#there technically ARE subtle differences in the definitions of the two words

[yardsards]

the word "expat" is so annoying to me like. shhh you're just an immigrant who thinks that other immigrants are lesser than them

[yieldtotemptation]

CRASH ft. Wonyoung

wonyoung x male reader smut

11k words

When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.

If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.

And yet, that doesn��t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.

You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.

But of course, you don’t. (You never do).

-

“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.

Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.

It’s a view, that’s for sure.

It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’

Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.

You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.

It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.

That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.

Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.

It’s Wonyoung.

Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.

It doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.

You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.

You know exactly how much it’s worth.

After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.

You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.

You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.

“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”

No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.

To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.

Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.

“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”

You glare at her. The gall on this woman.

“What are you waiting for? Drive.”

Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).

You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”

Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”

It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.

Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.

Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.

To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.

“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting.  It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.

“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”

“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.

As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.

It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.

Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”

There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)

You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”

“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.

As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.

She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.

“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.

"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”

You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.

She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.

Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.

You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.

It doesn’t smell bad at all.

In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.

“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”

You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.

“Let it go, Wonyoung.”

She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”

Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”

You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…

Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).

(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)

“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.

Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.

It’s probably why you do it.

“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”

Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”

“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”

Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”

“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.

No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”

You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”

“I never said that.”

“Wony—”

“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”

But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.

“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).

The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.

“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”

Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.

“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”

Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”

She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.

“Was she even good?”

You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?

And you know the answer: How could anyone be?

But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.

And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.

The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.

And then she does it again.

And again.

You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.

You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.

That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.

What drives you fucking wild.

And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.

The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.

You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”

Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.

You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”

There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. So wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.

You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.

But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.

Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.

If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.

So you drive faster.

You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets.  You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.

It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye; she’s still watching you. Enjoying this, loving every second of it.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.” 

Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.

“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”

Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.

“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”

“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.

“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”

“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”

To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.

It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat snaps open the buttons of her shirt. Casually revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.

No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.

She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.

She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.

Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.

The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.

And maybe she should be.

“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”

“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.

Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”

Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”

But she doesn’t listen (she never does).

She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.

“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”

You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”

Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.

Fuck.

“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants.  “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”

She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good. 

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”

She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”

“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”

That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”

“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”

"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”

“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”

“Now who’s a bad liar.”

“Go fuck your—”

You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.

She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.

Turns out, she’s right.

You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.

You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.

And it makes her smile around your cock.

You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).

You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.

Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.

It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.

You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.

Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.

You swerve again.

Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.

Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.

It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.

You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.

You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.

And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.

Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.

The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.  

And she takes it, takes all of it.

Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.

Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.

It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.

Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.

She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.

“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.

She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.

You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.

“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.

She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”

You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.

A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).

But it’s hard. So fucking hard.

You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.

Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.

You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.

You’re not going to last much longer.

Neither is she.

So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.

“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.

You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.

You’re almost there.

You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.

You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”

The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.

You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.

It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.

“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.

You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.

“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you somehow manage to choke out.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you hostage. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.

Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.

The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.

But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.

Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.

You can’t.

“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”

Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.

Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.

“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”

And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.

“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”

The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.

Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.

She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.

Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.

Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—

But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.

Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.

Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.

It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.

Wonyoung laughs.

“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.

There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.

She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.

“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.

It’s just the way she is.

You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.

“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”

“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”

“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”  

A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).

She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.

“Wait, wait—fuck—”

And then you slam into her.

“Daddy!”

That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.

“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.

“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”

“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”

“Then say it.”

“Fuck you, daddy.”

“That’s fucking right.”

Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s all she wants from you, all she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

Wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”

Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.

And fuck, she’s tight.

Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.

Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.

“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.

You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”

She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.

You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.

Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.

It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’

But you’ll try.

Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.

Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.

(It’s never that simple.)

“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.

“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.

Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”

And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.

You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.

It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).

If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.

They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.

And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.

This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.

You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.

And then you get an idea.

It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.

You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.

You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.

Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”

But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.

“Smile for the camera, Wony.”

Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.

Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.

Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.

Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.

You’ve got her, and she knows it.

You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.

“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”

And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.

You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”

Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.

She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.

Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.

A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.

“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.

“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”

“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.

But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.

You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.

“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”

She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”

There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.

And then waking up and doing it all again.

There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”

Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”

That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.

You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.

"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”

It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.

But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.

One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.

“I fucking hate you—”

“Hate you too—”

“Hate how good your cunt feels—”

“Hate how big your cock is—”

“Hate how perfect you are—”

“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”

“Fucking slut—"

“Daddy—”

“I’m going to—"

"Please!"

And that’s it.

It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.

Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.

You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.

And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.

And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.

Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.

To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.

“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.

Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.

You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.

You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.

“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.

But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?

You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.

You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.

“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.

With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.

It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.

Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.

(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:

“I know.”)

Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.

And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.

[wordsfrombudha]

Venus Nakshatras: The Cost of a Man's World

Before discussing the role of Venus nakshatras, I want to expand on the general understanding of what the nakshatras are. Earlier in my Moon men post, I talked about how the nakshatras are unchanging and universal, representing the experiential dimensions of our engagement with the physical world. They show the inner aspiration of the mind, driving us to engage with the world in certain ways and seek out various experiences. However, there is another side to this that is less passive. While the nakshatras show what calls us to seek out external experiences, they also show what we are capable of achieving. One of the most important rules of jyotish that is considered only with an advanced level of study is that nothing can come of the chart that the nakshatras do not allow. This means the nakshatras act as a kind of subtle filter or gate, delineating not only what the native is drawn toward but also the boundaries of what is possible in their lived experience. The planets express themselves according to their condition, but that is ultimately shaped by the deeper permissions or limitations of the nakshatras. In other words, a planet may be powerful in a sign or house, but if it resides in a nakshatra that does not support the kind of manifestation the chart suggests, then that potential remains dormant or unrealized. Likewise, when a chart overall indicates a slight potentiality of something occuring that is favored by the nakshatra, the nakshatra will make sure it definitely happens. This is why the nakshatras are often said to be the true “field” in which a planet plays. The rashi might show the context of material circumstance, the house the domain of experience, but the nakshatra reveals the tone, the capacity, and the manner of expression that governs both the psychological disposition and the material outcomes in a native’s life. When we start to consider this level of depth, the nakshatras cease to be “lunar mansions” in the poetic sense and instead emerge as precise, technical indicators of both capacity and the unfolding of pre-ordained outcomes, helping us to understand our soul's trajectory in life from the energetic tendencies ingrained from the time of birth. They create either a ceiling or an opening, and we must understand that the entire chart is to be viewed through the lens of nakshatra influence.

Anyway, now to get on with the main topic of the post. The planetary associations made within this context will be based on Vimshattori. Vimshattori is a lunar based dasha system. It is apt at capturing our experiences and impressions of something more than the objective facets involved. For example, during a Saturn period, you may be lonely. But how will you experience being alone? Will it make you sad? Happy? Give you new zeal for life? Or will it crush your spirit? That inner tone is what Vimshottari recognizes and elevates. It shows not just what happens but how it is experienced and ultimately absorbed by the mind. Two people may go through similar events, for example, but one might be empowered, while another feels defeated. This difference depends on the nakshatra and its ruling planet, specifically in how it relates to its condition in our chart, but that is a bit too specific for right now. The nakshatra lords show more about the quality of a period seen from the moon rather than the planet itself, and we begin to understand the progression of energies from the Moon's perspective when we study them. With this in mind, we will now turn to the Venus nakshatras, which are Bharani, Purva Phalguni, and Purva Ashadha. Remember that these are not pure expressions of Venus; rather, they show periods of time where we experience the effect Venus has on the Moon.

The first thing we need to realize when studying Venus nakshatras is that Moon is enemy to none, but Venus is enemy to the Moon, which creates a one-sided tension between what the Moon wants and what Venus wants. The Moon in its pure expression (not its nakshatras) seeks peace, balance, and preservation of feeling through the senses, while Venus brings disturbance through desire, provoking the mind into movement, stimulation, and transformation. This dynamic forms the basis of the Venus nakshatras which are charged, active, and more often than not disruptive to the mental state. They do not allow the mind to settle. Instead, they awaken a hunger that must be answered even when the cost is high. This is why the lives of Venus nakshatra natives often reflect stories of desire, provocation, and upheaval. Their presence stirs something both in themselves and in others and we see this clearly in how they are portrayed across media.

Because Venus provokes instability in the Moon (because it is enemy to it), the stories that emerge from Venus nakshatras are usually pretty brutal. There is a volatility to the lives of these natives that reflects an internal climate of discomfort, one that demands resolution through experience rather than reflection. They are rarely given the luxury of remaining untouched. Instead, their circumstances tend to force them into roles that confront the contradictions of desire, often dragging them into morally gray terrain. We see in these natives a tendency toward extremes: to be both victim and instigator, pursued and punished, loved and rejected. What sets them apart is not the presence of beauty or harmony, but the fact that such qualities, when they appear, are unstable, always flickering in and out of reach, unable to be held without some greater cost being paid. In other words, Venus nakshatra natives do not embody the traditionally benefic nature you would expect to see from the planet.

This pattern of relational disruption reflects the karmic role of Venus when filtered through the lens of the Moon. In the Vedic tradition, Venus is the guru of the asuras, the teacher of those who seek to manipulate, seduce, or overtake the natural order rather than submit to it. Venus teaches through desire, through indulgence, and through the confrontation with maya in its most refined and tempting forms. When the Moon (symbol of manas and perception) enters into the field of such a teacher, it is not the Moon that seduces, but the Moon that is seduced. The mind becomes agitated, not because it seeks pleasure, but because it is compelled to process the consequences of having seen through Venusian eyes. What the Moon experiences through these nakshatras is not harmony, but the dissonance of longing for something that cannot be held. This is the curse of Sukracharya's domain when viewed through Chandra's vulnerable gaze. Venus nakshatras are not sites of enjoyment. They are karmic mirrors, where the Moon must see its own fragility in the face of what is beautiful, pleasurable, and unattainable.

Venus nakshatra natives are frequently cast in roles where it is shown their presence alone unsettles the order of the world. There is something about them that does not sit quietly or serve as ornament but instead provokes the surrounding environment. It draws others in, but not without cost. For women, this experience is one of being thrust into a world that sees them as both sacred and dangerous. They are often compared to monsters or witches. Their being becomes a mirror that others cannot bear to look into, and so they are punished for it. They may be violated, disbelieved, exiled, or otherwise estranged from any sense of comfort they might have enjoyed had their mere existence not stirred so much feeling. Their lives are marked by continual intrusion, as if the world cannot allow them peace. Even when they seek stillness, something is always thrown at them, whether it be a betrayal, a demand, or a trial that forces them back into defense. These women often take on the role of warriors, but not because they wanted to fight. They are compelled to armor themselves for survival.

In the sense of Hindu tradition, they carry the curse of the apsara born into the mortal realm. Their sacred femininity, which once danced freely in the halls of Indra, is now condemned to walk through fire again and again until it becomes something diamond-like. Their softness, when it does survive, is forged rather than given. For Venusian women, the world they walk through is anything but neutral. It is structured by male dominance, and their experience is shaped by the cost of existing within that structure. These women are punished simply for taking up space. Their softness is not protected, and it is weaponized against them. They often do not belong in the realms they move through, but they cannot retreat from them either. Their stories become a meditation on survival not as preservation, but survival as transformation under pressure. They are shaped by the gaze and actions of others, then blamed for the shape they become.

For men born under Venus nakshatras, the tension between Venus and the Moon manifests as a more forceful expression of desire and control rather than passivity or softness that hardens over time. I would consider these men less as victims of their nature and more as active perpetrators who embody the more aggressive and manipulative aspects of Venus’s energy, reflecting the planet’s role as the guru of the asuras and the rajasic planet that cannot take no for an answer. However, they are definitely one way to see an outcome of toxic masculinity. Their connection to Venus compels them to assert power through seduction, coercion, or disruption, imposing their will on others in pursuit of what they desire. So, remember it is the Moon experiencing Venus, so for the male psyche, it is more about chasing after what they want. This dynamic is embedded in the karmic lessons they face, where the intoxication of Venusian allure becomes a double-edged sword, granting influence but also inviting conflict and moral ambiguity. These men force confrontation with uncomfortable truths about desire, dominance, and vulnerability. Their lives unfold amid cycles of power struggles and fractured relationships, highlighting the cost of wielding Venus’s energy without the balancing grace or empathy that the Moon seeks. In this way, their path is one of reckoning with how far desire can push beyond the limits of compassion and respect, making their stories intense explorations of the consequences when beauty and power become weapons rather than gifts.

Moving beyond the personal dynamics of Venus nakshatra natives, it is important to consider how these energies influence broader patterns in life and society. Venus, as the guru of the asuras, governs not only desire and attraction but also the structures of temptation and disruption that challenge established order. Viewed through the lens of Vimshottari and the Moon’s experience, Venus periods provoke situations where illusions and attachments intensify, forcing individuals and communities to confront the consequences of indulgence, manipulation, and power struggles. This influence extends beyond personal experience into social and cultural upheaval, moments when accepted values are questioned and boundaries tested. Venus nakshatra phases become karmic opportunities for transformation that demand active engagement rather than passive acceptance. They bring hidden tensions related to status, identity, and control to the surface, compelling a reckoning with the cost of desire that surpasses superficial gratification. These cycles push not only individuals but entire collectives into situations exposing vulnerabilities, provoking conflict, and offering a chance to reexamine what is truly valuable and sustainable in life. This theme appears often in media portrayals of Venus nakshatra archetypes, where characters embodying these energies frequently disrupt established social norms and provoke intense emotional reactions. Whether portrayed as enigmatic seductresses, dangerous rebels, or charismatic manipulators, these figures reflect the tension between allure and threat that defines Venus’s influence on the Moon.

[emeritusemeritus]

Genetically Identical

[Weasley Twins x Reader]

Title: Genetically Identical

Pairing: Weasley Twins x Reader {Established Relatinship}

Timeline: Non-Canon, set in the future.

Summary: You’re ready for kids, but as your boyfriends are identical twins, who would be the father?

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, kids, slight breeding kink, polyamory, NO TWINCEST. Fred is snarky. Nudity, sexual themes, sexual references but no smut.

Side note: though it is technically scientifically possible to determine paternity through extensive genome sequencing, I believe it’s something the wizarding world would not have the technology or understanding to do.

Word count: 844 (short drabble)

Song for writing: The first time by Damiano David

I’d originally written this as a one shot sequel of my Wanna Bewitch you in the moonlight series, but it can definitely be read alone.

"So hypothetically... it doesn't matter who gets you pregnant, because we'd never know anyway?"

"There's no difference at all?" You ask sheepishly, never really having considered what George had said.

The topic of babies and pregnancy had crept up multiple times over the years but it seemed to be the hot topic recently, each of you trying to navigate through the unknown of having children in a polyamorous relationship. Your main concern was of course that getting pregnant only really involved one man which in your relationship was not how things worked. What if the other brother got jealous? Would they know it wasn't theirs? Was there even a way to know? If they were genetically identical as George had said then would there even be a way of knowing?

"Genetically identical my love, everything except the fingerprints," Fred chimes in from your left, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips as he absently twirls a stand of your hair around his finger.

"But you don't look exactly the same?" You interject, frowning a little as you turn your head to reply to Fred.

"Come again?" George asks with a snigger, perplexed by your words. You take a deep breath and sit up, pulling the covers over yourself as you move to face them both.

"Have I ever gotten you two mixed up?" You ask, raising one eyebrow as if to test them. They both frown a little, trying to remember a time that you had.

"Err."

"No?"

"Then I either need to start doing the wizards lottery or it's not a coincidence at all and you have striking differences- definitely not 100% identical," you snark, smiling at their still confused faces.

"What's different then?" George asks, a curious look upon his face.

"Well for a start George is slightly taller."

"Which is something we do not mention," Fred grumbles.

"Ok," you relent, taking a breath and trying to hold back your smile at Fred's childishness. "George's nose is a little more curved downwards, his face is thinner and longer and..."

"Been looking at George a lot have we?" Fred snarks, the hint of jealously oozing through his words.

You send a mock glare at him whilst George beams with pride, clearly enjoying the fact that you'd mentioned him over his twin. You roll your eyes at their antics and turn to face Fred directly, beginning to reel off his features.

"Fred's shoulders are wider, your eyes are ever so slightly more green, your top lip is a little straighter and not as angled. And your, well, your." You pause, suddenly a little timid under their gazes.

"Go on Angel," George drawls, clearly knowing where you were going with this, judging by the tormenting look in his eyes.

"You can say cock sweet girl, heard you plead for it many, many times," Fred asks with a shit eating grin, living for the blooming tinge of pink that spreads across your cheeks.

"Well your... cocks are different," you say, averting your eyes down to the duvet cover wrapped around your naked body.

"Is that so, Angel?" You can hear the smirk in George's voice and it makes you want to crawl underneath the sheets and never come out again.

"Well, it's not like you don't look at me!" You say, shooting a glance to both of them.

"Ask me literally anything," Fred says cockily.

"What size are my boobs?"

"Perfect, next," he replies with an arrogant smirk.

"That's not an answer, idiot!" You can't help but laugh, wishing you had a pillow to bash him with, knocking the cockiness out of him.

"They're *your bra size*," he replies, actually guessing your bra size perfectly.

"You're funny, sweet, perfect, sexy, a good listener, weirdly good at potions, you're independent and don't take shit from anyone, you're an incredible friend and an even better girlfriend. Want me to go on?" He says through a smirk, very much enjoying the way your cheeks flush at his surprisingly soft words.

He and George then reel off a surprisingly accurate list of things about you, including little intricate details you'd have never thought of including. It's a testament to how incredible they are as boyfriends and just how much they pay attention.

"So now that's covered," George smiles, pulling you into his naked chest. "Back to baby making."

You roll your eyes playfully, the cycle of conversation never failing to cycle back to this topic lately.

"We could use a blindfold," Fred suggests.

"Kind of mean to blindfold a baby," you retort. Instantly Fred reaches for your naked ribs and tickles you making you squirm and squeal in his grasp, your arms trying to reach out for sanctuary from George.

"I meant you," he corrects you with a wink.

"Why?" You begin to say, acting naive, only to be cut off by George.

"If you're blindfolded baby, you won't be able to tell who's knocking you up."

Suddenly the room feels very hot. George's words, his dominant tone, the three of you lying very naked in bed.

"Wanna start now?"

Taglist

 @bohemianrhapsody86 @theautumnbookworm @yomamacrusty @warriormayhem @capablecapriborn @greenapple444 @kpopgirlbtssvt @mrsstone-crabs @remusl0upin @dreamerjj @yazzy1004 @corceno @read-everyday08 @dakotataysversion @fandom-taylor @beepbeeprichie929 @thoughtsofdeathbarbie @chipscanbeevil @profoundsportslovermaker @sniperfantf2 @yung-rave-d0rk @timea-sofie @autumnboo126 @learninglinesintherainn @rainingsky37 @cryb4by-te4rs @rybrewer82-blog @nightowlgirl @brookiecookiez0 @chx-la @malenk @jimmywoosimp @soulessfictionaddict @marisimps @satanizes @70s-chic @shadyunknowncreation @ferntv @aigowen @that-lame-ghoul9000 @jules-with-stars @sleepiemocha @seppys-return-to-madness @loserrluvverr @the-mrs-malik-styles @cedslover @nisapoosworld @dashhhhkaaa @fiathefirst @costheticbabe @cliffburtonscig @lildrunkjkk @levylovegood @jewelsrules @jphxnix @asuperconfusedgirl @staceys-moms-thighs @nighttimewrites @egghasnoleg @mel119g @angelrioter @minatozsana @quinny921  @rockabieesstuff @comicgollum20 @moonieseyelash @football1921 @in-the-middle-of-the-sadness @rk-ceres @kisses4fred @milkteahayoon @slashersimpshadow @slytherinambitious @screamingoverfiction @rhunew @tomhockstetter7-111

[carakook]

Shut Up .・。.・゜✭・.

╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗

“If I fuck you, will you calm the fuck down and listen to me?”

