpent, with meaning in every bite. An invitation in flavours, a message written directly onto a forked tongue. His whole life he’s been a half-baked hedonist—enjoying only the pleasures he knows he can get away with—but he has centuries’ worth of meals and secret thoughts to draw on for inspiration, and now there’s a wild absence of fear in him."

It's filled with temptation and double entendres. And yes, it does end by earning the Explicit rating. But it's a sexy slow burn to get there.

@addledmongoose's My Heart Was Always Yours (M) is a creative tale in which Aziraphale and Crowley do not know each other. Hell assigns Crowley to recover Raphael's trumpet needed to start the Second Coming. And Heaven wants Aziraphale to do the same.

To provide cover, Aziraphale asks a "human" (Crowley) to pose as his spouse at the sale. Of course, Crowley thinks Aziraphale is human too.

In chapter 20, the pair start to confront the feelings that have developed between them without either of them realizing the other isn't human (see, I told you it was fun). It leads to a very sexy scene that ends with this:

"I flicked a forked tongue against the skin, letting the scent of his aftershave and cologne fill my lungs. He was panting, murmuring my name under his breath, and I very nearly forgot where I was until the lift dinged.

I immediately straightened and turned to face the exit. Aziraphale lurched upright with a startled choke. The doors opened, and I smiled politely at the elderly man waiting to enter. His gaze danced between the two of us, and he snorted a knowing laugh.

I stepped out and looked back. “Coming, angel?” I asked, just as sweetly as he’d spoken to me moments ago. If my voice was a little raspy and my face flushed, it was nothing compared to how debauched Aziraphale looked.

"Looks like he was pretty close," the elderly man said under his breath."

A sexy scene that makes me laugh? Yes, please.

Oh, Billy Brown (E) by mostlyineffable/Quintissentialnutcase won't be a good pick for everyone--mind the tags. But this fic based on the song by MIKA is sensitively written and a good read.

It makes this list for the end of chapter 4 which includes a conversation between Aziraphale and Crowley at the pub. It incorporates the vulnerability of the pair with the powerful attraction, making a scene that is believable and sexy.

Thanks to @stupidphototricks for recommending this one to me. I probably would have passed it by due to the tags without you highlighting it.

This is getting long so I think I'll end with one of my favorite fics, Among the Stacks (NR) by @rhosmeinir. Yep, I've recommended it before. And I'll recommend it again. You can't stop me! Bwahahahaha!

But seriously, it's just that good. And it makes the list for Azrariah and Crowley's kisses in front of the fireplace in chapter 14. The scene is so tender. And yes, sexy.

Did you like this theme? Do you enjoy a good sexy (but not explicit) moment in a fic? If so, let me know by reblogging and commenting and I'll revisit this theme in a future post.

I'll be back next Friday with more great Good Omens fan fics on a new theme. In the meantime, check out my other favorite fics on this pinned post of weekly Good Omens fan fiction recommendations. And if my faves appear to be your faves, check out my bookmarks on AO3--all the fics I rate in my top 10% of everything I've read.

Don't forget--always thank fic writers with kudos and comments. They give us such wonderful gifts and it's appropriate to show our appreciation for all their hard work.

[iwantmyprizepet]

𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 4/?

Summary: Your doubts started to fight off any hope you had surrounding feelings for Agatha. Then of course…she looked at you. (??? so dumb. did I mention I hate writing these yet?)

Warnings: Just a little..something naughty, 18+, Alcohol.

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: It’s dawning on me how silly it is to drop a story that takes place around Christmas as summer nears. It’s when I started writing this and I guess it kind of just happened. Oh well, too late to back out now. I promise it’s not super hardcore holiday centered. If it’s not your cup of tea I apologize. Agatha will very much so start to shadow any care about dumb holidays soon. Christmas in May? Here we come? - Mich (I've been dreading posting this I think it's such a boring chapter. I promise the next one is better…I hope lol)

AO3 Previous Part Next Part

I felt on edge the rest of the night after Agatha left, unable to place exactly why. 

After closing up, I ran to the grocery store which nearly pushed me into overload from the chaos inside. 

Little visions slipped in here and there as I ran the aisles. Visions of tackling the public mayhem with Agatha by my side.

When I got home, the quiet of my apartment elevated the sound of my thoughts. 

Hateful little things nagging at the back of my mind now as I put groceries away. Not pretty enough. Too young. Not good enough. Not an ounce of a chance.

My flustered state continued into the morning. 

I was already running late to get to my parents and couldn’t find my annual thanksgiving sweater. It wasn’t anything special, just a dark green sweater I wore every year. It was completely ridiculous, but I felt near tears searching for it. 

I hadn’t felt this generally overwhelmed in a long time. 

I debated calling Chloe, but resisted knowing she’d have enough on her plate today. Some of her family members were quite, interesting. Interesting in a concerning political view type of way. I knew she’d be stressed enough on her own by now.

Finally, after digging for a century I found the sweater in a far corner of my closet.

I hurried out the door after finding it nearly sending myself sailing down the stairs.

——————————————————————————

I got swept into cooking as soon as I arrived. It was blazing hot in the kitchen and while they meant no harm by it, my parents were asking too many questions.

I wanted to be present so badly, but a dark pull constantly brought my thoughts to her. 

I felt near a boiling point by the time everyone else started to show up. 

After about twenty minutes after the whole family arrived I excused myself. My kitchen duties were finished and I was in need of a huge distance from the pulsing entertainment of the house.

Mom’s concerned stare followed me until I was out of sight. 

Usually the loudness of my family was endearing, funny and I’d join in. Right now it just felt like being in the middle of a thousand cymbals crashing. 

My mood was probably more obvious to everyone than I let myself realize. 

I shut the door and sunk onto my old bed letting out a long sigh.

 After a mere few seconds Agatha eased into my mind. It was settling and distressing all at once. 

As I stared at the ceiling a thought came over me and I reached for my phone. 

Opening the browser I typed in her name along with our town and state.

My brain consumed the word CEO right away. 

A scroll down led me to an article about her house. Some local news site showing pictures of the listing before she bought it. It was like something out of a movie.

I was spiraling the more I looked. Closing the tab I tossed my phone off the bed. It landed on the carpeted floor with a soft thump. 

The fact that I even allowed myself for a second to think I stood a chance with her. The clear age gap aside, paled in comparison to the wealth she seemed to have. Obviously so with the fifties she threw around like change. 

Shaking my head I brought my hands to my face. I sucked deep slow breaths in and out trying to steady my wobbling chin. How could I have allowed myself to fall so fast for her? 

The search dug it in deep how despite my inner turmoil, I really had let myself form a bit of hope. 

Now I just felt silly with a pang in my chest. 

Every memory I had of myself around her was causing me to cringe. I felt like a blade of grass to her sun.

A little while had passed, my body temperature dropping back to a normal level. I knew I had to get back soon before a search party was sent up.

While I had calmed down, I was laced with constant unwanted thoughts. My mood soured more and more by the minute.

 With force, I made my way back down stairs plastering a smile to my face. 

The usual joy my cousins kids brought me just seemed to wear me down. 

I of course still entertained their games, but even at their young ages they seemed to pick up on my emotional absence. 

Dinner passed in a blur of conversation. I interjected enough to fly under the radar. 

It’s what I told myself anyways. 

Knowing Agatha was alone today was just another lingering plague on my brain.

After we all finished eating I shooed everyone away taking it upon myself to clean everything up. 

The kitchen was spotless when I walked out of it and into the living room. I sunk into a corner half listening to everyone around. 

Finally, just after seven my final aunt left the house. 

I poured myself another glass of bourbon and breezed past my parents as they walked back from the front door.

“I’m gonna shower quick. I’ll be right back.” I called over my shoulder not waiting for a response. 

I grabbed the bag I packed and headed for the bathroom joined to my room. 

I took a long sip of the bourbon I’d poured and placed it down a little too heavily.

Walking to the counter, I took in my appearance. Every little imperfection seemed to be obvious today. I closed my eyes, Agatha’s face dripping into view. 

After my shower, I headed back down with an empty glass. 

Mom and dad were at the kitchen counter laughing at something. They both went quiet upon my entrance. 

I placed the glass on the counter, keeping my eyes away from theirs.

After a moment dad grabbed the glass, refilling it with a couple of cubes and some more bourbon. I looked up to him with a small smile, nodding and grabbing the glass.

“Something bothering you, honey?” Mom asked quietly. 

I shrugged swirling the ice cubes in the glass.

“Just, overwhelmed the past couple of days. Nothing to worry about.” I responded and finally looked up to her. “Really, work has just been a lot no big deal.”

I was grateful they dropped it there, even though they both clearly didn’t want to. 

The three of us settled into the night. Our annual tradition of watching The Griswold family Christmas commenced. A growing guilt from how distant I was today mixed into everything else.

My moms concerned glances lingered throughout the whole film.

The movie ended and I hugged them both goodnight before slipping off to bed. 

Typical thoughts of Agatha drifted me to sleep. Swirling around me in a grey cloud. 

——————————————————————————

Morning came, the smell of breakfast drifting through the air stirring me. There she was at the forefront again, right off the bat. 

Agatha fucking Harkness.

