#without a foundation the story is nothing

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo as a character is deeply tied to the very concept of identity that it is deeply ingrained into every aspect of his character and in this essay I will-

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

How to Start Writing Again When the Spark Fades

Sometimes the well of creativity runs dry, leaving you staring at a blank page with nothing but frustration. But trust that the art of writing is as much about the journey as it is about the destination. Here are some ideas to help you reconnect with your writing practice when you feel like your passion has dimmed.

Redefine Your Environment Consider taking a deliberate step outside your usual writing space. The environment in which you work can drastically affect your mindset and creative flow. Even if it’s setting up in a different corner of your home, finding refuge in a local café, or enjoying the subtle distractions of a park bench, a change in scenery often signals a mental reset. This isn’t about permanent relocation, just a simple shift can break the monotony and stir new ideas that have been hiding in plain sight.

Embrace Imperfection The pressure to produce perfect prose can be paralyzing. Give yourself permission to create something imperfect yet honest. Think of every sentence you write as a rough sketch, a necessary experiment in understanding your own voice. When you allow yourself the space to write without the weight of perfection, you invite experimentation and genuine self-expression. That freedom lies at the heart of rediscovering why you fell in love with writing in the first place.

Set Incremental Goals for Continuous Momentum When the idea of diving into a full chapter feels overwhelming, scale back to manageable, bite-sized projects that feel achievable. Instead of demanding a polished page, challenge yourself to write a paragraph or even a single sentence each day. These micro-goals build a foundation of small successes, gradually restoring confidence and momentum. Over time, these consistent efforts enrich your creative reservoir, proving that every little step is indeed a victory.

Engage Deeply in the Process of Freewriting Allow yourself to spill thoughts onto the page without judgment or expectation. Freewriting is an exercise in vulnerability and self-exploration, offering you a space to unburden tangled ideas and unexpected insights. In these unfiltered moments, you might stumble upon a germ of an idea or a rediscovered passion that rekindles your creative fire. Embracing this unstructured approach can transform an intimidating blank page into an open canvas of potential you haven't tapped back into.

Rekindle Old Inspirations There is power in revisiting the work and moments that first ignited your creative spirit. Even if it’s rereading an old journal entry, rediscovering a favorite piece of literature, or reflecting on the stories that once moved you, reconnecting with your past inspirations can shed new light on your present creative journey. This reflective practice not only reminds you of your original passion but may also reveal new directions for your current writing endeavors.

Create a Consistent, Loving Writing Routine Creating a structured yet gentle routine can help reestablish your relationship with writing. Treat your writing time as a vital appointment, a moment carved out just for you. Even if inspiration seems scarce, the simple act of sitting down, opening your notebook, and letting words flow without self-censorship can be incredibly healing. Over time, this practice transforms writing from an obligation into a ritual of self-discovery and mindfulness.

Connect with a Community That Understands Engaging with fellow writers can remind you that you’re not alone in this struggle. The shared experience of creative highs and lows can be profoundly comforting. Join writing groups, participate in online forums, or simply reach out to someone whose work inspires you. These interactions foster a sense of belonging and accountability, encouraging you to keep writing even when the path isn’t clear. In the gentle exchange of ideas and feedback, there is often a spark that reignites your dedication.

Every writer’s journey is unique, filled with ebbs and flows. If you’re feeling disconnected, know that these moments are integral to growth. Embrace each phase as an opportunity to rediscover writing on its own terms, and allow your passion to guide you back into the words you love. If you need any advice from me, never be afraid to send me an ask.

Until next time, Rin T.

[aethersea]

another thing fantasy writers should keep track of is how much of their worldbuilding is aesthetic-based. it's not unlike the sci-fi hardness scale, which measures how closely a story holds to known, real principles of science. The Martian is extremely hard sci-fi, with nearly every detail being grounded in realistic fact as we know it; Star Trek is extremely soft sci-fi, with a vaguely plausible "space travel and no resource scarcity" premise used as a foundation for the wildest ideas the writers' room could come up with. and much as Star Trek fuckin rules, there's nothing wrong with aesthetic-based fantasy worldbuilding!

(sidenote we're not calling this 'soft fantasy' bc there's already a hard/soft divide in fantasy: hard magic follows consistent rules, like "earthbenders can always and only bend earth", and soft magic follows vague rules that often just ~feel right~, like the Force. this frankly kinda maps, but I'm not talking about just the magic, I'm talking about the worldbuilding as a whole.

actually for the purposes of this post we're calling it grounded vs airy fantasy, bc that's succinct and sounds cool.)

a great example of grounded fantasy is Dungeon Meshi: the dungeon ecosystem is meticulously thought out, the plot is driven by the very realistic need to eat well while adventuring, the story touches on both social and psychological effects of the whole 'no one dies forever down here' situation, the list goes on. the worldbuilding wants to be engaged with on a mechanical level and it rewards that engagement.

deliberately airy fantasy is less common, because in a funny way it's much harder to do. people tend to like explanations. it takes skill to pull off "the world is this way because I said so." Narnia manages: these kids fall into a magic world through the back of a wardrobe, befriend talking beavers who drink tea, get weapons from Santa Claus, dance with Bacchus and his maenads, and sail to the edge of the world, without ever breaking suspension of disbelief. it works because every new thing that happens fits the vibes. it's all just vibes! engaging with the worldbuilding on a mechanical level wouldn't just be futile, it'd be missing the point entirely.

the reason I started off calling this aesthetic-based is that an airy story will usually lean hard on an existing aesthetic, ideally one that's widely known by the target audience. Lewis was drawing on fables, fairy tales, myths, children's stories, and the vague idea of ~medieval europe~ that is to this day our most generic fantasy setting. when a prince falls in love with a fallen star, when there are giants who welcome lost children warmly and fatten them up for the feast, it all fits because these are things we'd expect to find in this story. none of this jars against what we've already seen.

and the point of it is to be wondrous and whimsical, to set the tone for the story Lewis wants to tell. and it does a great job! the airy worldbuilding serves the purposes of the story, and it's no less elegant than Ryōko Kui's elaborately grounded dungeon. neither kind of worldbuilding is better than the other.

however.

you do have to know which one you're doing.

the whole reason I'm writing this is that I saw yet another long, entertaining post dragging GRRM for absolute filth. asoiaf is a fun one because on some axes it's pretty grounded (political fuck-around-and-find-out, rumors spread farther than fact, fastest way to lose a war is to let your people starve, etc), but on others it's entirely airy (some people have magic Just Cause, the various peoples are each based on an aesthetic/stereotype/cliché with no real thought to how they influence each other as neighbors, the super-long seasons have no effect on ecology, etc).

and again! none of this is actually bad! (well ok some of those stereotypes are quite bigoted. but other than that this isn't bad.) there's nothing wrong with the season thing being there to highlight how the nobles are focused on short-sighted wars for power instead of storing up resources for the extremely dangerous and inevitable winter, that's a nice allegory, and the looming threat of many harsh years set the narrative tone. and you can always mix and match airy and grounded worldbuilding – everyone does it, frankly it's a necessity, because sooner or later the answer to every worldbuilding question is "because the author wanted it to be that way." the only completely grounded writing is nonfiction.

the problem is when you pretend that your entirely airy worldbuilding is actually super duper grounded. like, for instance, claiming that your vibes-based depiction of Medieval Europe (Gritty Edition) is completely historical, and then never even showing anyone spinning. or sniffing dismissively at Tolkien for not detailing Aragorn's tax policy, and then never addressing how a pre-industrial grain-based agricultural society is going years without harvesting any crops. (stored grain goes bad! you can't even mouse-proof your silos, how are you going to deal with mold?) and the list goes on.

the man went up on national television and invited us to engage with his worldbuilding mechanically, and then if you actually do that, it shatters like spun sugar under the pressure. doesn't he realize that's not the part of the story that's load-bearing! he should've directed our focus to the political machinations and extensive trope deconstruction, not the handwavey bit.

point is, as a fantasy writer there will always be some amount of your worldbuilding that boils down to 'because I said so,' and there's nothing wrong with that. nor is there anything wrong with making that your whole thing – airy worldbuilding can be beautiful and inspiring. but you have to be aware of what you're doing, because if you ask your readers to engage with the worldbuilding in gritty mechanical detail, you had better have some actual mechanics to show them.

[gffa]

What really kills me about Skeleton Crew being so good is that, at this point, I'm not sure it matters. The ratings have been terrible for the show, despite that I don't think I've ever really seen anyone say anything against it, which I think means that people are just absolutely burnt out on these live action shows and I can't really blame them. I've enjoyed things about all of them, I've enthusiastically loved several of them, but even I'm tired of stories that feel like they're half a story. To the point that, even when one of the shows defies that, it doesn't matter anymore. Skeleton Crew is the first show in a long time that feels like you can actually watch it without feeling like they're holding back something for another season or even another show all together. (Maybe Andor and Obi-Wan Kenobi escape this to some degree, but not as well as Skeleton Crew.) I think the idea is that they want that MCU kind of tie-in connectivity, they want a big shared universe that gets everyone hyped up to go watch everything--the problem is that D+ Star Wars just is not good enough or fun enough consistently to pull that off. So little of it is new, it's just filling in the gaps and telling half a story. Even The Mandalorian, which started out so much fun and a breath of fresh air, fell hard into this--it tells half of the story of the fall of Mandalore, it throws in characters that their primary story is in another series all together, it undercuts its own characters' arcs by having major moments take place in spin-off series. Very little feels whole anymore. And you can get away with that when you have a strong series of movies to build a foundation on, like with the originals and the prequels, but Disney has so thoroughly fucked up with the structure and direction of the sequels that what should be fertile ground for covering stories is leaning back harder on the originals and the prequels rather than the sequels. And then the shows themselves aren't building anything new and almost nothing ever finishes. Nothing is a satisfying arc or conclusion because The Story Can't Be Over Yet. (This is why I think OWK and Andor work best, they're leading up to an ending we already know. There is already a built-in end point. Rebels as well had an end point!) I think that's what Disney has really fucked up--almost nothing ever ends because they don't know what's going to be a hit, so they want the option to bring everything back and never let go of anything. They can't give The Mandalorian an actual story arc because they don't know where this story is going. They can't give Ahsoka a complete story because Felony can't let go of her. So even when Skeleton Crew comes along, tells a story that's satisfying in and of itself, has a satisfying conclusion and arc, it doesn't matter because so many people are exhausted and just don't care anymore. And I'm not sure Disney even realizes that's a major problem, because they're too focused on wanting to never let go of anything.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 23

˗ˏˋmatching threads ˎˊ˗

"You didn’t expect Jungkook’s birthday to end with soft talks about Mayer, thunderstorms and stupid craft projects. And yet, here you are."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9.5k

content: delayed gifts, hand brushing, subtle comfort, emotional hypervigilance, miscommunication, clashing attachment styles, slow understanding, quiet intimacy, unexpected softness, bittersweet memories, trauma-informed reactions, symbolic objects, real conversations, familial grief undertones, perceptive but clueless boys, warmth in small gestures, psychological contrast, vulnerability denial, casual closeness, accidental meaning, rain metaphors.

Kiki Nation’s official discussion thread for FMU 23

✧ author's note ✧

This chapter made me feel some type of way, and not in the thirst-posting way for once (shocking, I know). There’s a softness to it that snuck up on me. Like I sat down to write what I thought would be a moment of transition, and ended up face-planting into the kind of quiet, delicate intimacy that’s so often overlooked both in fiction and real life. So here I am, feeling dumb and raw and tender over two forks.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Chapter 21, specifically that hand-touch moment—how subtle it was, and how I never explicitly addressed it in the narration because I didn’t want to. That’s the thing with psychologically driven writing: you’re not meant to be spoon-fed emotional meaning. You’re supposed to notice the tiny things. The almosts. The unspoken. The instinctive kindness that isn’t necessarily romantic, but still manages to get under your skin. That’s what that subway touch was. Not Jungkook being in love. Not a declaration. Just him, in his purest, most unaware form—being soft. Gentle. Deeply perceptive in a way that hurts because it’s so unconscious.

And that’s what this whole chapter is circling around. It’s not about a confession. It’s not even about clarity. It’s about conflict—internal, relational, unintentional conflict between people who are shaped by opposite emotional mechanisms.

Jungkook isn’t emotionally open, but he acts open because he’s thoughtful. Reader is emotionally hyperaware, but she reacts closed-off, because she’s scared and guarded. He acts without thinking deeply about it. She thinks deeply and then doesn’t act. They miss each other again and again not because they don’t care, but because their blueprints don’t match. And yet—they try. Or maybe, they accidentally try. And isn’t that so real?

One of them touches without thinking. The other flinches while overthinking. One gives a gift like it’s nothing. The other interprets it like it’s everything. They’re both right. They’re both wrong. That tension? That’s the story.

This chapter doesn’t show love blooming. It shows understanding struggling to sprout in barren soil.

They have so much ahead of them, so many versions of themselves they haven’t grown into yet. This moment is not culmination—it’s foundation. It matters. It matters more than if they’d just fucked again. Because emotional timing? Matters. And this wasn’t the time for sex. It was the time for emotionally loaded shit I can’t name because you haven’t read the chapter yet, but is now haunting me forever.

Read slow. Read deep. Look for the invisible thread. That’s where the truth is.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Walking back into the karaoke room feels like entering a different dimension—one where rooftop confessions and ex-girlfriend confrontations don't exist.

The noise hits you first, a wall of sound that's almost physical in its intensity. Hobi is mid-Mariah, belting out a note that should probably be classified as a war crime, while Ryan and Seth egg him on with increasingly chaotic dance moves. Tessa's doubled over laughing on the couch next to Diana, both of them recording the spectacle on their phones. Yeji and Irya are engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Jimin over whether Britney or Christina had the better 90s catalog. Yoongi watches it all from his corner seat, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" Kevin shouts when Jungkook steps through the doorway. 

The room erupts in cheers and catcalls, like they're welcoming a returning champion rather than someone who disappeared for half an hour.

"Dude, we thought you fell in," David calls out, raising his drink in salute. "World's longest bathroom break."

"Nah, he was definitely sneaking in a Clash Royale marathon," Kevin argues, tossing an empty cup that Jungkook easily dodges. "Probably hiding in a stall like a true gamer."

"You wish your stats were as good as mine," Jungkook fires back, slipping effortlessly into the friendly banter like he wasn't just having some kind of existential crisis on the rooftop. 

It's impressive, really—the way he can flip that switch, become this version of himself that fits perfectly into the chaos around him.

While everyone's attention is focused on Jungkook's triumphant return, Taehyung makes a beeline for Yoongi and Hobi, who've gravitated toward each other in a corner of the room. 

You're not trying to eavesdrop, exactly, but you happen to be standing close enough to hear the urgent whisper:

"He was on the roof."

The effect is immediate. Both Yoongi and Hobi snap their heads toward Taehyung, their expressions shifting so quickly it's almost comical—except there's nothing funny about the naked fear that flashes across their faces.

"It wasn't like that!" Jungkook interrupts, appearing beside them with surprising speed. His voice is a harsh whisper-shout, barely audible over the music but intense enough to make all three of his friends freeze. "I just needed air. Seriously."

"Bro..." Yoongi's voice is low, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should.

"Jungkook, you know how that looks to us," Hobi says, softer but no less serious. 

"I know. I'm sorry," Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his nervous tic. "But it wasn't... that. I swear. I just went there to think."

"After seeing her?" Taehyung presses, still tense.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, "but it wasn't—look, can we not do this right now? It's fine. I'm fine."

There's clearly more to whatever ‘it’ is—something significant enough to make three grown men look like they've seen a ghost. 

But Jungkook's expression makes it clear the discussion is over, at least for now.

You should probably stop pretending to be fascinated by the karaoke song list and move away before they realize you're listening. 

But before you can, Jungkook abruptly changes the subject, his voice rising to a cheerful pitch that sounds slightly forced.

"Alright, alright!" He claps his hands together, turning to face the room. "So... birthday gifts for the birthday boy?"

The tension shatters as the crowd erupts in excited chatter. Seth whoops loudly, and someone (Ryan, you think) starts an off-key rendition of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow’ that quickly derails into chaos. Jungkook's shoulders visibly relax as the attention shifts from whatever just happened to the much safer territory of presents.

One by one, people approach with gifts—some wrapped beautifully, others clearly hastily stuffed into whatever bag was available. 

Taehyung goes first, handing over a sleek black box tied with a simple red ribbon.

"Don't make it weird," he warns as Jungkook takes it.

Inside is what appears to be a ridiculously expensive camera lens. You don't know enough about photography to identify it, but based on the way Jungkook's eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o,’ it's something significant.

"Dude," he breathes, lifting it carefully like it might shatter. "This is—holy shit, Tae."

"Yeah, well." Taehyung shrugs, but you catch the pleased smile he tries to hide. "You've been whining about needing a better wide-angle for your urban shots, so."

Jungkook looks genuinely moved, holding the lens like it's made of gold. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I always remember," Taehyung says simply, and the way he says it that makes you think he means more than just camera preferences.

Hobi goes next, presenting a sleek box containing what looks like high-end wireless headphones. 

“For all those late-night production sessions," he explains with a grin. "So we don't have to hear your trash music taste through the walls anymore."

"You love my music, asshole," Jungkook laughs, already testing them out.

"I love peace more," Hobi retorts, but he's beaming as Jungkook gives an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yoongi's gift is less physical—a card containing what appears to be a voucher for studio time. 

“Booked you sixteen hours at Blueline," he says with characteristic understatement. "For that soundtrack project you mentioned."

Jungkook looks up from the card, something like disbelief crossing his face. "Dude, Blueline is impossible to get into. How did you—"

"I know people," Yoongi shrugs. "Just don't waste it making crap."

"I would never disrespect the temple," Jungkook promises solemnly, pressing the card to his heart with mock reverence.

The gift-giving continues, a parade of thoughtful items that speak to genuine friendship: rare vinyl records, vintage film books, an artisan coffee setup that makes Jungkook actually bounce with excitement. 

It's sweet, really—seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know him well, who've put thought into what he'd like.

And then it hits you.

Fuck.

The Mayer vinyl. Sitting on your dresser at home, still in its brown paper wrapping from that record store in Williamsburg. 

Because okay, first of all—who brings a fragile vinyl record to MOMA and then a karaoke bar? 

You simply had no way of bringing it without raising suspicions. 

And maybe asking Yoongi for help bringing it over would’ve made it look like you cared, so.

The gifts are winding down, and Jungkook is making his rounds, thanking everyone with what seems like genuine gratitude. He looks happier now, more relaxed—whatever happened with Mia and on the rooftop temporarily forgotten in the warmth of celebration.

You're contemplating whether you should make up some excuse about your gift when suddenly he's right there, appearing in your peripheral vision like he materialized out of thin air.

"So," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans just a bit too close. "Where's my present, Pyx?"

The nickname rolls off his tongue, familiar enough now that you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he uses it. (Mostly.)

"At home," you admit, trying to sound casual and not like someone who completely failed at basic gift logistics.

"Oh?" 

His lips purse, fighting back what's clearly a smirk. 

The glint in his eye is positively dangerous. 

"At home?"

Your cheeks heat up against your will. 

“Not—I don't mean it like that," you stammer, realizing too late how your answer could be interpreted. "I mean I literally left it at the apartment. It wouldn't fit in my bag."

"Big gift, huh?" he murmurs, leaning even closer. His breath brushes your ear, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla. "I'm intrigued."

"It's just a thing," you say lamely. "Nothing special."

"I'd honestly be happy with the other interpretation, for the record," he continues like you haven't spoken, voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in public spaces. 

"In your dreams," you scoff, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"Every night," he confirms, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face now. "Detailed, technicolor dreams. Sometimes you even—"

"Boundaries, Rogue," you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. "We're in public."

"That didn't stop you earlier," he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second. "On the roof?"

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"We were alone then."

"We could be alone again," he suggests, voice casual but eyes anything but. "Plenty of dark corners in this building."

"You're incorrigible."

"You like it."

Before you can come up with a suitably cutting response, Ryan's voice cuts through the general noise of the room: "Yo, I'm gonna crash out! It's getting late!"

The announcement triggers a cascade of similar declarations. 

Suddenly people are gathering coats, exchanging final birthday wishes, making plans to meet up later in the week. The energy in the room shifts from celebration to conclusion, that particular lull that comes at the end of a good night.

As people begin filing out, Seth materializes beside you, a confident smile plastered across his face that probably works on most girls but just makes you want to step back a foot or three.

"So," he says, leaning in close enough that you can smell the tequila on his breath, "I was thinking I should get your number. You know, to hang out sometime."

"Uhhh," you stall, searching for a polite rejection. "No thanks."

His smile doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. 

“Come on, we had fun tonight, right? Just give me your number. I promise I'll only use it for emergencies." He winks, like this is some clever line that's going to change your mind.

"I said no thanks," you repeat, firmer this time.

"Don't be like that," he persists, stepping even closer. "Just your number. What's the big deal?"

You're about to tell him exactly what the big deal is when Jungkook appears at your side, his expression suddenly hard.

"Bro," he says, annoyance coloring his tone, "can't you see she ain't interested?"

Seth blinks, looking between you and Jungkook. "I'm just asking for her number, man. No harm in that."

"Except she already said no. Twice." Jungkook's tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now. "So maybe take the hint?"

For a moment, Seth looks like he might argue. Then he sighs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

"Fine, whatever. Your loss," he adds, with a final glance your way before merging back into the departing crowd.

"How is that your friend?" you ask once he's safely out of earshot, genuinely baffled that someone like Jungkook would hang out with such a persistent creep.

"He isn't, technically," Jungkook shrugs, watching Seth's retreating back with a slightly disgusted look. "He's Ryan's friend, who sometimes hangs out with Ryan, and so with us too. Definitely not my pick for the squad."

"Thank god for small mercies," you mutter, and he laughs, the tension from the Seth encounter dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

Jungkook steps back from you, that heated moment dissipating as he slips back into social host mode. You watch as he makes his rounds, thanking everyone for coming, accepting final hugs and handshakes. He's good at this—making each person feel individually appreciated, remembered. 

It's a side of him you are staring to recognize more and more often. 

When he reaches Tessa, you notice how his posture softens slightly. He says something that makes her laugh, tucking that perfect auburn hair behind her ear in a gesture that's both shy and flirtatious.

"You need a ride?" he asks her, and you barely manage to overhear. "I can call an Uber."

"No need," she smiles, gesturing toward Diana. "We're sharing a car. Diana lives just a few blocks from me."

"Good," he nods, looking genuinely relieved. "Text when you get home safe?"

It's sweet, the way he's concerned for her safety. Not what you'd expect from the guy who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days and thinks changing the toilet paper roll is optional. 

But then again, tonight has been full of surprises when it comes to Jungkook.

"Will do," Tessa promises, then hesitates before leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Happy birthday, Jungkook."

You watch them, something jittery settling in your chest. 

His lucky ass might actually score someone genuinely nice and put-together, who seems to actually like him beyond just his face and body. 

Good for him. 

Good for her, even, if she can't see that she's way out of his league.

Ten minutes later, the room has mostly cleared. Only your strange merged group remains—Yeji and Irya saying their goodbyes to Jimin by the door, while Taehyung, Hobi, Yoongi, Jungkook, and you linger in a loose circle near the couches.

"Subway?" Yoongi asks, addressing both you and Jungkook with his usual economy of words.

Jungkook nods, glancing at his phone. "Still running for another hour."

"I'll walk with you guys to the station," Taehyung offers, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"Nah, you're uptown. That's the opposite direction."

"I don't mind."

"I'm fine, Tae," Jungkook says firmly, and there's a weight to the words that seems to carry a conversation from earlier. "Really."