🔞FOR MATURE AUDIENCES🔞

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader

Synopsis: After taking a job as a co-writer, you quickly find that you and your “boss” just don’t get along. Constantly butting heads, disagreeing on things, and he isn’t even nice about it. He’s a fucking dick. He’s always criticizing you in embarrassing ways, but you’ve tried to be patient, ride it out. Over the short time you’ve worked here, the tension has built quickly, and it is clear both of you cannot stand each other. Unfortunately, today is the day you reach your limit after he humiliates you in front of several of your coworkers… and the “conflict resolution” is definitely something you did not expect.

Genre: Enemies to lovers (or hookup in this case), workplace affair.

Pairings: Boss/Writer!Namjoon x Co-writer!Reader

Word count: 7.5k+

Warnings: 18+, Heavy smut!! Hate sex, protected sex (wrap it up), rough sex, face fucking, light slapping (not in the face), a bit of spit play, face fucking, cussing, crying (sort of), heavy conflict, degradation, arguing, name calling, a bit of teasing, cum eating? (Sort of), dry humping, face humping, being slapped with dick (lightly), Let me know if I missed anything!

⚠Disclaimer⚠:This story does not in any way reflect the character of those who are mentioned, it is totally fiction and just for fun. Please don’t take it seriously.

A/N: Hiiii! This is my first one shot. I’ve actually had it in my drafts for a long time but never posted it, I decided to finish it recently and post it here. I hope you like it! I love writing, have soooo many drafted one shots/full on fanfics with each of the boys. A looot of them are with Jungkook, can’t help myself. He’s my lover… 😭 Anyway, if you guys end up liking this I’ll post more. Thank you so much for reading if you do!

╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

There aren’t many things you regret in life. Because if you allow yourself to regret things, you overthink. Overthinking is never a good thing.

See, it wasn’t awful at first. But the moment you met Kim Namjoon, you could tell he had a problem with you. What? You didn’t know. You still don’t know. But he never bothered hiding it.

You powered through, because this was sort of like a dream job for you. You loved writing music, writing lyrics. It was hard to even find a job like this to begin with. So when you got the callback, you jumped at the chance. You were so excited to be working here, and you were familiar with Kim Namjoon. You thought his songs were beautiful, his writing style seemed similar to yours.

Boy, you were wrong.

Not even a week into working here he was heavily criticizing you. But again… you pushed through. Because you were new, he had a right to be picky. This was his studio, he was technically your boss… technically. So you tried to be patient and listen to his criticism.

Which didn’t last long. Because he was not subtle. Arguably, there is a difference between constructive criticism and being blatantly rude and picky. Namjoon was straight-up rude. And at times it was embarrassing.

Nothing you did seemed to satisfy him. Every single time you brainstormed with him and the team, he disagreed with you. Every time you proposed lyrics, he rejected your ideas. Every time you so as much opened your mouth, he had an issue with what you had to say.

You tried to be patient… you genuinely did. But you don’t like feeling disrespected or embarrassed. And you certainly don’t take shit from anyone. So the last two weeks you’ve both been bickering, and the tension is noticeable not only to you and Namjoon but to the entire damn team.

The worst part about it all? You are so fucking attracted to him. He makes your tummy swoop with butterflies. He smells good. He’s tall, his dimples are fucking adorable, and his body… god, he is to die for. The sexual tension is prominent.

If only he wasn’t such a dick.

Today pushed you to your limits. Never in your life have you been more embarrassed.

It all started with a song he was working on. He played the beat, and immediately you were inspired. You got excited. Your attitude was bright, and you immediately jotted the lyrics down on your paper when they came to mind. You seriously thought today would be the day he’d be proud. He would agree. You felt good about it.

Only for him to burst out laughing when he read the lyrics. That wasn’t even the worst part. It’s bad enough that he laughed at you in front of the entire team. But what he said next is what made you lose your shit.

“Oh- shit. You’re serious?”

He stared at you for a moment, taking in your very irritated expression. And then he fucking laughed again.

“Fuck, Y/N. I thought this was a joke. God, I wish it was a joke because it would be hilarious if it was. It sounds like a fucking kids-bop song. You can’t be serious.”

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

You went off on him. In front of everyone. For three minutes straight you cursed him out, waived your hands around, and made it clear how much you cannot stand him and how rude he has been. How humiliated you feel. You’ve always been praised for your writing, so why the fuck doesn’t he like it? You are fucking pissed.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to cuss your boss out in front of everyone… but at this point, you don’t care. If he gets you fired by the company, oh-fucking-well.

Namjoon stares at you for a moment once you’re done. Your chest is heaving, your cheeks are red, and your brows are furrowed angrily. Clearly, he didn’t expect your outburst. His nostrils are flared and his jaw is tense, it even does the little tick thing that drives you crazy. Fuck him for being so hot. Fuck him for being so damn hot and such a dick.

He raises a brow at you, tongue in cheek, making that angry face that would be incredibly attractive if it weren’t directed at you. He lets out an angry huff of air before speaking.

“Studio. Now.”

He points at his studio as he says this as if you’re too stupid to understand his words. This pisses you off even more.

“You’re not my fucking boss.”

He scoffs at you, briefly smiling at your bold choice of words. You infuriate him just as much as he infuriates you.

“Actually, Y/N, I am. Studio. Now.”

You know that technically, he is your boss. But you refuse to listen to him after how humiliated he made you feel. In front of everyone, how dare he speak to you this way? Regardless of his weird hate for you. Besides, he can’t fire you. He may be able to request it, but you know that he won’t. From what you’ve heard, It took forever to fill this position. He was picky when it came to hiring someone… which makes this more confusing. You can’t figure out what his issue is with you, especially when he is the one who helped pick you for the job. Regardless, you know that he doesn’t have the patience to do it again. He’s full of shit.

You stand your ground. You won’t back down this time. You’re tired of the disrespect.

“No, Namjoon. Whatever you want to say, you can say it here. You’ve already embarrassed me, so go ahead, do it some more. I’m sure you get off on it.”

No longer smiling, his gaze is dark. He’s pissed. Now he’s a bit embarrassed… that’s what he gets.

“I won’t ask again. You can march your ass upstairs, or I can carry you. Your choice.”

You say nothing, surely he wouldn’t do that. He’s bluffing. Regardless of how harsh he has been towards you, you know that he wouldn’t cross that line. You hope that he doesn’t. The last thing that you want is for him to touch you. Not because he makes you uncomfortable, but because you already have enough dirty thoughts about him. You hate him, yet he turns you on in a way you’ve never felt. Lust driven by pure hatred, it’s a dangerous thing.

But of course, you were wrong, and he never ceases to surprise you. Never underestimate Kim Namjoon.

You stay silent, secretly hoping that he will just back down and continue the brainstorming session. But is Kim Namjoon the type of man to back down? No. He never has been.

He strides over to you quickly, taking big steps in your direction, causing you to miss your chance to run.

He swiftly grabs your waist and hoists you over his shoulder, his fingers digging into your thighs. You don’t even have time to react before he starts carrying you upstairs to the studio. He has no trouble doing so either, carrying you as if you weigh nothing.

You come to your senses and swat at his back while you yell profanities at him, demanding that he put you down, threatening to report him, and telling him that he’ll be fired by morning if he doesn’t stop.

But you know that he won’t. This company would never side with you, no matter what Namjoon did. They relied on him. They didn’t rely on you. You were replaceable, even if it would be difficult. Namjoon is not replaceable.

“Resume the session. If you finish before we’re done, you’re free to go. This may take a while. Don’t interrupt us.”

Hurried nods are sent in his direction, no one dares protest him or intervene. Cowards.

He kicks the door open to the studio, entering with ease, making sure not to hit your head on the doorframe as he walks in. You wish he would have hit your head, knocked you out, hell even thrown you over the staircase. Anything to avoid this humiliation he has cursed you with. You almost wish you would’ve just kept your damn mouth shut.

But the damage is done now. No point in backing down.

He throws you roughly on the couch sitting opposite his desk and then closes the door, locking it before facing you.

You glare at him, chest heaving, heart beating out of your chest. You’re just as pissed as he is. Yet, you still find yourself clenching your thighs together, irritated at the fact that he turns you on so much. You shouldn’t be horny right now… yet you are. The way he squeezed your thighs… fuck. Fuck him. God, fuck him to hell. You hate him.

“What the fuck was that?” You nearly growl at him.

He stands in front of you, arms crossed, looking down on you as if you’re nothing more than a pesky roach that he wants to squash.

“I told you, you could walk, or I could carry you. You made your choice, clearly.”

Fuck him.

“Fuck you, Namjoon. This is ridiculous.”

He laughs. He laughs at you.

Fuck him.

“You are ridiculous, Y/N. Why are you even here, if you can’t take criticism?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I can take criticism, constructive criticism, something that you are apparently incapable of giving. You’re so fucking mean to me and I’ve done NOTHING to you.”

“No, I-“

You cut him off, unable to control your mouth.

“And another thing, it’s only me that you speak to this way. I’ve yet to see you speak to anyone else the way that you do me. What is your issue with me, why do you hate me so much?”

“Maybe if you-“

You cut him off again, and his jaw does the tick thing. He’s getting angrier, but you do not give a fuck.

“No, this isn’t on me. I earned my spot here, I was hired for a reason, and everyone else respects me, why don’t you?”

“Because-“

Again.

Fuck him.

“There is no reason, you obviously have some sort of sick vendetta against me. You’re fucking insufferable!”

“Me? No, you-“

Again.

And he’s had enough.

“No, fuck you Namjoon, fuck you and this weird ass game you’re playing, you—“

He borderline growls before he pins you on the couch.

You don’t even have time to register what he’s doing, and if you did, you’d slap the shit out of him.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

His lips crash into yours as he hovers over you, one knee perched in between your legs, while his other leg steadies him. He grabs your face with force, so rough that you swear he could break your jaw if he gripped you any harder. His other hand is on the back of the couch, steadying him the same and pinning you in place.

The kiss is no different. His lips assault yours, and he wastes no time in forcing his tongue into your mouth. He kisses you with vigor. A kiss unlike any you’ve ever experienced before. You’ve only ever been kissed like this in your dreams, the same dreams that wake you up in the middle of the night leaving you touch-starved. It’s fucking aggressive and rough.

And of course, you kiss him back. You don’t want to. Yet you do. You don’t want to give in to him. But you do. You can’t help it. As soon as he made his move, you were under his control. He has that way about him, he’s easily able to affect people. You were a different story. You always defied him, disagreed with him, challenged him. Yet, this is the way that he tames you, even if only for a minute. Shit. You’re weaker than you thought.

He nips your bottom lip before pulling back, your jaw still in his grip. His nostrils are flared and his breathing is rigid, as if he’s just as shocked as you are at his actions.

And he is. He has no idea why he just kissed you. He has no idea what came over him. He just wanted you to shut the fuck up, and he acted on impulse. And now he has a raging hard-on, which pisses him off even more. He doesn’t want to want you, in the same way that you don’t want to want him. But you both do.

He whispers, searching your face, studying your reaction.

“Do you ever just shut the fuck up and listen?”

You clear your throat, still trying to come down from the rush of the kiss, adrenaline running through your veins.

“I-“

“Do you know how fucking irritated you make me?”

Suddenly, you have no fight left in you. You feel intimidated. Fuck him.

“Then why-“

“Am I gonna have to kiss you every time you need to shut the fuck up?”

You blink at him, unable to respond. You have no idea what to do, or how to react, and are becoming distracted by the puddle seeping between your thighs.

You haven’t had sex in over a year. You haven’t been able to grow interest in someone enough to give them that piece of yourself again. Your last situation-ship left you simply sick of men. Sex wasn’t appealing enough to go through that again. But, of course, as if the universe is punishing you, Namjoon awakens your sex drive.

You nervously bite your lip and clench your thighs, not even realizing what you’re doing. You’re on the verge of tears, overwhelmed with anger and lust. And this doesn’t go unnoticed by Namjoon.

He looks down at your thighs, and you immediately unclench them. Your cheeks betray you by reddening, thanks to the smirk that very clearly gives away that he knows exactly what you’re feeling right now.

He keeps his eyes on your thighs for a moment before looking up at you. He smirks, raising a brow, giving you a crooked smile that tells you he knows your dirty little secret. Your jaw is still firmly in his grasp.

“Is that it? You’re sexually frustrated? Is that why you’re being such a bitch?”

You try to wriggle from his grasp, embarrassed, angry, horny. You’re starting to wish he would just fire you. Anything to save you the embarrassment of his knowing glare.

“Fuck you.”

He chuckles, bringing his face closer to yours, so close that you can feel his breath touch your lips.

“Yeah? Fuck me? If I fuck you, will you calm the fuck down and listen to me?”

You blink at him again and say nothing. You want to protest, tell him how gross he is, tell him how much you hate him, tell him that he’s the worst. Yet, his idea just makes you hornier. You’ve never had hate sex, and oh fuck, you’re sure that it would improve your mood, even some of the tension between you two.

But it pains you to even admit that. It’s humiliating. He has humiliated you enough.

He moves his hand to the back of your head, angling it upwards so that he has better access to your neck. He places his lips on your jaw, running his teeth up it, leading to the crook of your neck, keeping his lips on you as he speaks his next words.

He grabs your wrist with his other hand, leading it to his crotch, coaxing you to feel him. And he’s hard. So hard that you’re certain a button will break on his jeans. Fuck. He feels giant… You’re so fucked.

“Do you see what you do to me? Never in my life have I had anyone piss me off to the point of getting a fucking boner.”

You can’t help but whimper at his dirty words, but you make sure to bite your lip, preventing yourself from begging him to take you as you so desperately want to. You aren’t one to beg for anything. And you hate him even more for bringing you to that point.

“I’ve thought about fucking you so many times, Y/N. Fucking you to the point that you don’t even remember your own name, and my name is the only thing that you can scream. I just wanna fuck you until you shut the fuck up.”

“Please, just… do it then.”

Word vomit. You thought it but didn’t intend to say it. Yet, you said it. Of course, you did. You’re on the brink of cumming just from his filthy words.

He kisses your neck before speaking. And you can feel him smile as he does so.

Fuck him.

“Oh, Y/N, baby, hearing you beg makes it so tempting. I never thought you’d be the type, considering the amount of shit you talk.”

You croak out, suddenly feeling defensive, “I’m not. I don’t beg for shit.” You weakly push at his chest, even though you both know damn well you don’t want him to stop.

He laughs, pulling back to look at you, keeping his face close.

“Yet, here you are, begging for my cock like a desperate whore.”

You frown at him, feigning offense, when in reality his degradation is making you even more desperate. Why? You don’t know. You’ve never liked being degraded, in fact, nothing turns you off more than being called names… but hearing it come out of Namjoon's mouth? Fuck.

“I’m not a whore.” You whisper.

He tilts his head at you, amused.

“Fucking obviously, you’re acting like you’ve never been touched before. Are you this needy with other men?”

“There are no other men.”

He studies you for a moment, carefully calculating his next move. The way that he looks at you makes you feel insecure, as if he’s a judge on one of those cooking shows, trying to figure out whether he likes the taste of you or not. You have the urge to push him away and take off, his gaze is too goddamn intense.

He is too intense. Never met a man like him.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You mumble, looking away from him.

“Like what?” He asks, furrowing his brows. Amused.

“Like you think I’m the most vile thing on earth.”

He’s taken aback by your response, almost looking offended. Because that is the last thing he was thinking. If only you knew.

“Vile? Baby, I’m so hard for you right now that it hurts, do you know how hot you are when you’re pissed? Fucking annoying, but soooo hot.”

You squirm, your cheeks pinking again. You didn’t expect that. You expected him to laugh in your face and agree. He grunts as he takes in your facial expression. If only you knew what you truthfully do to him. He closes his eyes and scrunches his brows, taking a deep breath before he pulls away from you, leaving you considering getting on your damn knees and begging for him to touch you again.

He chuckles while shaking his head, eyes still closed as he speaks. As if he’s in pain from pulling away from you.

“Yeah, fuck, and you’re cute when you blush. This is fucked. I can’t stand you, yet you’re so fucking cute. What the fuck are you doing to me? Huh?”

Fuck. He’s making this hard. You’re so overwhelmed. So pissed, so horny, you wanna push him away and cuss him out some more, but also you’ve never wanted another man more in your life than you do him right now.

Both of you stare at each other silently for a moment. His jaw keeps doing the tick thing, and you squeeze your thighs tighter, rubbing them together to relieve some pressure. His eyes flick to them, and you don’t even bother hiding it this time. As humiliating as it is, his cock is hard and bulging out of his jeans. So you can’t find yourself caring too much at the moment.

What really makes his resolve waver is the way you’re looking at him, which you don’t even realize. Normally you look at him with such disdain, as if he’s the vile one. But right now? Your eyes are wide and glossy, your lip stuck between your teeth. You’re looking at him almost sweetly. The desperation in your gaze is impossible to hide.

He loses it completely.

“Ah, fuck it.” He declares before grabbing you by your hair again as he sits on the couch. He tugs you roughly into his lap and starts devouring your mouth again.

You let out a little huff of air as he does this, not quite used to the rough handling. But god, it’s fucking divine. You feel as if all of the anger you’ve held for him comes rushing out in the form of kisses and touches. He feels the same.

His hand leaves your hair and he grips your hips, roughly grinding his hard cock onto your pussy. Dry humping like fucking teenagers as you make out aggressively.

Your hands come to rest on his face, framing it as they tremble slightly from the overwhelming emotions. You don’t hold back this time either, licking into his mouth wantonly, letting out little grunts and mewls that make his cock strain and twitch inside of his jeans.

His hands leave your hips to grip your ass, and he fucking groans into your mouth. He slaps it once, testing. When you let out a whine, he slaps it much harder this time, making your body jerk slightly.

He laughs into your mouth and says breathily, “Fuck, you really are a whore aren’t you?”

You bite his lip hard when he says this. You hate it. You love it. You grind down harder onto his clothed cock. He reaches back up to grip your hair and tugs your head back, pulling on it harshly and pulling you away from his mouth.

He grins when he hears you whine at the loss of his lips. “You wanna fucking bite me, huh? Uh-uh, fuck no you don’t.”

He pushes you off of his lap and lets go of your hair, you look up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and confusion. Honestly, you already look fucked out and he’s barely done anything. You’re just touch-starved, so every little kiss and touch is fucking you up. You’re craving relief from both your sexual frustration and the building irritation he’s caused you over the last month.

Before you even realize what he’s about to do, he grabs your hair again, his grip much firmer this time. It actually kind of hurts… yet you don’t stop him. He pushes your face roughly into his clothed cock, and grinds onto your face as he spreads his legs wider on the couch.

Oh fuck.

He grunts as he starts nearly smothering you. When he feels a bit of your drool gets onto his crotch, he yanks your head back, he laughs again, “Bet your big fucking mouth is great at sucking cock. Should we find out?”

You just glare at him. Don’t wanna give him the satisfaction even though every single thing he has done so far has made you borderline cream your pants.

He clicks his tongue, “No? Don’t have anything to say now? Isn’t that funny…”

Fuck him.

He keeps his grip tight on your hair as he uses his other hand to fumble with his zipper and button. Once it’s undone, he whips his cock out. It hits the fabric of his rumpled shirt and is already dripping precum.

Holy. Fuck. His cock is huge. A good nine inches.

He yanks your head forward again, literally smearing your face all over it, humping your face again. His head falls back and he grunts at the feeling. Your skin is just so soft, and the way your makeup is already becoming fucked up is making him go crazy. He’s always loved sloppy sex. And you are fucking gorgeous like this, he thinks.

He grabs his cock with his free hand as he tilts your head back, starts slapping your mouth with it, your cheeks too. The precum starts stringing from your cheek to the tip of his cock, and you can see his pupils dilate even bigger, he almost looks like he’s about to lose control.

He says uncharacteristically softly, “If you want me to stop, pinch my thigh real hard, yeah?”