I pulled myself out of bed and made my way downstairs, desperate for water and distraction.

My parents had Christmas music playing softly, dancing about the kitchen singing along. I laughed shaking my head at them as I walked to the fridge. “Good morning my beautiful daughter.” Dad said brightly as I poured myself a glass of water.

“Morning.” I mumbled draining almost the whole glass in one swig. 

Mom eyed me closely as I finished off the glass. Always worrying.

After breakfast I was coerced into going to tag a tree. 

Sitting in the back of my dad’s truck had me feeling like a kid again. Usually a welcome feeling, now had me only thinking myself inferior to Agatha.

Agatha this, Agatha that I was sick of it at this point. Sick of how bitter it was making me ruining usually enjoyable moments.

The breeze whipped around the tree farm. A woman with her children were searching next to us. Her hair lay dark and wavy. 

I of course thought of Agatha.

My parents chose their usual ten footer. I could foresee it now, dad and I fighting it through the door after picking it up in a week. 

I picked myself a modest five foot tree, full with strong branches. 

We made our way back and I found myself itching to get home. Craving the silence and comfort of my own space. 

With hugs and arm fulls of left overs, finally I got into my car and headed home. 

The strip was empty when I pulled up. It took two trips to drag everything upstairs. 

After a shower and filling up on a plate of leftovers, I sunk into the couch heavily. 

For the first time since meeting her, I found myself dreading seeing Agatha.

——————————————————————————

The overwhelming churn bled into Saturday. 

A demanding, entitled wave of customers rattled through the doors consistently. Even Chloe seemed to feel the weight of it.

“Is it just me, or is everyone being extra rude today?” She asked annoyed, arms crossed.

I groaned elbows dropping to the counter. “I thought it was just me.”

“Must be ass hole convention in town.” Janice chirped into the conversation from the back.

I nodded in agreement with a light chuckle. 

I slumped around more and more as closing time neared, no sight of Agatha. While I was definitely dreading seeing her, it was worse not to. It started to solidify my worries about myself, how I looked to her.

I finished up cleaning twenty minutes to closing. Chloe and Janice left thirty minutes ago. 

The idea of seeing Agatha was slipping away. 

Just after that thought I heard a car door. My head shot up, heart thumping hard seeing a black Maserati.

With a rush, Agatha breezed herself in.

 A tension soaked relief moved through me.

After all this time worrying about seeing her again, now that she was in front of me all I could think about was folding into her. 

“Hey, you.” She said it so casually, like we’d known each other for years. I wondered if she had any clue how much turmoil she was causing me.

“Hi.” I replied steadily trying to calm my nerves.

“Sorry to come in so late.” Her hair fell in it’s usual waviness today, soft and windswept.

“Oh, it’s fine no problem.” I walked myself closer to her. I stopped halfway clasping my hands behind my back, anxiety growing under her gaze. “The usual?” I asked fighting to put a smile on my face.

“No.” She answered stepping right to me, perfume sweeping my senses.

My eyebrows pinched together, head tilting looking up to her. I waited for her to answer my silent question. 

She smiled softly fiddling with a gold ring on her pointer finger. 

“I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to see how your holiday went.” It was the first time she’d said something to me with a hesitation. 

I let out a sigh shoulders dropping. I imagined my forehead falling onto her chest, her arms wrapping me up tightly. Instead, I sat on the nearest stool. “It was alright. Stressful, but good.” I admitted.

She sat on the stool next to me, her knee brushed mine on accident as she did.

“How was your ‘just another day’?” I asked mimicking her explanation of the holiday. 

She laughed looking down, hair falling on either side of her face.

“Takeout and a bottle of wine. Quiet, but okay.” She said smile not reaching her eyes just like the other day.

My heart ached for her. The idea of her being so lonely on a holiday seemed unfathomable. Someone as kind and beautiful as her having nobody. It didn’t seem possible.

“Agatha?” I paused building the courage to ask. “Don’t feel the need to answer, but how is it possible you have no one to spend a holiday with?”

Her lips pursed, finger tapping on the counter as her eyes darted around everywhere but on me. 

“My father was never around. Mother passed away years ago, not that we were ever close. Any other family lives far away and well, I find myself having mostly acquaintances and colleagues. Not so many friends.” She answered me honestly. 

A confidence tried to mask the uneasiness on her face. 

“No great love in your life?” I asked bracing for the answer.

Long distance relationships were a thing, complicated situationships and also me not having a chance either way was a thing. I reminded myself of that over and over again.

She let out a laugh, rings clinking on the counter as she slapped it. 

“It’s always about money or power.” She rested her chin back on her thumb, pointer finger brushing her lips. “I think I’ve given up on it all together.” 

It sent a dark feeling through my chest. Not that I couldn’t agree with her sentiment.

“Yeah, I kind of agree.” I forced a laugh. “Well, not the money or power part but ready to give up on it all together part.”

She nudged my knee. “A pretty young thing like you. Why’s that?”

I fumbled on words, her own sending a mix of dread and want through me. The words young and pretty being side by side felt bittersweet.

Against all of my better judgement, I decided on the truth. 

“Well, I suppose between cheating and manipulation and” I faltered for a second looking over her shoulder. “And disappearing I guess, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem worth the ache.”

I looked back to her, her whole face pinched in anger. My face dropped searching her for any sign of what caused the change.

“Someone did those things to you?” She asked in a gritty tongue.

Uneasily, I laughed waving my hand. “First long relationship cheated, we were young. Second long term well, I suppose I didn’t realize how much control she had until it was over. How much I lost being with her. She just up and left one day, no word.” My light hearted explanation didn’t seem to ease the anger seeping off of her. “But.” I said clapping my hands to my legs. “The past is in the past I suppose.” 

I smiled trying to desperately change the atmosphere around the subject.

Her face softened then, an anger still lingering a presence around her forehead.

“That is despicable that someone would treat you that way.”  There was no joking behind her words, she spoke them seriously.

I shrugged rubbing the back of my neck, regretting even mentioning any of it.

“It’s the reason I’m back here and I am perfectly okay with my little life here so, I suppose it was meant to be. Despite how awful it was in the moment.” She finally smiled then fingers dropping just shy of my arm on the counter.

“Well, I suppose I can even be a little thankful for that.” A smile so soft, aimed right at me and my pattering pulse. “Although, if you need me to track someone down and destroy them, do let me know.”

I leant forward laughing at that, arm pressing into her hand that lay so close a moment ago. She laughed too, fingers pressing up into my arm impossible to ignore. 

It was joking the way she said it, but something in her eye told me she was only half joking.

“My own personal hitman, just what I’ve always wanted.”

We laughed, her fingers flexing into my arm again making my heart nearly stop. Every second felt like slipping on ice around her.

“I do aim to please.” She said it in a devastating tone.

Free hand making a show of flicking her hair behind her shoulder, chest puffed and chin up.

I held back an audible groan looking at her. As if on it’s own wave length, my arm brushed into her hand underneath it. In an instant, as if in reply her fingers moved against me again. 

In this moment with bated breath and a racing heart I thought, how could she possibly not feel it too? I instantly started feeling that annoying budding hope slip in. 

The next thought was the clear age gap. It just couldn’t be possible, her forming an interest in me. 

Stop getting your hopes up stop stop stop.

Her eyes flicked behind me as my thoughts raced. Her face dropped fractionally and looked back to mine.

“I suppose I should get going.” She said quietly, thumb pressing light as a feather against my skin.

My head snapped behind me, the clock reading five past closing.

“Right.” I looked back to her nodding my head. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I pulled my arm away from her hand and stood. I missed the feeling instantly. She stood and I followed, both of us walking to the door.

“See you tomorrow?” She asked shoulder pressed into the door, pausing as she always did.

I nodded smiling. “I’ll be here.”

A push against the door, a nod, a wink and she was gone. 

I stood in my usual daze she left me in, skin still tingling where her hand was. 

——————————————————————————

Sunday was flying by since the start of it. The later the day went on, the more my nerves built up. 

I grew to expect her later in the day now. I let Chloe and Janice go again, the act becoming a regular thing. It was often before, but not like it was now. 

I started pushing holiday storage boxes out after they’d left. I needed something distracting to do. 

Changing the playlist coming through the speakers to one with holiday songs instantly cheered me up.

I’ve always loved the holidays. No matter the drama, it brought people together. Despite the stress, it still seemed to always bring out an extra kindness from most. Made you want to be kinder to someone who looked like they were going through it. 

Now if you asked me before I moved back if I liked the holidays, it would have been a bahumbug.

A young couple sat in a corner table talking and laughing. I did a quick clean before cracking open the totes. The couple left not long after. 

Two stragglers popped in for drinks in the ten minutes that followed and then I was alone. 

It was just shy of an hour until closing when her Maserati pulled up.

I placed the small step ladder I was carrying down in the corner. 

I had just lined up our Christmas mugs on the counter after cleaning them. A mixture of green, white and red mugs. Our logo on either side surrounded by Christmas lights. 

Anne fought me a little on ordering them, arguing it was a waste to get mugs for one month.

My pleading convinced her and we sold so many the first year. Every order that came in sold out near instantly. 

Needless to say I already had a fresh batch on the way for the season.