Taehyung doesn't look convinced, but after a moment of silent communication, he relents. "Text me when you get home."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Jungkook's tone softens. "I will."

The farewells are quick after that—Hobi heading uptown with Taehyung, Jimin walking Yeji and Irya to their car, and the three of you—you, Jungkook, and Yoongi—making your way toward the subway station that will take you back to your shared apartment.

It feels like you've been gone for days rather than hours—like the person who left the apartment this morning for her first day at Barnes & Noble somehow isn't quite the same one heading home now.

But that's a thought for another time, when your head isn't fuzzy with tequila and your feet aren't aching from standing half the night.

For now, you just follow your roommates through the city streets toward the subway station, the quiet between you comfortable in a way it hasn't been before.

The subway car at this hour is practically abandoned—just a few night owls and the occasional service worker scattered across the seats like human tumbleweeds. 

Yoongi claims a seat by the door, immediately slipping his AirPods exactly like someone who's perfected the art of social avoidance. Within seconds, his head is tilted back against the subway wall, eyes closed. 

Either he's fallen asleep that quickly, or he's just really committed to pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Jungkook drops into the seat beside him, legs splayed wide in that uniquely male way that screams ‘my balls need their own zip code.’ You take the spot next to him, trying to claim whatever minimal space is left.

Like seriously? There are literally twenty empty seats.

You nudge your knee pointedly against his. "Do you mind?"

"Wha?" He glances down, genuinely confused.

"The manspreading, bro," you gesture at his legs. "You're taking up enough space for three people."

He grins, completely unashamed. "I need to air out the jewels."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You swat his arm, genuinely annoyed. "That's exactly the problem with guys like you. Public space isn't designed for your testicle ventilation system."

"Guys like me?" He raises an eyebrow, still smirking but at least looking slightly less smug.

"Yes. Guys who think their comfort is more important than the space of everyone around them." You're on a roll now, the combination of lingering tequila and genuine irritation fueling your feminist rant. "Women are literally conditioned to take up as little space as possible, to cross our legs, to fold ourselves into tiny spaces, while men just spread out like they own the world. It's literally a physical manifestation of patriarchal entitlement."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something closer to actual consideration. 

He glances down at his legs, then at the way you've automatically tucked yours together to accommodate his sprawl.

"Shit, I sound like a TikTok right now, don't I?" you mutter.

"No, no," he says, actually shifting his legs together. "You're not wrong. I didn't really think about it that way."

Wait. What?

"You're just saying that because it's your birthday and you think you get a free pass," you say suspiciously.

"No, I actually get it," he says, looking strangely thoughtful. "My mom used to call me out for the same shit. Called it 'man space disease.' Said my dad had it too."

And now you don't know what to do with yourself. 

Because what the actual fuck? 

How are you supposed to maintain righteous irritation when he just... listens? Takes criticism? Brings up his mom in a way that makes him seem like an actual human person with a past and stuff?

Goddammit. Now you can't even properly be mad at him, which somehow makes you even more annoyed. 

"Anyway," you say, desperate to change the subject before you lose all moral high ground. "Happy birthday again or whatever."

"Thanks," he says, and then adds, "for everything. The museum was actually cool. Didn't know you had taste, Phee."

"I'm literally an English major."

"Yeah, but that just means you read boring-ass books from dead white guys."

"That's... not what English degrees are about," you sputter. "And I bet 90% of your film classes are just Scorsese and Tarantino circle jerks."

He laughs, a genuine sound that echoes in the empty subway car. "Fuck, you got me there. Though Tarantino is—"

"If you say 'ahead of his time,' I will push you onto the tracks at the next stop."

"I was gonna say overrated, actually. Everyone loses their mind over Pulp Fiction, but honestly? Mid."

You blink, genuinely surprised. "Okay, that's the most correct opinion you've ever had."

"I have tons of correct opinions. You just never ask me about them."

"Sure, like your opinion that coffee is better than tea?"

"Because it is!"

"That whole statement is a crime, is what it is."

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back, conversation over because he’s clearly not arguing over this. 

So the subway rattles on, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against track filling the silence. 

Your thoughts drift to earlier tonight—to that moment on the first subway ride when his hand had brushed against yours. 

Just a whisper of contact, his pinky grazing yours on the metal bar.

Why did he do that? What was the deal with that?

The question nags at you, an itch you can't scratch. Not because it matters in any deep way—obviously it doesn't—but because puzzling out Jungkook's behavior is becoming something of a hobby. 

A frustrating, often pointless hobby, but still.

"Hey," you say before you can talk yourself out of it. "Question for you."

He turns toward you, eyebrows raised slightly. "Shoot."

"Earlier, on the subway..." You hesitate, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "You kind of touched my hand on the bar? What was that about?"

"Huh?" He looks genuinely confused for a moment, then recognition dawns. "Oh! That."

He says it so casually, like it wasn't something worth remembering. Which it isn't. Obviously.

"I just noticed you had a panic attack this morning," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "In my room."

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprise making your pulse quicken. "How did you—"

"I passed by and heard your breathing," he explains, shrugging like this is a completely normal thing to say. "But I didn't want to intrude. Since it's something very personal and knowing you..." 

He looks to the side as he gestures vaguely. 

"Well, I don't think you'd have appreciated me barging in, so I just went back to cooking my super pancakes."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

Who… Who the fuck is this dude? When did Jungkook develop this thoughtful, considerate side? Is he possessed? Should you be checking for pod people?

"So on the subway," he continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, "I dunno, I felt you had off vibes, and—"

"Again with the vibes?" You can't help but interject.

He laughs, the sound sharp and genuine. "Bro, you had this face like the sad hamster meme and I couldn't take it. That's why I brushed your hand. Reassurance, y'know?"

"The... sad hamster meme?" you repeat, incredulous.

He whips out his phone, types something, then shows you the screen: a round-faced hamster looking depressed as hell, its tiny eyes radiating existential despair.

"That's not—I don't look like that!" you protest.

"You literally did. One hundred percent emotional support hamster energy."

"I will actually murder you in your sleep."

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

"My mom—" 

He cuts himself off, suddenly looking down at his lap.

But somehow, he decides to continue.

"My mom used to do that for me, so I thought it might help. The hand thing. Not calling you a hamster," he clarifies quickly. "Just a small touch when I was stressed. Sorry if it was weird."

Oh.

"No, no, it wasn't weird," you say quickly. 

The image of a younger Jungkook, being comforted by his mother with small touches, is annoyingly humanizing. 

Couldn't he just stay a two-dimensional asshole? Would make life so much simpler.

"No?" He looks up, searching your face.

"...No." You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. "It's kind of nice, actually. That you're this attentive." 

You clear your throat then; but it’s like the air is getting stuck in your throat at the sudden sincerity of this conversation.

So you can't help adding: "I guess. Could've apply it to the household, you know? Like maybe notice when the trash needs taking out?"

He snorts at that, the weird moment breaking; and you couldn’t be happier.

“One step at a time, Pyx. One step at a time."

"So your observational skills only work when it comes to me having panic attacks, not when the dishes need doing?" 

"I have selective observation abilities," he admits with a grin. "Like a very specific superpower."

"World's shittiest X-Man," you mutter. "'I'm Emotional Support Man. I can tell when you're sad but can't locate the broom.'"

He laughs, harder this time. "Fuck, that's actually my brand. Can I put that in my Instagram bio?"

"Only if you credit me."

"Deal."

The subway lurches around a corner, and you both sway with the movement. You catch Yoongi cracking one eye open, glancing at you both before apparently deciding you're not interesting enough to stay awake for and closing it again.

"So like, you must be psyched about the studio time from Yoongi," you say, genuinely curious about this part of Jungkook's life that you know almost nothing about.

"Dude, you have no idea. Blueline is like..." he gestures expansively, searching for the right words, "it's basically where half the top-charting albums from last year were produced. Their equipment is insane. Sixteen hours there is worth like, a month in a regular studio."

"And he just... got that for you? Just like that?"

"Yoongi knows people," Jungkook says, with a hint of pride. "He's lowkey connected as fuck in the music scene. Doesn't talk about it much, but he's got production credits on some tracks that went viral last year."

"Wait, seriously? Yoongi? Our Yoongi? The guy who speaks like four words a day?"

"That's his whole strategy," Jungkook whispers dramatically, leaning closer like he's sharing state secrets. "The less he says, the more people think he's some kind of genius."

"Is it working?" you ask, also whispering despite yourself.

He grins. "I mean, he got me sixteen hours at Blueline, so yeah, I'd say it's working pretty well."

"What are you gonna do there?"

"I'm scoring a short film by this director I know. Nothing major, just like a fifteen-minute thing, but I've been wanting to experiment with this sound for a while—like lo-fi beats but with some orchestral elements mixed in. Kind of a vibe Jonny Greenwood meets Nujabes thing, if that makes sense?"

It doesn't, really, but the way his eyes light up as he talks about it is surprisingly engaging. 

Cute.

Because that’s Jungkook when he talks about something he cares deeply about. He just… gestures as he explains, hands moving expressively, and his entire demeanor changes.

"That's actually really cool," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely pleased by your approval, which is weird. Since when does he care what you think? "You should come by sometime. Check it out."

"I didn't know you were into all that," you say, genuinely curious now. "The music stuff, I mean. I knew about the film major, but..."

"I'm a man of many talents, Phee," he says with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Okay, and we're back to you being insufferable. That was a nice five-minute break."

He laughs, not at all offended. "Can't let you get too comfortable. Gotta keep you on your toes."

The subway announcement system announces your stop is next. 

Yoongi's eyes open immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense for exactly when to wake up. He removes his AirPods, tucking them into his pocket as he stands.

"You coming?" he asks, directing the question to both of you but somehow making it sound like he couldn't care less either way.

"Yeah, yeah," Jungkook says, already standing. 

He offers you a hand up, the gesture casual but unexpected.

You hesitate for just a second before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand is warm, the calluses from guitar playing rough against your palm. And then he drops it as soon as you're standing, no lingering, no loaded moment. Just a simple courtesy.

But it’s the normal, everyday nature of the gesture that throws you. 

Like this is just what you do now—casual, friendly touches that mean nothing beyond basic human interaction.

The subway slows as it approaches your stop, and you grab the pole to steady yourself, pushing this strange new dynamic to the back of your mind to examine later. 

When you're alone. 

And preferably sober.

You've never heard Griffin meow that loudly outside of dinner time, and even then, it's not this fucking dramatic.

The elevator doors have barely slid open when the unholy feline screeching hits your ears—a sound that could only be described as a cat being simultaneously vacuumed and baptized against its will.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, already picking up your pace toward the apartment door.

Jungkook's reaction is instantaneous. One second he's trudging beside you, still talking about some obscure music producer, and the next he's bolting down the hallway like someone lit his ass on fire.

"Griffin!" His voice carries genuine panic as he fumbles with his keys, hands suddenly clumsy with urgency.

You follow right behind him, though your motivations are decidedly less noble. 

The building has a strict no-pets policy, and the last thing you need is to get evicted because Jungkook's furry contraband is having a meltdown at 1 AM.

"Jesus Christ, let me do it," you hiss, shoving at his hands. "You're gonna wake up the whole floor."

"I got it, I got it," he insists, still struggling with the lock as Griffin continues his banshee impression on the other side of the door.

"Clearly you don't got it," you argue, trying to wrestle the keys from his grip. "You're making it worse!"

"Can you just—will you just—give me a second—"

You're both so busy fighting over the keys that neither of you notices Yoongi until he's physically shoving both of you aside with surprisingly pointy elbows.

"Move," he grunts, extracting his own key and long since given up on expecting basic competence from either of you.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings wide just in time for an orange blur to come rocketing out into the hallway. 

Griffin shoots between your legs like he's auditioning for some Usain Bolt competition (but make it feline), though to no avail, because Jungkook's reflexes are impressively fast. 

Three quick strides and he's scooping the cat up, cradling him against his chest.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" he murmurs, immediately checking the cat for injuries. "You okay? What happened?"

Griffin, now safely ensconced in Jungkook's arms, has miraculously stopped his caterwauling and is instead purring loud enough to vibrate the hallway. 

The little shit.

"Oh my god, Jungkook, tell your cat to shut the fuck up," you hiss, glancing nervously toward neighboring doors. "You know the neighbors are gonna snitch if he keeps that up."

"No they won't," he says with the confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for anything in his life. "They all love me."

You blink. "You know all the neighbors?"

He just shrugs, already carrying Griffin back into the apartment like the entire dramatic episode never happened.

Yoongi, having completed his sole contribution to the crisis, is already disappearing into his bedroom, door clicking shut behind him with a finality that says ‘do not disturb under penalty of death.’

You stand awkwardly in the entryway, fidgeting with your keys, suddenly hyperaware that you're alone with Jungkook for the first time since... whatever that moment on the rooftop was.

He snorts, still cradling Griffin like a baby. 

"So where's my gift?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Had to make things weird and awkward because god forbid Jungkook let any interaction proceed without maximum discomfort.

You grunt noncommittally and trudge to your bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind you. 

There, sitting innocently on your dresser, is the crumpled paper bag from the flea market. 

Inside is the stupid vinyl record you'd impulsively bought for fifteen bucks because it had "John Mayer" on it and you vaguely remembered Jungkook had a vinyl wall with what looked like Mayer albums.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Now, you're not so sure.

But it's not like you have any alternatives, and you did promise him a gift, so...

You grab the bag and head back out, careful not to make eye contact. You have no idea why you're suddenly nervous about this. It's just a vinyl. Probably one he already has. No big deal either way.

"Here," you say, thrusting the paper bag toward him.

He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the plainness of your offering. 

What was he expecting? A fucking gift-wrapped Ferrari?

He sets Griffin down carefully on the armchair before taking the bag from you. The cat immediately curls into a perfect circle, clearly untroubled by whatever had sent him into hysterics five minutes ago.

Jungkook pulls the vinyl from the bag with deliberate slowness, like he's trying to extend the suspense. A small smile forms on his lips when he sees it's a record, but then—

His face contorts into an expression you can't begin to interpret. 

It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in under five seconds, ending on some emotion that looks like he might either laugh hysterically or have a stroke.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. You knew it. He already has it. Or worse, he hates this album. 

Great going, genius. You had one job.

"Nix," he starts, his voice strangled.

"It's fine," you interject quickly, already looking away and biting your lip. "I mean, if you already—"

"Phoenix."

Something in the way he says your nickname—your full nickname, not the shortened version—makes you reluctantly look back at him.

He's not... mad. Or disgusted. Or disappointed. 

If anything, he looks... stunned? 

His eyes are practically twinkling, like you just handed him the fucking Holy Grail instead of a dusty old record.

"Where the fuck..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly. "Where the fuck did you get this, Nix?"

You blink, caught off guard by his reaction.

"I—a girl has her secrets," you mumble, because no way in hell are you admitting you found it in a five-dollar bin at a flea market.

"This is Inside Wants Out," he says, staring at the record like it might vanish if he blinks.

"Yup. That's what it says," you confirm, pointing unnecessarily at the album title clearly printed on the cover.

Like, yeah. Thanks for confirming he can read. At least he’s not that stupid. 

"It's John Mayer, right...? I thought... I mean since your whole vinyl wall is mostly—"

"This is Inside Wants Out," he repeats, more emphatically this time, like you're not getting the significance.

You nod slowly. "Yeah... I heard you the first time."

"Do you know how hard it is to get this shit, Nix?" His eyes are still wide with disbelief. "This is a collector's item."

Oh.

Oh wow.

Oh fuck.

You didn't mean to give him something with actual significance. You were just trying to not completely fail at basic gift-giving. But now he's looking at you like you just casually handed him a winning lottery ticket, and you have no idea how to respond.

"I mean... I knew you'd appreciate it," you lie smoothly, like you totally knew what you were doing. "You seem like the type to be into the rare stuff."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's not entirely buying your sudden expertise in John Mayer collectibles, but he's too excited about the record to push it.

"It was his first EP," he explains, still handling the vinyl like it might explode. "Self-released in '99, before he got signed. There were only like a thousand copies ever pressed, and they never reissued it on vinyl."

"Oh," you say eloquently. "Cool."

"Cool?" 

He laughs, the sound both incredulous and delighted. 

"Nix, this thing goes for like three hundred dollars on eBay if you can even find one. How did you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. "You know what, never mind. I don't even want to know. Just... thank you."

Three hundred dollars? 

You almost choke. The grimy old man at the flea market had sold it to you for fifteen bucks, and even then, you'd thought you were overpaying.

Holy shit. You accidentally gave Jungkook the perfect gift.

You're still processing this bizarre turn of events when he does something even more unexpected. He steps forward and hugs you—a quick, one-armed embrace that's over almost before it begins, but still manages to short-circuit your brain for a solid three seconds.

"Seriously," he says, already stepping back. "This is... thank you."

"I—yeah, of course," you manage, still off-balance from the sudden contact. "Happy birthday or whatever."

He grins, already carefully examining the record sleeve for any damage. 

"Or whatever," he echoes, but there's no mockery in it. 

Just warmth.

A warmth that makes something in your chest twist in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Jungkook flips the vinyl over in his hands, tracing the track listing with his finger. 

"I started collecting his stuff in high school," he says, voice softer than usual. "Everyone gives him shit, you know? Like he's this basic white dude music or whatever."

"Isn't he, though?" You can't help asking, even as you drift closer to the couch instead of retreating to your room like you'd planned.

He looks up at you, expression caught between offense and amusement. "That's what everyone thinks. But his guitar work? Seriously underrated. The guy's technically insane."

You perch on the arm of the couch, watching as he continues examining the record. 

“So you're into him for the... technical aspects?"

"Partly." Jungkook shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "But honestly? His music just hits sometimes, you know? Like when you're driving at night with the windows down, or when you just need to chill and not think for a while."

"Didn't take you for the introspective type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Phee," he says, but it's not a challenge or a flirtation. Just a simple statement of fact.

"Like what?"

He looks surprised you asked, like he expected you to roll your eyes and walk away. 

After a moment's hesitation, he gestures toward his bedroom. 

“I've got every vinyl he's released. Started with Continuum when I was fifteen..." He trails off, then shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, been collecting ever since."

You’re not sure whether he wants you to ask, or doesn’t want to overshare. So to play it safe, you don’t dig.

Instead, you find yourself saying, "My dad's obsessed with him."

Now it's your turn to be surprised—by your own admission. Because you hadn't planned to share that.

Jungkook's eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, suddenly interested in a loose thread on your sleeve. "Used to play his albums constantly during gardening weekends. My mom would pretend to hate it, but I'd catch her humming along when she thought no one was listening."

"Gardening weekends?"

"Mandatory family bonding," you explain, the memory both distant and vivid. "Every other Saturday in spring and summer. Dad would handle the heavy stuff, Mom did the flowers, and I was on weed duty."

"Weed duty," Jungkook repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like, you grew pot with your parents? Damn, Nix, I had you all wrong."

You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile too. "Garden weeds, dumbass. The actual nuisance plants."

"So what? You'd all be out there pulling weeds while John Mayer serenaded you from a boombox?"

"Something like that," you say, the mental image so accurate it catches you off guard. "How'd you know about the boombox?"

"Dads and boomboxes go together like peanut butter and jelly," he says with authority. "It's basic dad culture."

"Fair point." You hesitate, then add, "He had this super old one. Battery-operated, because the garden was too far from the house for an extension cord. The sound quality was garbage, but he refused to upgrade. Said it had 'character.'"

Jungkook smiles at that, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"You'd hate each other," you say automatically, but then consider it. "Actually, no. You'd probably bond over guitar shit and expensive coffee, and it would be absolutely insufferable for everyone else."

"I'm great with parents," he protests. "They love me."

"That's because they don't have to live with you."

He gasps in offense. "What? Come on, living with me is the best experience ever.”

"So now ‘best experience ever’ is you eating my leftovers and folding your briefs on the entrance table?”

"And mind-blowing sex," he adds, because of course he does. "Don't forget that part."

"And we're done here," you announce, standing up from the couch arm. 

"Wait," he says, surprising you again. "What was your favorite song? From those gardening days, I mean."

You pause, considering whether to answer. It feels oddly personal, sharing music taste with Jungkook. More intimate somehow than the physical stuff you've done together.

But he's looking at you with genuine curiosity, still cradling the vinyl you gave him like it's something precious, and you find yourself responding before you can overthink it.

"'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room,'" you admit, the memory rising unbidden. "Not off that album, obviously, but it was on Continuum."

“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for that one."

"Well, I wasn't exactly vibing with the lyrics at age ten," you say, defensive without knowing why. "It just... reminds me of my mom."

"Your mom was into songs about dysfunctional relationships?"

"No, dumbass." 

You take a breath, weighing whether to elaborate. 

Fuck it. 

“There was this one time, we were gardening, and it started raining—like, suddenly pouring. Dad ran inside with the boombox, but Mom just... stayed out there. And I did too."

Jungkook's watching you intently now, the vinyl temporarily forgotten in his hands.

"That song was playing right before the rain started," you continue, eyes fixed on that loose thread again. "And when Dad got inside, he must have put the song on again inside the house, because we could hear it through the open windows. Mom just... started dancing. In the rain. And she pulled me in, and we were spinning around like idiots, getting completely soaked, while Dad watched from the porch and pretended to be embarrassed by us."

You risk a glance at Jungkook and find him smiling softly.

"What?" you demand.

"Nothing," he says, but his smile doesn't fade. "Just... that's a really good memory. I like that it wasn't some deep angsty reason. Just your mom being cool."

"She wasn't always," you say before you can stop yourself. "Cool, I mean. But she had her moments."

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind you didn't think was possible with Jungkook. He's still looking at you with that soft expression, and you find yourself continuing without really meaning to.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to lighten the sudden heaviness between you. “I like sad songs and thunderstorms. Shocking revelation about the English major, I know.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s gentler than his usual smirk. 

“I know you like thunderstorms.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, setting the vinyl aside with careful hands. “Remember the first time we hooked up in this apartment? There was a storm outside.”

“How do you remember that?”

He shrugs, casual, unbothered.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything at all to reveal he keeps details in mind or cares. 

“You were curled up in that bean bag by the window, watching the rain like it was telling you secrets. All broody and intense. Very on-brand.”

“I wasn’t broody,” you protest automatically.

“You were staring at a lightning storm. The only way you could’ve been broodier is if you were wearing fingerless gloves and listening to The Cure.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily. “Fuck off, I don’t even own fingerless gloves.”

“Yet,” he adds with a grin. “There’s still time, though. Hot Topic’s having a sale.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“I just like storms, okay? They’re… honest.”

“Honest?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious.

You struggle to articulate something you’ve never had to put into words before. 

“Yeah, like… they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. They’re loud and chaotic and messy, and they don’t apologize for it.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Plus,” you add, tone deliberately lighter, “they smell good.”

“Yeah I guess they do,” he agrees, and for some reason, this tiny point of connection feels significant.

“You smell like rain,” you say, the words slipping out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion replacing his easy smile.

“I mean,” you backtrack, suddenly feeling stupid, “you’re always saying I smell like vanilla and stuff. And you really like vanilla, right? With your vanilla extract flask or whatever. Well, you smell like rain. At least to me. I really like rain. That’s all.”

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for you to start mentally calculating how quickly you could fake your own death and flee the country.

“I smell like rain,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly. “Just an observation. Like how Yoongi smells like coffee and disappointment.”

He laughs at that, breaking the weird tension. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

“I’m very accurate,” you say with mock seriousness. “My superpower.”

And… why exactly are you quoting him? That’s exactly what he said in the subway.

And you said it without thinking. 