If you had even a single moment of free thought, you would’ve probably been thankful that he gave you an out. You know despite him being a huge piece of work, he’s not a bad guy. So the fact he’s setting boundaries in your favor, even in the heat of the moment, is comforting. He cares about your safety and comfort. It’s the bare minimum of course, but most men lack even that. It’s why you stopped having casual sex to begin with.

But you don’t have a moment to think because pushes your lips down onto his cock abruptly, your mouth opens on instinct and he shoves himself inside. Doesn’t even ease into it, he just straight up plows his cock inside of your mouth until your nose is pressed against his pelvis.

You cough, and gag, already drooling all over him. Fuck it’s hot. You’ve never been face fucked like this before, but you’re starting to think maybe you’ve been missing out on good sex if this is how good rough sex feels.

You can’t even imagine what his cock would feel like inside of you if it feels this good in your mouth.

When he sees tears start to form, he pulls your hair back, strings of spit and precum connecting from your mouth and onto the tip of his cock. Fuck, it felt so good feeling your throat constrict around his cock. His resolve is wavering heavily. But he’s trying to remain patient. He smirks at you, stroking his spit-covered cock lazily directly onto your lips, causing beads of precum to escape his tip and cover your lips like lipgloss.

“Fuck, look at you. And you haven’t said a damn word. So pretty when you shut up.”

Your cheeks flush and you say petulantly, “Fuck you.” Because even now you don’t wanna give him the satisfaction.

That’s short-lived though because he starts fucking your mouth again. He shoves his cock inside and starts thrusting into your mouth as if it’s a goddamn sex toy. He hits the back of your throat with every thrust, causing you to gag and cough, your hands squeezing his thighs hard but not pinching.

You can take it.

He grunts out, “Fuck… I swear to god I’ll fuck your pretty little mouth every goddamn time you mouth off from now on Y/N, since nothing else has worked so far.”

Each word punctuated by a harsh thrust, he grunts our, “Just shut. the. fuck. up. Fuuuck.”

He keeps fucking up into your mouth, not easing up even for a second. Your eyes roll back in your head, and all you can do is take it. His thrusts only become sloppier and wetter. His head is thrown back and his abdomen starts clenching hard. But he knows you need to breathe. As much as he wishes he could just cum down your throat; he has other plans…

He pulls your head back again, he’s already feeling a bit too close to cumming. He doesn’t wanna cum too fast, he’s certain it would give you more to talk shit about.

He gazes down at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth parted slightly and his breaths coming in fast. You look utterly fucked. Your makeup is ruined completely now, your eyes are red and teary, and your pretty pink lips are swollen. His stomach flutters, because he thinks you have never looked prettier.

He’s always thought you were so pretty. It’s one of the reasons he can’t stand you. He isn’t supposed to want you. You’re his coworker, technically his subordinate.

But none of that matters now, does it?

He doesn’t look much better, his shirt is covered in wet spit and his boxers are ruined too. He should’ve taken his clothes off… but luckily, he thinks it’s so much hotter this way.

His cock twitches against his belly, and he strokes your cheek with his free hand. He murmurs, “You good?”

You nod stupidly at him even as drool dribbles down your chin and your mascara runs onto your cheeks. There’s nothing to say really. You’ve never enjoyed having a dick down your throat so much. And he has effectively shut you up.

He nods and guides your head up, kisses you deeply. His eyes roll back as he tastes his precum on your tongue. So fucking good, he thinks.

He guides your pliant body to lay down on the couch, and then he settles in between your legs, his hands stroking up and down your thighs as he looks you over. God, there is so much he wants to do to you. He wants to use you but also wants to make you come undone as many times as possible.

Maybe then you’ll be more tolerable. Maybe this is what you both need, he rationalizes.

But he’s getting impatient. His cock is standing tall as he looks down at you, visibly pulsating, jerking upward now and then. And fuck, it’s making you impatient too. So much so that you whine at him, “Fuck, stop looking and just do something.”

His jaw ticks. He’s getting irritated. That’s what you think, anyway. But in reality, he’s preening on the fact you’re just as impatient as he is. It gives him an excuse to cut the foreplay and fuck you stupid.

You want him to do something? Oh, he will.

He lets out an almost mocking laugh, “Yeah? Want me to do something about it? You sure?”

You groan and roll your eyes at him, scooting your ass closer to his pelvis on the couch, his cock dripping so much precum, you have no idea how he’s not losing his mind right now. You certainly are. In fact, he’s starting to piss you off again.

Right as you’re about to talk shit, he can immediately tell. He grabs the front of your button-up and he rips it open. Doesn’t unbutton it like a normal person, but fucking rips it open, sending buttons flying on the floor of the studio. You let out a grunt, and blink at him in surprise with your mouth open.

You liked that shirt. Fuck him.

“Fucking seriously? You’re ruining my clothes now?”

Your patience is almost nonexistent at this point. You have drool and precum drying on your chin, you’re so horny it hurts, and he just ripped your shirt open like a wild fucking animal.

But him? It’s like he’s not even paying attention. His eyes are averted downward, tongue flicking over his lips. He looks almost stupid like this. What the fuck?

You look down to see what he’s gawking at, and… Oh. Oh. Kinda slipped your mind that you aren’t wearing a bra today. You were running late this morning and forgot to throw one on. Oops.

Namjoon doesn’t even look at your face at this point. His eyes are glued to your tits. He feels kind of ridiculous, getting this worked up over tits. He’s seen tits many times, it’s nothing new. But something about yours has him salivating, has his cock jerking upward.

He reaches down and starts lightly slapping the sides of your tits, watching them jiggle with a gaze full of hunger, he rasps out, “Not the only thing I’m gonna be ruining.”

One hand remains playing with your tits like they’re fucking stress balls, and Namjoon would argue that they absolutely are. The other hand reaches down and lifts your skirt, causing it to pool around your waist. He looks down a bit further, begrudgingly tearing his eyes away from your perfect tits, his other hand pushing your ruined panties to the side. He groans, nearly growls when he notices how wet you are. Fuck. He’s so close to losing control.

He dips a single finger into your sopping heat, just barely. Moves the creamy juices around before pushing his finger fully inside, squeezing your tit hard in his other hand. Your hips buck up involuntarily and your head falls back against the couch. You fucking hate yourself for the desperate noise that claws out of your throat.

Namjoon is no better, the moment he feels how wet you truly are, he lets a sound that sounds no better than the one you just let out. His breathing picks up, his heart starts beating faster, and his cock is so hard at this point that it’s actually painful. God, you are just so tight. Your pussy is clenching around his finger as if it’s trying to swallow him whole.

“N-Namjoon— please. Fuck. Please.” You beg again, don’t even care how pathetic you sound. A single fucking finger isn’t enough for how badly you want him right now. Want to be filled up and fucked hard. He’s barely moving it too. Just lightly grazing your walls, and it’s so frustrating. You just want to cum. Get it all out.

Namjoons resolve finally breaks when he sees a trickle of creamy white drip out of your pussy and onto the couch, he can’t take it anymore. He genuinely wanted to tease you, make a fucking mess of you. Make you beg and cry for him because of how much you piss him off. But not even he is strong enough to stall, he needs you. Now.

One last slap to the tit, he pulls his hand away and hastily reaches over for his wallet on the side table next to the couch. He pulls a condom out, brings the wrapper up to his mouth, and tears it open. And fuck, that’s so sexy. Your pussy clenches his finger again at the sight, and then he jerks it out of your pussy with a grunt.

You whine at him, almost feeling offended. But Namjoon knows damn well he’s going a little crazy because he just got jealous. Jealous of his own fucking finger. Should be his cock, not his finger. What the fuck are you doing to him?

He doesn’t warn you before he stuffs the same finger, accompanied by another finger, into your mouth. Nearly making you choke just like you did on his cock. Then he tosses the wrapped condom onto your bare chest, “Put it on me. Quick.”

You don’t even hesitate, you grab the condom with shakey hands and fumble it out of the package, all while sucking his fingers clean of your own juices. It only turns you on more, tasting yourself on his skin.

You reach for his cock, grab it with one shaky hand and his hips buck into it a bit. He lets out a little hiss through his teeth because of how sensitive it is, neglected for too long. That’s how it feels, anyway.

You roll the condom onto his cock snuggly and then look up at him expectantly with a desperate but wrecked look. Give him the best ‘fuck me’ eyes you can muster up. He keeps his fingers in your mouth. Doesn’t even move. Again, drawing it out. Attempting to, anyway.

You whine against his fingers, and would probably be begging him if you could talk. But Namjoon can’t take it anymore, lucky for you. He moves his hips forward and uses his free hand to position his cock at your entrance.

The moment the tip is sucked into your tight hole, he snaps. Literally, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You cry out even with your mouth around his fingers, sounding muffled and wet. Your back arched obscenely because fuck you didn’t expect him to just go in like that.

You’re not complaining though, fuck no.

His head falls back like yours, and he stays like that for a moment, his teeth grit and eyes clenched shut. He removes his fingers from your mouth and grabs your face with one hand, smooshing your cheeks, the other hand coming back up to your tit and squeezing it harshly, as if he just can’t help himself. Squeezing so hard that it kinda hurts. But fuck, it feels so good. You’re starting to realize maybe you have a thing for shit like this.

Doesn’t help when you feel his cock twitching inside of you. It’s just enough stimulation to make your pussy start throbbing around him.

It’s pathetic how close you already are. But god, it feels like he edged you for hours. Even though he barely did anything. You guess you just kinda forgot what actual dick felt like compared to your fingers or a toy.

He starts moving his hips slowly, trying to be patient while your pussy adjusts to his size. But your patience left the moment he entered you.

“Fuck. Go faster, please.”

Your voice sounds high-pitched and a bit loud which you don’t even realize. You can’t control it. He clicks his tongue at this, gives your face a little shake as he says, “Thought I told you to shut the fuck up? Unless you want all of your coworkers to know you’re letting your boss fuck the shit out of you like a whore? That what you want?”

He pulls back out and then slams in again. You let out another cry, body jolting at the force. And he starts just pounding into you.

You asked for this.

How the fuck are you supposed to be quiet when he goes from 0 to 100 like that? Holy fuck.

“Oh, so you do? You want them all to know I’m making you my slut after humiliating you for your shitty writing? C’mon, speak up. Can’t hear you. Use your fucking words.”

All while snapping his hips harshly into yours, out one moment, deep inside the next. You can barely take it. You swear you can feel him in your fucking stomach. Hardly even register his degrading words because you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t even control the loud noises coming out of your mouth, although you desperately try.

Tears prickle your eyes, not because it hurts but because you’re overwhelmed. He’s so hard to figure out. Acting like he’s gonna tease you one moment, and then fucking you like he’s trying to split you in half the next.

He lets out a grunt at your lack of response and ends up squishing your cheeks harder, forcing your mouth open. He leans down slightly and fucking spits in your mouth and then stuffs his fingers back in your mouth, “Actually, just shut the fuck up. Keep your mouth busy and shut the fuck— ah, fuck— the fuck up.”

Fucking disgusting. Fucking hot.

The way his words falter and he loses train of thought for a second makes your pussy clench deliciously around him. Because it’s confirmation that he is just as affected as you are. Just as fucked up right now.

You both look a mess. Your shirt is torn open, your skirt all crooked and pushed up to your waist, and your panties aren’t even fully off. His shirt is still damp with spit, his pants only halfway pulled down and now there’s a creamy white stain on the front of them from your juices dripping down his dick.

It’s heaven, honestly. Or maybe hell. You aren’t sure. But it feels so fucking good.

His hips piston into your cunt hard and fast, and you do your best to focus on sucking his fingers, but the pressure is building fast. You can feel your pussy start to flutter, your clit throbbing, begging to be paid attention to. He can feel it too, it’s making him go crazy because of how responsive you are.

He slams home one more time before staying there, swiveling his hips in a circle so that his pelvis brushes against your clit each time, giving it the minimal amount of attention that has you nearly seeing stars, almost there, but not quite.

“Need more?” He pants out.

You nod your head quickly, his fingers covered in your saliva at this point. Dripping in the essence of you just like his cock. He nods back, removes his other hand from your hip, and settles it at the bottom of your belly, pushing down and placing his thumb over your clit. He starts flicking it fast and starts fucking into you again, picking up the pace so that the room fills with wet squelching noises and skin slapping.

The way he’s pushing onto your tummy while rubbing your clit, Jesus fuck… it’s intense. Makes it feel like he is inside of your stomach. So fucking deep.

Yup. That does it. The stagnant pressure starts building rapidly, he can feel it too. Your pussy starts tightening and fluttering beautifully around his girth. You’re making the prettiest noises, still quiet thanks to his fingers stuffed in your mouth but he can hear you the perfect amount.

God, it’s so perfect, he thinks.

You, you’re not thinking at all. He really is fucking you stupid. Your eyes are continuously rolling back and your hips buck into his thrusts desperately, quickly approaching your climax.

He flicks your clit back and forth, fast but precisely, “C’mon baby, give it to me. Fucking cum all over me. Make a mess. Ungh— god you’re such a fucking slut.”

And that sends you. Out of everything, something about Namjoon calling you a slut just fucking does it for you. You let out a muffled moan, that would be a scream most likely if his fingers weren’t sheathed into your mouth. Your legs tremble and your body shudders through the force of your orgasm.

Your pussy throbs violently, walls rippling around his cock as you finally see those stars. It feels fucking amazing, makes tears fall down your cheek. You can barely breathe because of the force of how fucking good it feels to cum on his cock.

This is his end too. He simply can’t hold back when he feels the vice grip of your pussy desperately trying to keep his cock in place, the rippling of your walls nearly feels like vibrations. He lets out another groan, but it almost comes out like a whine. Very subtly. His face is scrunched up and his mouth open as his hips stutter, his cock spilling and filling up the condom.

It goes on and on. Neither of you thinking about how much you hate each other, only thinking about how good it feels to be together like this. He swears he’s never had sex better than this. You feel the same.

The reality of it all is hate sex is unmatched. Especially when tensions build for so long and you both act as if you can’t stand each other… who knew a fuck could’ve helped with that?

At the last twitch of his cock, when your pussy becomes overstimulated and sore, he collapses on top of you. Both of you panting harshly, catching your breaths as your hearts beat in unison.

He removes his spit-covered fingers from your mouth, and he places lazy little kisses on your skin. He isn’t even sure where, too fucked out to pay attention, just anywhere he can reach while he rests on top of you. It’s an oddly tender gesture. A little sweet, even.

It’s silent for a few minutes. And you both start to realize what you’ve done. You just fucked your technical boss… he just fucked one of his co-writers.

Definitely shouldn’t have happened.

He can’t find himself regretting it though. He feels so light, that he could almost smile. As much of an excuse as it was at first, it genuinely helped with the tension. He’s not quite as irritated with you. Does he like you now? Fuck no.

But the more post-nut clarity comes to fruition… the more he thinks he can tolerate you. Maybe even work with you, compromise with you.

You on the other hand… you don’t know how to feel. You don’t regret it, because fuck, it did help with the tension. You feel lighter too. Not as sensitive. Not as hateful.

Maybe it was for the best. It’s not like anyone has to know, anyway. It’s like couples counseling sort of… except you’re definitely not a couple, and you both still cannot stand each other.

But you can tolerate each other now that most of the tension is gone for the time being.

“You good?”

He tears you away from your thoughts, and you look up at him with bleary eyes. It makes you feel sort of warm and fuzzy inside knowing despite his dislike for you, he’s still checking to make sure he didn’t cross any lines.

Well, he crossed several lines. But, you aren’t complaining. You’re glad he did. Glad he reduced you to this.

“I’m fucking great.”

That earns you a little chuckle. He sighs a breath of relief, was worried he went a bit too hard or did too much, especially since you didn’t set any boundaries beforehand. But you took what he gave you and you took it like a fucking champ, he thinks.

He reluctantly gets off of you because now that you’re both a bit more clear-headed, the couch feels a little too small, and he doesn’t wanna crush you.

His softening cock is still inside of you, so he braces a hand on the couch and slowly pulls out, both of you hissing at the feeling. He watches in awe as your juices flow freely out of you. God, what a pretty pussy, he thinks.

He dips a finger back into your heat, causing you to let out a little noise of surprise. But he removes it quickly, brings his finger up to his mouth and sucks it clean.

“Mmm. Yummy.” He says, wiggling his brows.

Ugh.

He pats your thigh before getting off of the couch, taking the condom off, and tying it up to chuck it in the trash. He stuffs his soft and sensitive cock back into his underwear and pulls up his pants, feeling utterly satiated now. Bubbly and light, even though he won’t show it. He makes his way to the little fridge in his studio and he grabs two bottles of water, tosses you one which you barely catch.

You gulp down the water gratefully, parched considering he stole most of your fucking spit. Asshole.

He begins walking into the bathroom attached to his studio as he says, “C’mon let’s go get cleaned up. Then we can look at those lyrics again and see if it still sounds like kids bop now that I’ve fucked you stupid.”

At your immediate glare, he lets out a laugh, and shrugs innocently, “What? Pussy is magic, can change a man’s mind about a lot of things. Now hurry up, you’re a fucking mess.”

And with that, he’s stepping into the bathroom.

Yeah. Fuck him. Still insufferable.

But god, you really do hope to fuck him again.

[daimus]

“He acts like your boyfriend,” Hiori says. “Are you okay with that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really,” he says, his voice going purposefully flat so you know that he’s mocking you. “No idea.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” you gripe.

He tilts his head at you. He’s a little more drunk than he should be. There’s something about him that feels off, more so than usual. He normally has quite a good grip on whatever strange tendencies lay dormant inside him, but tonight his inhibitions are loose.

It unnerves you. You’ve always known there was something fundamentally fucked about his psyche. Other people have tried, futilely, to warn you away from him, but you came into this relationship with your eyes wide open.

You’ve always known there was a crack in his personality, as twisted as his face was cute. It’s what drew you to him in the first place, actually. There’s something sexy about someone with a secret side to them. You can’t help but want to pry it out of them.

But knowledge and experience are two different things, and Hiori’s acting kind of scary tonight. He’s not doing anything, technically. It’s all in your head. It’s like watching a charmed snake dance - sinuous, mesmerizing, and perilous.

“I thought,” he says, enunciating his words carefully, his finger tracing the rim of his glass almost as if he’s not paying attention while you’re hyperaware of him, “that you liked that sort of thing. You have a type, ya know.”

“Wasn’t aware, actually.”

He looks up at you from under lowered lashes. You suck in a breath. It’s seductive in the way an anglerfish light is seductive. There’s a small smile playing about his lips.

“Yeah?”

“I have to- um. I’m going to get another drink.”

He grabs your arm before you can flee. “You can just have mine. It’s your favorite,” he says softly, gently. You’re definitely the problem. He’s being so nice to you and all you can feel is this weird vertigo inducing blend of overwhelming lust and fear. Forget Hiori, something is definitely fucked in your brain.

“I’m okay-“

“Why are you being so skittish?” He’s still smiling. He’s so, so happy about this. His hand is still on your arm. His thumb is tracing warm, comforting circles on your gooseflesh skin even as he tries to devour you with his eyes.

The thing is, you kind of want him to.

“Oh,” Hiori says. His face has gone kind of dead and flat. “Look. Your little boyfriend is back.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you protest, reminded of your initial argument.

“Really?” Hiori smiles. It’s this special, rare thing that only shows up when he’s drunk. It’s just the hint of curved lips and eyes that are a little too bright. He looks kind of unhinged, but not in a serial killer way. It’s far more subtle than that. “Should I do something about it, then?”

[blueepink07]

Yuno: her struggling relationship with autonomy

(character analysis)

One aspect I have always loved about media characters is their attempt to be perceived as mature, despite their young age. Some succeed, others struggle to hide what they see as their childish side.

Yuno is no different in this context and I'm surprised that people don't talk about it enough.

Beginning with her age 18, it's truly a controversial age, if I may say. It's a confusing age, because you are technically considered an adult, but, at the same time, your mind is not fully developed to actually be one. In the end, you are still a child at heart and mind, despite the fact that you are legally an adult.

We don't know much of her home life and honestly I don't think it would do any good for me to make assumptions, since it's pointless in the long run and it would just lose credibility. However, one thing it's for sure based on Yuno's actions. She desires autonomy.