I watched her as she walked in, unable to help the smile she always put on my face. 

Everything was black apart from her red sweater. As if she somehow knew the occasion she’d be walking in on.

“Hey.” I greeted, the chipper mood decorating had me in obvious.

“Well, hello smiley.” She replied only making it grow.

She peered over the counter at the red and green totes. Her intoxicating scent mingled with the air distracting me as it always did.

“Am I going to be coerced into being a helping hand for decorating?” She asked playfully.

“Oh, you don’t have to help.” I laughed leaning closer to her. “Might have to watch though.” 

One of her inviting hums sounded at that.

“Well, give me something festive for the occasion.” She said placing her purse down and shrugging her coat off. “Not too sweet.” 

A delicate, thin gold chain hung around her neck. Gold rings on random fingers to match. 

Her hands straightened and brushed down her sweater after she got her coat off. A questioning eyebrow raise from her struck me to realize I should be making her requested drink, instead of staring. 

“Festive and not too sweet.” I said a little too loud. “Yes ma’am.”

Another hum sounded from her behind me. I could feel her eyes on me as I grabbed a red and green mug. 

I placed a single squirt of peppermint and mocha into the bottom of both cups. Filling the rest with coffee from the pot I stirred them well. With a finishing touch, I shook them with a light dusting of the peppermint chocolate shavings we kept in a jar. Just enough for the eyes to enjoy. 

I turned to her with both mugs in and took a sip of mine. Nodding with a shrug I accepted it, placing mine down and handing the green one to her. She eyed it smirking, cupped hands warming around the mug. 

“I like the mugs.” She said before taking a light sip. 

Another warm hum came up from her, eyes closed. I wanted to be close enough to feel the vibrations of it. 

“Approved?” I asked softly.

Her hooded blue eyes opened with a nod. 

I took another sip from my mug before turning back. I’d cleared the shelves where we kept our mugs out front for drink orders, storing the usual mugs on shelves in the kitchen. 

I boosted myself up, kneeling on the counter to place the holiday mugs precisely. Red, white and green in that order. Finishing they all sat in an even line ready to be used.

I turned, hopping down just catching the tail end of Agatha looking away from me. I tried not to read into it too much. 

“I’m sorry.” I laughed and took a sip of my coffee. “This must be very boring for you.” 

Her head snapped to me. “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.” 

I almost took it as sarcasm, but the look she gave had me taking it as a serious statement.

“Give me something to do.” She requested fingers flexing as she played with her chain.

“You really don’t have to help.” I felt I needed to make that clear, she didn’t seem too into holidays. The last thing I wanted was her to feel forced into participating.

Agatha clapped her hands to her thighs before standing. 

“I’ll just start putting things out.” She stated heading over to a tote. I held my hands up. “Okay, wait wait wait there’s a place for everything.” She laughed, hand to her stomach. “I knew it.” 

“What?” 

“You just seem very particular about things, I was right.” 

I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond. She was right, I did tend to be a bit precise with everything. I could tell if someone had moved something an inch in my house. 

Chloe regularly informed me of how neurotic I was with making sure everything was in it’s rightful place. I always shot it right back, that I would’t be as neurotic at work if she wasn’t so messy.  She refused to help me decorate for Christmas after the first year she was here. Hence me dragging everything out after she had left.

“Okay.” I started to change the subject. “You can put these on the third shelf down by that table.”

I pointed to where I wanted them and gestured to the four snowmen in one tub.

“Any particular order, sarge?” She asked waiting with a look like she knew I’d say yes.

There was in fact a precise order I put them in every year. Just to prove her wrong I shook my head and turned away.

That’s how the next half hour passed. I had just started to hang the last strip of garland in the back corner. It was the highest spot out of them all, I struggled with it every year.

I usually didn’t have anyone around when I did, so it usually got hung with me in an odd stretch across multiple objects to get to it. It was almost a tradition at this point, risking my life for a string of garland.

I was very aware of Agatha watching me as I reached for the corner, stood up at the very top of the step ladder on my tip toes. 

I could bring my full size ladder in, but that seemed like a lot of effort for a single strip of garland. That’s what I told myself every year and every year I nearly died hanging it.

I nearly fell to the ground when I felt warm hands press to my lower back and left hip. They strongly steadied my fumble. When I did regain balance I remained frozen under her touch. 

“Don’t want you to fall.” She said gently and low. I began to falter for far too long, every second was loudly ticking from the clock. All I could get my brain to focus on was her touch on me. 

Shaking hands finally moved as I reached to hang the garland again. The hand on my hip held a little tighter, the one on my back pushing slightly harder as if to give me an extra boost.

Finally I reached the hook it latched to securing the strip of shimmering gold.

Her hands didn’t leave me until I stepped to the floor. I stilled again when I did, her body dangerously close behind mine. 

She did exactly what I could only think of doing. Stepping closer she pressed ever so lightly against my back. My eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Dangerous maneuver.” She said on a warm peppermint breath. “It does look nice though.”

I knew she could hear my shaky breathing. There was not a possibility it wasn’t audible to her. 

“Yeah.” It was all I could muster in response.

The bell above the door broke the trance. Agatha stepped back in an easy way. 

“Hey bud.” Brooks greeted bustling through the door. Chloe followed smiling sheepishly, like she knew something was disturbed. 

“Hey guys, what are you doing here?” I tried to ask out casually, hands and voice still trembling slightly. 

Nothing felt casual at all. The worst part was how uncomfortable Agatha looked now. I’d never even think she possessed the ability to feel anything but in control of all situations. 

Her head hung down now, hands behind her back a pinching look tracing her face.

“Wanted to see if you would care to join us on a trip to Tempests tonight?” Brooks asked casually as if he didn’t just shift an entire balance. 

It was a restaurant we regularly went to.

“You should come too.” Chloe said gently towards Agatha, clearly grasping the gravity of the moment with how carefully she said it.

I stepped closer to Agatha just as she moved away. She made a show of looking down at her phone. 

“I actually have to get going.” She picked up her coat and started to slip it on. “Business call in twenty, can’t miss it. Have fun tonight.” Everything about it felt like a lie. Dismissive and hurried, an almost irritation behind her words. 

She finished buttoning her coat and grabbed her purse. Her hand went to, I’m sure fish for her wallet. I took long strides over to her and stopped her hand. “I’ll walk you out.” I said quietly. Her eyes wouldn’t hold mine, but she nodded.

I stepped out first holding the door for her. The cold air fell nicely on my warm face. In a silence, we both stepped to the drivers side door of her car. 

“I had fun.” She said finally meeting my eyes. 

It seemed honest, but an uneasiness hung behind it.

“Are you sure you have to go?” I asked inching a bit closer. 

“Yes.” She nodded and her eyes ghosted over me before looking off to the side. “Yeah, I hadn’t been paying attention to the time.”

I nodded back looking down at my shoes.

Her hand fell to the door handle. In a rush of insanity I reached out placing my hand over the one that held her purse.

“I had fun too.” 

A true smile reached her eyes at my words. The hand that lingered on the door handle reached over, sandwiching my hand between both of hers.

“I’ll be away on business for a few days, I won’t see you until next weekend most likely.” She said it with a slow hesitation.

“I’ll be waiting.” I replied instantly squeezing the hand that was under mine. 

For a second I felt like I might have the high point. Like I somehow, maybe might be effecting her like how she effects me. The voice telling me to keep my hopes down was duller than the rest in the moment.

Her demeanor changed like wiping a chalk board. She held herself to her usual punctual poise. “Good.” With a wink she turned, opened the door and got in. 

I moved behind the car and to the curb, watching her drive away. 

I thought about dramatically running after her car for a few seconds. Making her roll down her window and kissing her. I shook the daydream away.

I walked back in, Chloe wincing and shrinking down as I did. 

“I’m sorry.” She apologized “We really didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I shrugged her off and walked over to the decoration bin. “It’s fine.” 

“We saw what happened.” She paused. “With the ladder.”

I scoffed grabbing the battery candlesticks for the window sills.

“So you’re just spying through windows now?” It came off more irritated than I meant it to.

“Really, it’s not like that.” Brooks chimed in cooly. “We were walking up and just saw it happen through the window. We legit both froze, dude. Then we thought it would be weird if you saw us driving away or turned and saw us staring so we waited a minute then came in. Honestly, we were like two fools outside fumbling with what to do.”

I laughed at the thought and it eased the tension as they joined in.

“Listen, there was nothing to interrupt anyways. It’s all good.” “Lady.” Chloe nearly yelled, her eyes wild and wide. “Don’t give me that bull shit. That was not nothing.”

“Easy tiger.” Brooks said patting her shoulder with a chuckle.

“Yeah, tiger.” I jested placing the last candle in the window with sticky tac. “Now if you wanna get to the restaurant, help me finish up and put these bins away.” 

Luckily, Chloe and Brooks took the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

Dinner was nice and easy as usual. The topic of Agatha Harkness didn’t return. Still, it didn’t displace her from my thoughts.

They pulled away after dropping me off, leaving me to admire the lights and decorations through the cafe window. The view settled a warmth in my chest and I couldn’t help but smile. I’d beaten everyone on the strip to it this year I realized, for the first time. 