“Well,” he says, not catching onto that or at least not making it about that; leaning back into the couch cushions, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t smell like disappointment. Rain is definitely the better option.”

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say you smell good,” you lie, because of course he smells good, the bastard. “Just like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile is knowing, infuriating. “You literally just said you really like rain, though.”

“I changed my mind. Rain is overrated.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Griffin chooses that moment to stretch dramatically on the armchair, reminding you both of his presence. The cat yawns widely, showing tiny needle teeth, before resettling into an even tighter ball.

“Anyway,” you say, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, “your cat is still a menace, even if he has good timing.”

“The best timing,” Jungkook agrees, reaching over to scratch behind Griffin’s ears. “Though I still don’t know what set him off earlier.”

“Maybe he sensed a disturbance in the force.”

“Maybe he just missed me,” Jungkook suggests, and the sad thing is, he’s probably right. Griffin is ridiculously attached to him, like some kind of orange, furry shadow.

“Cats don’t miss people,” you argue, just to be contrary. “They’re cold-blooded killers who tolerate humans because we operate can openers.”

“Griffin misses me,” he insists, stroking the cat’s back. “Don’t you, buddy? Tell Phoenix how much you missed your dad.”

Griffin blinks slowly in response, which Jungkook apparently interprets as agreement. 

“See? He says he was devastated by my absence.”

“He says he’s plotting to kill us both in our sleep,” you counter.

“Nah, he only does that to people who don’t bring him treats. Speaking of which…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of cat treats, shaking a few onto his palm.

Griffin is suddenly wide awake, lunging for the offering with surprising agility for a creature that was seemingly comatose two seconds ago.

“You carry cat treats in your pocket?” you ask, incredulous. “To a club? To a karaoke bar?”

“Always be prepared,” he says solemnly, as if quoting some ancient cat-owner wisdom. “Besides, Griffin can sense when I don’t have them.”

“Your relationship with this cat is genuinely concerning.”

“Says the person who talks to him when she thinks no one’s listening.” He smirks at your surprised expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard you. ‘Who’s a little murder machine? Is it you? Yes it is.’”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You baby-talk my cat, Phoenix. Just admit it.”

“I do not baby-talk—”

Your phone chimes with a text notification, cutting off what would have undoubtedly been a brilliant denial. 

You move towards the entryway, where you'd left your purse on the table, and reach to look for your phone, when suddenly—

Oh. 

The DIY bracelets. Right.

You'd left them at the shop at first for that contribution project Ash had talked about, but then... something had pinched at you when Jungkook mentioned having one similar as a kid. 

How it reminded him of his mom.

And now that you're talking about mourning a mom that you still have alive, because the mom from your memories often differs from the one who exists now... it feels like the right moment. Like maybe these stupid friendship bracelets aren't just arts and crafts bullshit but something that might actually mean something.

Fuck, that's corny. You're being corny right now. This is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Jungkook—suddenly you're having feelings and shit. Gross.

But your fingers are already closing around the bracelets. 

You're impulsive like that. Always have been. Jump first, think later. It's gotten you into trouble more times than you can count, but occasionally—very occasionally—it works out.

You slip them into your fist, hiding them behind your back as you walk slowly toward Jungkook. He's still standing there, watching you with that half-curious, half-amused expression that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and—

"Hmm? What's up, Phoenix?" he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly when he notices your hands hidden behind your back.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“What's that?" He takes a step closer, trying to peek around you. "You hiding something?"

"No," you lie, taking a step back. "Mind your business."

"You're being weird," he says, his smirk widening into a full-on grin. "What is it? A love letter? Secret diary? Embarrassing photos of you in middle school with braces?"

"I never had braces," you retort, still backing up as he advances. "And it's nothing, so back off."

"If it's nothing, why are you hiding it?" He lunges suddenly, trying to grab at your hands, but you twist away, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Jungkook, I swear to god—"

"Come on, just show me!" He's laughing now, the asshole, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "What's so secret that you can't—"

He makes another grab, and this time his fingers catch your wrist. You try to pull away, but he's stronger than you, the jerk, and before you can stop him, he's pried your fingers open.

The bracelets fall into his palm.

His laughter cuts off abruptly. 

He stares down at them, then back up at you, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read. 

His eyes go all soft and wide, like some anime character or something, and it makes your forsaken insides twist.

"How?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "I thought we left these at the shop."

You look to the side, feeling heat crawl up your neck. 

This is so fucking embarrassing. 

It's just bracelets. 

Stupid, childish bracelets that shouldn't mean anything.

"When I came back to get my phone, I..." You trail off, not sure how to explain without sounding like a complete sap. "I saw them and I just..."

You shut up, because what are you supposed to say? That you couldn't stand the thought of leaving them behind? That something about his face when he talked about his mom's bracelet made you want to give him this small piece of today?

He seems to understand anyway, nodding slowly as he looks down at the bracelets again. 

"Thanks," he says, and it's so genuine it makes you uncomfortable.

He holds them for a moment longer, then asks, "Can I?" gesturing toward your wrist.

You extend your arm automatically, then realize what he's doing as he fumbles with the clasp of the Phoenix bracelet.

"No, let me wear the Rogue one," you say quickly.

He pauses, brows furrowing. "But I am Rogue."

"Well, you said you didn't want to wear a bracelet calling you 'Rogue,'" you point out, "so... might as well wear the Rogue one myself and you wear the Phoenix one."

A slow smile spreads across his face, like what you've just said makes perfect sense instead of being the most backward logic ever. 

And with a soft, delicate breath he says:

“Deal."

His fingers brush against your skin as he fastens the Rogue bracelet around your wrist. You try not to react, but your pulse quickens traitorously beneath his fingertips.

When he's done, you take the Phoenix bracelet from him, gesturing for his wrist. He extends it without hesitation, and you're struck by how much larger his hand is than yours, how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers as you fumble with the clasp.

"There," you say, pulling away quickly once it's secured. "Now we're even."

"Even," he echoes, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist, the fiery beads catching the light. "I guess we are."

You stare at the bracelet on your wrist for a few seconds, the beads catching the dim light of your apartment living room. Your eyes flicker up to his wrist—he's doing the same thing, turning his arm slightly to inspect his newly acquired accessory like he's never seen a fucking bracelet before. 

His eyes catch yours, and you can't help asking, "You gonna wear it?"

He rotates his wrist, watching how the beads interact with the light. 

“Maybe." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know, does it fit my vibe?"

Is he serious right now? 

You deadpan him, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

He can't help but snort, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's a no, then?"

"Whatever," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "You don't need to wear it. It's a silly thing anyway." 

And it is. Just a stupid arts and crafts project you made while trying to keep him busy for his birthday party. 

No big deal if he tosses it in a drawer and forgets about it. Literally could not care less.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, examining it again. "Kind of tacky, but in a fun way."

He looks back at you when you stare in silence too long. 

"What about you?"

"Huh?" You blink, caught off-guard.

"Are you gonna wear yours?" He gestures toward your wrist with his chin.

"I don't know." You twist the beads around your wrist, acting like you're still deciding. "It's not like I want people to know I have friendship bracelet gay shit with you."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right, I had forgotten what I'm gonna say when people ask what 'PHOENIX' means."

Your eyes flicker back to him, side-eyeing him suspiciously. "What would you say?"

"Maybe I should tell them it's from my roommate," he says, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Who rose from the ashes and all that. Like some kind of angry, book-obsessed firebird."

"Don't you dare talk about me like that!" You immediately shove at his shoulder, scowling. "Oh my god."

He sidesteps your attack, continuing, "—into this majestic creature who's deep down probably not plotting to murder me in my sleep—"

"I swear to god," you lunge at him again, "if you say that cringy shit about me to anyone—"

"—and who secretly loves making friendship bracelets—"

"I will end you," you threaten, trying to grab his arm while he deftly avoids your attempts. The audacity of this asshole. "I will literally smother you with a pillow."

"—and wearing them too!" He's full-on laughing now, dodging around the coffee table. "The bracelet represents how we've evolved from mortal enemies to... slightly less mortal enemies."

"That's it." You grab a throw pillow from the couch and hurl it at his head. "You're dead to me."

He catches the pillow easily, still grinning like an idiot. "Aw, come on, Nix. Embrace your phoenix identity. Like the bird, you too have emerged from—"

"If you say 'ashes' one more time," you threaten, grabbing another pillow, "I will personally ensure you become some."

"Violent," he comments, raising his eyebrows. "And after I accepted your little craft project."

"It's not a—" 

You start to protest, then stop yourself. 

What the hell would you call it?

"Whatever. It's just a bracelet."

"A bracelet of tolerance," he suggests, his eyes dancing with amusement. "At best."

"Exactly," you say, oddly annoyed that he's stolen your line. "A bracelet of 'you're still annoying as fuck but occasionally tolerable.'"

"A bracelet of 'we haven't killed each other yet, which is honestly impressive,'" he offers.

"A bracelet of 'the apartment lease says I can't legally push you off the balcony,'" you suggest.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Cool. I'll take it."

"Don't make it weird," you mutter, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. Why is he being almost... nice? "It's just a stupid bracelet I accidentally made while you were trying to avoid talking about your Instagram."

"Right," he nods, tapping the beads against the table. "Just like how you 'accidentally' bought me a super rare vinyl."

"Shut up."

"Never," he says, shifting Griffin to make room on the armchair. "So, this means you're warming up to me, huh? All it took was some karaoke and a rooftop heart-to-heart."

"I already told you we'll see," you remind him, rolling your eyes. "Don't push it, Rogue."

"Fine, fine," he holds up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, the evidence is mounting."

"What evidence?"

He starts counting off on his fingers. "One, you made me a bracelet. Two, you bought me a vinyl. Three, you didn't ditch me at my own birthday thing. Four, you haven't tried to poison my coffee in at least three days."

"That you know of," you counter, but you can feel the corner of your mouth twitching traitorously.

"See? You're not even denying it," he says, pointing at you triumphantly. "Face it, Phee. You tolerate me."

"The bare minimum bar for human interaction. Congratulations."

Griffin chooses that moment to let out a pathetically dramatic meow, clearly offended that he's no longer the center of attention.

"Someone's jealous," Jungkook immediately turns to scratch his cat under the chin. "Don't worry, G, you'll always be my number one roommate."

You roll your eyes. "Great, I've been demoted behind the cat."

"He doesn't leave wet teabags in the sink," Jungkook points out.

"He literally shits in a box in our bathroom."

"Yeah, but at least he covers it up."

"I'm not having this argument," you declare, standing up from the couch. It's late, you're tired, and this whole day has been weird enough already. "I'm going to bed."

"Night, Nix," he says, voice softer than his usual teasing tone.

"Night, Rogue," you reply, hesitating for just a moment too long before adding, "Happy birthday. Again."

He smiles—that same genuine smile from before. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't get used to it," you warn, already backing toward your bedroom. "Tomorrow I go back to hating your guts."

"Looking forward to it," he calls after you, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You close your bedroom door a bit harder than necessary, but you're smiling as you do it. And if your fingers brush against the beads on your wrist as you change into your pajamas, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

It's just a bracelet. Whatever.

goal: 650 notes. can’t believe how quickly kiki nation got the goals back, you guys are amazing and unhinged. 😭❤️‍🩹

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jo-com]

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. ➛ Right Person, Wrong Time

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: The story of how they fell apart, found themselves, and came back together stronger than ever—this time, for good.

୨ৎ Genre: Little Angsty but with a happy ending!

୨ৎ Note: Some grammatical errors, this also not proofread. Hope y’all enjoyyy!!

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

Oscar and Y/n have been inseparable since the very beginning—their moms were best friends long before they were even born, laying the foundation for a bond that felt written in the stars.

Their lives grew tangled in all the right ways, shaping each other in quiet, everyday moments. Oscar wouldn't be who he is without his Y/n, and the same goes for her. What they had felt like it was lifted straight from a fairytale—but not the perfect, polished kind. It was the kind with scraped knees, shared secrets, and laughter over nothing. Two innocent kids who didn’t realize that all those little moments were slowly leading them to something bigger. To love. The kind that felt inevitable.

It was like they were fated to be each others company.

...

When Oscar started racing, Y/n was alongside him— cheering him on in the sidelines. Always proud to see him reach for the sky and landing the dream he longed for.

You were beyond happy when his talents were discovered— his reputation sky rocketed in an instant. With each milestones that Oscar gained you were always there— giving him nothing but endless love and support.

But they say the good cannot coexist without the bad.

Like every story touched by magic, there’s always a storm that follows the calm. You just never expect it to hit as hard as it does. One moment, everything feels untouched, golden—and then suddenly, it doesn’t. The silence gets louder. The distance creeps in. And before you know it, you're left standing in the wreckage, wondering how something so good could break so quietly. Wondering if you ever really mattered in the way you thought you did. Questioning your place in his world, like maybe you were just passing through—while he was your entire map.

It broke you in ways you didn’t know were possible—to watch something so carefully built fall apart without warning. Years of shared memories, inside jokes, and quiet trust, all crumbling under the weight of unspoken words and arguments that never really had a point. It wasn’t one big moment, just a slow unraveling. And that’s what hurt the most. Not the shouting, not the silence—but the way it ended like it meant nothing, when to you, it meant everything.

...

Years have gone by, You were living… but were you really? Or were you just existing, moving through the days with a version of yourself that never fully came back after him? Because some goodbyes don’t echo right away—they linger, quietly, in the spaces where love used to live.

You were there present times but your mind just wonders back to the past. A past you swore you moved on from.

Whenever you scroll through your phone— headlines of him passes by... just like the memories you locked up. Clouding your mind with endless possibilities of what should have been and shouldn't have.

Seeing him happy and fine without you was tearing you apart.

...

Days later, your friend begged you to come with her to a Formula 1 event. You said no at first—too many memories, too much risk of running into him. The thought alone made your chest tighten. But she insisted, said you needed a change of scenery, something to pull you out of your head.

So there you were, standing beside her in a dress that hugged you just right, the kind you wouldn’t normally wear. The wind danced through your hair, engines roared in the distance, and for a moment, you almost forgot why your heart felt so heavy. Almost. Because even in a crowd that big, part of you was still scanning for the one face you weren’t ready to see—but couldn’t stop hoping you would.

"Are you having fun y/n/n?" Your friend asked, smiling as she examined your tensed features.

You nodded lightly, contemplating whether or not to share your fleeting feelings with her.

She hummed in response as she took a sip on her drink, paying no mind at your not so obvious anxious state.

After a while, the drivers began to roll in, the announcer's voice echoing as each name was called. Cameras zoomed in on each passing figure, but your world slowed down, your heart skipping when they finally called his name. Time seemed to freeze as the crowd cheered, and for a moment, it was like everything else disappeared. All you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat, the echo of his name ringing in your ears.

You looked away immediately as soon as you took a glance at him. The growing feeling in your heart becoming heavier as you saw a glimpse.

Oscar smiled across the room, unbeknownst to him that you were only a mere meters away from him.

Your eyes couldn’t help but follow him, even when you didn’t want to. You saw how effortlessly happy he was, laughing and smiling with everyone around him. That smile—one you once knew so well—was the same one you had watched fade away when things between you two fell apart.

And then it came—the moment you’d been dreading all night. His eyes finally met yours, and with every passing second, his grin slowly shifted into a frown as your gaze locked.

You looked away, not wanting to feel the heavy pain that came with his eyes. The weight in your chest felt like it might suffocate you, but you fought it off, pushing back the ache. Your focus shifted to something—anything else. The crowd, the noise, the cars racing in the distance—but it was all just background noise now, like everything was happening in slow motion.

For a moment, you thought maybe you'd escape the hurt, but then you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned, almost startled, to find your friend watching you closely. She knew you too well. "You good?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, like she already knew the answer.

You nodded almost instantly. The beat on your heart not resting. "I uhm i am just.. tired yeah tired." You quipped back.

She looked at you knowingly, her eyes catching the tension in your face—your brows knitted together, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, and the slight crack in your voice. It was a habit you had whenever stress hit, and she’d seen it enough times to recognize it instantly.

"Want to go home now?" she asked softly, her voice gentle but carrying the weight of everything unsaid.

You didn’t even hesitate. The weight of the night, the memories, and the sudden rush of emotions all became too much to bear. You nodded, your throat tight as you forced a small, thankful smile.

"Yeah," you whispered, "I think I do."

She didn’t ask anything more, just nodded in understanding, guiding you away from the noise and toward the exit. As you walked, it felt like you were shedding a part of yourself with every step—walking away from a past that had once meant everything to you.

His gaze followed you until you were swallowed by the crowd, the space between you growing wider with each step. He stood there, frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do with the flood of emotions that suddenly hit him. There was a tightness in his chest, an ache he couldn’t shake. He had always been able to read you—knew when something was wrong, even before you said a word���but now, seeing you walk away like that, he felt a sense of helplessness.

He wanted to run after you, to apologize, to fix whatever had broken between you, but the thought of reaching out only felt like a step too late. The moment passed, and all he could do was watch, his heart heavy with regret, as you disappeared into the night.

...

The next morning you woke up like normal— did your usual morning routine but with an unexpected bombarding text from none other than him.

Your hands seem to shake as you reached down to open your phone. You were scared to read what it contained— hesitantly you opened his text.

Oscar [3:43 AM]: i know im probably the last person u wanna hear from right now but i can’t stop thinking about u i saw u today. u looked beautiful. like always. and it hit me all over again i messed up. i know that i was stupid, and i let u walk away without saying what i needed to say can we meet? please just talk. just once i’m sorry y/n. for everything.

You stared at your phone, the screen glowing in the room. His name sat at the top of the message, your heart pounding harder with each word you read. A part of you wanted to cry. Another part wanted to scream. And somewhere deep down, beneath all the hurt, was a quiet voice that still missed him.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words forming in your head but never making it to the screen. You locked your phone instead, tossing it gently onto the bed like it might burn you if you held on too long.

You needed time to breathe. To think. Because the wound was still there, barely healing—and reopening it now felt like risking everything all over again.

...

It had been three days since the message. Three days of pacing, rereading, overthinking. But in the end, something in you gave in—not because you were ready, but because a part of you still needed closure. Or maybe hope.

You agreed to meet at a quiet café tucked away from the buzz of the city, the kind of place no one would recognize either of you. You sat by the window, fingers curled around a warm cup, trying to steady your nerves as the minutes ticked by.

Then the door opened.

You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. You felt it—the shift in the air, the way your heartbeat quickened without warning. And when you finally did glance up, there he was. A little tired, a little messy, like sleep hadn’t come easy. But his eyes locked onto yours like they never forgot the way back.

He walked over slowly, uncertain. “Hey,” he said, voice low.

You gave a small nod, unsure of what to say, unsure if anything could ever really fix what had been broken—but you were here. And so was he. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start with.

He slid into the seat across from you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read the time that passed between you. You sat in silence for a few seconds, the quiet louder than it should’ve been.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady. “Neither did I.”

He gave a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was drunk when I sent that. But… everything I said—I meant it.”

You looked down at your drink, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “You always seem to mean things too late, Oscar.”

That stung. You saw it in the way he looked down, his jaw tightening. “I know. I know I hurt you. I was stupid, and I let everything fall apart like it didn’t matter. But it did. You mattered. You still do.”

Your heart twisted. God, part of you wanted to believe him. To rewind everything. But the other part? The one that carried the weight of every sleepless night, every moment you felt like a ghost in his world—that part kept you grounded.

“I’m not here because I forgot what happened,” you said softly. “I’m here because I don’t want to wonder anymore. I need to know if there’s something still worth holding onto… or if I should finally let it all go.”

He leaned forward, eyes pleading. “Then let me prove it. I don’t want to be the storm that ruined you. I want to be the calm after it.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, really looked at him—and for the first time in a long while, he looked like he meant it.

You let his words hang in the air for a while, unsure if the ache in your chest came from hearing what you’d always wanted—or fearing it wasn’t enough anymore.

“I don’t know if I can go back to how things were,” you finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Too much has changed. I’ve changed.”

He nodded, his expression gentle but weighed down with guilt. “I don’t want to go back. I want to start from where we are now. Even if it’s slow. Even if you’re unsure. I just… want a chance.”

You looked at him again—really looked. He wasn’t the boy you grew up with, or the one who broke your heart. He was someone in between now. Bruised by life. Regretful. Human.

You exhaled, your chest rising and falling with a strange mix of relief and sadness. “Then don’t say things you don’t plan to follow through with this time.”

“I won’t,” he said quickly, earnestly. “Not again.”

For the first time that evening, a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Not out of happiness, not quite—but out of possibility.

“Okay,” you said softly. “One step at a time.”

He smiled, just a little. And this time, it didn’t feel like a distant memory—it felt like something new.

...

Six months later

It didn’t happen overnight.

There were awkward silences, hesitant conversations, and days when the past felt heavier than the present. But there was effort—real, intentional effort. Oscar showed up. Consistently. Whether it was texts just to check in, coffee left at your door, or quiet walks where no one needed to say much—he was there.

You started laughing again. The real kind. The one that filled a room without trying.

He learned how to be patient. You learned how to forgive—not just him, but yourself too.

There were no grand gestures or movie-worthy speeches. Just small, honest moments stitched together over time. A touch on your hand that lingered a little longer. A shared memory that no longer hurt to revisit. A night spent talking about everything and nothing until you both fell asleep on the couch.

And one morning, as sunlight spilled through the window and your head rested on his chest, you realized something.

You were happy.

Not the naïve kind of happy you once were, but the quiet, steady kind that came after the storm. The kind that knew what it was like to lose—and chose, day after day, to stay anyway.

He looked down at you, brushing your hair back gently. “You know,” he whispered, “I think we’re finally okay.”

You smiled, fingers tracing lazy shapes along his arm. “Yeah,” you whispered back, eyes fluttering shut. “We are.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like the ending you both deserved—no longer a fairytale, but something even better.

Something real.

...

One Year Later.

The entire weekend had built up to this moment. The pressure, the anticipation, the sweat. But when the checkered flag waved and the world seemed to slow down, it didn’t matter anymore.

Oscar had done it.

P1.

The crowd was roaring, the team was shouting, and the pit crew was cheering as if the whole world had exploded in celebration. But amidst all of that, Oscar wasn’t looking at any of them.

He was looking for you.

He tore off his helmet, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He wasn’t interested in the reporters or the flashing cameras. His eyes were on the one person who had been there from the very beginning.

You.

The moment his gaze locked onto yours, he broke free from the chaos. Pushing past everyone, he sprinted across the track, his heart racing as fast as his car had. The cheers of the crowd faded into the background, the only sound he could hear was the pounding of his feet on the pavement, and the thudding of his heart.

When he finally reached you, there was no hesitation. His arms were around you in an instant, pulling you into him as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart, even for another second.

And then, without a word, he kissed you.

It was a kiss that was years in the making—fueled by everything you’d been through, every moment of doubt, every argument, every quiet night spent holding onto each other in the aftermath of pain. But this kiss wasn’t about the past. It was about the future. About all the promises you’d made to one another in whispers and in silence.

He kissed you like he had just won everything that mattered.

“I did it,” he breathed, forehead pressed against yours as he pulled back, still holding you close. “We did it.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw, still trying to process the reality of what had just happened. “You’re incredible,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, his voice filled with emotion. “You were always here, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The crowd was still cheering, the cameras flashing, but in that moment, it felt like it was just the two of you, standing there on the track, the rest of the world waiting for the celebration.

But to Oscar, this moment—this kiss, this feeling—was the victory that mattered most.

[astroxrion]

How You’ll Be Remembered X Become an ICON —

Aries 10th house

They'll remember you as the first to do it. Raw. Unfiltered. Unafraid. You become iconic by staying ahead, choosing yourself, and turning every risk into a power move. You don't follow trends — you set them.