Yuno: Despite that, you arbitrarily assumed things about me and sympathized with me. Even though all I did was make a rational decision of my own free will.

I'm the one who chose, let you and you and you all in ~🎵

She highlights quite a lot with these phrases… She chose for herself, she is an adult who willingly decided to partake in compensated dating. Being called naive or innocent, two words that usually are used to describe little children, surely infuriated her… and she shows it.

It's funny now that I think about it. Fuuta also has the same problem, but his reactions are more childish, in the end, not doing him any justice. However, Yuno is no different. Of course, she does it in a more subtle manner, but she really does get worked up quite a lot when it comes to her being perceived more as a teenager than an adult. Her whole song it's literally about this idea. Yuno being infuriated that she is infantilized by the audience, making a sad backstory for her so they can dismiss the idea that there wasn't necessarily a big factor that provoked her to partake in compensated dating, but it's only her own free will.

I might add that the compensated dating itself is a way for Yuno to feel that she has more autonomy and she no longer needs to be treated as a child.

"An adult is a human or other animal that has reached full growth.[1] The biological definition of the word means an animal reaching sexual maturity and thus capable of reproduction." ~ wikipedia

Moreover, even the media promotes the fact that sexual content should strictly be watched by adults. And Yuno does end up having sex during some of these dates…

And if this idea isn't convincing enough… I think that Yuno likes to partake in compensated dating, because she knows the clients don't consider her a child. They are interested in her, in a way that makes Yuno feel satisfied with herself (at least, for a short period of time, when she is in their presence) she feels grown up and mature. She also receives money for her services, providing her with enough financial resources for Yuno to consider that she finally managed to complete one of the first steps of adulthood, to be financially stable.

Doing something that is not really socially accepted, again, can be considered as autonomy, because you do not follow the same rules that the society obligs. Yuno knows how compensated dating is perceived, but she still does it, because she thinks this action provides her "warmth".

The "warmth" that Yuno speaks about is a vague term to describe her desires. Based on her interactions, I would like to think that this term refers to genuineness and mutual understanding. Yuno, in the first VD, describes the society as being a place where "everyone eats each other". People need to point fingers at others who made a mistake, who did something that's not socially accepted to make themselves feel better.

Yuno: That’s right. You know those people who just wanna convince themselves, so they intrude in other people’s affairs even though it’s not their place—I despise them. That’s what I was saying. They only do that to make themselves feel better, don’t they? Those people don’t actually end up doing anything.

And you know what is interesting? The fact that Yuno finds more closure being in the company of some murderers. Why? Because they can also be considered some outcasts of the society that she pretty much dislikes.

Es: However, it also explains why you’ve given up. About yourself, human beings, even the whole of society, you’ve realised everything—that’s why your expression is so cold.

Teenagers usually have little power in our society. They can achieve great things, but have to go through more hardships due to the limited freedom. They need an adult to actually help them. That’s just how society is built.

Yuno's distaste for the society can explain why she has grown so fast, or, at least, thinks that she has matured enough. She was tired of the society inflicting on her rules that she, as a simple teenager, had to oblige. So, going into Milgram, starting to hear people crafting a sob backstory for Yuno, treating her like a child, despite the fact she has already done a few steps in order to sustain herself financially and emotionally as a young adult, it's truly insulting.

Es: This is just popular belief, but the law is also something the people have decided. There’s nothing, which can satisfy every single human being, now is there?

Yuno: That’s right.

However, even after all these, that doesn't mean she doesn't actually struggle with this new found autonomy that she craves.

I actually think that this autonomy is the cause of most of her suffering.

As I stated before, compensated dating is something that she decided to partake in, in order to prove her independence. She thinks that what she has chosen for herself is healing, helping her. But, if it's that the case, then why do we have these scenes?

It's difficult to admit that one of your decisions was actually… Quite wrong. Especially, when it's one of your first one's as an official adult, in the very first stage of your life when you finally have enough independence.

“Cognitive dissonance is what we feel when the self-concept — I’m smart, I’m kind, I’m convinced this belief is true — is threatened by evidence that we did something that wasn’t smart, that we did something that hurt another person, that the belief isn’t true,” said Carol Tavris, a co-author of the book “Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me).”

She added that cognitive dissonance threatened our sense of self.

To reduce dissonance, we have to modify the self-concept or accept the evidence,” Ms. Tavris said. “Guess which route people prefer?”

So which one does Yuno prefer? To convince herself that what she is doing makes her happy.

Yuno: Despite that, you arbitrarily assumed things about me and sympathized with me. Even though all I did was make a rational decision of my own free will.

Yuno: I’m not pitiable. My family gets along super well. And I’m not particularly struggling for money. I decided, of my own free will, to do it because I felt that it was necessary for me.

Sometimes, considering how many times she mentions it, for me it feels like Yuno tries to convince herself that what she is doing is good for her.

But you know what is funny to me?

She is good at making herself enjoyable for others as well as giving somewhat good advice:

Mahiru: My birthday…… the day I was born……But was there really any reason for me being born? Lately I’ve started to wonder that. Do you ever think about stuff like that, Yuno-chan?

Yuno: Eh? Not really. I mean, Mahiru-san, you’re really the romantic type, right? Not that I have anything against that. But isn’t it a bit much to think that everything in life has a meaning? If it makes you happy to think like that then go ahead, but if it doesn’t, then isn’t that in itself meaningless?

Mahiru: : ……you might be right. I’ve always just lived my life like this, so I don’t really know.

Yuno: We’ve all just gone through a bunch of things in life that happened to lead us here. It’s nothing more than a coincidence. Definitely not fate or anything. Probably. Even if there isn’t a meaning, you can still be happy that it’s your birthday. That sort of thing’s all you need in life really. So happy birthday, Mahiru-san.

Mahiru: ……no, I’m fine. As long as I don’t move too much I don’t even feel any pain. Sorry for making you worry.

Yuno: Oh, really? That’s good then. Mahiru-san, if there’s anything you want then just ask. It’s not like it’s a huge burden, I can just ask for it along with my own stuff.

Mahiru: Ok…… I’m fine for now. Sorry, for making you worry. Ah, Yuno-chan…… Today’s your birthday, right? Happy birthday.

Yuno: …Haha, thanks. Thank you, but y’know. Is it really ok for you to be saying that to me when you’re in that situation?... you really aren’t suited for Milgram, huh, Mahiru-san.

Amane: What is it… Kashiki Yuno. Don’t sit so close to me. Go away.

Yuno: Sorry for barging in when you’re getting into your worldview thing. But Mahiru-san’s finally managed to get to sleep. Humour me with some small talk while I take a break. By the way, Amane. Have you ever wished you were never born? I’ve thankfully lived a pretty fun life so far, so haven’t really. But you seem to be struggling with something. So I kinda wondered if you thought like that.

Amane: ……I don’t think that. Being born into this world is the first miracle any person experiences, and is something to celebrate. Even if after birth I was put through trial after trial, the value of that will never disappear.

Yuno: Hmm. Ok…happy birthday, then. It’s good that you were brought into the world, I guess.

But Yuno has a big, and I mean a BIG tendency to self-destruct, not intentionally.

Wanting to be independent comes with its own downfalls. At the beginning of the trial, Jackalope states that Yuno has distanced herself from social interactions. So much so, that we have never seen her actually confiding to someone else, in any of the portal timeline translations. She might have her reasons, either minimizing her problems, and using her energy to help the ones she deems to have worse than her, or, this is simply her nature to bottle up her own sadness. This again might also be the cause of her wanting autonomy and proving to herself and others that she is mature enough to manage her emotions.

Not confiding in someone else for a long time can cause depression. Something that Yuno might be struggling with during trial 3 or she is already struggling with it a bit.

Furthermore, it's interesting that Yuno admits disliking behaviors that she deems childish. For example, she doesn't like the way Haruka and Muu behave, because they are ignorant of the problems in prison and have a really childish way of thinking. Amane's hate towards Shidou, might be often wrongly interpreted as a simple child's tantrum. Kotoko's actions, responding with violence to violence, it's again, an aspect often deemed as childish and immature.

Yuno: Really? If you ask me, Kotoko is someone I would never want to make my friend, though. She’s the type who picks a conclusion from the very beginning and won’t actually talk with you.

Yuno: Well, I guess it’s arbitrary who one gets along with. But Mahiru-san in particular is something. I think both her body and mind are at their limits. Also, Mikoto-san was also attacked but apparently it ended up in something of a draw. That guy was strong, huh—how unexpected. Also Haruka and Muu-chan have become kind of bothersome. And additionally, Amane-chan and Shidou-san too, huh.

Lastly, her second MV also shows her desire of autonomy in Milgram, not only through lyrics, but through visuals too.

Beginning with her door, it looks a lot like a medieval castle door.

Her room, the way it is designed, especially the bed and the chair, also resemble a princess' room.

However:

Despite the important role that princesses played in courtly life, they had limited personal freedom. They were often kept under close guard and were rarely allowed to leave the palace or castle where they lived. This was done to protect them from danger and to prevent them from engaging in political activities that might undermine the authority of the king or prince.

Medieval princesses had little to no autonomy most of the time. Their life was dictated from the start, having the only purpose to be betrothed and give birth to children.

That’s why the design choice is intentional. Yuno feels like a princess trapped in her pretty room (the MV is quite claustrophobic, the only outside elements being a few memories), exposed to the world (the many windows imply this), the voices that keep demonizing her.

That’s why the scene where she starts breaking things in her room is so important. It serves as a sign of rebellion, to show that she is not the perfect, helpless princess that people like to portray her as. She is an adult who makes bad or good decisions, who thinks for herself. She is proud of her autonomy and is tired of constantly proving to others that she is not capable of taking care of herself.

[goblinontour]

How To Disappear

he’s not fine

warnings: dad!alex, angst, baby blues, depression(ish), ed(ish), weight loss, a lot of body descriptions

word count: 9k

He was fine. Tired, yes. Of course, he was tired. But he was fine. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Everything was fine. You seemed fine to him too. Exhausted, sure, but managing. The baby seemed fine, peaceful most of the time. That’s what he told himself as well, over and over. 

But you knew better.

You were actually fine, or at least as fine as anyone could be with a newborn. The sleepless nights were part of it, but you had adjusted. You’d done your research, prepared for it. Tiredness wasn’t your biggest concern, not anymore. The baby was healthy, and you had grown used to her routine, even found small moments of joy in the haze. You’d even started calling her by the nickname he had chosen, hoping it would help shake him out of this strange fog that had settled over him. Hoping it would bring back the man you knew, the one who had been so eager to become a father, so present in those first few days. 

Something had changed.

He was home, technically, but you hardly saw him. He spent most of his time in the room that had quickly become “his space” in the house. He would shut the door behind him, and you never knew what he was doing in there. Writing? Playing guitar? Staring at the wall? You didn’t ask. You were too afraid of what you might disrupt if you did. He would only emerge to check on the baby, poking his head into the nursery, staying just long enough to reassure himself that she was still fine. Then he’d retreat. His absence felt more keenly than when he’d been on tour for months at a time.

The shift had been subtle at first. After the baby was born, he’d been so attentive, so gentle with both of you. But as the days turned into weeks, the distance crept in, invisible at first, but then undeniable. He tuned out, disappearing behind walls you couldn’t see but could definitely feel. And the longer it went on, the more afraid you became to call him out on it, to risk breaking the fragile peace that remained.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, you had convinced him to sit at the table for dinner with you. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was. It had taken a lot of convincing. And now, as the two of you sat across from each other, the normalcy of it felt almost foreign, as if you had to remember what it was like to share a meal together.

He was messing with his fork, absentmindedly pushing food around his plate but never actually eating. By the time your plate was empty, his was still full, though the food had been mashed into an unrecognisable mess. You watched him for a moment, your eyes tracing the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the far-off look that never quite reached you. 

“Alex.” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

His head jerked up like he hadn’t realised you were still there, as if he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone at the table. “Yeah?” His eyes met yours for a brief second before flickering away, settling somewhere over your shoulder.

You frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” he said, almost too quickly, grabbing his fork and finally taking a bite of the untouched food in front of him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He chewed mechanically, as if he could prove his point by going through the motions. But you weren’t buying it. You could see through the facade, the thin layer of “fine” that he’d wrapped himself in. You said his name again, quieter this time, but with more weight behind it. “Alex.”

He shifted uncomfortably, stabbing his fork into the plate a little harder than necessary. “What?” His tone was defensive, his eyes darting back to you. For a second, his expression seemed to waver, like he was on the verge of acknowledging something. But then, just as quickly, the wall went back up. 

You stared at him, heart heavy, wondering how he could think you wouldn’t notice. How he could think you were blind to this unravelling. He couldn’t be that oblivious, could he? You swallowed, the silence between you growing louder with every passing second.

But he didn’t say anything more. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he went back to pushing the food around on his plate, pretending like nothing was wrong, pretending like this was normal. 

But it wasn’t. And you both knew it.

You watched him for a long moment, your stomach twisting in knots at the sight of him. He was staring down at his plate like it was some unsolvable puzzle, his fingers playing absently with the fork, tracing circles through the mashed-up remnants of dinner. It was heartbreaking, really, how much effort he seemed to be putting into pretending everything was normal.

“Alex?” you said again, the weight of his name hanging between you like a question neither of you were brave enough to answer. He didn’t respond right away, didn’t even look up, and the silence felt suffocating. “Are you going to eat?” you asked, gentler this time, but firm. You were tired of skirting around it. Tired of pretending not to notice how he was fading away in front of you.

His fork stopped mid-motion, hovering above the plate for a second before he sighed and dropped it with a soft clatter. His fingers flexed, gripping the edge of the table as if he was grounding himself, holding onto something solid in this moment when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

“Yeah, I-” he mumbled, still not meeting your eyes. “I’ll eat…just…later.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. “No, you won’t.” you said quietly, but with certainty. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a truth you had watched unfold day after day, night after night. He’d been promising “later” for weeks now, but later never came. 

“I will.” he repeated, but it sounded hollow, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. His voice was tired, strained, like every word cost him something.

You shook your head slightly, your heart aching as you looked at him. “Alex, you never eat.”

“Yes, I do.” he said too quickly, his eyes finally snapping up to meet yours, defensive. His brows knitted together, his jaw tight as if he were preparing for an argument he didn’t really have the strength to fight.

“No, you don’t, Alex.” You could feel the tension in the air growing, but you couldn’t keep letting him pretend this was normal. That everything was okay when it wasn’t. 

He let out a sharp breath, one hand moving to rub at his face, fingers dragging down his cheek before falling limply to his side. His skin was pale, and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. The way he sat, hunched and small, made him look smaller than ever. “Don’t mistake me for our baby, please.” he muttered, his voice bitter, but the bitterness wasn’t directed at you. It was directed at himself, at the situation. He didn’t want to be like this, you knew that. But he didn’t know how to pull himself out of it.

The words stung, even though you knew they weren’t meant to hurt. You felt the weight of them settle in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. But you didn’t flinch. You just watched him for a moment longer, seeing the exhaustion, the frustration, the pain etched in every line of his face. 

After a few beats of silence, you spoke again, “Are you okay?”

His hand, which had been resting on the edge of the table, clenched again before he shoved it into his lap. He didn’t meet your eyes. “I’m just not hungry right now.” he said quietly, knowing full well that wasn’t really the question you were asking. His words felt like an avoidance, an excuse.

You sighed, watching him closely as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh like he was already half out the door. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, the sudden movement making the tension in the room feel that much heavier.

You took a slow breath, gathering your thoughts. “Alex, that’s not what this is about.” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m just…worried about you.”

He shook his head slightly, rubbing at his temples now, his eyes closing as if the conversation was too much for him. “Why?” he asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory. It was genuinely confused, like he didn’t understand why you’d be worried about him at all.

“Because…” you started, but your throat tightened with emotion. You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts, your hands trembling slightly as they rested on the table. “Because you never sleep. You never eat.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to brush it off, but you didn’t let him. “I sleep.” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. The dark strands fell back into place, dishevelled, unkempt. “I just…I wake up when she cries. That’s all.”

“No, no.” you said softly, shaking your head. “Don’t use her as your excuse. You don’t sleep. Not really.” You could feel your heart racing, the words spilling out faster now. “You just lie there, awake. I feel you. I know you don’t sleep.”

He blinked, caught off guard by how direct you were being. For a moment, he looked at you like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He just let his eyes fall back to the table, his hands gripping the edge harder, his knuckles white. 

“And you don’t eat.” you continued, your voice quieter now, but no less serious. “You’re so thin, Alex. You’re fading away.”

His eyes flicked down at himself almost instinctively, and for a brief second, you saw the acknowledgment in his expression. He looked at his arms, his chest, as if he hadn’t really noticed before. His clothes hung a little looser, and his skin was paler than you remembered. His body had become a reflection of everything he was holding inside which he refused to acknowledge.

But then he looked back at you, and the wall came back up. “I’m fine.” he said quietly, but there was something hollow in the way he said it. You both knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t fine. Not even close.

“Alex…” you whispered, but he turned away again. His movements were jerky, like he needed to get away from this conversation before it cracked him open completely.

“I’m gonna…take a shower.” he mumbled, already turning toward the door. His voice was strained, almost apologetic, like he knew he was running away from you but couldn’t stop himself.

Your heart sank as you watched him retreat. You hated the way he was pulling away, the way he kept disappearing behind walls you couldn’t break down. And you were scared that if you let him go now, you’d lose him a little more.

“Alex, please.” you called out, your voice catching on the words. He paused in the doorway, his back to you. “Please don’t leave now.”

There was a long, tense silence before he finally turned back around, his shoulders slumped like he was carrying the weight of the world. Sometimes it felt like he was. He walked slowly back to the table, stopping just in front of you. This time, instead of sitting, he leaned over the table, his arms braced against the edge, his face inches from yours. His eyes were tired, so incredibly tired, and there was something in them that made your heart ache.

“I’m here.” he said softly. “I’m here all day, all night. I take care of her, don’t I? I wake up…I change her…I hold her when she cries. I’m here-”

“I know.” you said, cutting him off gently before he could continue. “I know you’re here, but that’s not what I mean.”

He stared at you, confusion flickering in his tired eyes. “What are you saying, then?” His voice was a little sharper now, frustration creeping in.

“I’m saying…you’re not here.” you explained, your voice trembling slightly. “Not with me. Not with her. You’re in the house, but you’re not with us.”

He blinked, trying to understand, but the wall between you was still there. He shook his head slowly, rubbing his temples again. “I don’t…I don’t get it. I’m here, every day.”

“I know.” you repeated, your voice soft, but urgent. “But I’m worried about you, Alex. Because you’re not okay. You’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and I’m scared for you. I’m scared that you’re disappearing.” 

“I’m not disappearing anywhere.” he muttered, but his voice wavered. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” you said gently. “You’re not fine. And that’s okay, but you have to stop pretending. You have to let me in.”

His eyes flickered again, the cracks in his facade becoming more visible. For a moment, it looked like he might finally say something, might finally let you in. But instead, he straightened up, pulling back from the table, distancing himself again. 

“I’m gonna take a shower.” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he turned away.

You watched him walk down the hallway, your heart heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. You knew a shower wouldn’t wash away the distance between you or anything for that matter. It wouldn’t fix what was broken. 

Alex shut the bathroom door behind him with a quiet click, the sound too soft to match the storm building inside him. The room was dimly lit, the pale glow from the overhead light casting faint shadows on the tiled floor, and for a moment, he just stood there. Stood still. The silence was heavy, pressing down on him, his thoughts racing but going nowhere at the same time. 

He stepped in front of the mirror, not looking at it just yet. Instead, his hands came up to the hem of his worn, threadbare t-shirt, hesitating for a second before pulling it over his head. He let it fall to the floor beside him, almost as if it had burned his fingers. 

Finally, his eyes lifted to his reflection.