The ladder still left in the corner sent a chill down my spine. I pretended it was from the wind and walked up the stairs.

——————————————————————————

Monday came and went nicely. I spent all morning decorating the apartment for the first of the month. 

Chloe and Brooks came over later on in the day. I invited them over for dinner and a movie. 

The rest of the week on the other hand? Passed at an agonizingly slow pace. The memory of Agatha’s touch had a sick twisted way of infiltrating every other thought.

I found myself wondering just as often, if she was thinking about me. 

——————————————————————————

I opened my eyes slowly in bed, the strand of Christmas lights in the kitchen the only thing lighting my apartment. 

A sound from near the window startled me to attention. Slowly a figure inched forward into the light. “Agatha?” I asked confused, sitting up in bed.

A low drawn out hush pushed past her lips. 

As she stepped closer to the bed, her arms crossed over her torso. Slowly, her hands grabbed the hem of her sweater pulling it above her head.

“Agatha?” It came out in a croak this time.

She threw the sweater to the floor, gold necklace and a purple laced bra the only thing covering her upper half. 

Her mouth formed another hushing sound. 

Stopping just a foot shy of the bed, her hands found the button of her pants. In a blink she undid them, bending to drag them down her legs.

“What…”

She cut me off. “Quiet.” 

Smiling a wicked grin, her hands disappeared behind her back. Another quick second had her bra falling to the ground. I let out a whimper heat pooling low inside of me. 

“Good girl.” 

The door bell rang snapping my head like a rubber band breaking. I went to turn back to her, but it rang again. 

        ~~~~           ~~~~           ~~~~           ~~~~ 

I woke with a jumping start to my alarm blaring. My breathing was at a panicking level, heart racing to a concerning degree. An ache between my legs stole almost every ounce of my attention. 

A fucking dream.

“Oh, fuck.” 

I said it out loud just to assure myself, how absolutely screwed I was.

[zerogravitycherry]

PART THREE!!! 1.5k words :)

(read part one and two first plss)

another smut chapter, i promise the next chapter will be more fluff/after care but i got carried away lol. hope yall enjoy, pls give me feedback or ideas for future chapters.

content warning- literally just smut, top ellie, bottom reader, just freaky lol

————————————————————————

part three

you were panting, vision blurry and legs still trembling. her words felt like a second orgasm as she praised you and made her way back to the drivers seat.

“gonna finish the drive to my house now sweetheart. i’ll get you all cleaned up there.” her voice was comforting and smooth. you laid back into the now sweaty back seat of her car and stared thru the sun roof. the road was bumpy and the breeze from the windows was cold. you were half dressed and messy. goose bumps rose onto your skin. you never imagined your night would end naked in the back of a strangers car, calm as can be. you listened as ellie hummed to the song that played softly in the background. the view of the stars above you reminded you of how ellie’s freckles painted over her cheeks, and how while she kissed you, you could have sworn they danced just for you.

“we’re here princess” the car came to a stop and ellie opened the door to reveal you laying back with your eyes half closed and your body mostly undressed.

“so pretty” she stood there for a moment and admired the veiw of you “let’s get you inside”

you sat up slowly and blinked your eyes back open. she held out her hand for you to grab as you stepped out of her truck. she wrapped a small blanket she had in her car around you. her light grip on your hand held on as she led you to the door of her house. you followed her inside watching her steps as she walked you to her room. the walls of her room were covered in posters and what looked like drawings she had done. her guitar sat in its stand on her floor and her bed was covered in cute blankets.

“your room is cute ellie” you dropped the blanket off your shoulders, exposing your naked figure. your arms made their way around her shoulders and you placed an innocent kiss on her cheek.

“lets get you cleaned up pretty girl” her hand moved the messy peices of hair out of your face and placed a hand around your waist to guide you into the bathroom.

you took a look at yourself in the mirror “wow ellie you’ve made me look pathetic” you giggled

“you look perfect” her hands placed themselves on your hips and she picked you up to set you on the counter.

“we can get a shower in the morning, you look too sleepy right now” she placed a kiss on your forehead

but the truth was, you weren’t too tired. in fact, you craved her touch even more now that you’d experienced it.

“who said i’m tired ellie” you leaned in closer to her “i think that you should fuck me in that pretty bed of yours”

ellie smiled, leaning in to press her voice closer to your ear

“then be a good girl and go lay down for me”

you took no time getting off of the cold counter. you walked back into her room and layed in her bed staring up at the posters that covered her ceiling.

when ellie came out of the bathroom a few moments later she had taken off her shirt, now wearing just a sports bra, leaving her abs in veiw for you to admire.

she made her way over to you and placed herself over top of you. her strong arms held herself up as she kissed you. her knee made its way in between your legs which made you squirm. she pulled back from the heated kiss “i wanna be inside of you y/n” she sat up, reaching into a drawer near her bed, pulling out a joint. “how would you like that pretty girl?” she lit the joint, taking the first hit before handing it to you

you took it in between your fingers, taking a puff before responding “a lot ellie, i’d like that a lot” you sat up a little so that you could see ellie better.

she made her way to a drawer placed farther away from her bed and you watched as she pulled out a purple strap.

“i’m gonna make you fucking scream”

you squeezed your thighs together, looking for anything to calm the heat that made it way back into your core, easier than normal. something about the way ellie spoke to you, so filthy yet smooth. you continued to smoke her joint and watched as she tightend the harness onto her hips. you couldn’t help but touch yourself. your free hand made its way down to your cunt, rubbing lazy circles over your clit as you waited for ellie to ruin you.

a moan escaped your mouth as you saw her turn around and walk towards the bed

“couldn’t wait for me hm?” she watched as you continued to pleasure yourself to the sight of her.

“sit up”

you obeyed, sitting on your knees in front of her as she stood in front of the bed. you passed her the joint and watched as she held eye contact with you as she hit it

“suck” she blew out the smoke

“what?” your breath shuttered

“suck my dick, your spit is your lube so be generous baby” she smirked

your eyes fluttered at her and a soft smile appeared on your face. you leaned forward, now resting on your elbows as your back was arched behind you. you looked up at her, placing your hands on her hips as you began to lick up her strap. you took it into your mouth, sucking from the base to the tip. when you finished, you slowly pulled your head back letting your spit connect you to the silicone. ellie’s gaze never left yours, she was mesmerized by the sight of you.

“fuck” she muttered under her breath before placing the joint into the ash tray next to her. “i want you to take my dick like that.” she licked her lips “face in my pillows and ass up.” she kneeled down slightly to place a hand around your face “i wanna see that pretty pussy swallow me just like your mouth did.”

you listen, turning yourself around to now face your ass towards her. you exaggerated the motions of arching fully, putting on a show for her. your cunt was fully on display for her. ellie waisted no time gripping her hands around your ass, slapping it softly. you whimpered slightly as she worked a finger inside of you.

“still soaked, so perfect”

she added another, scissoring her fingers inside of you. you gasped when she removed them. ellie placed the cold silicone up to your dripping hole, slowly easing in the tip.

“mm-“ you couldn’t help but moan at the stretch

soon enough you were taking it all. ellie’s hands tightened on your hips as she began to move slowly

“you okay baby” she pushed all the way in and then out to the tip

“faster ellie- please” you attempted to press your thighs onto hers “i can take it”

ellie pressed all the way back into you, speeding up her strokes. she was hitting the perfect spot at the perfect pace. you were so absorbed into the feelings of pleasure that you almost missed the noice that slipped from ellie’s mouth. “fuck y/n” her strokes were becoming faster and less organized . little did you know the friction of the strap rubbing against her clit with every pump into you was inching her closer to her orgasm.

you were both a mess at this point. the wet sounds of your cunt taking all of her dick filled the room along the less than quiet moans that we’re falling out of your mouth and the whines and curses that ellie mumbled under her breath.

“ellie i’m close”

her strokes deepend, returning to a steady pace.

“me too baby- fuck” she slammed into you, hitting the perfect spot over and over.

your cunt tightend against the length of her, your head was now fully buried in her pillows as you came all over her dick.

“god ellie” you moaned her name like it was your favorite song

ellie finished not long after you, your moans pushed her over the edge and she whimpered your name quietly before pulling out.

“you took me so well y/n” she layed herself next to you trying to catch her breath “made me cum in my fucking boxers

[brodorokihousuke]

I finished Danganronpa 1 !!!

…Well, I did last night. But it was late so I didn’t want to make any posts or anything.

TL:DR is I enjoyed it quite a bit. I have gripes, of course, but nothing can be enjoyed without criticism.

Had a lot of fun liveblogging about it on my discord server (thank you to all who gave me pointers/watched me lose my mind!) but I kind of missed the experience of Tumblr liveblogging, so, now presenting… my Danganronpa sideblog, @brodorokikiyotaka (I’m very funny)! I know this is technically my personal blog so I can put whatever I want here, but… I like theming and organization, so.

Longer review under the cut for those who are interested. For everyone else, have this meme I might as well post somewhere other than my server.

0/10 Kiyotaka dies

Okay, okay, I’m being dramatic. I think him dying made me care about him more, anyway. Made me think a lot about how character death can be used more as a tool… Maybe more Ace Attorney characters should die lmao. Different setting/scenario, but still.