Taurus 10th house

They'll remember you for building beauty that lasts. Quiet flexes. Solid foundations. You become iconic by showing up consistently, moving with intention, and letting your work speak louder than your words.

Gemini 10th house

They'll remember your voice. Your words. Your mind. The one who said it first, or said it better. You become iconic by talking your sh*t, teaching, writing, and never letting your ideas die in drafts.

Cancer 10th house

They'll remember the way you made people feel safe in a world that didn't. You become iconic by leading from the heart, not the ego. Your softness is your legacy. Your truth is your strength.

Leo 10th house

They'll remember your presence. Loud, proud, unforgettable. You become iconic when you stop hiding and let your light blind them. When you perform without apology, people remember the show.

Virgo 10th house

They'll remember your precision. The one who did it right, cleaned it up, and made it work. You become iconic by building systems, spotting flaws, and making excellence your brand.

Libra 10th house

They'll remember your taste. You become iconic by branding your beauty, leading with grace, and making power look soft. Your image, your influence, your balance — that's what lives on.

Scorpio 10th house

They'll remember your mystery, your silence, your power. You become iconic by transforming pain into presence. When you stop hiding your darkness and use it to lead, nothing can touch you.

Sagittarius 10th house

They'll remember your truth. Your freedom. Your fire. You become iconic by going big, telling your story, teaching others to expand. Your legacy lives in how far you made people reach.

Capricorn 10th house

They'll remember your empire. You become iconic by outlasting trends, outworking everybody, and staying focused when they doubted you. You weren't chasing clout, you were building history.

Aquarius 10th house

They'll remember you as the one who broke the system. Weird. Brilliant. Ahead. You become iconic when you stay strange and lead through disruption. The future bends in your direction.

Pisces 10th house

They'll remember your magic. The dream you made real. You become iconic by turning emotion into art, pain into purpose, and softness into power. You weren't meant to fit in — you were meant to shift energy.

My Astrology Services:

https://shorturl.at/bnMhU

[abbotjack]

Hi babes!

For your series TLWG, do you think there is a moment or specific time where Jack realized Reader is ‘the one’? Like he knew he had to buy a ring, sort out a proposal, plan his life around her?? Sending you the best vibes today!!! 💕💕

⭐ Send me an ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines! ⭐

Jack Abbot doesn’t let things bloom.

He lets them function. Survive. Get triaged and stitched and tucked into corners where no one’s going to bleed on the paperwork. He’s a man who operates in utility—his emotions are rationed like hospital inventory, and everything that matters most to him lives in the margins: the off-hours, the aftershocks, the things no one else notices but him. In The Life We Grew, Jack doesn’t get swept up. He gets cornered by clarity.

He’s not afraid of pain. He’s afraid of what comes after it—what people expect when you survive. What they ask you to become. And love? Love has always felt like one more hand reaching for him, asking him to be more than he has left. Until her.

The Reader doesn’t demand his light. She doesn’t try to fix the dark. She walks into the wreckage of his life, clears a desk, and starts building. Her love is infrastructural. It’s the way she annotates his trauma reroute binder with timestamps and follow-up questions. The way she touches him without expectation, and leaves the silence intact when he’s not ready to talk. She is not a solution. She’s the first variable he doesn’t want to cancel out.

Weather is never just weather, every storm is a symbol. And in Jack’s world, love is a slow hurricane. It doesn’t rip off the roof. It loosens the foundation, quietly, over time. Until he looks up and realizes the whole house has shifted. That he's been living in a space where love has already happened, where it’s already holding.

But the moment Jack knows—really knows—isn’t in the trauma bay, or the night she patches his grief without blinking. It’s not in the spreadsheets or the audits.

It’s in a moment that isn’t loud. But is undeniably real.

Setting: Sunday afternoon. Summer heat. Their shared house in Pittsburgh—half-renovated, half-lived in. Quiet. Lived-in. Real.

He’s just come in—took the long way home through a storm that broke the heat like a promise—and now the kitchen smells like damp cotton, cracked pepper, and the faint floral trace of whatever lotion she used last. Not fresh flowers. Just her. Skin and comfort and lemon-something from a half-used bottle on her nightstand.

Upstairs, she’s talking to herself. Sorting receipts again. Muttering about misfiled statements and IRS deadlines while half-laughing at her own frustration. Her voice carries down the staircase like static through an old radio—tinny, soft, familiar in a way that guts him.

Jack stands there with one hand on the fridge handle, forehead pressed to the cool metal, not moving. Not even breathing.

Because here it is.

The realization.

Not the dramatic kind. Not the gut-punch, lightning-strike, sweat-soaked-in-the-trauma-bay kind. No. This one’s quieter. Slower. It arrives like a muscle unclenching after a decade-long cramp. It arrives in the hum of appliances and the sight of her receipts laid out across the table in color-coded order.

It arrives when he sees the junk drawer. The one near the sink.

She’d left it open again.

And there—jammed between a roll of Scotch tape, two capless pens, and a miniature stapler—is her spare car key. The ugly one. The one with the chipped unlock button and the Steelers keychain her brother gave her when she first moved to Pittsburgh. It lives here now. Not just in the house, but in their house. In their drawer. A drawer that, if it were only his place, would’ve held nothing but expired batteries, a few rogue screws, and a half-melted pack of mints he forgot to toss after Afghanistan. But now—now it holds her.

He stares at it for a long time.

That key doesn’t belong to a guest. It doesn’t belong to someone passing through. That key says: I plan on staying. And the drawer staying open? That says: I don’t need to apologize for that anymore.

And Jesus Christ, he loves her.

Not the kind of love that burns. Not the kind he used to chase like a fix, like pain with prettier branding. This is the kind that settles in his joints. The kind that smells like burnt toast and Target candles and the warm press of her knee against his under the covers when she’s already half-asleep and still somehow leans into him.

This is the kind of love he already lives inside.

She calls down to him—something about needing her W-2 from last year, the one she meant to scan and never did, the one she’s sure she tucked into the manila folder labeled “2022: DO NOT LOSE”—and he clears his throat, sharp and low, like the sound alone might be enough to shove the weight in his chest back into place.

“I got it,” he calls back, already moving.

She hums. Trusts him to find it. Doesn’t get up. That’s love, too.

He walks to the hallway where she keeps the fireproof box, alphabetized, of course—and kneels beside it. She’s highlighted the document in question. Just in case. He smiles like a man who’s halfway undone.

And when he stands, he sees it again.

That junk drawer.

That key.

That future.

And he doesn’t make a decision. Not right there. Not consciously. But something inside him stops resisting.

Not because it’s time. Not because it’s the next step. But because this is the house they chose together—every wall color, every drawer pull, every creaking floorboard under bare feet. Her laughter lives in the hallway by the linen closet, and her spare car key is tucked into their junk drawer like it’s always belonged. She built this life with him. And somewhere along the way, without either of them saying it out loud—so did his heart.

He won’t buy the ring tomorrow. He’ll wait. He’ll watch. He’ll make sure the feeling doesn’t fade, doesn’t calcify into gratitude or comfort mistaken for permanence. But he already knows it won’t. Because every time he opens that drawer, it’ll be there. The evidence. The symbol.

It’s a declaration.

It’s a door left open.

He won’t pull her into the living room. He won’t plan some big gesture or scripted thing with string lights and speeches. That’s never been how they work.

But he’ll remember this moment—the junk drawer. The rain. The way her receipts are still spread across the kitchen table like she owns the place. Because she does.

Because this was the night he looked around the house they built together and realized he’d stopped surviving beside her and started building with her. No ceremony. No timeline. Just… her. In every drawer. Every corner. Every part of him.

[madschiavelique]

Hello, I don't have any idea for younger inexperienced halsin, but I have something that might interest you.

Imagine this, experienced Halsin x Inexperienced tav. But tav is so innocent, wants to do so well, but halsin has to control himself. Thus, halsin is the one being unknowingly (for tav) teased and flustered as he has to control himself, and not to frighten tav.

That's it. Flustered halsin.

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ pairing : halsin x inexperienced!reader

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ content warning : explicit, smut, more of a ramble than a specific scenario, feels more like headcanons even, fem!reader, no use of y/n

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ words : 585

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ author's note : omg anon yES!!! sorry it took me so long but arcane is back on my mind and i just had to get down to writing for viktor bbg

( not proofread, english is not my first language ☆)

Halsin had had many adventures over the centuries. He had experimented with a variety of ages, no doubt travelled the length and breadth of positions that could be taken, and tasted the pleasures of many different races.

And yet, despite all that, it was as if you had shaken every one of his foundations.

You never ceased to surprise him, you were so clinging to this idea of wanting to do the right thing that you were nervous at the drop of a hat. Halsin had reassured you extensively that he would never, ever do anything you didn't want him to do.

But you were curious, and he was pretty sure on Silvanus himself that your cuteness would be his undoing.

You were shy in the kisses you offered him without his having initiated them, watching him with gentle eyes as your gaze drifted to his lips and he had to do everything in his power not to tear every layer of clothing covering you.

There was an innocence and hesitation in the way you took his hand, touched him, said his name that drove him crazy.

The other night, when you were all gathered around the campfire, chatting about everything and nothing as usual at the end of the day, you were sitting on his lap. You laughed and listened to Gale's story that Astarion kept interjecting. You whispered in Halsin's ear a remark about the story that you didn't dare say out loud, and the simple sensation of your breath and your voice so low and close to his ear was enough to make him almost lose his composure.

And when you slept together when the nights were too cold and you embraced him during your pre-sleep chats, your fingers tracing affectionate caresses down his back, Halsin wondered if you were aware of the effects that your touch on that specific area was likely to cause. Then, when you finally fell asleep and he wrapped his arms around you like the big spoon that he was, you couldn't help moving your hips closer to his to get some of his warmth.

You had no idea of the effect you were having on him with your every move.

The first time you finally got down to business, you kept asking him questions, inevitably asking again and again: "Does that feel good?"

And Halsin had to restrain himself every time, answering as calmly as possible, "I don't think there is any way for me not to feel good with you right now, my heart."

But he remained patient, knowing that the more time passed, the more comfortable you would become, and therefore the more adventurous.

When you asked Halsin to teach you how to jerk him off and give him a blow job, he nearly turned into a bear. You asked lots of questions, testing the waters, touching him a little hesitantly, asking "Does that feel good? Can I touch you there?" so gently that he almost came right then and there.

He tried to contain himself, to stop himself from rutting without waiting as soon as he was inside you, your gummy walls so tight around his girth. He tried to contain himself when he saw you marked by his lips and teeth. He tried to contain himself when you said his name over and over in a voice laced with moans.

Holding on was almost impossible, but he was patient, he knew you would venture further. By Silvanus, was he eager for it.

[motorsportbarbie13]

The Princess & The Pilot - Part 3

In which you sneak away to Monaco to see a boy.

Warnings: angst in the middle/end. swearing. a little spicy in the beginning but nothing explicit. Pairing: Lando Norris x BritishPrincess!Reader Word Count: 3.7k words

- The Princess & The Pilot - Part 1 - The Princess & The Pilot - Part 2 - Master List

"I can't believe you've never seen Breakfast at Tiffany's. That's like, a crime against humanity." You tease Lando as flop down onto his couch Thursday night before the Monaco Grand Prix.

You had spent most of the day shopping with your cousin while Lando had been in the paddock taking care of media duties. As soon as he was done though, he had come straight back to his apartment and you had slipped your protection officers to join him. It had been a simple operation, made much easier due to the fact that Alice and Lando lived in the same building and your protection officers were stationed downstairs in the doorman's office for the weekend. They only followed you, at a discreet distance, when you were out walking around.

Part of your shopping trip had included a stop at the grocery store so you could pick up the ingredients to make your famous roasted chicken with lemon butter penne pasta after being both shocked and horrified at the state of his pantry and fridge. 'I'm never home and my nutritionist makes all my food!' was his defense, which you understood but wanted him to have a home cooked meal anyway.

The meal had been a huge hit and both of you were stuffed as you settled down in his spacious living room for a quiet movie night.

"I'm sorry if I prefer Sylvester Stallone over Audrey Hepburn, princess." Lando quips, tugging you even closer to him.

He had been fully distracted the entirety of media day, knowing that you were somewhere in the city without him. The moment you had texted him that your plane had landed in Nice and you were taking a helicopter into Monaco he'd been distracted. Between your first 'date' at the pub and now, he'd only been able to see you briefly a few evenings before he had to be at the race in Italy.

Those fleeting evenings when he had snuck in to your London townhome through the back door hadn't been enough for either of you. The first night you had cooked him dinner while you talked for hours about your royal upbringing, his family, and everything in between. It had felt so natural and so easy, unlike anything either of you had experienced before.

On the large flat screen TV in front of you, the opening credits began to roll on one of your favorite movies while you snuggled deeper into Lando's side. With how busy you both had been the last few weeks, this little slice of privacy and quiet time had you feeling beyond relaxed.

While Lando had been in Italy, you had been busy with a new foundation that helped support families of children who had received a terminal diagnosis. You had started the foundation at the urging of your parents earlier in the year and while you had been hesitant at first, not sure if you were strong enough to handle such painful stories, you found yourself pouring everything you had into the foundation.

It had been something you'd gushed over at dinner tonight and Lando had been utterly bewitched by the way you had lit up while talking about your work. And now, as the movie began and the sun set over the edge of the Mediterranean Sea outside, Lando was finally going to get his hands on you like he'd been thinking about since the last time he had kissed you.

"You are such a boy." You say, groaning at him knocking your preferences in movies.

Lando reaches across your waist and yanks you onto his lap in one swift movement so quickly your only reaction is a squeal. "I thought we were watching a movie, Norris." You say, nose mere millimeters away from his.

His heated breath tickles at your cheek while his large hands settle heavily on your hips. "I can think of better things to do with our time, princess."

The scrape of his voice drags a thick line of heat down your spine and you can't help the way your hips roll into his ever so slightly. "Oh?"

On a whim, you reach up and bury your fingers in Lando's curls, still damp from his shower he took earlier in the evening. You scratch at his scalp, enjoying the way he shudders underneath you. It makes you feel powerful, knowing that just the lightest touch from you makes him putty in your hands.

Lando's strong fingers flex against the flesh at your hips as a gravely moan tumbles from his lips, setting your skin aflame. He claws at you, desperately pulling you closer while craning his neck to latch onto the sensitive skin at your neck.

He trails featherlight kisses up the column of your neck, dusting up your jaw, and finally lands on your waiting mouth. The way your body melts around him has him growing needier by the minute. A satisfied moan spills from your lips when his tongue slips into your mouth for the first time, the warmth from his body seeping deeper into your core. "Lan..." You sigh into his mouth, fully immersed in the way he tastes, dark and forbidden.

Lando drags his hands slowly up from your hips towards your back, finally slipping under the hem of the cotton tank top you're wearing. You arch against him at the feeling of his heated touch searing your bare skin while your hips grind down searching for the friction your body so badly craves from him.

Your hands are still buried deep in his hair when a sudden loud knock yanks the both of you out of the trance you'd been lost it.

"The fuck?" Lando grumbles, lifting your hips up gently so he can get up to answer the door.

Running your fingers through your hair, you sigh and flop back against the couch. The ache in between your legs throbs at the sudden loss of pressure from being sat so deeply on Lando's lap. The way you had felt his dick straining against his sweatpants had you craving tumbling into bed with him.

"She needs to come back down, like now." Your ears perk up at the sound of your cousin's voice.

Rising, you get up to join Lando at the door, running your fingers through your now tousled hair. "What's wrong?" You ask, voice still a bit husky from your make out session moments before.

Alice eyes you over Lando's shoulder, arching a perfectly sculpted brow at you. "Well, now I can see why you didn't answer your phone the first ten times Nathan called you."

"We were watching a movie!" You protest lamely. Alice scoffs and even Lando chuckles a bit, leading you to swat at him.

"Yeah, okay. Well, he's worried that you're in my apartment dead or something because apparently you haven't called your father or mother since you got here and everyone is convinced you're dead."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, "Oh for fucks sakes. I am 25 years old for the love of God. Fine, I'll go call them now."

Alice shakes her head. "I bought you some time by telling Nathan you're in the shower but he wants to talk to you in twenty minutes. You need to come back down."

You groan, annoyed that your evening has been interrupted by your parents weird need to know exactly where you are. You know that your safety is of the utmost importance to everyone around you and that yours was a unique situation with you being the daughter of the King of England and all, but this was just stupid.

"Fine. Can you give us a second? I'll be down in five."

Alice narrows her eyes at you before turning her gaze onto Lando. "No more funny business, send her down in five minutes. I'm not taking the fall for the both of you."

Alice turns on her heel and retreats back towards the elevator before Lando shuts the door quietly, chuckling a bit. "Well, I guess our evening is over."

You groan, scrubbing the heels of your hands over your face. "I am so embarrassed."

Lando's hands land heavily on your waist as he pulls you into him. "Don't be, it's nice your parents are so concerned."

"You say that now." You warn, nuzzling into his neck as Lando drops a kiss onto the crown of your head.

"It's okay, really." Lando reaches for your chin to tilt your head upwards so he can look you in the eye. "Go down and check in and hang out with your cousin. I have a team thing tomorrow night but Saturday night, I'm all yours."

You stretch your neck up so you can dust your lips over his, humming a bit when Lando leans in, deepening the kiss. "Can't wait."

The paddock on Sunday morning was an intense hive of activity. Lando was with his team, preparing for the race and you were wandering around the paddock with Alice. Around your neck swing your McLaren branded VIP passes. All it had taken was an off-handed comment from Lando about how you had mentioned back at Silverstone that you wanted to attend a race and that you happened to be in town visiting your cousin to get Zak to call up your secretary and offer you official passes.

You could sense Nathan and Victor behind you, both of them not even willing to entertain the possibility of you going to the race alone. You were used to it though and the four PO's that had travelled with you had been with you for years, so you all worked really well together. They, for the most part, left you alone and kept their distance. Just like Lando in the pub that first night, most people never even noticed that you had body guards even present.

The race is set to start in an hour or so, with the driver's parade already completed. You're supposed to head towards the garage in a few minutes for a quick photo op with Oscar and Lando, which should prove interesting. It was imperitve that you appeared to be nothing more than aquaintences with Lando since the public could not know about the growing relationship between the pair of you.

Relationships as a princess were hard. When you were younger, in your teens and at uni, you had been much more open with your personal life but a particularly bad experience with a boyfriend who only had wanted to date you for the clout, had left a sour taste in your mouth.

And there was also your parents to contend with. Your mother especially was intensely sensitive about any bad press the family might recieve and you had a feeling that a relationship with one of Formula One's known playboys was top on the list for 'press nightmares'

So, Lando and you had agreed that until you were sure where this was going, it was best to keep things completely private. You could appear to know each other in public but that was it. Which was fine with you because you knew, at the end of the day, that you would be the one going up to his apartment and spending time there instead of anyone else.

"Is that Lando?" Your cousin asks as you approach the McLaren garage.

You glance over and sure enough, you see Lando with his back towards you, leaning against the wall of the garage talking to a very blonde model looking girl who is gazing up at Lando with literal heart eyes. Your heart sinks straight down to your toes at the look of pure delight on her face. "Who is that?" You choke out, hands going clammy.

"It looks like...no." Alice murmurs. "That fucking git. That's Gigi Voss. She's an American model." She turns to you now, concern etched on her face at how you've frozen in place in the middle of the paddock just staring at Lando and the girl.

"He's brought her home before, hasn't he?" You say, voice weak. The intense feeling of embarassment courses through you. Alice's text message from weeks ago clangs through your memory. He never brings back the same girl twice. Well, it looked like you were going to be the next victim of that little habit, didn't it?

God, you were such an idiot.

"Well, I guess that takes care of that." You say lightly, drawing on every bit of training your mother has drilled into you since you were old enough to talk. The way you switched into public princess mode was effortless, a seamless switching off of your emotions to the outside world. "Come on, they wanted to get some photos of me in the garage before they head out onto the track."

"Are you okay?" Alice says quietly, as you pass Lando and the girl and head into the garage when you see Zak and Oscar chatting.

"I have to be." You murmur before mentally preparing to tug on that perfect princess mask you are going to use as armor for the next foreseeable future.

When Lando comes into the garage moments later, he's totally unaware to the storm brewing inside you. He politely greets you but is a little surprised when you barely spare him a glance, the cool nod you give him before turning back to laugh at something Oscar says has his stomach churning.

You continue to blatantly ignore him for the next twenty minutes and Lando begins to realize that something's wrong. He'd been prepared for you to be politely distant from him, with you insisting that you couldn't appear to be anything more than aquaintences in public, but this was on another level. And the dirty looks that Alice kept shooting him when no one was looking had anxiety curling deep in his chest.

You're standing to the side of the garage when Lando's finally had enough.

"Do you wanna maybe tell me why you're suddenly channeling an ice princess instead of behaving like my princess?" He hisses, voice so low that no one else could possibly hear you over the noise in the garage.

You simply regard him with a cool look, "Maybe Gigi would know the answer to that." You say lightly before pushing off the tool box you'd been leaning against. "Alice," You call, switching on that megawatt smile that Lando knows is 100% fake. "Lets go get settled in the hospitality suite, yeah? Good luck out there today, Lando."

Without a second look back, you flounce away with Alice's hand tucked into the crook of your elbow.

Gigi? The fuck? Lando panics. Had you seen him talking to the model earlier? Oh this was bad. Very bad.

"Alice, Jesus Christ just let me talk to her and I'll explain everything." Lando begs later that night.

He had been distraught the entire race and afterwards during his media duties, wanting nothing more than to explain exactly what you had seen earlier in the day. Text messages went unanswered, calls too. Even Alice seemed to have blocked him on everything so he'd been forced to just show up at her door the moment he'd been finished with his interviews. He had finished P4 so his time in the media pen and after hadn't been that long comparitvly but every minute that sluggishly inched by was a minute longer Lando knew you were spending angry at him.

Alice stands at the door, arms folded across her chest, glaring at the driver. "I warned her about you, you know and you had to go and prove me right. You athletes are the same, you know that?" She spits.

"It wasn't what it looked like, I swear." He begs, craning his neck to peer around Alice's frame to see inside her apartment.

"It's fine, Allie. You can let him in." From somewhere in the apartment, your voice calls out. Lando can hear the raw scratch in your voice, like you've been crying, and his stomach bottoms out. He'd really made a mess of this, hadn't he? He was sure the photos that some fan had posted of him and Gigi before the race hadn't helped either but fuck, would no one allow him to get in a word edgewise?

Lando's heart squeezes painfully when Alice steps out of the way and he sees you for the first time. Your eyeliner is smudged and your cheeks are flushed an unpleasant shade of red. It's not the pink flush that he's seen before, the kind of flush that he draws out of you when he kisses you. No, this is a painful, angry flush that's the result of too much anger and embarrassment.

"Baby." He pleads, taking three long strides towards where you stand in the middle of Alice's living room.

Much to his dismay, you back up in order to keep yourself out of arms length and shake your head.

"Can we go somewhere private and talk? Please?" It was a step in the right direction that you had allowed Alice to let him through the door, so Lando was going to push until he got what he needed to say out.

You nod, feeling stupid and silly for jumping into things with someone who wasn't on the same page as you. The text message he sent the day of his Miami win shuffles through your mind. 'You know I stopped looking at other girls the day I met you.'

What utter bullshit.

You'd been staying in Alice's spare bedroom this week so you lead him down the hallway towards the room. Alice calls out that if you need her, she'll be in the kitchen before shooting one last glare Lando's way.