Your words echoed in his mind — You never eat, you’re so thin, Alex — and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to see what you saw. He didn’t want to, not really, but there was no avoiding it now. His body in the mirror was…unfamiliar. His shoulders hunched forward, his collarbone more pronounced than it used to be, sharp against the hollow of his neck. His chest had lost the softness it once had, and now, the lines of his ribs peeked through his pale skin, each bone visible with every shallow breath he took.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and he found himself moving closer to the mirror, like being closer would make it clearer, make it real. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into place as if mocking the chaos he felt inside. 

His eyes trailed down the length of his torso, his fingertips hovering just above his skin but not quite touching. His stomach appeared sunken in, the skin tight over his hip bones. His hips…God, his hips jutted out in a way they never had before. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to look like this. 

His fingers finally made contact with his skin, lightly tracing the sharp line of his ribs, testing the way they felt beneath his touch. It felt alien, this body he barely recognized. It reminded him of when he was a teenager, lanky and scrawny, back when he hadn’t yet grown into his body. But this was different. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He wasn’t some kid. He was supposed to be a grown man. A father.

He swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat almost painful. The more he looked, the more he couldn’t unsee. His hand moved lower, brushing over his stomach, thin, too thin, almost like his skin stretched tight over bone. His fingers traced the edges of his hips, the sharp angles unfamiliar, wrong. His palms flattened against his sides, as if trying to push everything back into place, but nothing moved. Nothing changed. 

You were right. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. You were right, and I hate that you were right.

But he didn’t hate you for saying it. No, he could never hate you for caring, for seeing what he refused to see. He hated that what you said was true. Hated that he had let it get this bad. That it had taken your words for him to finally face what he had been avoiding for weeks, maybe months. He hated himself for not being able to stop it, for letting himself wither away while pretending everything was fine.

His breath came faster now, shallow and uneven as he tore his gaze away from the mirror, unable to bear it any longer. His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button in a hurried, almost frantic way. He needed them off, needed to feel like he could breathe, like he wasn’t being suffocated by the weight of his own skin. 

He shoved his jeans down, kicking them off along with his boxers, the clothes pooling at his feet. And then he stood there, naked and exposed, more vulnerable than he had felt in a long time. His eyes flickered back to the mirror, and he stared at himself again, this time seeing more than just the sharp angles and hollow spaces. He saw the exhaustion written all over his body. The way his shoulders slumped, the bags under his eyes, the way his arms hung limply at his sides. 

His hands ran over his chest, down to his stomach, pressing lightly against the skin, as if he could somehow fix it. His fingertips traced the grooves between his ribs again, and his breath hitched, a sharp reminder of how fragile he felt beneath it all. His body felt…hollow. Weaker than it should. Every touch of his own fingers felt foreign, like he was touching someone else entirely, someone who wasn’t him.

He stared harder, forcing himself to see everything he’d been avoiding. The lines of his legs looked too long, too thin. His thighs, once strong, were now narrower than he remembered, and there was no avoiding it anymore. He was wasting away. 

His chest heaved as he took a shaky breath, his heart racing beneath the cage of his ribs. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, trying to will away the ache in his chest, the heaviness pressing down on him. But it didn’t go away. 

You never sleep. You never eat. You’re so thin.

Your voice echoed again, louder this time, and it cut through him, leaving him raw and exposed. You had seen this all along. You’d known before he did. He could hear the worry in your voice, the pain that came with it, and now he hated that he was the cause of it. 

Opening his eyes again, he looked back at his reflection, his throat tight, his skin buzzing with an uncomfortable, restless energy. He pressed his fingers into his sides harder now, almost as if testing himself, needing to feel something other than this hollow numbness. His hands shook slightly as they moved, brushing over his hips, his thighs, searching for something that wasn’t there. Some semblance of the man he used to be.

But he couldn’t find him. Not in this reflection. 

He took a step back from the mirror, his breath coming in shallow gasps now. He felt like he was cracking, piece by piece, and he didn’t know how to stop it. His hands moved to his face, covering his eyes for a moment as he stood there, naked and vulnerable, feeling like a stranger in his own body. 

I’m not fine. The admission came slowly, creeping into his thoughts like a cold realisation that settled deep in his bones. He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine for a while now. 

But now…now he couldn’t pretend anymore.

With one last glance at the mirror, he turned away, his hands still trembling as he reached for the shower handle. The sound of water rushing from the faucet filled the small bathroom, the steam already starting to rise, but it didn’t bring the comfort he was hoping for. Instead, it felt like another layer of pressure, another reminder of everything he couldn’t fix, of everything that was slipping out of his control.

He stepped into the shower, letting the water cascade over his skin, hoping it would wash away the guilt, the fear, the truth he had been avoiding. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t. Because now, he couldn’t unsee it. He couldn’t unfeel it.

You lay in bed, listening to the soft hum of the water running. It filled the quiet house like white noise, masking the silence you’d come to dread over the last few weeks. The baby stirred faintly in her bassinet beside you, her tiny breath rhythmic and steady. You should’ve felt a sense of calm, with her peaceful and the house quiet, but instead, the silence felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Home wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It used to be warm, full of life, full of him. Now it felt like you were living with a ghost, an Alex-shaped presence that lingered but didn’t really exist in the same way anymore.

When the water stopped, it left an unsettling stillness in its wake. You waited, expecting to hear him step out of the shower, the sound of wet feet padding on the tile, or maybe the creak of the bathroom door opening. But there was nothing. 

The minutes ticked by, each one dragging longer than the last. You sat up slowly, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, staring at the hallway that led to the bathroom. There was a knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

“Alex?” you called softly, unsure if he’d even hear you. No answer. The house swallowed your voice.

You stood up and crossed the room, your heart beating a little faster as you approached the bathroom door. “Alex?” you called again, knocking gently, your knuckles barely making a sound on the wood. Still, nothing. 

You pressed your ear against the door, trying to hear something, anything. Silence.

Panic surged in your chest as you knocked harder, your voice louder this time. “Alex! Are you okay?”

Inside, he heard you. He heard every word, every knock. The muffled sound of your voice penetrated through the fog of his thoughts, but he didn’t respond right away. He was sitting on the cold tile of the shower, his back against the wall, water dripping from his hair and down his bare skin. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them. The towel he’d intended to dry himself with lay discarded in a wet heap on the floor just outside the glass door. He was completely bare, the water from the shower still clinging to his skin, goosebumps covering his arms from the cool air. He felt frozen. Paralyzed by a mix of exhaustion, fear, and shame.

Your voice came again, more insistent. “Can I come in?”

He wanted to answer but couldn’t find his voice. His mouth opened, and a quiet “yes” slipped out, so soft it barely reached his own ears. He cleared his throat, forcing the word out louder. “Yeah…come in.”

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside. The warm steam from the shower still lingered in the air, making the room feel even smaller. You looked around, your heart sinking when you didn’t see him standing by the sink or drying off. Then your eyes drifted to the shower, and through the fogged glass, you saw him, sitting on the floor, huddled, his back against the tile, his body stark and exposed.

“Alex…” you whispered, stepping closer, your heart breaking at the sight of him. He looked so vulnerable, so fragile in a way that terrified you. His skin was almost ghostly under the bathroom lights. His hair clung to his forehead, wet strands sticking to his face, and his knees were drawn up tight to his chest, his arms hugging them like they were the only thing keeping him together.

This was the most of him you’d seen in weeks. He looked almost fragile, in a way that made your heart ache. You realised how much of him was disappearing right in front of you.

Your mind flashed back to the last time you’d seen him shirtless. A couple of weeks ago, maybe. He’d been trying to do the skin-to-skin bonding thing with the baby, holding her against his chest, having read somewhere that it would be good for both of them. He’d been so earnest about it, so hopeful that it would help him connect, help him feel more present. But after a few tries, he’d given up. He’d told you it wasn’t working, that it wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. And then…he’d retreated. Just like this.

You opened the glass door slowly, the hinge making a soft squeak as it moved. He didn’t flinch or move. His head was resting against the tile behind him, his eyes staring blankly ahead, as if he didn’t quite register your presence yet.

“Al?” you said again, kneeling down beside the shower, your voice soft but laced with concern. The cool tile pressed against your knees as you leaned in closer, your hand hovering near his arm but not quite touching him yet. You didn’t want to startle him. “Talk to me. Please. What’s going on?”

His eyes flickered to yours for the briefest second, but the connection was fleeting. His gaze dropped again, falling back to his knees as though he couldn’t bear to hold your eyes for too long. He took a shaky breath, his lips parting, but the words came slowly, like they were caught somewhere deep inside him.

“I...I don't know.” he muttered, his voice raspy and raw, barely louder than a whisper. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You could see it in the way his hands gripped his own legs, his fingers trembling slightly, his knuckles stark white from the pressure. His body seemed like a stranger’s, angular and frail in ways that frightened you. He was always thin, but this...this was different. You’d never seen him like this, so...depleted.

“I...I don’t sleep.” he continued, his voice breaking, the words spilling out like they’d been bottled up for too long. “I try, but I just...I just can’t. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like...it’s like I’m drowning or something. And I’m so tired-” His voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed hard again. “But I can’t stop. My mind...it just keeps going, and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

His hands twitched, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on his knee, as though the movement could somehow ground him, keep him tethered to something real. 

“Every time I look in the mirror...I don’t know who I’m seeing anymore.” he whispered, his voice so quiet it nearly broke your heart. “I...I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know why I can’t...why I can’t just be normal. I just-” He stopped abruptly, his voice catching in his throat, and you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes as his breath hitched. “I don’t know how to be anymore. I’m trying, I swear I’m trying to be here, to be good for you, for her, but...but I just...I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Alex…” you whispered, your hand finally moving to rest gently on his arm. His skin was cool under your touch, and you could feel the faint tremor in his muscles. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He shook his head, the wet strands of his hair falling into his face, sticking to his forehead. "I feel like I’m...I’m failing.” he stammered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Like...like I’m not enough. Not for you, not for her. I- I keep trying, but I feel like no matter what I do, it’s not...it’s not enough.”

His hands were trembling more visibly now, his breath coming quicker, more uneven. His lips pressed together in a thin line as though he was fighting to keep himself from falling apart completely.

“I look at her...at her little face.” he continued. “And I want to feel something...anything. But I just...I don’t feel it. I look at her, and I don’t feel what I’m supposed to. What kind of father doesn’t feel anything? What kind of person am I if I can’t even-” His voice broke again, and he let out a frustrated, shaky breath. “What if...what if I never feel it?”

“Hey.” you said softly, the weight of his words sinking into your chest like lead. You scooted closer, your hand sliding down to his wrist, feeling his pulse beating frantically beneath his skin. “You’re not failing. You’re doing the best you can, okay? And...and sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

His breath hitched again, and he shook his head, as though trying to shake the thoughts away, but they clung to him like shadows.

“I don’t eat,” he muttered, “I don’t sleep. I- God, I can’t even hold her without feeling like I’m gonna...I’m gonna drop her. I’m so fucking-…and I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I don’t know who I am.”

The frustration in his voice was palpable now, the tremble in his hands growing worse as he spoke. His eyes darted to his reflection in the glass of the shower door, and he let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humour. “Look at me.” he muttered. “Just...just look at me. I look like…”

He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face, but it just fell forward again, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide and glassy as though he couldn’t quite process everything he was saying.

“I used to feel...I used to feel like I knew who I was, but now...now I don’t know anymore.” he admitted, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to be this person- this...this father, this...I feel like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim or something.”

“Alex, look at me.” you said, your hand tightening around his wrist. “You’re not drowning. I’m here. I’m right here with you. You’re not alone in this.”

He blinked rapidly, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “I don’t...I don’t know how to stop.” he whispered, his voice so small, so fragile. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

You shifted closer to him, your free hand moving to cup the side of his face. His skin was cold and damp under your palm, but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a brief moment as though he was seeking some kind of relief, some kind of solace in your presence.

“We’ll figure it out.” you whispered, your thumb brushing softly over his cheekbone. “We’ll figure this out together. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

He opened his eyes again, meeting yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability there took your breath away. He looked lost, so lost, and it hurt you to see him like this, to see him so weighed down by his own thoughts, his own fears.

“I just don’t want you to hate me.” he admitted, his voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t want you to think I’m...I’m broken or something. I don’t want her to grow up and think her dad didn’t love her.”

Your heart ached at the rawness of his confession. “I could never hate you, Alex. And she’s never going to think that. You love her. I know you do, even if it doesn’t feel the way you expect it to right now. That’s okay.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I don’t want to be like this anymore.” he whispered, his voice so soft, so full of pain. “I just...I want to feel normal again.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, your hands cradling his face. “You will. We’ll get through this.”

You felt the tension in his body slowly start to ease, the rigid lines of his frame softening just a little as he allowed himself to lean into you, to take comfort in your presence. His breath was still shaky, his hands trembling, but for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t pulling away.

“I’m scared.” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

“I know.” you whispered back, your throat tight. You could feel the lump rising, threatening to choke you as you looked at him. Really looked at him. The toll it had taken on him was undeniable now, physically, emotionally, every part of him seemed weighed down by an invisible force that you couldn’t touch. 

“I don’t want to be like this.” he whispered again. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” He glanced away, ashamed, his hands pulling back to shield himself, even though he didn’t have the strength to keep up the charade anymore.

You shifted closer, moving carefully onto the edge of the shower, the cold tile biting into your legs. Reaching out, you gently took his hand. His fingers were ice-cold, his grip weak and uncertain, but he didn’t pull away this time. He held on, as if you were his last tether to something real. 

“I don’t care what you look like, Alex.”

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though your words were almost too much for him. He stayed silent, struggling to find the words, before speaking again, so softly you had to strain to hear him.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.” he muttered, his fingers tracing aimless shapes against the tile beneath him. 

“I know.” you whispered, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s quite terrifying.” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to be a dad.” His voice wavered as he let out a breath. “I feel inadequate…for feeling like this.” he murmured, his hand slipping from yours. “Like I have the nerve to feel like this. I shouldn’t- I don’t have the right to feel this way. You’re the one doing all of this right, and I’m just-” he hesitated, his throat tightening with emotion, “I’m a failure. I can’t even be there for you the way I should.”

The room seemed impossibly still. You could see the weight of his expectations pressing down on him, the pressure he put on himself to be perfect, to live up to some ideal he couldn’t even define.

“I didn’t even have to do anything.” he continued, his voice cracking. “All I needed to do was be there for you. Just be someone you could rely on. And I can’t even manage that.”

“Alex…” you started, but he shook his head.

“No.” he said, voice stronger now. “You’re doing everything, and all I had to do was- was be there. Just be there for you. But I can’t even do that right.” 

“You’re not a failure.” you said. “You’re allowed to feel this way. It doesn’t make you weak or inadequate. It makes you human.”

He let out a short, humourless laugh, but the tears in his eyes told you it was anything but funny to him. “Human, maybe. But not good enough.” He wiped at his face roughly, as if angry with himself for even letting those tears show.

“You are good enough.” you whispered, moving closer to him, the warmth of your body brushing against his. “You’re not a failure.” you repeated, trying to break through the wall of doubt he’d built around himself. “You’re not. It’s okay to feel this way, Alex. It’s okay to be scared.”

He shook his head, his lips tightening into a thin line as if trying to hold back everything he was feeling. “But it’s not, though.” he argued softly. “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t feel like this when you’re the one who’s doing everything. You’re carrying the weight, and I’m just…falling apart.”

“You’re not falling apart. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. This isn’t easy, for either of us. But you are here. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have all the answers.”

“But I feel like I should.” he whispered. “I should be able to handle this. I should be able to be strong for you. And I can’t. I’m not.”

You scooted closer, pressing your forehead to his, the warmth of your breath mingling with his. “You’re strong, Alex. You’re stronger than you realise.”

For a moment, he was silent, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on the floor, as if he were searching for the right words to say. Then, almost hesitantly, he squeezed your hand back into his, the grip tighter than before. 

“I just… I don’t want to let you down.” he whispered faintly. 

“You’re not letting me down.” you reassured him softly, your thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand. “You never have. And you won’t.”

“I just wish I could believe that,” he admitted.

“I believe it.” you said, pulling him into you, your arms wrapping around him. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breath shaky against your skin. “We’ll get through this, Alex.”

For the first time in weeks, he leaned into you, letting his body finally sag, the fight draining out of him. His arms moved around you weakly, and you pulled him even closer, feeling the cool dampness of his skin against your chest, his back trembling under your touch. He felt so fragile in your arms, like he could break at any moment.

“Come on.” you murmured after a few moments of holding him close. “Let’s get you off the floor, okay? The tile’s freezing.” You tried to coax him up, your hand slipping under his arm, fingers gently tugging, but he resisted immediately, stiffening as if the very idea of moving was too much.

“No.” he mumbled, pulling back from your touch, his body curling tighter into itself. His knees were practically pressed to his chest, his arms a locked cage around his legs. “I don’t want you to see me like this. I can’t.”

“Alex...” you began softly, but he shook his head, more urgently this time, his dark hair falling into his eyes, a shadow over his face. 

“I don’t want you to see me like this.” he repeated, voice cracking as he dipped his head down further, hiding his face. “I- I’ve been hiding it. Hiding...this. You don’t need to see it.”

He was usually so composed, so in control. To see him like this, terrified of his own reflection, it made you hurt for him. He was curled up so small, almost disappearing into the cold tiles beneath him, his limbs drawn in like he was trying to disappear entirely, trying to erase himself from the space between you.

“I’ve already seen you. I know you. You don’t need to hide from me.” you reached out, resting your hand on his forearm. You could feel him, cold and clammy under your fingers. 

He flinched at your touch, eyes squeezing shut like he was bracing for something — judgement, pity, disappointment. “But I don’t...I don’t look like me anymore.” he muttered. “I look wrong. I feel wrong, feel like I’m disappearing. I don’t know how to stop it.”

You moved your hand to his cheek, gently lifting his chin so he would look at you, but his eyes stayed firmly shut. He was still trying to hide. You sighed, brushing his damp hair out of his face. ”You’re not disappearing, Alex. You’re still here. You’re still you. Maybe you don’t feel like yourself right now, but I see you. I always see you.”

His breath hitched in his throat, a shaky exhale that trembled through his whole body. He didn’t pull away from your touch this time, but he didn’t lean into it either. His eyes remained closed, his brow furrowed with an inner turmoil that was palpable.

“Please, Alex. Just come with me. Stand up with me. You don’t have to say anything, just- just stand up.”

His eyes opened, barely, the dark lashes wet from tears he hadn’t let fall. He looked at you with a kind of quiet desperation, as if he was clinging to the possibility of hope, though it felt foreign to him. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. He just stared, searching your face like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. The movement was so subtle you almost missed it.

“Okay.” he whispered, his voice fragile.

You stood first, gently pulling him with you. He hesitated, his legs unsteady beneath him, but you kept a firm hold of his hand. It took a few moments for him to plant his feet on the cold tile, and even then, he wobbled, like a newborn deer, unsure of how to hold himself up. 

Without a word, you grabbed a towel from the hook and began drying him off, your movements a little rough, but not unkind. You started with his shoulders, rubbing the towel across his skin in brisk strokes, the fabric catching on the droplets of water still clinging to him. His body stiffened slightly at the sensation, but he didn’t pull away. He was too exhausted for that now.

“You’re freezing.” you muttered as you worked your way down his arms, his chest. The coldness of his skin made you pick up the pace, trying to warm him up as quickly as possible. He stood there, eyes closed, head down, his body swaying slightly as you ran the towel over him, drying the moisture from his back and stomach, moving with an efficiency that matched the urgency you felt.

When you reached his waist, you wrapped the towel firmly around his hips, tucking it in so it stayed in place. He let out a shaky breath, one hand gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself, the other still loosely holding onto your arm as though he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

He leaned heavily against you, his arm slung over your shoulders as you guided him out of the bathroom. The cold air hit him as soon as you stepped into the hallway, and he shivered, pulling himself tighter against your side. You could feel how drained he was, how every step seemed to take all the effort he had left. His fingers were still shaking, his breathing uneven and laboured, but he let you lead him. Despite how fragile he seemed, that felt like a small victory.