Anyways yeah, I enjoyed it much more than I thought I would. Considering the only exposure I had to the first game (and the series in general really) was watching someone play the first two cases (and only remembering details from the second chapter for some reason) eons ago, it was really fun just… experiencing everything mostly blind.

The characters were fairly compelling, and I liked most of the dialogue. Oh, it was so refreshing to have characters be able to actually swear… Yeah, some of the humor is. Wow! But it’s so occasional that I didn’t really mind (and I’ll admit some of the raunchy jokes got a laugh out of me). It only really got on my nerves when I had to deal with Toko a lot but that was only really around the end of the game.

The gameplay itself was really engaging, especially regarding the trials themselves. It felt way more fast-paced than any Ace Attorney game, and getting things right first try felt incredibly satisfying. I think my only gripe is with the bullet time battles, which didn’t have a very clearly defined “beat” to hit in the songs. And I’m not just salty about having no sense of rhythm, I finished Hi-Fi Rush on hard with no rhythm indicators so I know I’m capable of it.

Speaking of the music, though… hoo. This soundtrack is incredible. And knowing how much music impacts how much I enjoy a given game, I know for a fact this OST cemented this playthrough as one of my more memorable ones. Not only do I love the more well known ones (like Trigger Happy Havoc), but even the like… walking around and investigation music (Beautiful Morning, Box 15/16, etc) is so good. 9/10 rating for the music alone, on par with aa1 honestly (for me. This is a subjective opinion don’t kill me)

The story was mostly followable by me and while my interest maybe wavered a bit as the end drew closer (especially regarding the heavy exposition Junko throws at you at the very end), it left me with an interest in future installments and a lot of thoughts regarding what the ‘before-the-game’ situation was.

The character designs themselves and the art was incredibly memorable and distinct, and left me wanting to try and mimic it (which I’ve already done at least once!). Some of the more ‘painted’ looking still shots look a bit odd - especially since a lot of them use plain black for shading, which is a questionable (though admittedly distinct!) choice - but I never really found it making my experience worse. Also, that pink blood aesthetic is fantastic and I love it.

Overall, I’ll give the game a solid 9 out of 10. I thought about an 8.5 but honestly with how much I enjoyed everything, putting it a bit higher seemed fitting.

[yumelatte]

Of All The Things, I Became A Priestess In Amphoreus - Chapter Six

From Madness, With Love

In which you wake up to find yourself being a priestess in an otome game, and Phainon is the knight commander at the temple.

Phainon’s the true male lead; you’re not the female lead, but it sure feels like it.

Otome Isekai AU

AO3 Link

Masterlist

<- Previous Chapter | 6: From Madness, With Love | Next Chapter ->

While you and Phainon were finishing with setting up the area, you both avoided eye contact with one another—everything was done in silence after your initial instructions. 

And while it was a little awkward, you were relieved because you didn’t think you could handle another conversation with him. Your fluttering heart would get in the way. 

Shortly after the courtyard was set up, Aglaea came with the citizens. 

When you looked at the crowd behind Aglaea, you had to do a double take—heart racing for a different reason. 

You had been expecting some citizens, but not this many. 

Just how many people wanted to experience the luxurious bath for themselves? 

With her lips pressed into a thin fine line, Aglaea walked towards you and Phainon. 

There’s no way; there can’t be this many people who had snuck into the bath…

“Are these all…” you trailed off, not believing your eyes. 

Aglaea shook her head in disappointment, saying exasperatedly, “I’m afraid so.” Turning around with a hand on her hip, she used her other hand to present the numerous citizens. “These are all the individuals whose weaves tangled with The Hero’s Bath.” 

At least some of the citizens had the humility to look ashamed…

Sighing, your eyes swept across them, trying to count how many there were; however, you gave up after the thirtieth. 

This was going to take a while.

Taking a seat on your uncomfortable stool, you gestured for the first person to sit across from you, already dreading the next hours. 

As Phainon and Aglaea rallied the remaining people into an organized line, you started on your healing. 

Your first client was a middle-aged man, dressed in familiar Okheman fashion. 

He looked friendly enough, giving you a quick wave upon approaching you. “Good morning, Priestess.” 

“Good morning,” you greeted, politely nodding. 

Taking a seat across from you, he asked, “So, how does this work?” 

“If you’re worrying about pain, there won’t be any.” 

“Oh, thank Kephale.” 

Raising your hand next to your face, you said, “I’m just going to hover my hand over where your heart is and check on your soul.”

“...My soul?” 

“Did Aglaea explain anything to you?” 

“I only know about what happened to the woman at the banquet might happen to me. She said if I went here, I could prevent it.” 

“Well, it’s true. Because you dipped into the corrupted bath, your soul might have tainted residue that needs to be extracted.” 

“Oh right, the bath…” He moved his eyes away from you, ashamed of his past behavior. “I didn’t know it was like that.” 

Your question from yesterday crossed your mind: Why did he enter the bath when it was unappealing? Since he was here, you decided to ask, “You saw how the waters were. It didn’t stop you from entering?” 

“I was aware of the dirty waters, but I couldn’t help myself. I mean how can I when the taste of luxury was right there? My friend told me The Hero’s Bath is a whole ‘nother feeling of relaxation! I thought it was just some fancy effect…” 

Oh, he just wanted to try out the bath… but you wondered… “Did it actually feel any different from the usual ones?” 

“Yep, it was worth every second; I fell asleep in there, and I’m glad you’re here to solve my issue!” 

He sure is being shameless when a minute ago he was avoiding your gaze…

…Were you here to solve everybody’s problems? 

With a sigh, you accepted your role. “I’m going to proceed now, okay?” 

“The sooner it gets done, the sooner I can go home!” 

Taking that as permission, you placed your hand over his heart and closed your eyes. 

As darkness overtook your vision, his soul lit up with faint black wisps surrounding it. 

Because he wasn’t mad yet, the material was barely there, and it made your life significantly easier. 

You absorbed the wisps with no problem, opening your eyes after. 

“Is it done?” 

Removing your hand, you nodded. “Be well and don’t go near the bath again.” 

“Nice, I can go home and sleep now.” The man got up, leaving the seat vacant for the next person. 

A young woman cautiously walked by him and took the spot where he was, scanning him before greeting you with a small nod. “Hello.” 

“Hello,” you replied, adjusting yourself on your seat. “You’re aware of why you’re here?” 

“Yeah, for the cure.” 

“...You also went into The Hero’s Bath?” 

“...Yes.” 

“Is there a reason why you went into the waters, knowing it didn’t look good?” 

“Ah, well… It didn’t look bad to me.”

“It didn’t?” 

“It looked sparkly actually!” 

Um, what? The bath you saw didn’t emit that kind of effect. “Sparkly?” 

“When I saw the waters, it was golden—like piles of coins.” 

Blinking in disbelief, you said nothing else because that was unexpected. 

“Is it not supposed to look like that?” 

“No, but no point in worrying about it now.” You raised your hand, explaining the process to her. “I’m going to hover my hand over your heart and check for any signs of madness. If there is, I’ll heal it for you.” 

“Sure.”

Placing your hand over her heart, you shut your eyes, focusing on her soul. 

It flickered in the dark with no real alarming sights; similar to the man before, it had slight black wisps.

Already expecting the substance, you drew it to yourself. 

When you opened your eyes, the woman looked indifferent. 

“You’re good to go now. Don’t go near the bath again no matter how shiny it looks! It’s not worth the consequences,”  you warned her, making sure she understood how dangerous it was. 

“Thank you for your service, Priestess! I can enjoy my wealth without worrying about the hands of Thanatos now.” With an enthusiastic nod, she took off and left you waiting for the next citizen. 

As she walked away, a young boy haughtily stepped towards the empty seat. He didn’t greet you like the others, and he didn’t look too happy to be here. 

“Hi, are you here for healing, little one?” 

“Don’t call me little one! I’m already old enough to wield a sword.” 

Someone didn’t learn manners… 

Giving a resigned hum, you asked, “Okay, what do I call you?” 

“The Hero!” 

Your knuckle found a place over your lips, stifling a laugh. “Hero? Is that why you went into The Hero’s Bath?” 

“Yes ma’am! …I mean I didn’t go there at all.” 

Oh so we’re lying now? 

“Let’s say you went there. What would you see?” 

“If I went there—which I didn’t by the way—I would see…” His eyes closed for a second as if he was in deep thought. “...I would see a party made for me. The waters were clean and blue, and there were a lot of people waiting to welcome me back…”

A celebration fit for a hero, indeed; however, he used different tenses when describing the sight, which was concerning. It proved he had taken a soak in the bath. 

“I’m going to check on your soul and tell you what you’re going to save the world from.” Lifting your hand, you fished for his permission, “Is that okay with you?” 

“Of course, I want to know what I can save it from!” He sat still to let you proceed, being obedient at the prospect of his dreams.

You closed your eyes as you hovered your hand over his heart.  

Relieved at not seeing any other problems other than thin, black tendrils around his soul, you quickly removed them from him. 

But he was expecting you to tell him something amazing. You’ll play along with it because you didn’t want to crush his hopes. Children should have their aspirations encouraged and nurtured. 