Lando shuts the door behind him while you sit down on the bed cross legged. "So?" You look up at him expectantly. "You said it wasn't what it looked like. So, what was it."

Lando drags his hands through his curls, still damp with sweat from the race. "She wasn't supposed to even be here this weekend."

"Oh, so her weekend was the next race? Did you get your girlfriends schedules mixed up then?" You grit out, fists grabbing a handful of bedspread to avoid punching him.

Lando shakes his head. He wasn't doing a very good job at explaining himself, was he? "No. Fuck. That's not what I meant baby."

"Stop calling me baby." You hiss.

He looks at you miserably before shaking his head. "She wasn't supposed to be here because she's supposed to be banned from paddock access by the FIA."

"What?" You whisper, blinking up at Lando in surprise.

Lando scrubs the his hands over his face, wondering how this all went so badly so quickly. "We went on a couple of dates last year."

You hate the way your heart sinks at the thought of him dating someone else.

"And that was it." He continues, crossing the room to sit on the bed in front of you. He sends up a silent prayer of thanks when you don't push him away. "That was it because she started trying to soft launch us on social media. When rumors started that we were dating, she fueled them by liking comments and even called the paparazzi when we were on a date. I was nothing more than a means to an end for her."

Your heart tugs painfully at the thought of Lando being used for his status. You of all people knew what that felt like and knew how miserable it was to wonder if the person you were with was around because of you or because of who you were to the outside world.

"Lan..." You murmur, reaching out for his hand. He looks so miserable then, eyes shining like he's about to start crying.

"I broke it off with her but she didn't want to take no for an answer. She started getting companies to pay for her paddock passes and would show up on random race weekends. I talked to Zak and got her banned from McLaren but there wasn't much I could do about the rest of the teams until she broke in to my house six months ago."

"She what?" You gasp.

"Yeah. She somehow slipped past the doorman and figured out the key code to my front door. I got home at 2am after the race in Las Vegas and she was sleeping naked in my bed."

"Oh my God, Lando." Your head spins just thinking about what that must have felt like, coming home after what you knew had been a traumatic race in Vegas last year only to find someone you didn't want in your house.

"I didn't press charges in exchange for her agreeing to be blacklisted from any FIA events. When I saw her in the paddock today, I panicked. I didn't want her to make a scene so I talked to her briefly before going straight to Zak and getting her tossed out. You can ask Osc if you don't believe me, he was there. It was right after you and Alice left the garage."

Your eyes soften as you look at how Lando sits, shoulders hunched.

"I'm so sorry I jumped to conclusions." You mutter, the feeling of betrayal being immediately replaced by embarrassment and shame.

"No, it was a perfectly acceptable reaction. I don't have the best reputation when it comes to women. I know that but..." He pauses, swallowing the thick lump of emotion that clogs his throat. "But I meant what I said after my win in Miami."

You smile, already knowing what he's referring to.

"I haven't so much as looked at another girl since I met you at Silverstone. I swear it, princess."

There's something so raw and real about the way he says the words to you. Deep down in your gut you know he's telling the truth. You've grown up needing to be able to read people really well and you consider yourself a pretty good judge of character and right now, you can tell that he's being honest with you.

"I believe you." You rasp, reaching out a hand to twine your fingers with his. "Do you want to go back to your place and finish watching the movie we started the other night?"

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Lando reaches out and pulls you into his lap, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

"Yes." You whisper before finding his lips with yours in a searing kiss that makes everything else disappear.

Tag list: @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland @chlmtfilms @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @sltwins @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @strawberryy-kiwii @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @eloriis @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @bibissparkles @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama

(Please let me know if you want to be added or removed!! ❤️)

[mythalism]

hi so very random but I've just been mulling over how for me Veilguard kind of encapsulates a lot of the failings of modern liberalism in a fascinating way.

What I mean is that advocating for things like the use of people's correct pronouns and diverse representation is of course very important. However, for an economically privileged liberal that kind of advocacy costs them nothing: they can advocate for all this without giving up any of their economic privilege or power. They don't have to consider whether the structure of their society as a whole is deeply unjust and should be radically changed; they don't have to consider whether the global world order is deeply unjust and should be radically changed. This kind of advocacy becomes a way of telling themselves that they are doing good things and making positive change, thus salving their conscience about their privilege without ever having to face the possibility of significant societal and economic changes that might make them less privileged.

And Veilguard feels so very much the essence of that. It refuses to so much as look at any politics that is about structural inequality or oppression; it puts all its politics into 'representation' in ways that don't challenge anything or demand change. Indeed, its narrative is built around an explicit and foundational opposition to change! In Tevinter we just need to put someone nice in power and solve all the problems within the existing system; no one is ever even allowed to contemplate any genuine systemic change. There is diversity but the diversity is largely aesthetic; the characters are of a variety of races but race (either in a real-world sense or in the human/dwarf/elf/qunari sense) is almost never dealt with explicitly in the plot. In just the same way as modern liberalism more generally, Veilguard really wants to claim that it is doing good things and making positive change by presenting a superficial kind of diversity while trying extremely hard to stay away from any suggestion that the world might need more radical change.

I love that it's queer; I enjoyed Taash's story, and the explicit pansexuality of the other characters. But its queerness ultimately feels quite hollow to me because genuine queer rights movements are radical; they are about demanding real transformative change, they are about overthrowing systems of oppression. Veilguard does not want to touch any of that, and instead focuses entirely on individual personal issues, in just the same way that modern liberalism has been trying to do for a long time. So it bothers me to see it being held up as a triumph of queer media, because it seems very much in the tradition of liberals using queer people as essentially political stage-dressing as a way of not having to confront the issues they don't want to face.

one of the best and most concise analyses of the game's politics i have ever seen wrapped up in a lovely bow and put in my inbox <3 thanks for sharing!

[flying-fangirls]

Malevolent is a love story, but it's not a romance.

It's a story about loving your friends openly and passionately, because you have seen each other at your best and your worst, and you got through it all together, hand in hand. It's about loving your family, and deciding who is a part of your family and who isn't, who you will place as your foundation in life and who you will be the foundation for. It's about loving strangers, seeing the ugly mess known as humanity and cherishing its imperfect beauty, learning to appreciate all its complexity and confusion. It's about loving yourself, finding strength from whatever source you can and using it to fight your own hate and despair, not necessarily removing it entirely, but overshadowing it with hope for yourself.

It's about loving when it's hard, loving people who don't deserve it, loving things that don't love you back, loving when you're scared, loving when it hurts, loving as a defense, loving as a weapon, loving as a survival tactic. It's about loving despite everything that lurks in the dark and the pain and the terror, because without love, we have nothing. It's a love story.

[dolphin-diaries]

Death Of The Woman

Originally posted on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

The following essay is not my usual fare. It’s my personal story as a detrans woman, and as such, it will lack in abstracted theory or argumentation. After this I will be publishing a special interview, and then I’ll return to my usual programming.

For now though, be advised this isn’t quite light reading material. There is some cursory description of sexual violence. If you do not feel like you can engage with that, skip from the paragraph beginning “At one point, …” to the next titled section.

Girl/Flesh

Before there is an adult, there is first a child—a not-so-blank slate, a state of being with an expiration date. Boys must be made men; girls must be made women. To the end of that becoming, childhood is a prelude and adolescence a ritual.

Contemplate for a moment, without any input from me: how is a girl made a woman?

My upbringing was rather feminist, compared to the average for my country. My mother did not take my father’s name; she earned more; they had a whole and loving marriage. A husband-and-kids were expected of me eventually, but ever nebulously and not quite yet; my own family’s example seemed perfectly encouraging. For the time being, the biggest expectation placed on me was intellectual accomplishment. You might think a boy child would be preferable to such an endeavour, but it was quite the opposite. Boys will be boys, after all: rowdy, willful, lascivious, ever in need of someone else’s care. Handed gently from the mother’s hand to a wife’s, they’re basically eternal children. But girls? Girls are born older. Mature faster—biologically, essentially, fundamentally. Girls listen. Girls obey.

By all accounts I was a fantastic foundation for such a purpose. Tallest, strongest, bursting with curly dark hair. You couldn’t possibly mistake me for a fragile doll, no, not like some other, more childish girls; I was obviously ready for responsibility. And not just in superficial appearance. Speech came to me quickly and easily; writing flowed from my fingertips with perfect calligraphy; I made art worthy of fridges and walls; I took to learning with all the energy of an insomniac puppy.

Did other kids like a fat, moustachioed girl that beat them at everything, and after class also won at arm-wrestling? Fuck no! But that was alright. I was born into intelligentsia, and envy was our natural curse, one to be proud of. At any rate, someday puberty would come. A body-shedding into something physically desirable; combined with all this accrued talent, it would ensure I’d have the pick of good men. Though I didn’t yet know men, only the irksome boys from whom they hatched. I lived for the attention of adults and for making other girls laugh—if clever ogres are good for nothing else, it’s humour. There was something transcendent in seeing someone fae-pretty and so unreachable be made happy by my effort. Even if they bullied me after. Of course, that meant I was too rowdy—oh, and too stubborn. Girls are supposed to understand the rules of the world exist for a reason; I didn’t. I needed things explained before I obeyed.

The rule I didn’t understand most of all was touch. I was brutish, and my brutishness marked me for disgust—and yet, I was constantly touched, even as I was told I’d never be touchable. My body burgeoned with entirely too much flesh, and every hand was drawn to grab it, to pinch and assess it in some unannounced Try-Before-You-Buy. Teachers, children, family members. It would not stop and it made my skin crawl, but it was also normal. The adults I liked did it. My peers did it. No one remarked on it.

When womanhood was yet a distant prospect, I dreamt of something ethereal. Power-suited. Someone that looked like mother, or like Barbie. Someone untouchable. Because surely this was all a growing pain. I was a girl, and that meant all the things that made me revolting, naive, and unruly would be purged by shed blood.

That’s not how that goes, though. How is a girl made a woman?

When adolescence finally arrived, it was rather early, eleven or so. I always was an overachiever. And I discovered I was not yet becoming something better. I was just myself, but more. More flesh. More hair, in all the wrong places. Same moustache, same swollen face, same ungainly buffoon demeanour, only now with hips bursting through trousers and a boyish deep voice.

The leering and touching did not cease—they got worse. The older I grew, the older my mother dressed me, dolling me up in heels and arse-hugging skirts with the vicarious glee of someone who got another chance at making a woman, and who was emboldened by the powerlessness of my ‘no.’ The dress-up had a goal in mind, of course. Same as my obligation to intellectual accomplishment; the only difference was, I was now failing, while the prospect of adulthood loomed ever closer. So I had it spelled out to me: it was all to ensure I could return to my family the debt I incurred with the costs of my existence. To birth them a child and uphold their reputation. If I was unfeminine, untouchable, unfuckable, they would not get a return on their investment. If I preferred girls—which, big surprise, I did—that would invite untold humiliation on the family name. That I was given to choose my would-be boyfriends, nudged to enjoy the makeup and skirts, was a just bit of carrot to the whip. If I sneered too much at the carrot, I’d get the whip.

So on I wobbled, a fleshy, moustachioed doll. Every new softness and curve invited a groping hand or a disgusting comment. Every fault of my body was bared as proof I should be happy to get this much at all. In old deformity and in newfangled woman-ness, I was just a girl.

I sought other ways of being. An escape from the barbed chain link of The Family. I had limited recourse in my small town, but the internet is a wide-reaching thing. No lesbian community existed for miles, but I could still read about the ring and the hanky code and whatever else. I could look at pictures.

(Although those were at times alarming, because all these lesbian women I glimpsed looked rather like me—whereas I had hoped that, by the time I grew up, I’d be something better.)

Regardless, I tried the codes and the cargo trousers, as much as I could—which wasn’t much. I stoked fascination in my classmates with giddy and secretive coming-outs. Only some showed me compassion and dignity, but I was even happy enough to be seen as a weirdo monster. At least they saw me. Worse was their dissecting vigilance. Their attention to the way I moved or spoke. The moment I’d do something girly, they’d cry, they knew it! I was just a girl. I did have a boy crush, and I should admit it; I was surely—as they put it—a faggot. Yes, really, literally ‘faggot,’ that word precisely. Even when I flicked my wrist like so while all dolled-up from head to toe, no one seemed to quite stomach believing me a real woman.

Giddiness over coming out doesn’t last. Disobedience brooks punishment. Through the listicles of lesbian identities and vocabulary, you dig through to testimonies. To rape. To abjected and dysphoric butches. To abuse at school, university, work, home. To the loss of all those things. To death. Elsewhere lesbians sometimes got their happily-ever-afters, loving families and the luxury of walking free, but here, we have not earned it. Visa-barred from leaving, doomed to die fighting for a future we would never live—even as far away, someone already got it just for having been born.

When I Saw The TV Glow

2011. A documentary, in all the glory of 480p. I’d heard of trans women before in concept—dear, some men just become women, it happens, okay?—but I’d never heard of trans men before. Never conceived of it.

I watched the screen like it was a revelation. A man in a white tee tucked into light jeans, cut like a Ken doll, strutting down a springtime street in low resolution.

Before then, I’d accepted that the burgeoning breasts and hips was simply something I had to contend with. That the way the boys around me were growing stronger while I was ever-groped was simply nature asserting itself. My body was proof of my place in the world.

I looked at the screen and thought, So that was a big fat lie.

The moment I knew it was possible, I wanted it like nothing else. The broad shoulders, the muscles, the dapper swagger. I wished for my body to take the shape of my being, instead of my being contorting to the body’s mould. Perhaps I could be loved for all the things that made me a deformed monster. Perhaps I didn’t need to watch every step to prove I wasn’t just a girl. Here was a place already in the shape of me, rather than a stifling lot I had to constantly fight against.

How could one go about changing sex? According to the documentary, it started with a psychiatric assessment—and so, my little twelve-year-old self took to studying the DSM. As I scoured it, I learned I could not be described by its standards as a true transsexual. I’d never before thought of myself as a boy nor had wanted to be one. Yet in the same breath, the DSM claimed no girl could ever desire physical masculinity beyond what came naturally to her. It was either transsexualism or some fetish or self-harming disorder. I had neither of the latter. My desire to inhabit masculinity was undeniable and crystal-clear, and the only kind of person that could’ve felt this way was a transsexual man—so that meant I must’ve simply remembered my life wrong. Or interpreted it wrong. If I twisted my memories this way or that, discarded one as an anomaly and repainted another in baby-boy blue, it would all make sense. It had to. Trans people online talked about a sense of mis-belonging, and I did feel like an outsider among the girls—what did it mean to feel like a gender, at any rate? I only knew what I felt like. And I felt like something sorry and misshapen.

Somewhat later, circa 2013, I did hear of weirder gender concepts in the distant West, mostly as just definitions of words. Genderqueer, nonbinary, et cetera. I comprehended them rationally but I did not understand or relate to them. Wherever I read about it, genderqueerness was described in a manner parallel to transsexuality—the sex-changing—or else as an exotic alternative to hormones and scalpels. But I desired body change so desperately, and regardless, I could not envision living as a nonbinary gender in my own country. Maybe in the West that was possible, but here nothing but derision would entail. It just wasn’t for me.

Naturally, trans men’s testimonies of hardship met and rivalled those of cis lesbian women. But the vast majority of them were concentrated on the times before and during transition. After that—sure, all of medicine reviles you and you’re at risk of a heinous hate crime. But the same has been true before; now though, when you walk down the street or meet a new friend, when you live, you’re just some guy. Your life is tinted by your queerness as much as any other sex/gender-deviant, but that constant, unabating struggle against a blistering torrent of humiliation, of being forced into the place of a woman? That seemed to end. Eventually. And then—who knows? Move to a new town, a new country even. No one need ever know who you had once been.

At that time though, I was still very young, and the thing about discovering a solution to a problem you thought inescapable is that it makes the problem itself feel that much more acute. So I did the stupidest thing imaginable: come out.

Dear reader, it wasn’t a good idea.

It is, after all, rather trivial to exact whatever punishment one desires upon one’s queer children, for children are parents’ property. It is true everywhere, but if ‘in some fucking America’ there is something called ‘child-protective services,’ here nothing short of murder, starvation, or exceptionally unsubtle and repeated rape could possibly broker an outside intervention. The debt you incurred to your parents for being born still holds, and you’ve just betrayed its very foundation. A woman still needs to be made of you. And anyway, who are you gonna call? The police? For what, total social isolation? For derision and humiliation? For the hours spent unmaking all your agency, all your desire as nothing more than delusion brought on by that damned internet? For total control over you, over every movement, every manner, every gesture, every word? For what you claim was assault? For what you claim was an attempted murder? I mean, it’s all rather sad, but it’s not a crime; not provably. Not against faggots.

I Win, Bitch

I am first and foremost a problem-solver. Even in total solitude, without access to the internet or to kindred spirits, there are plans to be made. I did not want to die, and I was still in the questionable position of being my family’s pride. Had to be. My parents couldn’t have any more children; they had to get it right with me.

So of course, if I got free admission to a prestigious university many kilometres away, and if I proved I’d learned my lesson enough to be trusted with leaving—who was to gainsay me?

Getting out was a decision I made almost the moment my abuse took on a corrective and violent turn. I knew what I had to do, even if it cost me immeasurably. Overnight I had to call quits on any remnant of childhood and learn to steal money to ensure future independence. Had to play my woman’s part convincingly. Had to look as if I’m enjoying it, convincingly. If I’d found the role stifling before, now it was as razors under my skin. Everything that ‘woman’ encompassed had been weaponised for my constant abuse, and I could not stomach a second of it—but I had to. Until I broke free.

Besides the severance of any familial support, financial or otherwise, my psyche was thoroughly shattered. All the times I’d been told, at length and for hours, that I was suffering a dangerous delusion, that I had to be forced to conform to my true nature—every single time, I knew that it was wrong. Even when I was as young as twelve, I knew I deserved none of it. I knew it was abuse and injustice. All the same it broke me. There was no pride and no resilience strong enough in me to withstand years and years of it. For a while I could barely look at women that whatsoever resembled me; the very concept, the very idea was a trigger. When it came to my own mind, I struggled to tell what was real, what I did and did not feel. Everything laid under panes and panes of ice, and that disassociation was the only way I could maintain a grip—or else everything erupted in screams.

The worst of my C-PTSD would be dealt with in the ensuing years thanks to NGO-sponsored therapy for queer patients. Unpacking pane after pane, unwinding coil after coil of the rage I had to swallow, piecing together shards of abandoned and dissociated memories. But I’d be paying mental dividends on my damage for longer still, and in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

For now though: I won.

Social transition was easy for me. It took little more than cutting my hair and swapping out wardrobes to pass as a man pretty reliably—well, a teenage boy, but I was only seventeen, so it didn’t raise eyebrows. I felt freed. Like I could walk and speak and make friends without chains attached to me. Only the softness of my shape gnawed at me, how it had shifted from despicable womanly maturity to boyish youth. I hated not having my coming adulthood recognised. Hated that other young men got to grow stronger and larger while I was stuck in perpetual pseudo-adolescence. I was free, I was no child, no property of adults; I wanted to be seen.

But it was also the first time I discovered queer spaces in person. Mixed and trans ones—especially trans ones. For the first time, I walked among people who understood. Really understood, the dysphoria and the otherness and the abuse and the whole lot. I’d found my home amongst the gender criminals; we talked feminism and activism; we braved protests despite threats of alt-right retaliation; we stumbled through relationships. Like most trans people, I harbour no nostalgia for my childhood or early youth—but for that time, I do. Not because it didn’t have its share of struggle, but because of my then-partner A. and my friends. Because it was the first time I felt the mutability of sex/gender, and breathed the freedom that entailed.

Things don’t last though, especially not in youth. Relationships fall apart; social circles reshuffle. I was leaving university to pursue a career—after all, I could not afford to be on HRT without income.

Moreover I felt… insecure, you could call it. Most of my social connections were to trans people and/or women. But I was a man. Shouldn’t I—commit? Make an effort? If cisgender men did not accept me as one of theirs, didn’t that make me a kind of impostor? I chafed in the body of an eternal adolescent, and the rift I felt between myself and cis men salted the wound.

Brain/Worms

The first problem was easily addressed with exogenous testosterone. Starting it was a euphoric experience—the rapid swelling of muscle, the spike in energy and hunger and libido. I loved the changes to my body, and I wished all traces of insidious womanhood would wilt from me.

The second issue was more difficult. I’d always felt at an arm’s length from cis heterosexual men, and never got much closer. No matter what, I simply felt other. That made sense, though. Once I re-conceptualised my gender as male, I did not identify as straight. I didn’t feel so sure anymore I was solely attracted to women, and that feeling only solidified the more I transitioned. If gender and sex were uncertain, how could I be so sure? I had no genital preference. What did it mean to be attracted to a ‘man’ or a ‘woman’ anyway? Some men could be as pretty as women. Wouldn’t giving a definitive answer be a little bioessentialist? Aren’t we all, as they say, a little bisexual?

Yes, I thought, it made perfect sense that I, a bisexual man, would find no belonging among cishet men. And the more I thought about the sort of relationships I desired, the more I realised I could not possibly be fulfilled in a straight relationship. I attempted facsimiles of a straight man’s role, and they all left me feeling hollowed. The attraction and relationship calculus of straight women was an arcane language to me. The sorts of women I liked were distinctly dyke-y; sure, some of those happen to be bisexual, but if they were to date me, they’d still be dating a man. I’d hate that as much as I’d hate not having my manhood acknowledged or recognised. And that’s to say nothing of how sleazy and dishonest it felt to intrude on queer women’s dating scene as a man. Now that I lived as a man, what made me so different from cis men? Innate birth-assigned woman-ness? Misogyny-flavoured childhood trauma? The vagina? All excuses felt like pathetic, opportunistic self-humiliation. Debasing myself by appealing to someone else’s cissexism so I could appear like something I wasn’t.

So naturally, I pursued community and companionship with gay men. As any gay trans man will tell you, it is usually a thankless and annoying task; transphobia is insidious and oft-unchallenged in gay male circles. The way they treat trans men ranges from hostile to patronising to weird. But overall I had a better time of it than most, and cultivated a few long-lasting friendships. The gay men around me had more class consciousness than average. They were not shy about liking me, even after apologising for speaking ill of vaginas. It was ego-boosting. But I was still afraid that when we took our shirts off, they’d stop seeing me and find a woman in me. Fuck me like one. Erase me.

A new ghost began to haunt me. It’d coalesced from pieces that already existed within me, but never before had this shape. What were fragments of my desires and thoughts coalesced into a singular fixation that constricted all of my libido, all of my sexual being. Fantasies of being fucked into womanhood invaded my mind and would not let go of it. In them, men were personless and barely corporeal, but the women existed in graphic detail. I myself was either completely disembodied and not present, not even as a voyeur—or else oddly, vaguely within the woman, both me and not-me at once.

I was horrified. Not even by the fantasy itself; its contents were murky and not particularly original. By my singular lust for it. I felt as though I’d discovered a monster within. A violent misogynist puppeteering the woman’s image to quench a fetish for sexist humiliation. A depraved and lowly creature fed on my own abuse.

But it made a kind of sense, I thought, the horror aside. I’d experienced plenty of misogynistic violence, the sexual kind included, and I guessed I’d sublimated it. Except—

There was a problem with that interpretation. That coercive return to womanhood, what I feared men might do to me—it was not the same as what aroused me. In the fantasy, I was not returning or reverting; I was not giving in to transphobic violence, which these scenarios notably lacked; I just was.