Once you reached the bedroom, he stopped, standing there for a moment. His hands hovered at his sides, trembling slightly. “I...I want to get dressed now.” he mumbled. 

You nodded, trying to be gentle. “Do you want me to help you with that?” you offered, reaching toward the clothes you’d set out for him earlier, something soft and easy.

His reaction was immediate, defensive. “No.” he snapped, his voice sharp. “I’m capable of putting on some fucking clothes.” 

His hands balled into fists at his sides. You stilled, not sure what to say. He was still too. You could see the regret flicker across his face almost as soon as the words left his mouth. “I’m sorry.” his voice quieter now, ashamed. “I didn’t mean...I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t respond, just stood there, his shoulders sagging. After a moment, he turned toward the bed and started slipping into the clothes, his movements slow and stiff, like every part of him hurt. You stayed quiet, giving him space as he fumbled with the fabric, pulling the T-shirt over his head and stepping into the sweatpants. 

He collapsed onto the mattress as soon as he was done, his body sinking into the sheets. All the energy had drained out of him. His head hit the pillow with a soft thud, and he let out a long, shaky breath. You sat down beside him, brushing your hand through his hair gently, the silence between you thick but comforting enough now, after everything there was to say was said. 

He closed his eyes again, but this time, it wasn’t to hide. It was more like he was letting go, surrendering to the exhaustion he’d been fighting for so long.

“I’m sorry.” he mumbled after a moment.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” you replied, your hand still gently stroking his hair, trying to keep him from slipping any further into the despair that had a hold on him.

He was quiet for a long time, his brow furrowed like he was fighting an internal battle. Then he asked it. “How do you do it?”

You blinked, taken aback. “Do what?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. “How do you...how do you love her like that? So easily. It looks so...effortless, when you do it.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stared at the ceiling, avoiding your eyes, as if he was ashamed to even ask.

“I think...I love her.” he continued, his voice wavering. “I do. I really do. I just don’t know how to...show it, or- or feel it the way you do.” He trailed off, his voice cracking on the last word, and you could see the tension building in his body again, like he was bracing himself for something.

You waited, giving him space to find his words, to figure out what he was trying to say. After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time, almost like he was afraid of the answer. "Will you...will you hug me?” 

You moved to wrap your arms around him, but before you could, a cry pierced the quiet. Her small, desperate wail filled the room, and you felt him tense under your touch. His whole body seemed to curl in on itself, and he buried his face into the pillow, trying to block out the sound, or maybe the world altogether.

“I’ll get her.” you whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before you got up. You crossed the room, lifting her from the bassinet and cradling her to your chest. Her cries softened almost instantly, but she was still restless, her tiny hands clutching at your shirt as she nestled into you.

You returned to the bed, sitting down beside him with her still in your arms. You gently rocked her, and after a few moments, her soft whimpers quieted, her little body relaxing against you. You glanced down at him, his face still buried in the pillow, his shoulders shaking slightly.

“Do you want to hold her?” 

He just stayed still, his breath shaky and uneven. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he shifted, rolling onto his back. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale, but he nodded, just barely.

You carefully placed her on his chest, her tiny form resting against him, her head tucked under his chin. His hand came up, almost instinctively, to rub gentle circles on her back, but his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. 

He didn’t look down at her, couldn’t make himself meet her gaze. Not tonight. Not now. But he held her, his hand moving softly, rhythmically, trying to convince himself that he was doing something right. That he was enough. 

You nestled in close to him, sliding your hand over his where it rested gently on her tiny back. The weight of his fingers shifted slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb continued its slow, circular motions, as though the action itself was soothing not just her but him, too.

“She reminds me of you.” you whispered. 

His eyes flickered, still staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, she looks like me.” he muttered, his voice a little tired and a little flat.

You smiled softly and shook your head. “She does, but that’s not what I meant.”

He blinked, his gaze drifting downwards, though he still didn’t look directly at her. “What do you mean?” His voice was quieter now, more uncertain.

“She reminds me of you in little ways.” you began, feeling the warmth of her tiny body against both of you. “Like how she never sleeps with socks on. Just like you refuse to. No matter how cold it gets.”

A weak chuckle escaped his lips. “I think that’s just a baby thing.” 

You nudged him gently with your shoulder, smiling. “I like thinking it’s a you thing.”

His hand paused for a moment on her back, then he let out a long, deep sigh, the tension easing just a little from his shoulders. He turned his head toward you, pressing a soft kiss on top of your hair. It was gentle, barely a touch, but it was full of everything unsaid he couldn’t yet put into words.

You tilted your head up, catching his eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. Neither of you moved, just holding each other’s gaze like you were relearning something familiar, something you thought you might’ve lost.

And then, slowly, you leaned up, closing the space between you. Your lips brushed his, testing the waters. But when he didn’t pull away, you pressed deeper, soft and full of everything you’d been holding in. It wasn’t about passion or heat right now.

His lips moved against yours, gently, almost cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it but needed it all the same. When you finally pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a moment longer.

“I missed that.” you whispered, resting your forehead against his, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

He nodded, barely moving, but you could feel it. “Me too.” he murmured. 

He lay there quietly for a while, holding the baby on his chest, her little body rising and falling with each breath. His hand, still resting on her back, moved slowly, and you could feel him starting to relax, his muscles losing the tension that had held him so rigid all night. You stayed pressed close to him, your hand resting over his, but now your eyes were focused on his face. There was something shifting in him, something fragile but hopeful, and you watched as he finally, hesitantly, let his gaze drift down toward her.

His breath hitched a little as he looked at her. Really looked at her, maybe for the first time in a while. His free hand slowly came up, trembling just slightly as he reached out. He hesitated, hovering over her cheek, as though afraid he might break something if he touched her. Ever so gently, he let his fingers brush against her soft skin, tracing the curve of her cheek, the softness of her nose, his thumb lightly brushing over her tiny lips. She stirred a bit, making a small noise, and he froze, but when she settled, he let out a soft breath and continued, his eyes never leaving her.

“She’s so small.” he whispered. “I forget how small she is sometimes. I keep thinking she’s…fragile.”

“She’s stronger than she looks.” you said softly, watching the way his face changed as he took her in. “Just like you.”

He shook his head slightly, as if disagreeing with you, but didn’t say anything. His hand kept moving, tracing the shape of her little ears, the delicate arch of her brow. “She has your nose.” he murmured, almost to himself. 

“I think she has your eyes, though. When she opens them, sometimes she gives me this look, like she’s thinking deep thoughts, like you.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He let his fingers linger on her cheek a moment longer before finally looking up at you. “I…” He paused, his throat working to spit out the words. “I love you.” His gaze flicked between you and her, like he was trying to say it to both of you at once. 

It was the way he said it, the way his voice cracked just a little, the way he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment after the words came out, like it took everything in him to say them. It wasn’t just a simple “I love you.” 

Your breath caught for a second, and you squeezed his hand. “I love you too.”

His eyes flickered back down to her, and his hand resumed its slow, gentle movements on her back. “I love her too.” he said, his voice quieter, but filled with the same emotion. “I do. I just...don’t know how to show it yet.”

“She knows.” you whispered, pressing your forehead gently against his. “Even if it doesn’t feel like you’re doing enough, she knows. You’re her dad, Alex. That’s enough.”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly. When his voice broke the silence, he whispered. “I’m going to be better. I promise.”

You squeezed his hand again, resting your head on his shoulder. “You already are.”

a/n: I don’t know what I’m even doing here. It went on way longer than I intended at first but here we are. I don’t know if it makes any sense but I liked writing it. Also can you tell my posts get more depressing when I’m not feeling the best? Lol. Besides the point. I don’t even know why anyone would read it but I’m posting it anyway. Also it made me think of Mr. Turner, a bit. It’s not written with him in mind but I could see him being like this as well. Obviously if you don’t like it just pretend it doesn’t exist and let me live. Sorry.

tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica

[that-ari-blogger]

Don't Die for Love. Live for it. (Out For Love)

There are a ton of similar phrases and words in our languages.

This is not a hot take. The concept of a synonym is far from mine to discover, but I want to dwell on the specifics. There is a reason we have multiple words and phrases, the subtle differences in meaning and tone are suited for different situations.

“Crimson” and “red” differ in specificity, and “sanguine” has other connotations that change the vibe slightly.

Again, this is pretty basic stuff, but I would like to use it as a jumping off point because of one specific nuance.

There is a pretty majour distinction between “I would die for you,” and “I would live for you”.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD: (Hazbin Hotel)

Ok. First up, a little thing. This song uses an ABAB rhyming scheme with two exceptions that I will get to in a moment.

“I see you're driven by your detestation

Your every step is stoked with animus

You need a different type of motivation

Or there's no way that you can handle this”

Rhythms and rhymes serve a very similar purpose in poetry and song. They guide you through the story and set the pace and feeling.

Like a key in a song. Everything in the song fits a few notes that provide grounding. When the key shifts, so does the mood. Likewise, when the rhyming scheme changes, the mood follows.

I am fascinated by the simplicity of this song's staging. Episode seven is by far the most traditional of a musical as Hazbin Hotel gets, with the crowd work call to arms of Ready For This, and the mentour duet dance of Out For Love, and the simple staging calls back to that.

Animus is a weird word, right? As in, who besides me and my horribly scuffed dialect has ever used this in common conversation?

In terms of definition, the word has three (technically four, but I don’t want to talk about Jungian Psychology) meanings; Hostility or ill feeling, motivation to do something, and the rational mind.

These are vaguely similar ideas, but not entirely, but we can use context clues to pick up on which meaning Carmilla is inferring.

Most obviously, she told us a line earlier. Driven by detestation. So “animus” in this context means hostility. But there is an argument to be made for motivation.

There is an absence of specificity in the line preceding. Detestation for what? For angels? For Vaggie herself? Is animus in this context Vaggie’s desire to get herself killed?

The tone is different from a typical pep talk, isn't it? Hazbin Hotel is a satire, and here we get a twist on the mentour. Usually, the third act breakdown consists of all your friends telling you that everything is fine actually and being reassuring. We will see how Ready For This shakes up that, but here it is played remarkably straight. With one exception: If you wanted sympathy, you came to the wrong place.

This also fits really well with the detestation idea, but it doesn’t exclude the self-destruction angle, it just reframes it. Because we know Vaggie is “out for blood”, so any blaze of glory motivation needs to exist in concert with that.

“I know you're thirstin' for vengeance, Vaggie

You're out for blood

But you'll only stand a chance if you're out for love”

I refer to Whatever It Takes, in which Vaggie assigned herself as Charlie’s armour, dehumanizing herself for someone else’s dream. Charlie didn’t ask Vaggie to do this, and I don’t think Charlie knows that this is how Vaggie feels. But, Vaggie is willing to throw her life away for someone else. Vaggie is willing to die for Charlie.

But is she willing to live for her?

Which brings up an interesting question: What is this song talking about? It’s title, chorus, and bridge all spout the phrase “out for love” like it means something, and what exactly is that?

“Out for love, love

Think of who you care about, protect 'em and be

Out for love, love

You're gonna fight without gloves

And when that push comes to shove

Yeah, you just might rise above, long as you're out for love”

Clearly, it is something to do with using love as motivation, but Vaggie has already been acting out of love. Is this just a cookie cutter proverb?

I would argue that it relates to my core thesis. i.e. Vaggie’s relationship with her own life and what love means.

Vaggie is a soldier first and foremost. She is someone who has been told day after day that her life means nothing. She is to give herself to the cause. Even though she can’t be killed, her role is to give her life for someone else’s war. She is a tool.

She was even made to wear a mask just to make sure nobody could mistake her for a person with free will and decision-making skills. It was the crime of removing that mask that got her into hell. The crime of being a person.

Even when she leaves that toxic environment and starts life with Charlie, that mindset sticks. It’s not conscious, but it’s how she has been taught to see the world. Do you ever examine the way in which you walk?

Dying for someone is quick. It is a single decision. Living for someone takes time and dedication.

Living for someone is protecting them time and time again. It means being there for them and getting them out of the way of a bullet rather than stepping between it. Living for someone is self-sacrificial, sure, but not self-destructive. That is an important distinction.

It is not toxic to love and be loved in return. It is toxic to be required to love and to receive nothing. It is toxic to be told to die for a cause.

Vaggie doesn’t know the difference, so she assumes all affection works the way it did in heaven.

The Crane Wives are the unrivalled queens of metaphor and complex emotions. Am I biased in this declaration? No. No I am not. Definitely not biased. What are you talking about? No biases here.

Specifically, their song Nobody works in a really similar way to Out For Love.

It has a similar rhyming scheme. ABAB, with the chorus falling into a couplet that ends each phrase by repeating a single idea.

But this song is about a toxic relationship that the perspective character is unable to leave for one significant reason.

Throughout the song, you listen as the protagonist tries to reconcile the disparate parts of her lover.

“Tender as a bruise, sharper than a razor.”

She is begging with her subconscious to let her out, but love is a fickle thing and can be corrupted into a carrot or a stick.

“Nobody ever loved me like she tells me she does”

Tell don’t show. There is no actual love in this song, it is just the idea of it. Ostensibly, there is no difference, but there is a difference in phrasing, and a difference in tone. We know it is fake, but the protagonist doesn’t know any better.

The song breaks all rhyming and rhythmic conventions that it has established for one brutal moment to make this abundantly clear before it lapses into defeat in the final chorus. When everything changes, your mind is reset and you remember the different part more clearly. It’s like a key change.

Vaggie doesn’t know better. Dying for someone is better than nothing, right? That’s love, what doesn’t hurt a little bit?

“I should be counting blessings

Something is better than nothing

Isn't it, isn't it, isn't it?

It's close enough to perfect

What does it hurt, a little bit?

A little bit?

A little bit?”

Hazbin Hotel is tragically short. It needed at least two more episodes to get where it wanted to go, so it found loopholes. It implied a lot of its story, and while that didn’t work for everything, there are some elements, like Vaggie’s story, that I found really compelling.

I mentioned that Out For Love is structured similarly to Nobody, and that continues here. Before the final chorus, Carmilla keeps her rhyme scheme going, but messes with the pace of the song entirely.

Fear of losing. Don’t die, essentially. If you live for someone, you are a better fighter and a better warrior. If you have something to live for, then you have a win condition, you have something to achieve. If you are just trying to get killed, then you lose either way.

“Fuel yourself with the fear of losin'

That somebody who's your reason to live

Harness your heart, and you can't help choosin'

To fight with all you can give.”

The song emphasises it’s point to get you to remember it, and then, after all that, we get the key change.

For the majority of its runtime, Out For Love has sat comfortably in C majour. But for the final chorus, it rises in pitch and settles into D flat majour, which carries a sense of victory to it as Vaggie finally gets the message.

She needs to live for love, only then can she truly be someone’s guardian angel.

Final Thoughts

I don’t like that Vaggie got her wings back at the end of this song.

I will defend this song from any hater you throw at me. If you tell me it sounds bad, I will disagree with zeal. If you tell me it’s redundant in the narrative, I refer you to the 1400 words that I have written to the contrary. But I cannot defend the wings thing.

It’s a shame, because I really like this song and think it is unfairly maligned in the Hazbin fandom. But I think its final moments ruin it. I think having Vaggie as visually distinct from the angels in silhouette, keeping her ribbons in the place of the wings, would have made the rest of the series so much more visually interesting, and the fact she got her wings back takes the teeth out of her fall for me as a story beat.

Next week, I will be covering Ready For This, and the extras that teach Charlie about redemption. So, stick around if that interests you.

Previous - Next

[frostbitemutt]

Hello!

Can you do platonic yandere (high honor) john and abigail with a darling who helps with their ranch from time to time and they view them as their kid?

Platonic! Yandere! John and Abigail Marston with Ranchhand! darling (RDR1)

Warnings: Gender neutral darling, manipulation, coercion, intimidation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, guilt tripping, kidnapping, slight infantalization of darling, murder mention

❆ I'm assuming you're probably a neighbor. Neighbors kid maybe. At least 18 around a year or two older. An adult technically yes, but still younger, still not quite ready to leave on your own. Maybe you stayed behind to help your parents and family. Maybe you inherited their home. Main gist is, you're probably a lot younger then the Marston's.

❆ You decide to offer them some help around the ranch. For some pay more than likely, maybe for free, they accept the help. You don't seem like a theif.. although an eye will still be kept on you the first couple times you help. Especially around their boy. John sitting on the porch and watching you like a hawk. Don't try anything funny or this man will tackle your ass.

❆ Once they realize you're actually helpin ans not a scam artist or conman, they welcome you back, they aren't gonna turn down extra help. Especially if it's for free. Jack dosen't mind help with his chores either. As they'll work alongside you. You're not gonna do all the work by yourself. They're not absolute jackasses.

❆ Course that leads to something everyone definitely loves. Small talk. Abigail, John, even jack will blabber back and forth to you as you spend more time there. All the different degrees at a different paces. John and Jack being the slowest to warm up. Abigail being the quickest.

❆ The yapping dosen't stop after you leave for the day. Nuh-uh. They talk amongst themselves. You seem so nice. A Saint even. Jack's even asking them when you'll return. Soon Abigail and John are reminiscing, they wonder if their dear daughter had grown up if she'd been like you (regardless of your gender identity). Was this what it would've been like for Jack to have a sibling? Had the lord given their lost child back to them in the form of you?

❆ They certainly think so. They start to appear at your house. Inviting you over. Waving you down everytime they saw you. You start to notice John in town more. Showing up where you are. Surely he's just out running errands too? It's just a lil coincidence that he parked his horse right beside yours outside the saloon.

❆ They invite you inside their home. For dinner. For games. For anything. Insisting it may as well be your home too! Prying for personal information throughout these little hangouts. You got friends? Lovers? Family that they may not already know of? Have people hurt you? They're just looking out for you as your parents.

❆ They do it in a way that's not obviously invasive. Just subtle questions. Often brought up by discussing their own experience. Seeing if you'll pitch in or react to what they're relaying to you. Taking notes from there.

❆ Anwser yes to any of those questions? Oh no, what's this? Your partner is suddenly breaking up with you? Friends moving away? Family kicking you out.. or maybe passing mysteriously. Poor thing. Don't worry. John and Abigail will welcome you with open arms. Smiling when you break down in front of them. Not that they'll ever let you see it.

❆ It's not clue who did it. John just went and exchanged some friendly words with them.. or if they were firm on sticking by ya, a bullet. Abigail turns a blind eye for the most part. Even if she bickers with John a bit about the killing part.. but alas she's just as deep in the obsession as her husband. They're just protecting you they excuse it as.

❆ They urgently offer you whatever you need. Almost eager to do so. Soon enough they're making you stay the night. John's blocking ans pulling you away from the door. It's late. You shouldn't walk home by yourself. Why are you so hesitant? Do you not trust them? They've put so much trust into you. You're hurting their feelins.

❆ They start moving your things from your house into theirs.. despite any protests. Clearly you're not doing well. They're just trying to help you like you have them. You clearly aren't quite fit to live on your own.

❆ You already spend so much time here. It's so clear you want to be here. They want you here too. You and Jack get along just fine. You two are like siblings. You spend more time here then you do your own home.

❆ Any protest of independence is met with a lotta guilt tripping, coercion, bribery, and maybe even intimidation from John. Subtle ways. Standing in front of the door, hovering over you when you're outside, and a threat of force if you keep trying to leave.

❆ Now being said, if keep on insisting you're oh so independent, John will show you you're not. He'll stalk you around,until you get attacked, or stage an attack against you. Maybe even cause you a minor injury. See what happens when you go out on your own? You weren't even out here for a day.. and look what's happened. Soon you're hogtied to the back of the horse. With promises that they'll tend to you.

❆ Soon you're stuck back in their home. Set up in your own room. All your belongings they deemed important.. aside from some very needed legal documents of yours. Top it all off with a new fancy lock on the outside of the door and no windows.

[entishramblings]

The Scorpion of Sarn Ford [Aragorn/F!Reader]

A.N: the amount of weird shit I had to google for this….my FBI agent definitely thinks I’m planning some fucked up crap.