Smiling while giving him a slight wink, you tactfully said, “One day, you’ll stop the baddest villain of them all and be praised for your efforts. Everyone will want to meet their savior—you. But this will only happen if you avoid The Hero’s Bath until then.” 

Without another word, the boy excitedly got out of his seat and rushed over to who you were assuming to be his mother. While they were leaving the premises, his mouth was moving as if he was telling her about what a great person he was.

If he wanted to be a great person, he should set aside his pride and say thank you for once. 

You’ll let him learn that on his own though. 

“Yoohoo~” A merry woman waved at you, but her eyes were distracted by something else. 

Following her line of sight, you found she was looking at Mydei who had his back towards this direction. He was supervising the temple’s children as they were pretending to fight. It seemed they didn’t heed his words, and he had taken it upon himself to be a makeshift caretaker. 

Sitting down, the woman squealed, “Who is he? He’s so dreamy! I’ve never seen him around before. Good-looking and good with kids… Do you think he’ll let me take him?”

Surprised by her unabashed behavior, you were speechless because what do you say to that? 

You couldn’t blame her; Mydei is attractive and proving himself to be reliable with children, but she was being so obvious. 

You weren’t this brazen with your thoughts on Phainon, were you? 

“Um, sorry ma’am, but-”

Cutting you off, the woman suddenly turned hostile. “Don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old…” However, she quickly cleared her throat and returned to her bubbly self. “Anyway, I’m here to rid myself of madness. I can’t afford to lose myself to it when there’s plenty of other reasons to lose myself to.” 

“You can’t afford to, but you willingly went into the tainted bath?” 

“What?” Giving you an incredulous look, she continued, “You think I would go into dirty waters like that? To me, it looked fresh and rejuvenating. There were delicate flower petals floating in the reservoirs and brilliant candles lighting up the place.” 

Huh…

“Well, I’m going take a look at your soul, and if I find any traces of corruption, I’ll get rid of it.” 

“Please go right ahead. I’ll just be admiring the blonde man in the distance!” 

You shook your head before finding the spot where her heart was and shutting your eyes. 

As expected, the same slim pieces of black material orbited her soul, and you withdrew it without any resistance. 

Your eyes opened because you finished, but the woman wasn’t aware of that. She was still staring at Mydei with dilated pupils. 

You were scared for Mydei, having half a mind to warn him about this woman; however, it didn’t look like she was going to approach him at all, so you decided to let him be. 

Was this how you looked when it came to Phainon? Do you gaze at him with equal amounts of lust as she does for Mydei? 

Afraid of the answer, you stopped thinking about it and let her know about her soul. “I’m done with extracting the madness. Thank you for your cooperation, and for your sake, don’t go in the bath again.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Slightly laughing, she stood up from the seat and silently muttered, “...I have better stuff to dream about now.” 

Pretending to not hear what she said, you bid her farewell as you waited for the next person, hoping they were normal and not leading you to second-guess yourself. 

An old woman ambled her way over, seating herself on the unoccupied chair. “Hello, hope you’ve been having a wonderful day.” 

Thank Kephale! Someone sane… “Same to you, ma’am.” 

“I was about to enjoy the feast at the dining table at the baths when Lady Aglaea came to get me.” 

Nodding, you wanted to confirm with her. “You’re here because of a dip into The Hero’s Bath, aren’t you?” 

Throwing her head back, she laughed, “Hah, is it so wrong to indulge in something for once in my life? The staff who restocks the food at the dining table are always lecturing me on leaving some for others, but what do they know? They have unlimited supply, so what does it matter if I take whatever I want?”

 “I’m sure the waters didn’t look as appetizing as the food…”

“Oh, but they were! They looked like the coveted Celestial Ambrosia—and not the bootleg kind either—the ones that Phagousa originally spilled onto the land. I know you’re not supposed to drink the bath water, but the nectar was practically calling my name.”

So much for normal and sane… Was Celestial Ambrosia that tempting? Tempting enough that she had drunk the corrupt source? 

You feared you might not be ready to see her soul. 

“Well, whatever you did… You’ll be happy to know that I can eliminate the consequence.” 

“You’re doing the gods’ work, Priestess.” 

You really are, wondering what the gods were thinking of your services. “I’m going to begin with checking your soul now.” 

She gave you a nod as a sign of permission. 

With closed eyes and a hand over her heart, you saw her bright soul floating in the dusk. Because of her confession, you had been anticipating something worse than black wisps; however, you were glad to be wrong. 

They circled around the flame, unable to fully encompass it. You absorbed it, so it couldn’t plague the light any further. 

“All done already?” the woman eagerly asked. 

“All done. Don’t drink from the baths, and definitely, don’t go back up there anymore.” 

“As long as I still have my beloved dining table, I suppose.” Her knee slightly cracked as she got up from the seat and strolled away. 

Despite having gone through only five people, you were growing tired.

Sliding a hand over your face, you prepared yourself for more. 

It was okay; they were counting on you.

A young man was next; he didn’t waste time sitting across from you. 

“You-”

“Yes, yes. I came because I went into The Hero’s Bath. Can we get on with it?” 

“Oh, I was just going to ask what you saw when you went there.” 

Huffing, he answered, “I had only wanted some quiet and relaxing time to study. I couldn’t focus with all the muscle heads around, so I had to find another area to be in. I heard of the bath that was built for heroes and why not? Not all heroes are big and muscular. I’m going to be a scholar at the Grove, which is better than being someone with big muscles and an empty head.”

…The Grove… He must mean the Grove of Epiphany… But you had asked him what he saw —he had given you his whole life story instead. 

Trying again, you redirected his thoughts to focus on sight, “Did you see anything wrong with the water though?” 

“If I think about it, the blue waters did have a greenish tint to them, but it was only a little bit so who cares?”

So, he saw something different from you like everyone else, but why? 

Rather than getting a headache from mulling it over, you explained how you were going to look at his soul for anything wrong and heal it if there were. He gave you his permission, and you carried on with the task. 

After extracting the obscure strands from him, you told him he was free to go. “And even though it’s an isolated spot away from people you don’t like, it’s better to avoid it if you want to live for your goals.” 

As he left the seat, he didn’t say anything else to you which made you think he didn’t hear you, but it wasn’t your problem anymore. 

…If he caught it again, it was going to be… 

…He said he was going to be a scholar, right? 

Oh Cerces, please let him be smarter about his actions from now on. 

“...Hi…” 

A shy voice interrupted your mental prayers. 

The young girl blankly stared at you, waiting for you to greet her. 

“Hi there. How are you?” 

“I’m well, thank you.” 

Ooh, so polite! What a nice change of pace. 

“Did you go into The Hero’s Bath?” 

She kept her head down as she nodded. 

And honest.

“Can you tell me what you saw?” 

Murmuring with her face hidden from your view, you couldn’t hear what she had said.

“Sorry, what was that?” 

The girl warily looked at you before moving closer to you so only you could hear, whispering into your ear, “...There was blood.”

Blood? That wasn’t good. Did she get hurt while in the bath? 

With worried eyes, you tried to identify any injuries on her. “Are you okay? Did you injure yourself there?” 

Shaking her head, she admitted, “No, it wasn’t my blood.” Leaning away from you with her hands interlocked behind her back, she casually said, “It was the blood of my friend who said bad things about my family, so I wanted to do bad things to him.”

…Um, did she just admit to committing a murder? Is this why she didn’t want anyone else to know? 

“I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t actually do it. The water already had his blood when I got into it.” 

Oh. Did that make it better? You had no idea. 

How did she know it was her friend’s blood? Honestly, you didn’t want to know the answer to that question. 

“Well, I’m going to help you with your health. Is that okay?”

“Okay, I know you’re not like my friend, so I like you!” 

On the outside, you were smiling to reassure her; however, you were panicking on the inside. You would hate to be her enemy if she was this wrathful towards her friend. 

Repeating the procedure from earlier, you lifted the black wisps from her soul. Compared to the others, the material clung harder to the light, and you expended minimal effort to take it. 

“If you like me, you have to promise me not to go back to that bath, okay?”

“I promise. Thank you, big sister!” 

Even though she had dark thoughts, she was very polite. 

Waving her off, a slight smile appeared on your face—her mother holding her hand as she returned your goodbye. 

Feeling a sting in your head, your head fell into your hands. 

Really, a headache right now? 

You decided to go on for a little longer. 

Instead of asking them if they went to The Hero’s Bath and what they saw, you explained to the rest of the citizens about what you were doing and asked for their consent. 

After some more clients, you couldn’t ignore how badly your head was hurting anymore. 

Aglaea had noticed your struggle, but she chose not to say anything until now. “If I may suggest… A break is in order for you to recuperate yourself. You have been at this for quite some time now.”  

“Oh, but…”

“How are you going to help others when you cannot even focus?” 

You hated how right she was. Your head was killing you, and there was no point in continuing when you were this close to passing out. 

Nodding, you allowed her to announce your temporary departure as you made your way over to a resting spot away from the crowd. 

Leaning your head against a wall, you relaxed for a moment. 

Just for a moment because when you opened your eyes, you saw a woman, one of the citizens, conversing with Phainon. 

An unfamiliar pain emerged from your chest, and what made it worse was you could hear their conversation. 