Despite all my efforts, this creature within responded to no self-insight, no cross-examination, no rationalisation. Everything I learned from the handbooks of either trauma therapy or kink-positive thinking failed utterly. I could not unlearn shame. I could not arrive at an epiphany. Like a hungry tapeworm, the unnameable thing inside me gnawed and gnawed, and any attempts to understand my desire, to make it less dissociative, only caused it to mutate to something more esoteric. The images morphed from banal patriarchal brutality to anonymous men forcibly feminised via sex by domineering, ultra-feminine women. Once my mind arrived at image, it sank its teeth into it so completely that it began to hollow my waking life, which now paled by comparison to the fantasy. And yet the thing still resisted knowledge even as it drained blood from me. I could not comprehend what pleasure I derived from this, what desire this fulfilled. When looked upon in the light of day, beyond the haze of arousal, the monster within me became only fear, a terrifying and nameless anxiety that liquefied all efforts to understand it.

In any case, the only ‘gay man’ I ended up dating long-term was a severely closeted trans woman. I failed thoroughly at sourcing validity from gay male partners as I realised I never wanted them in the first place; it’d all been a self-delusional charade whose only purpose was to forestall loneliness and to quench the thing within. So I settled on helping a girl find her gender. My perversion remained my little secret. No one in the world could’ve possibly shared it, and if they did, it was probably for the best that I did not know them.

A strange and nameless discontent festered. Past the initial joy in well-sculpted shoulders, the more virilised my body became, the more difficult it was to differentiate myself from the Average Cishetero Man, or even the Average Gay Man (which do not, in the end, look that different)—and it felt existentially important to be differentiated somehow. Looking like that made me feel dead. Whatever ‘that’ was. I found myself confusedly wishing for jewellery and makeup and feminine fashion—things that were once violently forced upon me. So the desire itself made me squirm. At the same time though, it’d been a while since my abuse. Years. Therapy, time, et cetera. I knew it was normal enough for someone later in transition to mellow out on strict gender expression, now that doing it ‘incorrectly’ no longer threatened misgendering. I’d met plenty of people with that exact experience. So, I thought, maybe that was my damage. Desire for gender-nonconformity, which I’d repressed in a bizarre manner.

Of course, experimenting with being a feminine man in public would get my head kicked in; discovering a craving for femininity was very inconvenient for me. I wasn’t pleased to regress back to stifling my gender presentation for social security. But no one could stop me from crossdressing in private—so, bit by bit, I tried.

When I finally built up the courage to order proper womenswear and put it on, I looked in the mirror and saw a man in a dress. I did exactly as I wanted and achieved exactly what I thought I would. Except, instead of relief or joy, a wave of such profound disappointment hit me that I could neither understand nor describe its nature. I could only comprehend it as a compulsion to tear my skin off. As dysphoria.

Well, duh. I was a trans man. Of course dolling up would make me dysphoric. Especially after all that’d happened to me. What did I expect? This had all been a waste of fucking time. There was nothing to discover behind my desires. I abandoned my pursuit, resigned to the daily kaleidoscope of sexual depravity that I couldn’t stop my mind from spinning; I’d given up on understanding the source or goal of any of it; I would simply entertain it in the privacy of my head and carry it to my grave.

Or at least, I’d try.

At one point, a cis woman took an interest in me. That interest was not reciprocated; something about her person was off-putting to me. She acted towards my friends with extreme jealousy, and even though I rejected her advances in no uncertain terms multiple times, she would not stop offering. At the same time though, now that I realised I did not belong among gay men, I felt extremely alone. And revolting. How many women were out there that’d even want to touch me? I really shouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.

We were drunk, and I a complete mess. I’d bristled before when she pointedly asked if I knew she was bisexual—the implication being, she wasn’t afraid of vagina—because there was nothing un-straight about a woman wanting a trans man. But with so much wine in my veins—you know, maybe I wasn’t such a trans man after all? Maybe I was—I dunno. Like a girl—like, only for sex, though. I had stockings and lingerie in my bedside drawers and shit. If you squint and turn off the light.

I remember a shift in her gaze, once it finally sank in. From giggling and alcohol-addled to something sharper. Not quite homicidally disgusted, but still vicious; like I’d been made a thing. I didn’t know what I did wrong; I didn’t tell her about any of the truly despicable things—I was still me! Wasn’t she bisexual? Wasn’t she queer? We don’t have to do it, I said, forget it.

The next thing I remember is a body forcing me down. Vicious, gleeful lust. “Oh, you’ll be a girl, alright.”

My whole body stiffened. I snapped at her to stop, tried to push her away, but she only pressed down harder, fingers sinking into flesh.

When I threw her off me to the floor, blood split her lip. She cried and shrieked. So much for a feminist man! How dared I hit her! She just did as I asked!

I yelled at her to get out, but once the door slammed shut, I thought of the unending parade of rapacious fetish in my head. Of how well I knew this woman didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and how I caved to her anyway. And, well, I couldn’t help feeling like—

Didn’t I ask for it?

Unmoored

A few years later, I found myself abroad. Far from family, and from most friends—except one. Shortly before I moved, I had met my once-partner A. from my university days and felt drawn to her all over again. Our relationship rekindled, and hand in hand, we flew westward. It was a dark time for unrelated reasons, but in a twisted way, it granted me as much of a ‘clean start’ as I could’ve ever hoped for. I was untethered from traces of growing pains I left all over the city I once called home, from the messy parts of transition—it’d been, at that point, well over five years since I started.

No one here needed to know who I’d been.

I’d never doubted it. In fact, I was then in the process of fighting bureaucracy to re-ensure my access to hormones. They were the only way I could ever hope to rid myself of that bodily displacement I’d been feeling. That was how it went with trans men; it helped them, so it should help me.

Only I’d already been on T for a while then. Whatever ‘feminine curves’ I had left, had melted away; a beard had sprouted from my face, which now increasingly resembled my father’s. Even if I stripped naked, I looked more like an intersex man than anything else. That was basically what I’d expected. I’d always been rather cold-blooded about my transition expectations and proud of that fact; I’d sourced my information from many sources and first-hand accounts, and I neither underestimated the changes nor hoped for the impossible. All in all, I got what I sought. The thing I kept waiting for had already happened.

And I felt nothing. The disappearance of features I used to despise evoked naught more than a quiet oh well. My photos seemed oddly unfamiliar. A numbness had subsumed me, as if I’d been encased in wax.

But I had more pressing problems. Relocation, unemployment, the lot. Dealing with a subtle and unnameable depression seemed like a waste of time. Perhaps there was just something broken about me—that much had been clear for a while now. If I just kept a lid on it, I could live a happy enough life. On and on years went.

Lesbians In My Phone

What to do, when you’re hopelessly unemployed and feeling like there’s a black hole inside you threatening to swallow it all? Try to find a Discord to distract yourself, of course.

E.: mostly girlies in here so I hope you won't feel too out of place! we do strive to be an inclusive place

Me: haha i hope i got here thanks to a diversity and inclusion programme

My excuse for entering a transfem-majority space was an invitation thanks to my writing and editing. I’d put out a short story myself, and I was eager to help fellow authors. Of course, I was still a community outsider on the gender side of it, so I didn’t expect to get much out of that space personally. It just felt good to be involved in something, anything.

But, it turned out, many of the women on that server were good and easy company regardless. Unfamiliar subcultures are easily learned when its members are not hostile to you; they seemed to like me.

Most of the server members were transfem lesbians writing and reading sexually explicit fiction—some of which resembled my personal nonsense kaleidoscope, if… unpacked, let’s say. It was rather surreal to see the sorts of things my mind inflicted upon me being discussed in jest or dissected for the purposes of creating more elevated, self-conscious art. When I thought about it from the perspective of a trans woman, escapism via fancies of forced feminisation only made sense. Trans women internalise what society deems to be the place of women as much as anyone else, but also, trans womanhood is violently flagellated for existing in any way whatsoever. The fantasy would then revolve around removing the element of choice from it—so you could not be punished for wanting it.

Intellectually fascinating, but why it appealed to me made no more sense than it ever had. I wasn’t a trans woman—quite the opposite. They just wanted to be women; what the fuck was my problem? Although it calmed me somewhat to see normal people have experiences so similar to mine, I still felt like an intruder, stealing away pieces of someone else’s intimate life for my own shallow pleasure. I spoke nothing of it. No one would take kindly to me skin-walking their innermost desires this way.

As I spent my time in the company of trans lesbians, silent or not, I was still exposed to a stream of art and stories and images. Their depictions of women differed drastically from what I’d seen before. Two metres tall, or tiny as a gnome, or more muscular than a Greek god, or more voluptuous than a fertility idol, or werewolf-hairy, or covered in scales, or made completely of metal. A thousand melodies in fractal variations of flesh, all desired and lauded. I was no stranger to ideas of body positivity or ‘celebrating queerness’, but that all came wrapped in stipulations and activism. Always a statement, a process of battling or quieting shame. Never before have I experienced such utterly shameless, sincere, and carnal fanfare for everyone and anyone who claimed the space of ‘woman,’ in such a way that ‘woman’ meant nothing more and nothing less than simply ‘human.’ Not for statements. Just because it made them happy.

It was as alien as it was beautiful.

It’s not that I felt like I was missing out. Or that I wasn’t sufficiently fanfared. There were other spaces that did the same for men, run chiefly by gay transmasculine people, and they seemed to be having a great time of it. I just didn’t personally care for them one bit. I wanted this.

Naturally, it was all only fantasy. Art and books. That’s great, but that’s not real. In reality I was a twink with a receding hairline. It seemed prudent to know my limits rather than get too hung up on the fact I couldn’t be a two-metre-tall lesbian cyborg.

Except that some of it is real. Not the cyborgs and werewolves, but the diversity of body; the desire for its freedom and customisation. Women discontent with taking simply what they’re given. Through acquaintance and anecdote, I met lesbians with the same ‘unnatural’ desire I’d had. Lesbians on testosterone, desiring embodiments which, according to all I’d ever known, were never meant to be. Lesbians who wished for phalloplasty or for top surgery or both; lesbians that went on T temporarily to drop their voices and grow more muscle and body hair. Lesbians that weren’t women at all. Only there was no DSM attached. No packaged deal of ‘total’ transition, no script, no chain of demands that followed one to another.

No requirement of man.

It felt like anathema—and like a revelation. Whereas before genderqueerness seemed hypothetical and divorced from my reality, now I suddenly understood it. Now that I saw it, I knew it.

And I felt only directionless, ennui-steeped anger. As if someone stole the last ticket to a train that would never again leave my station. I didn’t know—how could I have known? No shit the things that helped trans men didn’t help me. I looked at all the past incongruences I’d revised and sanded over to fit the fucking DSM transsexualism diagnosis, and found only someone groping in the dark for a path they couldn’t even imagine existed. Except this realisation was arriving some fifteen years too late. Had I been younger or born elsewhere, then sure, I could’ve been one of those lesbians middle-fingering gender and microdosing T. But I wasn’t. I was a man. And when I dared think of relinquishing my grip on manhood, memory clawed at me. The assault. The humiliation. The un-personing. What would I be asking for? And what would that even yield? Look in the mirror, idiot. You are a man.

It wasn’t a rational calculus of consequences. It was a buzzing storm inside my head, pitch-black, impenetrable. I’d long stopped seeing women in their totality as my conversion-therapy prison, but even still—to see myself attached to ‘woman’ even slightly, even tangentially, even if I wanted it—this all evoked visceral, horrible fear.

But: knowing that a problem has a solution only makes it that much more impossible to ignore. My off-handed remarks and jokes about my miseries had my transfem friends looking funny at me. As if they recognised something.

T.: do you mind if I ask what you conceptualize your specific gendered deal as, or is that invasive?

Me: great question, i’ll get back to you in 5 to 10 business years.

Although I still loved the early changes I received from my HRT, everything I’d accrued since then was undeniably eating me alive. It was becoming difficult to dismiss dysphoria as mere vanity or body image issues; through all my attempts to make peace with my flesh, nothing helped even slightly. When I stopped binding, that felt better. When I lowered my T dose, that accomplished nothing in particular, but it felt comforting in a placebo sort of way. I tried to schedule laser hair removal—and that was too much. I panicked. Too obvious. What if someone noticed? What if someone asked why? I couldn’t deal with it. What if my partner noticed? She didn’t sign up for this shit. She was dating a man. What if—

No, it couldn’t go that badly. My partner wasn’t like that. Still, I felt paralysed. If I just did nothing, it couldn’t get worse. No one needed to know.

T.: hey, what’s up with the depression beard? do we need to get you laser?

Fuck it. I understood what my friends were seeing in me now. At first I thought myself definitionally far-removed from any transfeminine experience, but now that I’d met trans lesbians in truth, I couldn’t stop noticing patterns. And I wouldn’t have treated a transfem friend with the same denial or nihilistic abjection that I reserved for myself. She would’ve deserved help. A way out.

Didn’t I, too?

Detransition, Lady

The date I mark as the start of my detransition is April 16th, 2024, although I wouldn’t be calling it that for a few months yet. It was the first time I told anyone I was not a man, and that I was a lesbian, even though I didn’t exactly feel like a woman. On the surface it seemed a small thing. I had not yet decided on any particular body modifications (except laser—god, someone flay that thing off my face), and I felt deeply uncomfortable changing my gender presentation too much. So it seemed almost a question of semantics alone. Inside me though, it was a titanic shift: I allowed myself to name that which I’d been avoiding at all cost. To voice a desire I thought would brook only disgust, humiliation, and exile.

It did not.

The reaction of my partner and friends was, across the board, positive—none of my worst fears came to pass. Apparently I’d been far too obviously depressed, despite my best efforts to hide it—and now, I was far too obviously happy and, as some put it, ‘unclenched.’ Nothing in my loved ones’ behaviour should’ve led me to believe they would ridicule and hate me; still, it felt monumentally difficult to stop seeing myself as uniquely undeserving and pathetic.

I pursued my detransition incrementally. I pinpointed sources of dysphoria and addressed them. Laser, first. When my droning bass baritone started getting on my nerves, ensuring as it was that I’d always be gendered male—voice training. Soon I discovered that, despite the kinship I felt with transmasculine lesbians, I did not quite belong with them; whereas they relished the virilisation they’d carved out for themselves, my situation was different. I’d lived as a man for far too long to experience the world the same way they did. Most of them did not share my degree of distaste and distress at getting dude’d and he/him’d; they did not quite match my flavour of alienation from ‘woman.’ They usually strove to distinguish themselves from the category that would have them stifled and consumed—whereas that category now repelled me almost definitionally, whether I liked it or not. When I braved the outside world, there was no amount of social signalling that would make strange cis women see me as akin to them, or at least as not akin to men. Often not even lesbian cis women. Markers of an androgenic puberty singled me out as something categorically Other, and I’d not yet been in detransition long enough to change that.

Only among the transfeminine was I witnessed. Trans women I didn’t know loudly and protectively she/her’d me. The pronouns I actually used at the time were they/them, and my internal gender was nil with a side of ‘dyke,’ yet I found myself unwilling to correct anyone who decided I was a woman. Trans women that did know me playfully teased me for being ‘transfem-coded.’ Beyond initial recognition of repeating patterns, I’d started to realise that of all the people I knew, I belonged with them the most.

It was… confounding. In a way, it made no sense at all. And there were clear lines that delineated us: they would not relate to my visceral hatred of my first puberty, and I would not relate to theirs; I did not share their childhood of a girl trapped among boys. My ever-unchanged legal sex now granted me a degree of protection they could never take for granted. My birth sex gave me leverage to sacrifice trans women for a shred of acceptance—to shriek that I, unlike them, was a real woman. Even when no one but them saw me as one.

But in my daily existence and in much of my psychology, I was indistinguishable from my transfem peers. I’d transitioned a decade ago, right out of school; socially, I’d once been a girl a long time ago, but never a woman. Now I danced a dance I’d only before witnessed as an outsider; longed for and imagined, never performed. I had not the same continuity of belonging that cis women did, and nor did cis women know what it was like to walk among men, a secret alien, slowly realising every step you take is wrong.

I supposed, it made an intuitive kind of sense. Transition works. Not my now-distant history, not my birth, and certainly not my chromosomes or genitals had made me somehow more innately or inexorably woman. As all transsexuals learn sooner or later, lived experiences and hormones trump the rest of sex/gender with ease. So, although I wasn’t a trans woman, when I applied the same logics to myself, it simply worked. Despite the imperfect match, all my current problems had answers from the same solution sheet, from the way I treated myself to the way others treated me.

Well, almost all my problems.

Now that I compared myself to women and not to men, body insecurity cut much deeper and bloodier. I despaired no one would ever believe I was anything woman-shaped; they barely did before I took testosterone. Which I was still taking. I looked at the small dose of T gel I’d been applying, then at the finasteride pills I’d been chasing that with. And I thought, What does this even do? What is this even for anymore?

Stasis. It was for stasis, and a little placebo. I feared that if I stopped T, I’d tumble all the way back into the spiral of dysphoria I felt as a teen and young adult. That my body—for all its flaws still mine, still fought-for, still tailor-made—would dissolve again into an adolescent blob hatefully sculpted by others into the image of a future child-bearer. Only now I hated most of my virilisation and would claw at walls if I received any more of it—and my fear was not exactly rational, was it?

I breathed out. The testosterone wasn’t going to spoil the moment I put it away. I could try, and if it didn’t work out—a short period of a second-and-a-half puberty could not be that extreme. Whatever new changes I’d cause would likely revert fast.

For a while, nothing much happened. Nothing dissolved or melted. But little by little, my skin smoothed; my face softened; my wiry limbs lost their mesh of veins. My hips and breasts, once so maligned, swelled and enveloped muscle. I didn’t look the way I used to—of course not. I was stronger and a decade older; all the things I’d done to build my own self did not vanish, but merely, well—feminised.

I’d never met myself in an adult woman’s body before. In a self-made body. Although this flesh too did not feel mine, but for a different reason; I felt as if the moment I looked away, it’d all be gone. It wasn’t mine because it couldn’t possibly be. I wasn’t allowed this, I was never allowed this—the only shape of woman allowed to me was future-husband’s broodmare, mummy’s doll. I wasn’t allowed this.

But I did want it. And now I knew I could have it. Now, that gnawing monster inside my head had dissolved like it was never there at all. No disassociation, no torment, no total death of all other desire, no compulsion to retreat from the real world into a singular fantasy. Just… me.

At almost midnight I walked into mine and A.’s bedroom rambling. What does it fucking mean to feel like something, like a category; I only ever feel like me; what does it mean when you’re a forever-outsider; what does it mean when it’s been used to fucking hurt you, how can you then feel like anything at all; but what if I want it, what if I want it anyway. What if I want to be a woman anyway, the way my friends are women. The way lesbians are women. What if I want to belong among them? How do I know if I feel it? How do I know I’m real? How do I know I deserve—

In a space where freedom is possible, how is anyone made a woman?

Blearily, A. looked up from her Crusader Kings and said, “Look, uh—it doesn’t have to be that deep. If you want to be a woman, you can just do that.”

Could I?

I knew my transfem friends could. They built new shapes of ‘woman’ to their liking, in spite of all outside insistence they cannot. I had no reason nor unkindness to believe that their efforts amounted to less or more than mine. If they could, so could I. If I saw them, they would see me. They already did.

Perhaps sometimes, what makes a woman is who she calls a sister.

Recommended Reading

On embracing the constructed nature of one’s sex/gender: Susan Stryker, My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix: Performing Transgender Rage.

On the asymmetric forces behind patriarchal gender enforcement: Talia Bhatt, Degendering and Regendering.

[erodasfishtacos]

Conflict of Interests (roommatesbf!h)

prompt: yn knows that she has a bit of a crush on her roommate/friend's bf but until an opportunity is put in her lap, she tries her best to resist.

word count: 9k

warnings: not necessarily infidelity yet but there's some shady business, mff, fxf

author's note:

There is 3 more parts to this up on patreon.

I upload a piece of writing every 1-3 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2-3 one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here!

++ YN was pretty open, easy to say ‘yes’, and take risk but she wasn’t careless.

She weighed the reward versus the consequence, trying to make as much of an informed decision as she can before jumping in the metaphorical deep-end.

However, she had absolutely miscalculated and found herself reaping the consequences of her actions.

A ruined friendship, an empty second bedroom because said friend had moved out, and a few of their friends who were taking sides.

They weren’t on hers.

YN should have said ‘no’, at the time she knew she shouldn’t have, it would lead to nothing good because of how YN actually felt about Harry.

+

YN and Kay had been friends for years, meeting in senior year of high school when Kay had to transfer schools because of her father getting a job change.

They hit it off right away, deciding to room in college together, and now they had moved from a tiny dorm to more of a spacious apartment.

Kay and YN have lived together for three years at this point, they rarely had any issues, an occasional stolen yogurt or leaving laundry in the washer but nothing that shook the foundation of their friendship.

Until Harry walks into their lives.

Well quite literally walks into her bedroom while she’s getting dressed.

YN was going out to dinner with her family, her brother was in town and they were meeting at an Italian restaurant a few blocks down.

It was a fancier restaurant which meant that YN was buzzing around her room and connecting bathroom, hair and makeup done except for lipstick and hairspray.

YN had her high-waisted trousers already buttoned snugly against her hips but was trying to find a shirt that worked well with the dressy bottoms.

YN had a strapless bra on but the shirt she finds that she wants to wear looks better without, she tosses the shirt on the bed, and unclasps her bra.

She had just tossed it to the side, to put away later when her door opened.

It doesn’t initially alarm her, Kay has a tendency to not knock or generally respect the idea of privacy so when YN turns to see what she wants.

However, it is not Kay.

It is a man.

A stupidly attractive man whose eyes become as wide as saucers, his big baseball mit of a hand smacks over his eyes to cover them, and starts rambling an apology.

“Who the fuck are you?” YN screeches as she reaches for the first thing she can find, her fleece throw as she holds it over her chest, heart pounding.

“M’so fucking sorry, I-“ The man’s voice is low, a deep drawl and a bit morbid as he keeps his eyes covered with a tattooed hand.

“What’s going on?” Kay appears in the doorway, a smirk tweaking at the corner of lips, “Harry, I told you the door on the left.”

“This is the door on the left,” Harry replies in a higher pitch, which was still ridiculously deep as he stands there, trying to stay as still as a statue.

“Oh shit, I meant my left,” Kay giggles as she moves to tug at his elbow which he very resistantly starts to let her move his face covering, “She’s decent now.”

Harry blinks a few time, his cheeks were twinged a bright pink akin to the tone of bubblegum as he meets YN’s eye sheepishly.

“I am so sorry,” Harry apologizes again, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets, he was handsome - even if this sounded awful, completely out of Kay’s league.

It wasn’t that Kay wasn’t pretty, she was but Harry could have just walked out of some expensive cologne advert even in his jeans and black tee.

His tattoos were dark, no color to be found and it’s a contrast against his tanned skin like he had just been on a vacation with the golden tint.

“It’s okay. It’s completely Kay’s fault,” YN tries to crack a joke, easing the tension because though YN was actually quite proud of her body, she liked her breasts and didn’t mind who saw them - most of the time.

YN still managed to feel self-conscious about what Harry had thought because he looked like that and she felt a weird jolt of butterflies about it.

“But doesn’t she have the nicest pair of tits you’ve ever seen?” Kay nudges Harry, wrapping her hand around his massive bicep as best she can.

“Kay,” YN scolds as she holds the blanket closet, feeling super bare now.

“I’m just saying! I can’t help but stare when I see them,” Her friend shrugs, she had the tendency to be crude, crass, and frankly too much.

Harry has his bottom lip tucked between his two front teeth, eyes now not making contact with YN’s, “C’mon, Kay. Stop embarrassing her. It was an accident and I don’t want to objectify her.”