Inspired: this fic was inspired by @estelofrivendell ‘s fic A Change of Heart. I adored the Assassin/Ranger relationship and had to put my own spin on it!

Pairing: Aragorn X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Scorpion of Sarn Forn is a notorious assassin. Much to Strider’s dismay, they are both hired for a job.

Disclaimer: I tried my best with geography, once again, it isn’t my best subject. heh!

Word count: 8.2k (idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, humor that will have you peeing, blood, torture, death, murder, brief insinuation to sexual abuse (side character), creepy men that get what's coming to them, a little bit of spice, brief shirtless aragorn. this sounds very dark but I promise you its good, besides: shirtless aragorn. duh.

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

Aragorn never thought he would be in this position. He never even anticipated such a scenario. It was, quite frankly, entirely unfathomable. Not once did it cross his mind that he might be in the same city as her, much less be forced to sit next to her at The Black Falcon Tavern and Inn with a potential contractor. You see, The Scorpion of Sarn Ford—or as Aragorn preferred to refer to her as: the heinous hellspawn that middle-earth would undoubtedly be far better off without—was a notorious assassin. She made her coin from slipping into the shadows and slaughtering her targets, leaving no trace besides a corpse—still warm from the blood that once ran through it. The men of the south-west were wise enough to be wary and the rich of such lands were stupid enough to empower her with their dark wishes. She’s rumored to have a body count in the hundreds, including kings and queens. Though, that is not how she acquired her title.

Percaric Rothswood, one of the richer dukes of Anfalas, sat with them at a table in the back of the tavern. The Ranger and the Scorpion occupied the bench alongside the wooden wall, granting them both a clear vantage point of the entire establishment, while Percaric sat in a chair across from them. Aragorn's arms were folded, a small blade discreetly nestled up his sleeve, and his ale remained untouched on the table. Yet, the assassin reclined casually at his side, her dark cloak draped loosely enough to unveil the myriad of weapons adorning her attire, with two empty pints before her and a third in her hand.

The peculiar grouping drew the attention of onlookers—it was indeed an unusual gathering, particularly with the presence of the infamous Scorpion of Sarn Ford, and her form specifically beside Strider. Nervous and inquisitive gazes, hushed conversations, subtle nods, and even more overt glances from passersby and bar-sitters were all directed towards the pair. If a meeting like this were to take place, something must be going down.

“So, what’s this job, Percaric, that requires a ranger and a shrew,” Aragorn gruffed, his scowl as deep as the sand pits of the eastern coast.

The woman beside him snorted. “A shrew. Just what a lady wants to be called.”

He shrugged. “An argumentative, ill-tempered rat. I see no difference between it and you.”

She raised a brow, twisting her head to look at him. “Technically a shrew is a mole.”

Aragorn sent her a glare in response.

She huffed at him. “A mole that will die if it doesn't eat every two to three hours.” She picked up her ale and took a swing. “That sounds nothing like me.”

“You reckon so? I bet if you didn't get new gold to chew on in that exact time frame you would also die of pompous deprivation.”

A deep chuckle escaped her throat as her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. She turned to quip back an insult; however, Percaric nervously interrupted the hostile hires.

“Well, uh, you see, it's quite a delicate matter. The-the job, that is. My client doesn't want his indiscretions aired out among the common folk because, well, uh, the matter is quite sensitive and—”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, Percaric.”

The man exhaled through his nose, nervously patting the table. “Right, right, very well then.” He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my client, his daughter was taken by someone of high prestige and, well, he would like her back.”

Aragorn leaned back in the chair. “Why doesn't he just pay the ransom then? Instead of hiring someone to take her back. There is a ransom isn't there?”

“Of course, of course. But, well, you see, this daughter, ehem, she’s bastard-born. His wife doesnt know that she exists and he would like to keep it that way. Paying the ransom directly would cause too much attention. Like I said, he wants this discreet.”

Aragorn sighed, his morals pulling hard on his heart. “How old is the girl?”

Percaric winced. “Fourteen.”

The Ranger cursed under his breath. “She’s just a kid.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you see, that’s why my client asked for you, Strider. Not many would want to help a bastard daughter.”

The Scorpion leaned in. “Then why did he ask for me as well?”

Percaric’s face twitched. “Well, uh, Scorpion, there’s a matter a bit more delicate involved that requires your skill.”

She raised her brows.

“My–my client’s daughter is quite beautiful. Well, we can only assume what is being done to her by her captor during her stay. He, well, he wants the perpetrator killed.”

She snorted, leaning back into the wall behind her. “Why not make Strider here do it?”

The Ranger clenched his jaw. “He should be imprisoned, rotting in a cell for his crime.”

“Ah,” she started. “You would bring him in instead of kill him, and that would mean a trial.” She winked at Percaric. “Too public for this client of yours.”

An anxious and awkward giggle-like breath left the man’s lips. “Precisely.”

“So, where is she being kept?” The Scorpion asked.

The duke glanced around him before leaning in and letting his next sentence come out as a whisper. “The tower of Eastemnet.”

“Eastemnet?” Aragorn confirmed, wide-eyed and surprised. “But that would mean—”

“Lord Theovail,” the assassin interjected. “One of the richest, well-guarded men in Arda.”

Percaric bit his lip. “Yes, yes. Now, well, now you see why my client asked for you, Scorpion of Sarn Ford.”

Aragorn huffed, hot air coming from his nose, as he shook his head—now finally reaching for his ale. “We will take the job,” he stated reluctantly.

“Oi! Not so fast,” the assassin interjected. “What’s the pay?”

The Ranger shot her a glare. “A girl, a child, is being held prisoner, and you worry of pay?”

She glared right back at him before turning back to Percaric. “The pay?”

He cleared his throat. “Three hundred pieces of gold up front and another three hundred upon your return of the girl, alive, and proof of Theovail’s death. Though you will have to split it, I’m afraid.”

She raised her hands with a tilt of the head. “Fine by me.” She turned, flashing a devilish grin to the man next to her. “Let us go hunt a girl-snatching arsewipe, Strider.”

He offered no-response other than a scowling side eye.

“Fantastic,” Percaric replied, taking two coin pouches out and plopping them on the table.

The assassin was quick to snatch up one of the bundles, standing, ready to take her leave.

Aragorn, however, let his finger drift over the coin. He glanced up at Percaric. “What’s her name?”

The man’s expression softened. “Calista, daughter of Lord Kassim.”

Aragorn nodded, grasping onto the pouch. “We will bring Calista home.”

……

The pair had been traveling for approximately two weeks at this point, and their interactions during this time were characterized by sparse conversations intertwined with numerous glares and disdainful expressions. In those few moments when words were exchanged, they were often heated disagreements concerning which path to follow, strategies for infiltrating the tower, or debates over the responsibilities of meals. It was, quite frankly, the most miserable trek across Arda that Aragorn had ever taken upon. But it wasn't until they were passing through the gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais, that they met any trouble.

An arrow, coming from the mountain’s rocky side, whizzing past Aragorn’s ear was the first sign of danger.

He whipped his head around. “Scorpion!” he called out in warning, his eyes meeting the assassin’s for a brief moment.

She drew her dual silver blades only seconds before a small pack of goblins began descending. She was quick to behead the first goblin whose feet hit the grassy pass they walked through.

“Goblin’s from the Mountains,” she hissed.

Aragorn too drew his sword. “They shouldn't be this far south! They stay up near Ehu Daur and Moira!” He drove his blade through one of the beasts, swinging around to slice another.

“Well, clearly, they dont give a fuck as to where they should or should be!” The Scorpion quipped back as she brought one of her blades through the neck of one of the creatures. “On your left!”

Aragorn twisted his body just in time to block a blow from a rusted scythe.

The assassin dodged the next beast that came at her and sprinted towards the biggest one. She was quick to push herself into the air, flip over the goblin, and slice its throat before her feet even landed on the ground.

She looked up to see the two final goblins, one in match with her companion and the other approaching his back.

The woman moved quickly. Her feet carried her towards the beast who held its blade above Strider’s head. Just before it was to be brought downward, she yelled out a war cry and grasped onto the few hairs the creature had. She yanked hard. The goblin fell backwards onto the ground and she pounced on top of him, sending her blade through his heart—his pungent blood spraying across her face, neck, tunic, and leather armor.

With heavy panting breath, she stood and turned to face the Ranger who had slayed the final beast. Kicking the corpse of the one she had just killed, she spoke. “Only nine. A scouting team. More will be coming upon their lack of return. We gotta get a move on.”

Aragorn’s lips were parted in surprise, realizing that he nearly lost his life. Surprising the assassin, he spoke words that she never would have thought to leave his lips for her. “Thank you, Scorpion.”

She raised her brows. “I have a name, you know, Strider.”

The Ranger turned away from her, continuing along their path. “I don't care to know it,” he gruffed out, his brief sincerity from moments before disappearing.

She snorted, calling out to him regardless. “It’s (Y/N).”

“Don’t fall behind, Scorpion,” he replied.

She huffed, her irritation obvious, before jogging to catch up with his wide strides. “I don’t like you very much either, but if we're gonna be on this job for a while, you could at least not be a dick.”

“Coming from the rudest and most corrupt person I have ever met, that's rich.”

She chuckled loudly. “Wow. Rude, okay, I deserve that. But corrupt? That’s a bit far-fetched.”

He stopped walking, twisting to glower down at her with disgust. “You truly think so? Let’s talk of why they attach the massacre of Sarn Ford to your name. You killed dozens. Women. Children. Innocents. All for what? Gold! Corrupt is too kind a word for you. Wicked, diabolical, vicious is more like it.”

(Y/N)’s brows shot upward as a pained and frustrated laugh thundered in her chest. “Really? Do you even know what was happening in Sarn Ford?!”

“They were farmers! Common folk! Living off the land in peace and you…you slaughtered them!” he yelled.

She got in his face, her hot, angry breath burning against his skin. “THEY WERE ALREADY GOOD AS DEAD, STRIDER!”

“How could you even say that?” he replied, horrified.

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, before focusing back on the man before her. “A disease was making its way through their village. Incurable. Painful. An alchemist, who had been working for weeks to try and find anything to help them, hired me. There was nothing to be done for them except extend a hand of mercy. To give them a good, painless death.”

Aragorn stared at her, his brows pulled together with shock in his gaze.

The assassin clenched her jaw. “I had mothers plead with me to end their child's life while cradled in their arms, only to follow them into death. At least, that way, they could die together.” She looked up at him, her tone privy with rage. “So, yes, Strider, feel free to bestow upon me any epithet you see fit."

He was silent, his shock radiating into the wind around him. Quietly, he spoke again, “How did you not get sick?”

She exhaled slowly. “The alchemist instructed me to wear cloth over my face and cover all skin but my eyes. Once the deed was done, I burned everything I wore and paid for new clothes with gold born of their suffering.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, compassion in his gray eyes. “I am sorry. Doing such a thing mustn't have been easy. It was an execution of mercy.” He turned, continuing once more. “Though the tales of your other kills aren't so kind. Come along, Scorpion. There’s a town a couple days ahead.”

(Y/N) snorted, anger seething in her bones, but followed him nonetheless.”

…..

The pair strode towards the Inn, located not far from Gondor’s borders. They forcefully pulled the door open, unveiling a noisy uproar of laughter and boisterous shouting, mingling with the lovely odors of urine, sweat, and stagnant ale. Creating such an environment, one the Scorpion and Ranger were used to, were the disheveled bodies of inebriated men.

With a mischievous grin, (Y/N) expertly navigated through the crowd, leading Strider to a secluded table nestled in a dim corner. It wasn't long before the arrival of steaming platters of meat and bread arrived, along with two pints of foamy ale, both of which they heartily devoured. The Scorpion raised her hand, beckoning the barmaid over and placing an order for two more pints—both of which she downed, much to Aragorn's evident disapproval.

After releasing a loud belch, she casually swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then rose to her feet. “Gonna go get some air,” she grumbled, her balance momentarily unsteady as she gained her footing. Aragorn, in response, merely offered an exasperated roll of his eyes.

The assassin maneuvered through the bustling throng of men, slipping through the sea of people before pushing through the doors. The sudden rush of frigid tranquility enveloped her skin as she stepped into the embrace of the night. With a deliberate intake of breath, she allowed the crisp air to fill her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tilted her head upwards, letting the misting drizzle of rain kiss her skin. The sound of the tavern was muffled, and the echoes of the celebration they passed down the road drifted into the air. Though it was subtle, for it didn't drown out the sounds of the singing crickets or the croaking frogs. It was peaceful. Well, that is until a form slammed into her and pressed her against the wall.

The smell of ale-laden breath and sticky sweat filled her nostrils as her eyes shot open. Her gaze, fueled by adrenaline, locked onto the burly figure before her—a man with a rugged orange beard—who had forced himself upon her.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in a dangerous place like this?” he asked, a knife held to her throat.

She snarled up at him. “Oh, you're about to find out—”

Before she could make a move, however, the man was suddenly struck from the side, his body sent sprawling onto the weathered, muddy path.

As (Y/N) peeled herself from the wall, her hand instinctively reached for the slight gash on her neck. Meanwhile, the bearded man found himself seized by the throat, forcefully hoisted upward, and pressed hard against the unyielding stone.

“Do you even know who that is?” Strider uttered sharply.

A chuckle escaped the lips of the man, his bloodied lip spraying a fine mist of red onto Aragorn's face. “You’re whore?” he sneered.

With an unrelenting grip on the man's throat, Aragorn pulled him several inches away from the wall, only to slam him back against it once more. The impact elicited a grunt from the man. "The Scorpion of Sarn Ford," Aragorn hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with restrained fury.

The assailant’s laughter was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah and I'm the fuckin’ King of Gondor.”

The Ranger clenched his jaw, ignoring the secret dig the man's comment produced. “You know why they call her that? Hmm. The Scorpion? Scorpions incapacitate their prey with venom, paralyzing them before they deal the final blow. That woman over there? She severs her targets’ spinal nerve, rendering them unable to move before subjecting them to her torture and kill. And the worst part? She doesn't even need them paralyzed. She gets off from witnessing the terror in their eyes as they're rendered helpless.”

Another laugh escaped the man, but as his gaze shifted towards (Y/N), his amusement faded. The assassin now held a dagger, twirling it in her fingers, a sinister grin stretching across her features.

He turned to look back at Aragorn, the color now drained from his face. “Ye’ c-cant be serious,” he stammered.

The Ranger merely lifted his brows and tilted his head.

Driven by desperation to escape the woman beside them, the man started to shove against Aragorn. However, a single forceful punch to his jaw rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing onto the mud once more.

“I had it handled,” the assassin stated.

Aragorn shot her a stern glare before responding bluntly, "Sure, you did."

The woman emitted a snort, yet settled into a squat beside the man, her dagger poised.

The Ranger, however, was quick to grab her by the wrist, successfully stopping her actions. "Are you out of your mind? We can't kill him. That's the last thing we need – drawing attention to ourselves."

With a huff of mild exasperation, she sheathed her blade. "Fine." She then nodded to the black horse tethered nearby, gesturing with a nod. "That's his horse. Saw him dismount as we entered. Bring it here."

Aragorn frowned, confused, but did as she asked.

“Alright,” she stated, gathering the man’s arms in her hands. “Help me with his legs.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Strider, just grab his damn legs.”

Exhaling audibly, the Ranger complied, reluctantly gripping the man's ankles. With a coordinated heave, they hoisted the man up from the muck. After a few groans and sighs, he was draped over his horse's back.

The Scorpion then took the leather strapping of the saddle and began binding the man’s hands and feet to it. She nodded to the young maple tree behind the Ranger. “Get me a large twig from that. Bout a foot tall. Keep the leaves on it.”

“What?” he hissed, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Strider, would you just get the branch,” she urged impatiently.

Another loud, reluctant exhale left his lips, yet he trudged toward the tree and pulled off what she requested. He approached her, holding out the twig.

“Ah, thank you,” she acknowledged with a grin, accepting it from him.

With that she moved to the side of the horse, close to the man's legs. She seized the waistband of his trousers and gave it a yank, reaving his bare ass.

“Scorpion,” Aragorn chided.

Undeterred, she grinned, sticking the small branch between his ass cheeks so it stood upright, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.

“Seriously?” he gruffed out, his arms crossed.

(Y/N) looked at him with a wicked smirk. “You hear that party still going on down the road? I think they would appreciate some impromptu entertainment.” With that, she smacked the horse's rear and, with a brisk snort, it took off down the path.

Not even a minute passed, when they heard the shouts of anger and amusement funneling from the gathering.

Strider turned to glare at her, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with irritation. He grasped onto her bicep and pulled her towards the doors. "Get inside the damned tavern, quickly."

A loud, hearty laugh flew from her throat, yet she allowed him to pull her along.

Engulfed once again in the clamorous atmosphere of the inn, Aragorn wasted no time in steering her towards the bar. “You can't just put a branch up the arsehole of a person that pisses you off,” he hissed under his breath.

She grinned unapologetically. “Sure, I can.”

He blew hot air out his nose, opting to withhold a retort. With a determined demeanor, he maneuvered them through the crowd of men, navigating as close to the counter as he could get. "Barkeep," he called out, projecting his voice. "Two room keys."

The man approached them with a shrug. “Only got one room left.”

Aragorn huffed. “Fine. Well take it.”

With that, the Ranger deposited three gold coins into the man's palm, secured the key, and then swiftly tugged the Scorpion alongside him as they grabbed their bags and ascended the creaky wooden staircase.

They approached their door, marked the same as the key, and it swung open under Aragorn’s touch. Within, the room exuded a chill darkness, accompanied by a faint draft slipping in through the slightly cracked window. The space appeared quite sparse, furnished with nothing but a small dresser, a modest table accompanied by two chairs...and a solitary bed.

A muttered curse escaped the Ranger's lips as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the table. "I'll take the floor."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Really, Strider? It’s the one night we get the option of having a bed. As long as you stay on your side, I don't mind sharing.”

“Fine,” was his gruff response.

With that, the pair began getting comfortable for the night. Aragorn lit the worn down candle, its feeble golden glow illuminating the area, proving slightly better light as he dug through his bag. Meanwhile, (Y/N) shed her cloak and vast assortment of weapons, earning a skeptical glance from the Ranger. Yet, when she began to unfasten the tightly-worn leather armor that clung to her figure, his reaction was far more dramatic. "What on earth is that stench?!" he blurted out, recoiling.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember those goblins? Yeah, I got an unexpected bath in their blood.”

“That was days ago. You reek,” he retorted. He strode over to the dresser, opening drawers until he came across a gray towel. Returning to the table, he picked up the pitcher beside the candle and gradually poured water into a small basin, also provided. After submerging the towel and wringing it out, he flung the damp cloth towards her, which she easily caught. “Clean yourself up.”

She shrugged once more. Turning away, she shed her shirt and let it drop to the floor. Her swift movements were focused as she wiped her face, neck, and chest, cleansing her skin of the grime that clung to it.

Though Aragorn didn't intend to look, his gaze inadvertently flicked towards her silhouette against the wall. It was then that his eyes fixed upon her bare back, adorned with a network of vivid, angry scars. He’d seen scars like that. He knew what they were from: torture.

“(Y/N),” he whispered sincerely, his steps leading him closer to her form. “What happened?”

Hearing her name for the first time from his lips, she was caught off guard—her heart skipping a beat. The simple utterance carried an unexpected weight, a rare vulnerability that seemed to momentarily freeze her in place. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood still, her mind racing to process the unfamiliar tone from him.

His touch was tender as he raised his hand to trace the lines on her skin. “Who did this to you?” he growled.

Brought back to the present, she instinctively recoiled from his touch. "I'm an assassin. I've earned my fair share of enemies," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. Shifting her gaze over her shoulder, she met his eyes. "Have an extra shirt? Mine's beyond saving."

"I, uh, yes. Yes, of course," Aragorn responded, seeming to realize the sudden intimacy of the moment. He retreated to his bag, rifling through its contents until he procured a cream-colored tunic. He tossed it to her. "This should suffice."

“Thanks,” she grumbled, pulling it over her head.