“You’re Sir Phainon of the Knights, right? You’re also Kephale’s Chrysos Heir! Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I didn’t think I would ever get the chance to see you. I know you go to Okhema sometimes, but it’s such a big city. Your heroic actions are well-known throughout though! Anyway, are you aware of how handsome you are? Do you have plans on settling down anytime soon?”

Phainon let out a burst of laughter, and you wondered if he was unaware of her intentions. “I didn’t know I was famous in Okhema. I’m just doing what is expected of me. I wasn’t aware, but thanks! And…” He moved his eyes away from her to meet your gaze. His eyes widened at the unexpected contact before returning his attention to her. “...I’m afraid it’s too early for that.” 

Looking away when he broke eye contact and with a hand on your heart, you sighed deeply, trying to ignore the nasty feeling bubbling in your chest. 

You had no right to be jealous. 

Knowing how Phainon is, it made sense he would have other admirers; you weren’t the only one weak to his charms. 

Lydia and the woman before him were proof of that. 

But maybe you should be the only one. Maybe you should kill the others, starting with the woman before him right now. 

…What? 

What did you just think? 

No! It didn’t matter if they were hitting on your guy. It still doesn’t justify murder—you already had this discussion. 

…Your guy? 

Since when was Phainon yours? 

He had always been yours. 

No, he hadn’t.

…You were starting to go insane; this wasn’t you. 

Where are all these unhinged thoughts coming from? 

Thinking about the citizens from earlier, you realized they had similar thoughts as well. They weren’t to the same degree as you, but they were somewhat identical. 

Were you being affected by the madness because of the deed you were doing here? 

Best to not dwell on that thought any longer.

Returning from your break and feeling much better, you cleared the rest of the citizens before nightfall without a hitch. 

With everyone’s madness officially cured in Okhema, the archbishop decided it was a good time to have the aforementioned banquet before the Month of Freedom ends. 

He thought it was time for the clerics to get recognition for their contributions, so the banquet will be held in honor of Kephale and Phagousa. 

Thanks to the Ocean God’s blessings, you and Zayne were able to dedicate time and effort in allowing the area to prosper. 

Similar to the first feast, there was a self-service nourishment table filled with various entreés, desserts, and drinks. Not wanting a repeat of the previous event, every item that needed to be sliced had been precut. Despite curing the corrupting force that had sneaked its way into the area, it wouldn’t hurt to be too careful. 

People had been more alert when they arrived; however, the welcoming atmosphere proved difficult to resist as they quickly became relaxed around friendly company and lively music. They weren’t going to let one bad event sour the rest of their lives. 

“You’ve never had these before, Mydei?” Lydia held a plate of fluffy pancakes drizzled with syrup before the blonde man. 

Mydei inspected the dessert before shaking his head. “These are?” 

“Golden honeycakes! Want to try? They’re absolutely delicious, especially because I made them!” Giggling, Lydia slightly turned away with flushed cheeks, wondering if she was being too boastful. Everyone was always praising her abilities, so she couldn’t be wrong, right? 

Mydei stared at the pancakes with a hand on his chin. If memory served him correctly, Lydia had also made the cookies you gave him and your chimeras. Honestly, it tasted good by his standards. 

Taking another fork, he ate a piece of the dessert.

“How is it?” Lydia’s eyes sparkled in anticipation, waiting for his judgement. 

Mydei finished chewing and swallowing the tasty food before replying, “I enjoyed it. You deserve the credit for your treats. Hm… may I know your recipe?” 

You watched Mydei and Lydia chatting with a hand resting on your cheek at a nearby table. 

Mydei was supposed to leave to go back to Castrum Kremnos after finding a solution to the madness problem which turned out to be you, but he had stayed for the celebration, allowing him to meet Lydia and everyone else. 

You had told him if he needed anything, he could send a letter and you would respond. 

“Priestess…”

Hearing Phainon say your name, you turned towards him. 

Shaking his head with a hand on his hip, he remarked, “You’re the guest of honor yet you’re sitting here….” 

“The banquet is for the gods, Phainon. The archbishop probably felt pity for me after that healing day.”  

“Speaking of which, how are you feeling? It must’ve been tiring after using your ability on all those people.” 

“It wasn’t that bad. The important thing is that I helped all of them.” 

“You don’t have to push yourself if you don’t feel well though.” 

“You’re right…” 

Just thinking about how you felt halfway through the citizens made you feel exhausted. 

You could use a drink right now. 

Eying the far away alcohol, you asked, “One of them mentioned something called Celestial Ambrosia. Do we have that here?” 

One of Phainon’s eyebrows raised, recalling your previous state. “Celestial Ambrosia? You’re quite brave for being a lightweight.” 

“I’m not a lightweight…” you countered with a pout. 

“Pfft, the other drinks aren’t good enough for you?” 

“Last time, I had one of the red ambrosias. It was alright… but the lady was talking about Celestial Ambrosia like it was the best thing ever.” 

“We don’t have any and with good reason. Just a few drops are enough to knock you unconscious. You can’t hold your alcohol at all, and you want some of it?” 

“I—too—can hold it. Like I said, I could beat you in a drinking contest.” 

“Really?”  

Matching his stare, you daringly said, “Really.” 

Grinning at your confidence, Phainon glanced over to the alcohol bottles lined up on the self-service table. Lucky for him, this event was for Kephale and Phagousa. “Are you ready to eat your words?” 

Seeing him looking at the drinks, you registered what he was thinking before smirking. “Are you ready to lose?” 

“We’ll see who the loser is after this.” 

As Phainon went over to retrieve the alcohol, you braced yourself. 

What happened at the first banquet was a fluke; you were going to outdrink him tonight. 

Coming over with two bottles of ambrosia and cups, Phainon sat across from you at the table. 

He poured two glasses, pushing one of them over to you. “Ready?” 

“Bring it on.” You situated a hand on it, bringing it closer. 

“First one.” Phainon winked at you before he threw back his glass, making a slight clink as he placed it on the table. 

You also drank yours, putting the empty glass next to his for him to fill it up. 

The fruity liquid slid across your tongue, and you mentally thanked Phainon for choosing a sweet ambrosia. If he had chosen one made from noon seawater, you didn’t think you would be able to go on with this competition.

Pouring more alcohol into your glass, he raised his own, waiting for you to take yours before drinking his. “Second one.” 

Smugly smiling at him, you consumed more of the liquid in your glass. 

This much was nothing. 

Two glasses of fruity ambrosia never tasted better; victory will taste even sweeter. 

“You sure you’re ready for the third round? I seem to remember you were on your third glass when you started feeling it.” 

“You were watching me?” Your cheeks had already started becoming warm after that last drink, and the implication of his words intensified the sensation. 

Suddenly avoiding your eyes, Phainon realized how it sounded. “It’s not weird, right? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to keel over with how much you were drinking.” 

Hmm… You didn’t mind him watching you, to be honest. It was sweet how he was looking out for you.

“...No, thanks for being concerned about me.” Putting your glass before him, you exclaimed, “But I’m so close to winning. I c-can feel it. Give me more, pretty boy!” 

“...Pretty boy? You think I’m pretty?” Despite his brief pause, he did refill your glass. 

Retracting it from him, you set the dainty cup on the table, using your finger to trace the top while blurrily gazing into his lovely blue eyes. 

You wanted to drown yourself in them. “Pretty. Handsome. Y-you are.” 

More ambrosia flowed into his glass as he talked, a slight flush appearing on his face. “On the day of healing, a woman came up to me and said I was handsome too. I wasn’t aware of it, but I guess it’s true if you’re the one saying it…” 

“Oh, her…” Not finishing your thought because you didn’t want to. 

Instead of staying on the topic, you picked up your glass and fully downed it, slamming it against the table with a big thud. You stood up with your hands on the table’s surface, slightly swaying on your feet before leaning towards him to accuse him. “H-how are you still fine after all that alcohol? Are you ch-cheating?” 

Phainon thought it was time to call it. Things were getting a little too honest for his liking. “I think we both know who’s the clear winner of this contest.” Standing up, he gathered the empty glasses and recapped the opened bottles, returning them to their original location before walking back. 

“You’re definitely… cheating! What is it? Is it because of your… practiced tolerance?” 

Chuckling at your sore loser behavior, he only gave you a knowing smile which you were fuming at. 

The truth was as a Chrysos Heir he was made immune to the effects of alcohol, but he wasn’t going to admit that to you. The drinking contest was just an excuse to be around you; however, he didn’t expect you to call him pretty and handsome. 

He… liked that you complimented him. 

“C’mon, let’s get you back to your room.” Phainon hovered a hand over your shoulder, herding you to the exit. 

With your head in his direction and a pitiful expression but still following him, you cried, “You said… I was the guest of honor. Now… you’re making me leave my own p-party?” 

“And I also remember you said it was for the gods.” 

“...You’re not fair…” Giving up, you leaned against him, unable to hold yourself up anymore. 

Phainon flinched as your body touched his, unsure if he should put his arms around to support you. 

“...Sorry…” Closing your eyes, you softly whispered, “...I don’t know if I can make it by myself…” 

Examining you, Phainon gingerly removed you from him and made sure you were able to stand on your own before turning around and kneeling, offering his back to you. 