YN is oddly touched by his respectfulness, she felt like most guys would just openly agree with Kay which would have made her feel uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” YN replies, voice softer and the gaze she shares with Harry feels unusually intense before she’s clearing her throat, “Um, I need to put a shirt on.”

“C’mon, let’s go,” Harry tugs Kay in the direction of the door with one more apologetic glance before he’s closing it behind him.

YN’s stomach does a weird flip, what the fuck.

7 months later +

Harry and Kay are dating.

Which YN is a bit, scratch that, a lot confused by because they just seem like the most unlikely match but not just looks-wise.

Harry is quiet, doesn’t really talk unless he’s asked a question or has something to add to the conversation but he does not speak just to speak.

He does subtle things that he thinks people do not notice and usually don’t (YN does)

The way he will close a cabinet right by YN’s head so she doesn’t accidentally bump into it as she cooks without saying anything.

If he knows YN has a late day at work, he turn on a lamp in the entryway so she doesn’t have to stumble around in the dark and she knows it’s him because Kay wouldn’t be that thoughtful.

Plus she caught him once, he had awkwardly shrugged and said that he didn’t want her tripping and getting hurt before disappearing back down the hall to Kay’s room.

YN has a smile for quite a few minutes after that.

+_+

Kay and Harry are not affectionate which is interesting.

Kay was handsy, typically clinging onto her boyfriend at any time, and their group of friends groaning about the obnoxious amount of PDA.

Not them.

Harry did small gestures here or there like squeeze her shoulder or put his hand on her back, rarely throw an arm over her shoulder at a restaurant or bar.

YN also didn’t hear them from the bedroom.

Kay didn’t have a volume control button, it didn’t take detective-like skills to tell when she was being intimate with someone because of the noise.

It made YN’s skin crawl because it was obvious that they were over-exaggerated, high-pitched moans that made her roll her eyes and couldn’t believe the guys she brought home believed they were real.

But no, YN heard nothing ever.

And Harry was constantly over, Kay had told YN that Harry’s housemate was a nightmare which had him trying to get out of the house as soon as possible.

Harry was just…perfect.

YN knows she shouldn’t been thinking that but he is the closest thing to perfection that she has ever seen or met without a doubt.

On top of his thoughtfulness, he listened and was actually paying attention, no phone in his face, no half ass agreements.

Meanwhile, YN witnesses Kay constantly on her phone while Harry was trying to have a conversation with her - nodding and say “mhm” without looking up.

YN could see the frustration that he’s trying to taper down but that’s when she’ll jump in to let him know that she was paying attention.

The dimples that appear in his cheeks are all the reward that she needs to know that she’s doing that right thing.

Her heart aches a bit because of the crush she wants to have on such an off-limits person, so she’ll push it into the back, the darkest crevice in her mind.

Harry would most likely be mortified to know the shit thay YN thought while he was just trying to be friendly.

It was just that she couldn’t get a ready in them as a couple and that was driving her a bit insane.

Well YN was actually questioning whether she was crazy because she had moment where she thought that Harry was actually going out of his way to do things for her than his own girlfriend.

Then the bathroom incident happens.

YN really, truly didn’t know that Harry was here.

She heard the shower running and assumed that it was Kay in there.

YN and Kay didn’t have much off-limits, it wasn’t out of the norm for her to pop into the bathroom to brush her teeth or pee when Kay was in there or vice versa.

So YN doesn’t think much of opening the bathroom door to grab her hairbrush she had left in there but only she was not met with what she expected.

It was a standing shower, with a glass door which meant there was no privacy for the person if someone came in and holy shit.

Harry was under the stream with his head tilted down, he was running a washcloth over his stomach and holy fuck, she didn’t realize how built he was.

She hadn’t seen him shirtless before, yes, she could gather that he was in shape by the way his biceps flexed or how defined his thighs were when he wore shorts but this was unreal.

YN’s eyes find the harsh vee that is tattooed with laurels, that is leading downwards towards…

“I’m sorry!” YN squeaks out, halfway into the bathroom and her hand extended towards her brush but her muscles lock and she’s frozen for a good half minute, “Oh my god, shit!”

Harry turns at the sound, confusion momentarily crossing his face but he doesn’t seem bothered, does nothing to try to cover himself.

YN was repeating over and over to herself to not look there but she couldn’t ignore that’s where her eyes went first, wanting to continue because he was thick, heavy, and he wasn’t even hard.

YN turns to leave but doesn’t realize that she has stepped on Harry’s discarded clothes which means her foot slips out from under her.

She attempts to steady herself by grabbing the countertop but it is just out of reach as a yelp exits her mouth, falling into a lump of limbs.

Her lip is throbbing because her teeth sliced through the thin skin when she accidentally bit down, her fingertips coming to press against where the blood begins to dribble.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry curses as he watches all of this go down in the span of a minute flat, he’s reaching to turn off the faucet before he’s stepping out.

YN cannot fully appreciate Harry in his dripping wet, tanned skin, naked glory because her eyes are foggy with fat tears of embarassment and pain.

Harry grabs his towel, wrapping it haphazardly around his waist, threatening to slip off at any minute when he kneels down.

“Darling, what on earth?” Harry rasps, his eyes tracing her over, his hand coming to cup the side of her face as he holds her still.

He picks up his discarded shirt, pressing the soft cotton to her lip with pressure to stop the bleeding, his voice was comforting and entirely sweet enough to give her a toothache.

“You’re okay, s’okay. Calm down f’me,” Harry coos softly, stroking her hair as the other keeps the shirt against her lip, “I know, I know.”

Just the small little reassurances were digging YN into a deep, treacherous dark hole because she’d never had a boyfriend who would baby her as much as he was doing.

And that’s when YN realizes it, Harry has been babying her the entire time he’s been with Kay, and he just doesn’t do the same for her.

YN was too frazzled to delve any deeper into that right now.

“I’m so sorry, I thought it was Kay in the shower. I am so so sorry-“ YN is trying to tell him through choked sobs, unable to blink the tears away fast enough.

“Stop apologizing, dove. You didn’t know, the tears are killing me though. I haven’t seen you cry before and it’s just as heartbreaking as I would imagine,” Harry frowns, he was still dripping and it was dampening YN’s clothes.

“My lip hurts,” YN huffs out with a edge of a whine, god, it was so easy for her to fall into this baby role with him and let him take care of her, “And I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”

“Why would you be embarrassed?” Harry asks as he dabs at her lip, checking to see how steady the flow of blood is before pressing it back.

“I just barged in on you showering and then ate shit, I’ve never had a worse moment of embarrassment,” YN informs him, her face felt hot and she had to stop herself from looking towards the split in his towel.

Jesus Christ, this was her friend's boyfriend and she was swooning like a girl with her first crush in elementary school - she needed to pull herself together.

“S’just me,” Harry murmurs softly, taking the shirt away and watching her mouth for a moment before sitting back, “Nothing to be embarassed by.”

YN and Harry make eye contact which makes her stomach flip in a way that it shouldn’t because he’s off limits but he’s nice and beautiful and naked.

YN swallows harshly as she fails to find a reply.

Harry takes his hand away which she misses as soon as it’s gone, standing up before reaching down to pull her up as well.

“Let me dry off, go change, and I’ll make us dinner, yeah?” Harry says as he brushes a strand of stray hair off of her forehead.

“Yeah,” YN agrees dumbly, hands still shaking and her heart felt like it had just run a marathon with how fast her blood was pumping through it.

“Will you be okay for a minute?” Harry is still checking, he’s a worrier and that much is obvious through his words and facial expression.

YN chuckles out a light snort, not her most attractive moment, “Or what, can I hold your hand and wait while you change?”

It was absolutely and completely meant to be a joke, a sarcastic quip because of course she was okay enough to walk to her bedroom.

Harry doesn’t smile, not really, his voice ever steady and morbid as he replies, “I don’t mind. S’nothing you haven’t seen before now. If it makes you feel better.”

YN throat tightens, the urge to flea was becoming stronger because he wasn’t being outwardly flirty, he was being kind but it still felt wrong - at least because YN was struggling to stay just friendly.

There was nothing in Harry’s words that were overtly sexual or persuasive, his demeanor didn’t give much of anything away either.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” YN manages to tell him before scurrying out of the bathroom as fast as humanly possible.

Even more guilt came when she was undressing, resisting the urge to touch herself to the mental image of Harry stepping out of the shower.

Where the deep vee had lead into trimmed hair that got a bit darker, thicker around the base of his -

“Stop,” YN scolds herself as she tugs on new underwear.

Harry had made it a point not to objectify her when he accidentally saw her chest but YN was better than no man as her mind kept going back to the sheer size and beauty of Harry’s cock.

Anyways.

YN was a shit friend right now.

End of story.

YN takes a little bit longer than necessary to exit her room, feeling like she was doing a walk of shame when she enters the kitchen.

Harry was already chopping up veggies, a pot of water that wasn’t boiling just yet on the stovetop, and it was all very domestic.

YN walks up behind him, itching to put a hand of his back, rub over the lithe, bulky muscles there but instead drums her fingers against the countertop.

“Do you need any help?” YN asks, her voice sounded relatively back to normal by now.

Harry glances over at her, his smile faltering slightly as he puts down the knife, and brings his thumb to her bottom lip again.

“You really did a number on yourself, dove,” Harry tells her, displeased as he traces over the puffy skin, eyes still studying her face.

YN’s heart rate spikes up like she didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes trying to regulate so that she didn’t feel like she was going to pass out.

It was impossible for her to decipher right now if Harry was just genuinely an affectionate, touchy person or whether he was flirting with her.

Not once has YN seen Harry touch her in the same way he was doing to her now - delicate, careful like she was made of the most breakable china he’d ever held.

There’s a jostle at the front door, a key turning into the lock, and YN jumps back out of his hold as he drops his hand, picking up the knife once again.

YN sits down at the kitchen table instead of trying to help, unlocking her phone, and trying to dissociate at whatever pops up on her timeline.

“What is this?” Kay laughs when she walks in, dropping her purse on one of the chairs as she smiles at YN before walking over and wrapping her arms around Harry from the back.

Harry…doesn’t stop cutting the vegetables but does tilt his head to the side look at her, she leans up to kiss his cheek before peeking over his shoulder, “Stir-fry?”

“With shrimp,” Harry tacks on as he turns back from her to focus on his work, his demeanor wasn’t necessarily drastically different but still…different.

Kay didn’t seem disgruntled by his attitude as she rubs his back for a few moments which YN tries to not get jeaous about because it’s not her place to be.

Then she’s plopping down in the chair beside YN, “Sorry, I forgot to text you and tell you I picked up an extra shift. Harry didn’t get the memo until he was already here.”

YN glares at her friend, “I know. I thought you were home, showering, and barged into the bathroom. Only to invade Harry’s privacy.”

Kay lets out a peel of laughter, eyes twinkling and completely unbothered, “It’s even now, right?”

“Huh?” YN asks, not sure what she meant as Harry turns around after adding the lo mein noodles to the boiling water, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

There was slight amusement at the tilt of his lips.

“He saw your tits. You saw his dick,” Kay shrugs with another hearty laugh, “You’ve got amazing tits. He’s got an insane dick so-“

“Kay,” Harry cuts in, a bit curt and disapproving, “It was all an accident. We don’t need to go into detail about what we all looked like naked.”

“Well you’re both hot and I’ve seen both of you naked, maybe I’m feeling a little inferior. I have a bombshell best friend and the hottest boyfriend. It makes me feel like chopped liver.”

Kay was looking for validation, specifically in Harry but he was not feeding into her behavior, “Kay, this really isn’t appropriate. Let’s drop it.”

It was not a suggestion.

However, that’s how Kay saw it.

“I’m just bragging, H. Chill out. Does it not inflate your ego if I talk about how big your dick is?” Kay was immature, admittedly and no better than a crude man on her best days - her thought patterns more perverse and blunt than most females.

“Kay,” Harry’s voice is sharp, a tone YN hasn’t hear before as he puts down the knife, “Let’s go to your room for a minute.”

YN sits awkwardly at the table, any butterflies from the interaction with Harry earlier we’re completely gone because of this.

YN could heard Harry’s voice raise, he wasn’t shouting but it was louder than his normal range of volume which lead her to believe they were fighting.

Kay was immature, Harry couldn’t train that out of her, and that’s why YN was surprised when she went for someone like Harry because she usually dated boys younger than her by a year or two - they matched maturities better.

YN stands up, walking over, and taking it upon herself to continue to chop the veggies while politely trying to ignore any of their conversation.

When they walk back out a few minutes later, Harry comes up beside her, just slightly bumping his hip against hers, and saying quietly, “Thanks, sucha good helper.”

It should sound patronizing but it doesn’t, Kay isn’t in here yet, and YN wonders if he would have said that in front of her.

Kay comes back a few minutes later, mood the same, and clearly trying to act like she didn’t just get chewed out by Harry as she makes small talk about work.

+_

YN struggles to sleep that night. 

Her stomach was rumbling because she didn’t indulge in too much of the stir-fry that he had cooked because of the tension between the couple.

Kay was making passive aggressive jabs in her ever cheery cadence while Harry gave her a very serious look, jaw twitching as he harshly chewed.

YN hid out in her room for the rest of the night.

Now it was biting her in the ass because she was starving.

As YN pads out, she has to go through the living, not thinking much when she flips the switch so that the floor lamp in the corner will illuminate some of the space.

There’s movement that makes her jump.

Harry was on the couch, YN had clearly woken him up as he stretched, trying to blink and adjust to the light as he takes in a deep inhale.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” YN turns off the lamp quickly, basking them in darkness again and muttering, “I can find the kitchen without the light.”

YN then proceeds to bump her thigh extremely hard into the side corner of their end table before she’s toppling over for the second time that day.

“Fuck, pet,” Harry curses, his voice sounded different, thick with sleep and a rasp that made it sound like he was a smoker, “What are you doing?”

Harry leans over, turning on the lamp, and squinting until he sees her on the floor, concern crossing his face as he pushes himself off the couch, and knelt beside her.

YN has tears prickling in her eyes, that really fucking hurt, she had already busted her lip today, and god, she looked like such a fucking idiot.

Harry’s voice goes soft again, like he’s just found an injured baby animal, “Oh darling, c’mon. These tears are too much. S’heartbreaking.”

“I just-“ YN hiccups, clutching her thigh that’s pulsing with her heartbeat, “I keep embarrassing myself in front of you and I don’t know why. Plus, my thigh hurts.”

Harry’s frown deepens, “You never need to be embarassed around me. Two times I’ve given your a surprise, s’on me, really. Let’s go put some ice on that.”

Harry helps YN up, guiding her to the kitchen and she yelps when she feels his big hands on her waist, placing her on the kitchen counter.

She was very aware that she was only wearing a big shirt with no pants on, a soft very tame pair of gray panties, and she flushed further.

Harry grabs a bag of frozen green beans, wrapping it in a hand towel, and taking it upon himself to nudge her shirt up her leg until he can place it in the injury.

“Why were you sleeping on the couch?” YN asks while she holds the bag in place, ignoring the ache.

Harry leans against the counter, opposite her, “Kay and I weren’t getting along. I decided to sleep on the couch so that we could have some space.”

“If this is about earlier, about the shower thing-“ YN begins to apologize.

“No, no,” Harry shakes his head, sighing heavily as he runs his hand through his hair, “We’re going through a rough patch in general. We’re just trying to get through it. We’re different in a lot of ways, we butt heads a lot.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you can make things work,” YN replies softly, free hand picking at the raggedy hem of her shirt.

“Yeah,” Harry bites the corner of his lip, “Why are you awake?”

YN blinks at him, sheepish as she admits, “I’m hungry. Dinner was tense and I wanted to give you guys space. I didn’t eat enough.”

Harry’s expression becomes one of disapproval, “Pet, s’not a reason not to eat. Let me make you somethin’ as an apology.”

YN shakes her head, “You don’t have to do that. I can get something myself.”

“Please? It will make me feel better,” Harry insists, standing back up straight and scratching at his stomach, his hair a bit haywire.

He was so fucking attractive it was sickening.

And this man was sweet to her, offering to cook her meals, and exceeding any of her previous boyfriends - they weren’t even dating.

YN couldn’t determine whether Harry was flirting or just being kind, he didn’t treat Kay like this which was the off thing.

The exact opposite, it actually seemed cold and distant most of the time towards her, his patience limited and his mood dropped.

“Do you like pancakes?” Harry asks, already moving to the fridge to pull out ingredients, “I have a special recipe from my gran that makes ‘em extra fluffy.”

“I have an awful sweet tooth,” YN hides her eyes with her hand for a moment, “I’ll never say no to pancakes, especially if you add chocolate chips. You better be careful, I might fall in love.”

YN freezes because that was definitely not the best thing she could have said, her eyes go wide and lips part in her own surprise.

“I better make them with chocolate chips then,” Harry says casually as he turns to open the cabinet like YN didn’t just nearly have a heart attack nor like she didn’t have to squeeze her thighs together.

YN watches his back as he cooks, the defined muscles flexing when he stirs the batter.

“More,” YN orders from her seat on the counter, swinging her feet.

It felt horribly romantic when he turned around, a mixing bowl in the crook of his arm.

“No more, s’not a dessert,” Harry chides as he reaches over to sprinkle a few more into the mixture like he was easy for her.

“Thank you,” YN hums with a smile, she wishes it wasn’t late because soft music in the background would be even better.

When Harry pours two onto the hot pan, he doesn’t turn around and he keeps his voice steady, “I wouldn’t guess Kay and you would be friends.”

YN shouldn’t but she does, “I wouldn’t guess you and Kay would date.”

Harry shakes his head with a chuckle, “We are not very similar, are we?”

“No, usually Kay dates people very much like herself,” YN tells him, fingertips dancing against the countertop.

“Which is?”

YN bites her lip, trying to say it in the most gentle way, “I love her but she…marches to the beat of her own drum, she doesn’t take things too seriously, and can be reckless. She has a history of dating guys who are younger, don’t have their life planned out.”

Harry turns to look at her after flipping the pancakes, his eyes were intent but he didn’t seem offended by the words she spoke.

They weren’t meant to be offensive, they were the facts.

“And what am I?” Harry raises his eyebrow, “A too serious, stuck up prick?”

“Precisely,” YN grins wide enough that it takes up her entire face.

Harry narrows his eyes before they’re darting down to the bowl of batter.

“Harry, no,” YN laughs, trying to keep it down because Kay was sleeping and she really should be in her own room right now.

“Mm, I think so,” Harry swipes his finger in the mix before stalking forward.

YN had nowhere to run because she was still sat on the kitchen counter but she fruitlessly tries to scramble backwards. 

Harry’s hand comes to her ankle, wrapping around to hold her as he leans forward and swipes it across her cheek as she kicks weakly at him.

“There we go,” Harry smirks as he moves back, not taking his hand away from her ankle, thumb pressing right under the bone.

YN and Harry both get quiet, chests moving quickly from the struggles, and she’s never felt this much sexual tension before in her life.

Harry’s other fingers press in, she finds herself wishing that they would move upward, it would be easy because she didn’t have anything beside underwear on her lower half.

When YN lets her limbs relax, her leg falls more into his grip, toes bumping at his hip, and his hand moves further to his calf.

They both seem to snap out of it at the same time, Harry is letting go and clearing his throat as YN pulls her leg back.

He turns back to the pancakes, sliding them off pan and onto an awaiting plate.

Harry takes a minute before he’s turning around again, eyes the slightest bit unsure, and YN doesn’t want there to be any awkwardness.

To dissolve the tension, she swipes her thumb along her cheek before popping it in her mouth, “Could use more cinnamon sugar.”

“S’plenty sweet,” Harry grunts as he hands it to her.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to but I haven’t had pancakes in forever,” YN doesn’t use her fork, picking it apart with her fingers and dipping it in the syrup.

Harry turns off the stove, placing the pan and mixing bowl in the sink, running some sudsy water in it as YN eats happily, her thigh no longer hurting - she thanks the chocolate chips for that.

“You’re starting to get sleepy again, huh?” Harry murmurs as YN hands him the empty plate, she nods in agreement, and she slips off the counter, tossing the frozen bag back in the freezer.

“Thank you,” YN mumbles, rubbing at her eye.

“Let me check your leg first,” Harry tells her, kneeling down in front of her, and holy shit, that was a sight for sore eyes to have him blinking up at her, “Yeah? Okay?”

“Okay,” YN’s mouth was dry like the sahara desert.

Harry lifts the hem of her shirt up to her hip, exposing her underwear a bit more than necessary but the thing is, she wanted him to see.

If Kay walked in right now, there would be no excuses, no justification that she would believe because of the heavy way they were both breathing and staring each other down.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry curses with a rasp, his fingertips pressing into her thigh, far enough from her injury that it doesn’t hurt.

YN thinks he’s referring to where she had bumped her leg but when she follows his gaze, it’s on her center where sure as shit there was a spot of her arousal.

Her eyes widen, embarrassed by his find, embarassed by how much she wants his mouth there - she’s never felt such a carnal craving like this before.

“I…” YN’s voice is breathy, high-pitched as she swallows down a whine of pure desire and deep, aching want.

She finds herself burying her fingers in his hair, it was partially to ground her, mostly to guide him towards where his eyes were set.

YN has never, repeat never, been so brazen in her life.

Her brain had shut off the part of her that had morals.

Harry is leaning in as she tugs at the roots of his hair, closer to her center where the want for him was tangible but he’s suddenly jolting back.

“We can’t. You know that, pet,” Harry sits back on his haunches, he scratches his jaw before pushing himself up off the floor.

He runs his hand through his hair, stress visible in his features as they tighten and the smile he gives YN was strained - his dimples didn’t pop.

“I’m sorry,” YN feels like a baby when her bottom lip starts to wobble, she should know better and it sucks how much she likes Harry.

“Don’t cry, s’my fault. Please don’t cry, darling,” Harry voice is hushed but soothing, he steps forward but YN takes a step back.

“I need to go back to my room, okay? We can act like none of this happened,” YN is a shit friend, but how would she even explain this to Kay?

YN doesn’t wait for a response, she’s turning on her heel, and booking it out of the kitchen - straight towards her bedroom to scream into her pillow.

++

YN tries to stay out of the house for a few days, going out with friends, taking an overtime shift at work, anything to avoid seeing Kay and Harry.

However, her luck runs out on day four when she’s comes home after her friend had to cancel plans due to a work thing and she had no choice but to head home.

Kay and Harry were on the couch, her feet were in his lap, and his hands were resting on her calves - there was no other cuddling and it looked rather platonic.

Neither of them look thrilled, but they at least give her a smile when she walks into the room.

While she’s in the kitchen, mixing ingredients for a salad together, she can hear their hushed voices, and it sounds tense once again.

Kay is speaking a bit louder, Harry has a bite in his tone that she has never heard but she couldn’t quite make out what they were talking about.

However, after another minute of their bickering, the front door shuts, and Kay is walking into the kitchen with an uneasy expression.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Kay starts as she sits on the countertop, her eyes only sporadically looking towards YN before darting away.

Oh shit, she knows.

She fucking knows.

YN is about to speak, to apologize, to grovel.

“This is really out of the blue. I don’t expect an answer from you right now or anything,” Kay is looking down at her hands, surprisingly vulnerable, “But I have a major favor.”

“You know I would do anything for you,” YN replies, putting down the mixing tongs and trying to regulate her irregular heartbeat from the spike in anxiety - this is where she gets caught, for what exactly, she doesn’t know but what happened a few nights ago in the kitchen wasn’t right.

“I…You’re bisexual, right?” Kay is visibly nervous, her fingers were trembling, and she was about to bite a hole through her upper lip, trapped between her teeth.

“Yes,” YN doesn’t know where this was going.

Kay knew this.

Kay had met girls YN had gone out with as well as guys.