“...Phainon?” 

“Hop on.” 

“Ooh…” 

Feeling your arms around his neck and your head resting on his shoulder, he fought the heat on his cheeks as he got up with your legs through the loop of his arms. 

Suppose he was the one to blame for your current state…

The temple was silent with the only sound being the wind rustling the leaves of the plants around you and him. The fire torches lighting the way also gently crackled as Phainon carried you to your room. 

Once at your door, Phainon got on his knee again. 

You slowly separated from him, already missing his warmth. 

He stood up after you got off of him, refusing to face you. 

“Phainon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“...Um, thank you for… taking me back here.” 

You shouldn’t be thanking him when he was the one who made you like this. 

“It’s no problem… Good night, Priestess.” 

Watching him leave, you resisted the urge to run to him and stop him, heart pounding in your chest and ears. 

That whole time while he was taking you back to your room—your mind had been screaming he was yours over and over again. 

He wasn’t. 

He wasn’t yours. 

Whose thoughts were those? 

Because they weren’t yours. 

[nebrasska-alasska]

Hey, author. About maybe-ish 4 days ago, I crashed my aunt's room and found her watching Sonic 2. I'd finished watching Sonic 1 about a year ago, give or take, and had begun the second movie, but stopped midway through. I decided to stay and watch with her because, honestly, I was never gonna continue watching on my own. Anyway, the point is that after finishing the second movie, I HAD to watch the third. Watching Sonic 3 lowkey rekindled my obsession with sonadow, and I knew I had to go pilfer the Sonic/Shadow tag. I sorted by kudos, and the top fic was The Secrets In Our Quills. Needless to say, I ate the entire fic up in about a day. This, by the way, was the first Sonic fanfiction I have ever consumed, and I can say with certainty that it was a certified banger. Anyway, after finishing that one, I then raided your profile and found Tethered At The Wrist.

...

Author, bro, dawg, brother in christ. ???? ahwhxijavwgxkosqjk,pmaveyuwbdksvwhxoqnhd???????????? Literally speechless, idk what to say. I'm usually not very willing to read fics that are in progress, but for you, author, I will have to make an exception. Sigh, omg, TATW literally has me in a chokehold???? The amount of simping going on in that fic is enough to make me want to cry. AUUGHHHHHH SONIC, SHADOW?!???????? (I particularly LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE the scenes with Rouge. SHE KNOWS, OMG SHE KNOWS AND IT'S SO FUNNY TO ME. Shadow internally shitting bricks because Rouge won't stop talking about his crush in FRONT of his crush 😭😭. He's such a loser, I love it so much. And omg, don't even get me started on Sonic. So dense 🙄. Mouth over ass whipped for Shadow, and he doesn't even know it. UGH, I HATE THESE GAYS SO MUCH, I WANT TO EAT THEM). Anyway. Just wanted to let you know that I really love your fics and that I WILL be raiding your profile frequently. Thanks for violently and awesomely hurling me into the Sonic fandom with your fics <3

AWWWWWWWW THANK YOU!!! I’m so glad that you enjoyed The Secrets in our Quills so much, and that you are going feral over Tethered at the Wrist!!! I actually have to thank you: this ask inspired me to reread the story, which is something I haven’t done since like chapter 6. So I’ve taken a break from writing the past few days to read the entire story, and I’ve been having fun cleaning and tidying it up!

Again, huge thank you for inspiring me to slow down and enjoy what I’ve written so far, and I hope you enjoy chapter 17 when it comes out this Sunday!!! :D And a huge welcome to the sonic fandom as well!!!

[kotikaleo]

GOOD JOB JOEL!!!

MAKE IT WILD!!!

Just a small doodle I made a few days ago, right before actually watching the finaly XD. That's why his design is from double life.... Double life with me forever.

MAYBE when I will watch his pov for Wild Life I will redraw that with more accurate design

[not-poignant]

Constellations 15 on AO3!

Rating: Mature

Tags: Contemporary, trauma recovery, men in therapy, references to BDSM relationships, past trauma recovery, complex family relationships, hurt/comfort, angst, historical child abuse, historical familial abuse, reconciliation, Gwyn’s a stalker for five seconds

Summary: (Will make little sense if you haven’t read Falling Falling Stars) It’s been around ten years since the events of Falling Falling Stars, and Efnisien and Gwyn are living their respective lives, and haven’t really been in touch since. Over time, Gwyn becomes more curious about his cousin, especially after learning something he hopes isn’t true, and after seeing him by chance in a park, kicks off a series of events that helps create new opportunities for reconciliation, and discovering what it really means to be family. 

–

Constellations - 15 - Champagne Supernova on AO3

In which Efnisien meets Gwyn’s dog, Fleet, for the first time, and Gwyn finds out more about the incest that occurred between Efnisien and Crielle, and has his worldview shattered by his new understanding of past events.

–

EARLY ACCESS: Constellations - 18 - Solar Event (Final chapter!) on Patreon and Ream:

Constellations 18 on Patreon

Constellations 18 on Ream

In this chapter, Gwyn and Efnisien keep seeing each other. Gwyn realises he gets to have Efnisien in his life and how much of a gift that truly is, as he looks towards a future where he finally understands what family means.

– Thanks to all the Patreon and Ream supporters for making this (and my other writing) possible!

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

this will sound more like a love letter than a review 💌 (you guys are being warned)

after reading everything (like two seconds ago), the first thing that i thought about was this cool image i saw yesterday on twitter, celebrating world book day. i was honestly mesmerized cause that’s why i love reading so much, that’s why i praise fanfics and authors who put effort on building characters and environments. those tiny details… the body language, the eyes, pinkies touching on subway bars….

i screenshot some parts to talk about it so here we go:

“A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages”

YES YES YES YES please. just take me by the hand. yes i’m at the bookstore with her, as a shadow or as ghost following her between shelves, watching people passing by. i’m breathing lightly too cause it’s so nice when things are easy. just like she said. there’s so much beauty on the mundane part of their worlds, the real thing.

also jungkook nerdy talking about photography and slow shutter? it’s so cool to get to know him. i guess we’re both discovering him (nix and me). i cherish this a lot. the subtle ways a person lets you into their life, the little “hey, i really like this thing cause…” cause YES please tell me everything.

this happens to me since forever…having to peel the person little by little, earning their respect, earning your place within the person. And in return, you have someone who also notices you, also peels you back and is also aware of your subtle layers.

"We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked —the urban decay stuff."

“The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special. But it does. Feel significant, that is”

yeah. that’s what i’m talking about.

It feels safer, more grounded… building things that way. It’s not about holding on to the fact that someone notices something about you, but more about someone having the patience to discover you little by little. A little part of both of them that is shared little by little, does that make sense? I'm still figuring out how to verbalize this…

all i know is that i hate to reach the end of the chapter because i’m so absorbed in their worlds that when i finish a chapter it’s like i’m ripped out of the book. i’m a very dramatic girl. i’m aware. i’m a leo.

but READING TRANSFORMS ME 🤸🤸🤸i have a pretty good imagination 💭….

i’ve said too much. read this chapter guys. stay tuned with human nature through book pages. (that’s a pretty good quote…made by me okay bye)

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier. 

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable). 

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating. 

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances. 

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there. 

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink. 

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy. 

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction. 

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding. 

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers. 

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline. 

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising. 

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon. 

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance. 

It's been... nice. 

Quiet. 

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker. 

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment? 

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans. 

With Jungkook, of all people. 

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless. 

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment. 

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality. 

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence. 

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps. 

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two. 

But now? 

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing. 

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all). 

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it. 

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.” 

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And… 

You don’t look at him. 

You refuse to look at him. 

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again. 

Softer this time. 

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away. 

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒��𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

 Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

 Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

 "Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜  𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

goal: 550 notes

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[stump-not-found]

Is there a post schedule for Thesus Guide? Or is it updated just whenever? Asking to see if I should be marking my calendars or not :3

we're on break right now! please expect at min a 2 month delay, since that's about as long as the first half took to write, not counting for the editing, which i had been doing during posting (which was a mistake im doing editing WELL before i start posting again)

truthfully it may be a longer wait as the second half is looking to be longer than the first lol . but i like writing in batches so i can edit things to make sure late plot beats are set up in early chapters

i'll be sure to give plenty of heads up when the story is about to start up again, tho :D

[beneathsilverstars]

my kid is getting so into the warrior cats it's so cute. she gets all dismayed whenever the cats do something mean or strict, she's always like "if i was there, i would let firepaw eat something, i would catch a mouse and give it to him." or "wow, yellowfang is SO mean, if i was a cat i would hiss and scratch her!" like yes queen go off!!! you would be the nicest warrior cat in the clan!

[solar-halos]

for this mood board monday, i present yet another ficboard. the board in question is of franka by @ongreenergrasses

[teh-nos]

tbh i enjoy watching the 'kudos ratio' drop on my multichapter fics as there is no way i could maths it out in my head and it gives me a reason those ones plummet after the first the days that isn't "everyone hated this apart from some initial readers who left pity-kudos for me." same with the "single kudos per chapter once you're a few chapters in" thing - i know that just happens on multichapters so i don't fret about it.