“I…Fuck, just forget it,” Kay huffs out, acting like she’s about to slide off the counter to leave.

“You can tell me anything, come on,” YN reminds her, moving closer to rub her shoulder.

Kay looks at her hand on her shoulder, taking in a deep gulp before asking something that YN didn’t see coming from a million miles away.

“I want to try…being with a girl, you know? I just feel like there’s no spark sexually between Harry and I. I felt like there wasn’t one with a few of the last guys I dated too and I’m starting to think I’m the issue. Harry is gorgeous, sexy but I just…I don’t have a desire to jump in bed with him.”

That makes one of us, YN thinks.

“Kay…I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” YN pauses, she felt shaky now for a different reason.

“Will you…god, this is so fucking lame but I trust you. I want to hook up with you,” Kay blurts out finally, eyes wide and unsure, she was being vulnerable right now like she didn’t know how YN was going to respond.

YN swallows a gasp of surprise, of course it’s a surprise hearing that one of her best friends wants to sleep with her, to experiment.

“Is that what you and Harry were fighting about?” YN asks instead of giving her an answer, she needed more information before she said yes.

Kay was cute, attractive but wasn’t YN’s type.  It wouldn’t necessarily be a hardship to hook up with her but she can say that it has never crossed her mind that she would want that.

“Not really,” Kay shrugs mulishly, “We discussed it. He doesn’t think that it’s a good idea that it’s with you, you know? But I feel comfortable with you, I don’t want to go out and find a random girl to try it out with.”

YN flushes at the thought of her having this conversation with Harry, with Harry telling Kay that it wasn’t a good idea, “He wants you to go hook up with a random girl?”

“He supports whatever decision I make to try to figure myself out a bit more. He didn’t tell me I could or couldn’t do anything but he wants to be there,” Kay adds another bombshell, like this already wasn’t insane enough.

“What?” YN’s eyes were wide as saucers.

This had to be a prank.

This was not real life right now.

Kay laughs nervously, “I know it’s insane, okay? Harry and I aren’t the norm though. Not at this point, I don’t know what I want but I don’t want to break up with him. I’m being selfish and he for some reason or another loves me enough to see this through.”

The thought of Kay and Harry talking about love makes her stomach churn when she has no right to feel nauseous thinking about that.

“He suggested I find someone we could have a threesome with,” Kay was finally starting to make more consistent eye contact but YN doesn’t think she’s ever seen her this unsure of herself as she picks at her bottom lip.

“And he is okay with it being me?” YN clarifies, it’s not for the right reasons, she wants to know that Harry wants her just as much - it’s not right.

“Like I said, he thought it would be better if it was someone less close but I always really thought that you were attractive and…yeah,” Kay trails off before actually answering the question, “He said that if I ended up choosing you, that would be okay with him too. He didn’t care either way.”

YN feels like an asshole for feeling disheartened about it, that he wasn’t jumping on the chance to sleep with her without any strings attached, it made her feel a bit anger like he was leading her on but she was quite sure that she wasn’t imagining things.

“I’ll do it, yeah,” YN agrees with a wary smile, “Anything to help you out.”

“You’re the best,” Kay squeals, suddenly excited and all the nervousness that had seemed to have left her body as she jumps off the counter, and very unexpectedly steps into YN’s space, cupping her cheeks, and bringing her in for a kiss.

YN’s freezes for a moment, just taken aback by the action but Kay’s lips are soft, she doesn’t want to push her off and make her feel embarrassed, and it had been awhile since she had any intimacy so it wasn’t unwelcome.

Kay tasted like something sweet as she parts her lips, YN finds herself slipping her tongue into her mouth, and though the feeling isn’t nearly as fiery as it was when Harry just merely touched it, it still felt nice.

YN doesn’t know how long they stay like that, YN with her hips pushed back against the countertop, and Kay boxing her in, hands not wandering much, keeping one of the side of her neck, and the other on the curved space between her ribcage and hipbone.

Long enough that someone clears their throat and makes them jump apart.

Harry.

He was back, with a bag of groceries in his hand, and a downright scary expression on his face.

His eyebrows are knitted tightly together, a crease in the space that exists, his lip was twitching to hide the way he was grinding his molars together but the flex of his jaw gave away what his was doing as he loudly lets the bag spill onto the table.

It’s almost worse that he does not say anything or acknowledge it.

“I’m making eggplant parmigiana,” Is all the he says, without looking at either of them, and unloading this onto the countertop surface with a bit more force than necessary.

YN knew her lips were puffy, swollen from how into Kay had been.

It was…nice but YN wasn’t necessarily disappointed that they got interrupted either, she wasn’t dying to do anything further either.

Not like how she would have done just about anything to have a few more minutes with Harry that night.

YN questions whether any of this was true, whether Kay really did discuss it with Harry because by the way his shoulders were bunched up and his movements were sharp and almost agitated, it really didn’t seem like he was okay with sharing his girlfriend.

“I’m going to go out for a bit,” YN wasn’t planning on it but she really didn’t want to be in the middle of whatever conversation was about to happen.

“YN, no. You don’t have to,” Kay starts to assure her, glaring over at Harry like she wants him to change his attitude but he doesn’t look at either of them nor does he give any input as he starts to take items out of the bag.

“No, I had plans already,” She lies, quickly retreating from the kitchen and into her bedroom.

It’s no surprise when she hears their voices travel back towards her bedroom, they’re not yelling at each other but it’s definitely not a gentle, easygoing conversation if the way it echoes is anything to go by.

YN frantically texts a few friends, begging to see if anyone was willing to go to eat or get drinks because she wanted to try to be out of the house as late as possible tonight, hopefully not getting home until both of them were asleep.

++

YN is lucky enough that her friend, Mindy, invites her to tag along to a work outing that they were having to celebrate the startup company’s anniversary.

It was at a bar in the middle of the city where the drinks were comped and it was easy to let the liquor slip down her throat, again and again as she took advantage of the free alcohol to ease the mindfuck that had happened to her earlier.

Did Kay really suggest those things?

Did Kay really kiss her?

YN drank until those questions became a bit quieter and she became a lot more fuzzy.

++

YN was still happily buzzed when she was dropped off by the uber at her apartment building's doorstep, not drunk enough that she stumbled as she made her way in but not sober enough that she didn’t have to squint at the numbers on the elevator panel until they made sense.

YN was uncoordinated on a good day so any alcohol just made that amplified, it was a mission to try to riffle through her small clutch to find her housekeys - it was a tiny bag, where could they be?

She tries the doorhandle just to see if they had left it unlocked but they didn’t which makes her thump her head against the wood of the door as she blearly brings her clutch closer to her face to dig through, her lip gloss falling to the ground.

“Shit,” YN huffs as she leans down, hearing the click of the lock being turned and the door is opening.

YN stands up to see Harry at the door, a pissy expression on his face but he doesn’t look like he has been sleeping despite the late hour, it had to be past two in the morning by this point because she truly did lose track of time.

He doesn’t say anything but steps aside to let her in.

“You’re killin’ my buzz,” YN grumbles as she steps through the doorway, leaning down to attempt to unstrap her heels but then she actually does trip over her own feet like a baby deer learning how to walk on new legs.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Harry replies in the most morbid, monotone drawl - not one ounce of sincerity in his voice.

When she stumbles again, Harry grips her arm, “Enough. Sit down. I don’t need you getting injured for a third time for fucks sake.”

YN frowns, she doesn’t like how cold and distant he sounds but she does like the pressure of his hand on her body.

She easily obliges, sitting down on the entryway bench, and he kneels down in front of her.

YN’s heart rate spikes because it’s extremely reminiscent of that night.

“Kay kissed me,” YN blurts out, trying to keep her voice down, unsure of whether her friend was still awake but she highly doubted, she regrets the words as soon as they slip out, she didn’t mean to throw her friend under the bus but she didn’t want Harry to be mad at her.

Harry bites at the corner of his lip as he undoes the strap around the ankle of her right foot, slow and methodical, focused without looking up at her, “Did you want her to kiss you?”

YN is a bit taken aback by the sharpness of his tone.

When she doesn’t respond, he blinks up at her from under his lashes, his eyes were unfairly pretty under the yellowish light from the fluorescents of the lamp on the entryway table - green with nearly golden specks, flickering through and highlighted.

“Did you want her to kiss you?” Harry repeats, cold, distant, nothing like his norm.

YN doesn’t know how to reply.

Honesty is the best policy and the warm liquor that was running through her veins was helping the cause that would have normally been much harder for her to speak her mind. YN feels fat tears welling up in her eyes, the kind that sting, mixing her makeup into the saline that starts to make her blink furiously - using the heel of her palm to roughly swipe them away.

Harry slips off the first shoe, setting it neatly to the side before looking up at her again, waiting for the answer, “Tell me.”

Her bottom lip wobbles, it’s hard to maintain the intense eye contact that he was giving her as she shrugs, mulish and unsure, “It was unexpected.”

Harry seems to hesitate for a moment, “Did you enjoy kissing her?”

YN squeezes her eyes shut, hoping that Kay didn’t hear, hoping that he didn’t repeat this to Kay.

“It wasn’t bad,” YN skirts the question.

Harry puts his hand on her knee, gripping gently, “Talk to me. I know she threw a lot at you at once.”

“You don’t want me to be involved,” YN huffs, childishly enough like she was dealt an injustice.

Harry’s teeth grit like they did earlier, his fingertips pressing in slightly, “I never said that. I said it might not be the best idea because you two live together and are close. However, she clearly doesn’t take my advice, stemming from the fact that she calls you her ‘bisexual awakening’.”

YN raises her eyebrows at that, Kay hadn’t specifically said that, sure, she mentioned that she thought that YN was attractive but it had not been specifically mentioned that she had that much attraction towards her.

“What do you want?” YN’s nearly whispering now.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, it’s not about me,” Harry deflects, YN’s realizing that he’s really good at that.

“What did you think when you walked in and saw us?” 

“It’s not important. You agreed, right?” Harry clarifies, moving now to take off her other heel.

“I did,” YN swallows, blinking down at him, her heart felt like it was going to give out.

“You know why I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Harry meets her gaze again, intense and unwavering.

“You just said because we’re close,” YN repeats what he had just said.

“There’s a much bigger reason it’s not a good idea and you know that,” Harry face is serious, terse as he slips the strap from the small golden buckle. “Say it,” YN replies, unsure where the bravery came from, maybe she was just tired of him being constantly vague and noncommitall, “Tell me why then. Spell it out.”

Harry’s eyes become stormier, he places the heel next to it’s pair before sitting up further, until he suddenly moves.

His hand coming up to cup her neck, just like Kay ahd done but it was with more intention, not the timidness or hesistaation that her friend had, this was pure confiddence as he uses his grip to pull her face closer to his.

YN’s lips instantly part in a surprise, quiet gasp, and instinctually she parts her legs to give him room to situate hiself in between her, to get closer.

His lips are just about to touch hers but then he stops, “This is why it isn’t a good idea.”

Then he’s pulling back, standing up, and stalking back down the hall away from her without another word.

What the fuck.

++++*_

Thoughts?🫣

[gayofthefae]

Thinking about how if you cut the whole Cali rode trip plot out season four would not be altered at all. They were missing for a whole episode and nothing was hindered.

So why not cut it?

Because season FIVE would be DESTROYED by it.

Because Byler is so vital it needs this set up. Foundation laying seems useless when you don't know something will be built.

Yes. The Cali plot could have been cut entirely. They were glorified chauffeurs with extra obstacles for filler (and literally only one extra obstacle). But that's actually Byler PROOF.

It was useless to the season 4 plot. So the only reason to keep it in when they could have easily just incorporated the characters into other plotlines - they're able to fly to Hawkins, they go with Joyce, some do one, some do the other, whatever - the only reason to isolate them then have them do seemingly nothing of value is SETUP for something that IS needed.

The only reason for having that is if without it, season 5 rolls around and now VITAL plotlines are out of the blue. It is the "blank makes you crazy" to "From Mike". The "I love her" to "from Mike".

Because Byler was not a plotline in season 4. Not really. Not totally. Not vitally, at least. What it was was threads woven back of a plotline in season FIVE. What it was was planning, preparation.

Jonathan and Argyle are basically comedic relief. Mike and Will do nothing to help El except get to her with a car that they did not drive or need to be in for their plan to work. And if the plot were Mike and El, Mike and El would be there, no. The plot is Mike and Will talking, is just the conversation topic - the same way Will was for Mike and El in season 1.

Mike and Will only setup romantic plotlines, assist the supernatural plotline in no way, and are physically isolated from affecting any other characters' plotline, but have no romantic payoff and their romance is not even addressed.

Because this isn't a vital season plotline. This is "I know you wanna see what the NINA Project is doing but season 5 would be shit without this you guys I promise".

Don't care about it but can't live without it of storytelling. Almost everything in season 4 is the same without it. But almost everything about the ending of the show is exponentially different. Season 4 is unchanged. But season 5 falls apart. Without Byler. Without us knowing the little things here and there that we now know.

Because if you go over it, barely anything even happened in their plotline. I've said this before, it really was just a bunch of unpaid setups - which makes sense given season 4 and 5 were supposed to be one season.

It's really just because we need to go into season 5 with the knowledge in the back of our minds "Will loves Mike, Will lied to Mike tpo get him to stay with El, Mike's scared the truth about his love for her would hurt her, Mike told El he loved her to save her life".

4 facts. 4. Not plotlines, facts. Some of which are single scenes, many of which are just single lines. It's information. It's setup. It doesn't matter now. But not cutting it is their way of saying it WILL. "It'll pay off," as the Duffers said to Finn Wolfhard.

Nothing else happened in this plotline and they could have integrated these characters elsewhere. This plotline didn't even really have a plotline, just a sparsely scattered series of facts.

But as someone who predicts lots of mysteries accurately, THAT'S how they show you their hand. Not what they tell you is important. What they try to convince you is useless (but made space for anyway).

That's a twist the only way to do a twist. They said in tightening the season 4 scripts they went back to episode 1 to write in that Eddie played guitar so it was planted for later. This is the same thing. It's just planting things so they aren't out of the blue. THIS is how you do a twist, and why we know to predict one. People are right, they do not have a love story plotline. But what they do have is 'rewatch details' with no other purpose. What they do have is "uselessness".

If season 4 is unaffected by their plotline, it means season 5 falls apart without it.

[theskywithin]

🌙 Excerpt from my Book: Rising Sign Chapter

( link at the bottom of the page )

You may not feel like your Rising Sign at first. But the world often sees it in you before you do. Over time, it becomes a sacred interface between your inner truth and your outer world. So let’s meet it together. Let’s meet you, the way the world first did.

Aries Rising

When I first met you, I thought you were bold, fearless, always charging ahead with no hesitation. You wore confidence like a second skin, as if the world was yours to conquer. It wasn’t just the way you walked, with purpose and undeniable presence, but the way you met life head-on, as if every challenge was just another battle to win. You had an electric energy, something raw and unfiltered, like you were always ready for the next adventure. But beneath that fiery exterior, I soon saw the vulnerability of someone who, despite their bravery, might feel a bit alone in their independence. You push forward so quickly, so fiercely, that sometimes it seems like you’re afraid to slow down. You have a warrior’s spirit, strong, direct, untamed, but even warriors long for a place where they can set their armor down. There’s a part of you that hopes someone will recognize that tenderness behind the fire, someone who will see you not just as a force of nature, but as a person who wants to be understood, just as deeply as they want to conquer the world.

Taurus Rising

When I first met you, I noticed your presence before anything else, steady, grounded, like an ancient oak that had seen countless seasons, and still stood unshaken. There was something calm about you, something reassuring, as if nothing could truly rattle your foundation. Your energy was composed, deliberate, with no need for haste. You moved through the world with a quiet confidence, carrying a sense of deep-rooted knowing, as if you understood that everything, in time, would come to you. But as I got closer, I saw that your steadiness was not just patience, it was protection. You don’t let just anyone in. You observe, you wait, you test the waters before allowing people past your walls. There’s a softness to you, hidden beneath the exterior of strength, a warmth that those lucky enough to earn your trust get to see. You value comfort, beauty, and stability, not out of indulgence, but because you know that life is meant to be savored. And though you may seem reserved at first, once you let someone into your world, they become part of something rare and unshakable, just like you.

Gemini Rising

When I first met you, I couldn’t help but notice how alive you were, how your eyes sparkled with curiosity, how your words danced effortlessly from one idea to the next. It was like talking to someone who had a thousand different stories, and a hunger for a thousand more. There was something playful about you, something light and electric, like you carried the wind inside you, always moving, always changing. Conversations with you felt like stepping into a whirlwind, exciting, unpredictable, never dull. But as I got to know you, I realized that your quicksilver mind was both a gift and a mask. You kept things moving so fast, that it was easy to miss the moments when you felt lost, uncertain, or overwhelmed. You are a chameleon, able to shift and adapt to any situation, yet beneath it all, I wondered, who sees the version of you that stays still? Who knows the thoughts you don’t say out loud? Your brilliance is undeniable, your charm is magnetic, but I hope you know that you don’t always have to entertain. You can just be, and you will still be just as captivating

Cancer Rising

When I first met you, I felt something familiar, something safe, like a quiet harbor in the middle of a storm. You had a way of making people feel seen, as if, without even trying, you understood them on a level they didn’t expect. There was a softness to you, a warmth that made it easy to let my guard down, as if you carried a secret knowledge of the human heart. But as I got closer, I noticed how carefully you moved through the world, not out of hesitation, but out of caution. You don’t open up to just anyone. You hold your heart like a precious thing, shielding it behind walls of observation. You feel deeply, even when you don’t say it out loud. And though you may seem reserved at first, those who earn your trust find a loyalty that runs deeper than any ocean. You love like a tide, protective, overwhelming, undeniable. And even when you try to hide it, the truth is, you care more than you’d ever let on.

Leo Rising

When I first met you, I felt like I had stepped into the orbit of a star, warm, shining, impossible to ignore. You carried yourself with a presence that turned heads, not just because of confidence, but because you seemed to belong wherever you stood. There was something regal about the way you spoke, as if every word mattered, as if the world itself was your audience. You didn’t just enter a room, you took up space in a way that made it feel fuller, brighter. But beyond the golden glow, I saw a heart that longed to be truly seen, not just admired. Your confidence was real, but so was the quiet need for validation, the hope that your light wasn’t just impressive, but deeply cherished. You give so much, warmth, energy, inspiration, but you also crave that in return, a love as grand and unwavering as the love you so freely offer. Beneath the dazzling presence, there is a softness, a deep sensitivity, a longing to be loved for who you are, not just the brilliance you project.

Virgo Rising

When I first met you, I was struck by your quiet composure, the way you seemed to notice everything without drawing attention to yourself. There was an understated elegance in the way you carried yourself, precise, thoughtful, as if every movement, every word, was carefully chosen. You weren’t one to demand the spotlight, but there was something compelling about you, a sharp intelligence that made me want to listen closer. But as I got to know you, I realized that behind that careful exterior was someone who held themselves to impossible standards. You were always aware, always thinking, always analyzing, as if trying to perfect every detail of your existence. There was a soft kindness in you, a desire to be useful, to make things better, yet I wondered, do you offer yourself the same grace you give to others? You are someone who sees the beauty in small things, who values substance over show. And while you may not always believe it, you don’t need to prove your worth, you already have it, simply by being you.

Libra Rising

When I first met you, I noticed your grace, not only in the way you moved, but in the way you made everyone around you feel at ease. You had a natural charm, an effortless ability to connect, as if you knew the secret to making people feel special. There was something refined about you, something polished, like someone who understood the art of presence. You had the rare gift of making interactions feel smooth, pleasant, as if conflict had no place in your world. But the more I watched, the more I saw that this gentleness came with a weight. You seemed to always be balancing, always adjusting, making sure no one was uncomfortable, even at your own expense. You wanted harmony, but sometimes that meant losing pieces of yourself in the process. And yet, when you do stand firm, when you stop trying to make everything beautiful and just let yourself be, you are magnetic in a way that goes far beyond charm. You are not just the reflection of others, you are your own light.

Scorpio Rising

When I first met you, I wasn’t sure if I had met you at all. There was something enigmatic about you, something impenetrable, as if you let people see only what you wanted them to. You didn’t rush to fill the silence, didn’t try to impress, you simply existed with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. You had presence, not in the loud, obvious way, but in the way of someone who carries something deeper than what they show. But beneath the mystery, I saw the depth of someone who feels everything, passion, pain, loyalty, all with a force most people can’t even imagine. You are not detached, not emotionless, if anything, you care too much, but you refuse to let just anyone see it. You are someone who tests, who watches, who needs to know who is truly worth your trust. And those who pass that test? They gain a protector, a confidant, a force unlike any other. Because when you finally let someone in, you do so completely, with a loyalty that never wavers.

Sagittarius Rising

When I first met you, I felt like I had stepped into motion, like you were always going somewhere, always reaching for the next adventure. There was an openness to you, a boundless energy, as if the world itself was your playground and every moment was an opportunity. You had a spark in your eyes, a kind of reckless optimism that made me wonder what it would be like to live as freely as you seemed to. But as I got to know you, I realized that freedom isn’t just your desire, it’s your need. You resist being contained, being defined, because you know that life is too vast to fit into one small version of yourself. You crave meaning, exploration, something beyond the ordinary, yet sometimes I wonder, what happens when you have to stand still? What happens when you have to face the quiet moments, when there’s nowhere left to run? You are brilliant, inspiring, endlessly curious, but even the greatest explorers need somewhere to call home.

Capricorn Rising

When I first met you, I knew you were someone who carried yourself with purpose. There was a seriousness to you, a quiet authority, as if you had already seen too much of the world to waste time on frivolous things. You didn’t rush to prove yourself, you didn’t have to. There was something in your presence that spoke of competence, control, of someone who knew where they were going. But beneath the composure, I saw the weight you carried, the silent expectation you place upon yourself to always be strong, always be responsible, always be the one others can rely on. You wear your strength like an armor, but I wonder, who takes care of you when you need it? You are driven, disciplined, and unstoppable, but I hope you know that your worth is not in what you achieve. Even the strongest foundations need moments of rest.

Aquarius Rising

When I first met you, I knew immediately that you were different, not in an obvious way, but in the way you seemed to move slightly outside the rhythm of the world. There was something unconventional about you, something unpredictable, as if you weren’t bound by the same rules as everyone else. You carried a quiet detachment, an air of curiosity, like someone observing life from the outside, trying to understand it without being completely part of it. But as I got closer, I saw that your distance wasn’t indifference, it was perspective. You see things differently, think differently, exist differently. You don’t conform because you can’t, you were never meant to. And yet, even as you walk your own path, there is a deep part of you that longs for connection, for people who truly understand you. You are smart, insightful, and wholly unique, but you don’t have to always stand apart to be seen.

Pisces Rising

When I first met you, I felt like I was looking through a veil, like you were here, but also somewhere else, caught between realities. There was a dreamlike quality to you, something fluid and hard to pin down, as if you moved through the world like water, absorbing everything around you. You had a softness, an openness, something ethereal, like someone who could slip through the cracks of reality and emerge in another world entirely. But as I got to know you, I realized that this fluidity is both your gift and your burden. You feel everything, absorb everything, sometimes to the point where it’s hard to tell where others end and you begin. You long for something beyond this world, yet you must find a way to exist within it. You are compassionate, intuitive, deeply connected to the unseen, but I hope you remember, you are real, too. And you deserve to be fully here, fully known, fully seen.

🌙 If this resonates, you might enjoy exploring your birth chart more deeply in my book (The Sky Within) , where I gently cover each detail in depth. You can find it here:

thank you for your support, it means the world to me, F.