(Y/N) approached the table, the Ranger's shirt engulfing her smaller frame. The fabric's loose drape hung off her shoulder. If she wasn't such a menace, Aragorn would have thought that she looked cute in his clothes.

Ungracefully, she deposited the damp towel on the tabletop before proceeding to yank off her boots and socks, placing them with a deliberate thud upon the chair nearby. “We are not that far from the tower of Eastemnet. Perhaps a two day journey or so. However, our predicament remains unchanged: we don't have a solid strategy. We don't have any floor plans. We don't know how many guards will be stationed. And we don't know where the girl is being kept. We are gonna be going in blind—”

“You’re bleeding,” he interjected, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a scratch,” she dismissed casually.

Aragorn grasped onto her jaw, lifting her chin up to take a better look. "A seemingly insignificant wound could easily become infected, Scorpion," he asserted, his tone insistent.”

She pulled her head from his grasp with a snort. “I’m fine, Strider.”

He crossed his arms, an unyielding resolve in his expression. “If we are breaking into Lord Theovail’s tower and stealing from him, I'd prefer my partner not succumb to infection-induced delirium, potentially endangering both our lives." Swiftly, he nudged the empty chair towards her. “Now, sit down, Scorpion.”

(Y/N)’s brows lifted, followed by a teasing expression that animated her features. “Oh? So I'm your partner now?” she quipped, her tone laced with playful amusement. "What happened to the 'vicious shrew killer that you would rather leave tied to a tree,' as I seem to recall you once calling me?"

He glared at her. “Sit, or I will leave you tied to a tree.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked, allowing herself to sink into the chair with her legs casually sprawled and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Aragorn dug through his bag, pulling out a couple small tins and a tiny glass bottle. Grasping the towel, he located a clean section and dipped it into the basin. Squatting down between her legs, he lifted the towel to her neck. "Chin up," he instructed, and she obeyed without protest. Gently, he began cleansing the wound, meticulously removing dirt and debris from the area. Next, he uncapped the small glass bottle. "This might sting," he warned.

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing as the alcohol was poured upon her neck. Aragorn gently dabbed the liquid away. He then opened one of the small tins, extracting a dollop of green goo.

“What is that shit?” (Y/N) asked.

“Athelas leaf paste.”

“Athelas leaf?” she echoed, seeking further clarification.

“Kingsfoil. Athelas is the elvish word for it,” he replied simply, his attention focused on gently applying the paste to the wound.

She raised her eyebrows. “Elvish, huh. You're full of surprises, Strider. Where’d ya learn that?”

“Shush. Be still.”

The Scorpion rolled her eyes, but complied as he completed the task.

Standing up, Aragorn rinsed his hands and addressed her once more. "We can devise a plan for the tower tomorrow. Right now, we need rest."

(Y/N) sighed, nodding in agreement, as she too stood. She made her way towards the bed and pulled back the thin sheet, eager to climb into the softness of a mattress—regardless of how old and worn it was.

The gentle sound of air extinguishing the candle was succeeded by the enveloping darkness that reclaimed the room. Soon, Aragorn’s footsteps followed. She discerned the rustle of fabric as, presumably, he removed his shirt. The bed then creaked gently as he settled beside her, lying on his back.

She, resting on her side away from him, let her eyes close. There she laid, for a moment, before shifting. Then she shifted again. And again.

“Stop moving, Scorpion,” Aragorn grumbled, his patience waning.

“I can’t get comfortable!” she retorted.

“That’s because you keep moving.”

“It’s cold and you're stealing all the blankets.” With a determined tug, she seized more of the fabric, leaving Aragorn with a minimal share.

He merely exhaled audibly, opting for a wordless response. At the very least, she had ceased her constant fidgeting.

Aragorn remained awake during the initial hours, unable to find slumber. (Y/N)'s breathing had swiftly settled into a rhythmic pattern after she commandeered the majority of the sheets, though her small unconscious movements kept interrupting the perceived tranquility. Occasional, soft whimpers escaped her lips, her brows furrowing with evident distress. In truth, Aragorn found himself uncertain of how to respond. He held onto the hope that the disturbances would cease on their own, perhaps that whatever troubled her dreams would eventually pass. And eventually, it did stop, but not without an unexpected turn of events.

The Ranger's senses jolted as the Scorpion’s frigid form rolled towards his side of the bed, seeking refuge in his warmth. Although she had mentioned feeling cold earlier, the intensity of her chill surprised him. The wave of uncertainty that washed over him did not leave as her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Initially, the thought of infection taking hold crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it; her skin would have been hot to the touch if that were the case. It only took seconds for him to realize that the draft from the cracked window was striking her side directly. With a sigh of reluctance, he tentatively encircled his arm around her, drawing her in further.

In her state of deep slumber, she instinctively nestled into him, drawing a slight skip from Aragorn's heart. He cast a cautious gaze downward, taking in her appearance.

She seemed so different—distinctly separate from the notorious assassin he knew her to be. There was an innocence, an unexpected purity, about her in this moment that rendered her almost unrecognizable. Gone was the perpetual scowl that often marked her features. Instead, her face had relaxed into a gentle expression of repose, free from the tension. Her lips, adorned with the faintest hint of a pout, moved slightly as she drew each breath, almost as if he warded off the nightmares that had plagued her.

In this vulnerable state, the Scorpion seemed untainted by her reputation, stripped of her fearsome persona. The layers of her identity, usually shrouded in crude comments and sharp weapons, had fallen away. It revealed that the facade that she showed the world was just that, a facade. A good one at that though. Even Aragorn—a man well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature—hadn't thought it would be a mask; but her story of Sarn Ford was the first thing that revealed its possibility to him. It was as if the walls she kept built had crumbled away, allowing him a glimpse of the person beneath the lies. And, until sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to savor this glimpse—to see her beyond the assassin.

When the first light of dawn began to filter in, (Y/N) stirred, wrapped in the warmth and safety that had cocooned her during the night. She hesitated to peel open her eyelids, savoring the sensation. However, as her senses roused to full awareness, a gentle yet distinct rhythm reached her ears—the steady thud of a heart beating beneath her. In an instant, her eyes shot open, and a surge of apprehension raced through her.

Beneath her, Strider's form lay, his chest rising and falling in slumber. Anxiety tightened her chest and clawed at her throat. Reacting instinctively, she sat up abruptly and, fueled by adrenaline, threw a punch at him.

A resounding groan of pain escaped his lips as he scrambled to sit up, his expression twisting in both surprise and discomfort. "What the hell, Scorpion?!" he managed to sputter, his hand instinctively reaching to dab at his lip.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” she retorted sharply.

He glared at her, his irritation obvious. “I did. If you would take a moment to observe your surroundings, you would see you are in fact on my side of the bed.”

Wide-eyed and perplexed, she twisted her upper body around, casting a glance over her shoulder. As the reality of the situation dawned on her, she faced him once more. Her eyes filtered over his form briefly, taking in his muscled biceps and defined abs. Her expression then turned into a deeper scowl. “Fuck off!” she snapped.

He only stared at her, bewildered.

….

Under the shroud of darkness, the Ranger and the Assassin stood at the base of the tower of Eastemnet on the south side. Concealed within the protective embrace of the tree line, they had spent approximately three hours observing the guards' patterns and identifying vulnerabilities in the tower's defenses. There they had hidden two steeds that (Y/N) had procured for them at the inn—most likely through theft, though Aragorn didn't want to think of that—allowing for a quick escape with Calista. Strategically, they discreetly knocked out all the guards on the outposts, binding and gagging them, for they knew the element of surprise would be their only bet. So, now they stood, with a pretty loose plan, ready to steal back what Lord Theovail had taken.

The Scorpion grasped onto the vine that entwined itself along the stone surface of the tower. A swift, assessing tug confirmed its stability. Her gaze shifted briefly to the man positioned behind her. “About two hundred feet to the top. Best guess, that’s where Calista is being held.”

He nodded. “After you.”

The Scorpion adjusted her grip upon the vine and she initiated her ascent. Aragorn doing the same only minutes after.

They moved in a synchronized rhythm, the sound of their breaths and the faint rustling of vines mingling with the night's stillness. Each handhold and foothold was chosen with precision, the texture of the stone under their fingertips guiding their progress.

(Y/N)’s movements were fluid and practiced, evidence to her agility and experience. Her lithe form seemed to dance with the contours of the tower, making it look easy. Aragorn, not as accustomed to such endeavors, displayed a determination that rivaled his unease. His powerful muscles flexed and strained as he pulled himself upward, his eyes never straying far from the path she took.

After what felt like hours, the assassin spoke. “Nearly there, just a couple more feet.”

Aragorn only grunted in response.

The woman firmly gripped the vine adjacent to the windowsill, positioning her feet against the wall in a manner resembling a vertical walk. This facilitated her upward movement as she pulled herself closer to the window. Yet, as her head reached the level of the glass, she swiftly withdrew, instinctively lowering herself. In an unfortunate circumstance, the unconventional stance she maintained resulted in her ass colliding with Aragorn's face.

He groaned. “Really, Scorpion?! Really?!”

“My bad,” she huffed out. “Hold on a second. I think someone is in there.”

“Yeah, hopefully Calista.”

She resumed her ascent, then promptly lowered herself again. This time, Aragorn effectively maneuvered his head to the side, evading her buttocks.

Regardless of this, he shot her a glare—not that she would be able to see it.

“It was a maid.” she whispered. “I think we are in the clear now.”

With that, she heaved herself up for a final time and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Duck your head,” she commanded. With as much force as she could muster, she brought the blade against the glass, tucking her face into her elbow. It shattered, falling around them both like deadly snow.

The Scorpion pulled herself upward and through the window, careful not to be pierced by any stray piece of glass, and Aragorn did the same.

The room was small, but decorated to the extreme. The prominent feature was the bed, elevated upon a platform, its tall wooden posts adorned with a luxurious velvet canopy that cascaded in graceful drapes. The mattress was covered in ornate blankets and quilts, complemented by an array of plush pillows. However, any semblance of beauty was starkly contradicted by the grim sight of chains extending from the wall and ensnaring the wrists of a young girl, shattering the room's facade of luxury.

Immediately, Aragorn ran towards her side. “Calista,” he murmured gently. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Calista's golden hair framed a face that appeared worn and defeated. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze void of life. Her voice emerged as a feeble whisper. "Who are you?" she inquired softly.

Standing steadfast in the center of the room, (Y/N) maintained her posture with crossed arms. Her unwavering gaze fixed on the imposing wooden door that likely remained locked from the other side. “Your father sent us.”

Aragorn carefully manipulated the cuffs that bound Calista's wrists, gingerly freeing her from their constricting hold. "I'm Strider," he introduced himself, his fingers working skillfully. "We're here to help. Come.”

As if entranced, Calista began to sit up, struggling to rise from the bed. Aragorn extended his support, assisting her onto the floor. However, her weak frame proved too fragile to sustain itself. She leaned unsteadily against him, her body unable to bear its own weight.

The Ranger looked to his partner. “She’s too weak. There's no way I can scale down the wall with her on my back. She won't have the strength to hold on."

The Scorpion uttered a quiet curse. “You will just have to come with me to find Theovail.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We can't bring her near him.”

“Well, we don't have any other choice,” she snapped. “But as soon as I kill him, we will have to haul ass. His guard will be coming for us then—if they don't already know we are here.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Fine. Get that door open.”

With that, the Scorpion set to work picking the lock and Aragorn scooped Calista up in his arms, her golden head nestled into his chest. It wasn't long before the group was creeping down the tower, level by level. The Scorpion led the way, ducking behind walls and maneuvering around pillars, making sure the way was clear. When they came across a guard that was blocking their escape, she was quick to slice his throat and pull his body out of sight.

“Scorpion, why you can't just knock them out?” Aragorn whispered with exasperation.

She, dropping his legs as she stuffed him into a closet, glared at him. “And risk having him wake up and alert others? I think not."

He huffed, knowing she was right.

However, their path forward soon encountered a challenge they couldn't evade as easily. Just as they were on the verge of turning a corner, a young maid's panicked voice pierced the air. “The-the girl. She’s gone!”

(Y/N) slammed her back against the stone wall, Aragorn doing the same.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’??!” A deep male voice thundered.

A shared realization passed between (Y/N) and Aragorn—Lord Theovail had now entered the fray.

“FIND HER!” he snapped. “Or it will be your head!”

The servant scurried down the hall, running right past the Ranger and Assassin who slunk into the shadows with their charge.

(Y/N) cautiously peered around the corner. The room before them was every bit as lavish as the one that had imprisoned Calista, if not more so. A roaring fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows that danced across the two plush velvet couches by it. Luxurious fur blankets adorned each sofa, hinting at Theovail’s rich indulgence. A sprawling fur carpet lay before the fireplace, while an ornate wine cart laden with deep reds was conveniently placed nearby. And there, infuriated, stood Lord Theovail himself, a glass of crimson liquid in hand, his temper fuming. To make matters worse, his guards were positioned near the room's exit—the very door that Aragorn would need to pass through in order to escape with Calista.

The Scorpion drew her knife, sending Aragorn a look. It was time. In a hushed tone, she whispered to him. “When you hear it’s over, take her and run to the doors. I'll be right behind you.”

He nodded in agreement.

She then disappeared into the shadows. Not even a minute passed before Aragorn heard the thumping of two bodies, one right after the other, followed by the telltale crash of a shattering wine glass meeting the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Theovail’s voice thundered, a mix of surprise and outrage lacing his words.

Aragorn cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding. Lord Theovail was now a whirlwind of fury and frustration, his gaze darting in every direction and a knife clutched in his hand. “I am not one to indulge in games!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he brandished the blade. “Reveal yourself, you coward!”

Within seconds, the Scorpion’s blade was poised menacingly at Lord Theovail's throat, her grip firm and unwavering as she held him in check from behind. Her voice dripped with a sinister malice as she spoke, her words slithering through the air like a venomous serpent. “Lord Kassim sends his regards.”

A broad chuckle bubbled from Theovail's lips, mingling with a mix of disbelief and arrogance. “A woman?! Kassim sends a woman to kill me?!”

Aragorn watched as the assassin drew another blade from her lethal arsenal, the steel glinting in the dim light. He winced inwardly, knowing what was about to unfold. In one swift, calculated motion, the Scorpion's blade found its mark, slicing deeply into Theovail's spine. The lord's body crumpled to the floor, staining the pristine white fur carpet with a gruesome red pool. His once-commanding presence now reduced to stillness. Though his eyes, wide and drifting in panic, showed his fear.

She then sat on top of him, bringing the blade to his neck once more. The Scorpion's lips curled into a chilling grin, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. “Not just any woman. You ever hear of The Scorpion of Sarn Ford?”

Instantly, a tidal wave of horror engulfed Theovail's blue gaze, his previously defiant demeanor shattered like the fragile glass of Calista’s window.

He knew the legend. He knew there was no escape for him.

However, at that moment, a large, burly guard burst in. Seeing what was unfolding, he was at his Lord’s assistance in a flash. His hand grasped onto the assassin’s hair, yanking her form from Theovail.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, giving her a moment before he intervened.

The collision sent shards of glass and splintered wood flying as the guard and the Scorpion crashed into the wine cart, locked in a fierce struggle. The guard, towering in his size, managed to regain his footing first and hauled the Scorpion up with him. His meaty fists struck out, landing brutal blows that drew crimson from her nose and brow.

The Ranger cursed. Quickly, he sat Calista upon the ground and rushed to his partner's aid. Unsheathing his blade, he lunged into the fray. His sword found its mark in the guard's back, the steel emerging through the man's stomach. Time seemed to freeze as the guard's bloodied gaze locked with the Scorpion's, a moment charged with shock and shared disbelief. The guard crumpled to the ground, revealing Aragorn.

With a swift motion, Aragorn twisted his blade downward and reached out to grasp the Scorpion's face, his hands marked by a blend of relief and fear. The touch, both tender and urgent, brought her gaze to his. Blood marked one cheek, while the other felt the cool press of his blade's hilt against her skin. His deep voice, a mixture of anxiety and care, called out her name. "(Y/N)," he stated, the word a lifeline that pierced through her dazed state.

"(Y/N)," he spoke once more, the urgency remaining. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, forcing a response. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.”

Aragorn released a sigh of relief, yet his hand remained for another heartbeat, a reassurance in the form of touch. "Take care of Theovail. I will get Calista," he instructed, his hands finally and reluctantly withdrawing as he moved to tend to their young charge.

The rest was a blur: (Y/N) slicing Theovail’s throat and grabbing his ruby ring, Aragorn hauling Calista into his arms, and the trio racing down the tower's corridors—fending off any obstacle that dared to stand in their path. Adrenaline drove them to the treeline, panting breath heavy and loud, as they climbed upon their horses and took off into the night—leaving behind the bloody assassination of the Lord of the Eastemnet Tower.

…..

Weeks later, at three in the morning, the trio stumbled into The Black Falcon Tavern, where they first met with Percaric. The establishment was eerily quiet, save for the slumbering figure of the barkeep, who had succumbed to the late hour with his head on the counter. At the far end of the room, Percaric and Calista's mother stood, their figures illuminated by a flickering candle on the table. An air of anxious anticipation clung to the atmosphere.

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, that stillness was disturbed. Calista's voice pierced the quiet as she called out to her mother, her strength visibly renewed since the ordeal. Without hesitation, mother and daughter closed the distance between themselves, embracing as if they had been torn apart for eternity. Tears flowed freely, mingling sorrow with joy. The warmth of their reunion dispelled the darkness that had clouded their lives.

Percaric approached the Scorpion and the Ranger.

The assassin tossed the man Lord Theovail’s ring. “Proof of death,” she stated bluntly. “I was gonna bring you his head, but figured it would smell pretty rotten after the long journey.”

He nodded awkwardly, the thought making him feel ill. He took a quick moment to examine the ring. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. “You did well. Lord Kassim sends his thanks.” He then tossed them both pouches of gold before turning back to the mother and daughter. As Percaric prepared to take Calista and her mother back home, he turned back to the two rescuers. His voice carried a sentiment with his words. "Thank you."

Aragorn's silent nod and the Scorpion's subtle acknowledgment conveyed their understanding and their shared commitment to a world that often demanded their sacrifice.

With that, Percaric, Calista, and her mother left the inn, leaving the assassin and the ranger alone.

“Well,” (Y/N) began, as she walked towards the snoring barkeep and leaned over the counter, fishing for the room keys. “I don't know about you, but I could do with a good night’s rest.” She pulled the ring from his waist and turned back to Aragorn. Holding it up, one key dangling, her grin faded. “You're kidding, right?” She shook her head with a huff but turned and made her way to the rickety stairs. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed this time, Strider—”

“Scorpion,” he interrupted as he followed her.

The wood creaked under her feet. “I am serious. Keep yourself in check—”

“Scorpion.”

“I will not hesitate to paralyze you—”

“(Y/N)!”

She froze upon the stairs, slowly turning to look at him on the step directly below her. Now they stood at the same height, face to face, only inches away from each other.

“You almost died out there,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her skin.

“Yeah, so did you. It happens,” she shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

“(Y/N),” he persisted.

“What?!”

With that, he grasped onto her face, his finger warm and calloused from the lifetime of travel and battle. Time seemed to freeze as the moment lingered, the air changing between them.

And then, his lips were on hers.

At first, a sense of uncertainty held her still, her mind grappling to comprehend the sudden intimacy. But as his touch deepened and the kiss became a dance, she surrendered to the moment. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling themselves among the dark waves, as her lips moved with just as much force—if not more—as his. He tasted of pine and fresh soil, she wast sure if she quite literally was consuming the dirt upon his face, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop herself from becoming enthralled by his lips.

“Scorpion,” he mumbled against her mouth.

She hummed a reply as her lips continued to move with his.

“Room. Now,” he practically growled.

She grinned, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Make me.”

Aragorn pulled away from her, raising his brow with a smirk. With that, he grabbed her by the hips and hoisted her up. Her mouth found his again as he stumbled up the stairs, ignorant to the barkeep who woke and was now squinting at the pair.

“The Scorpion and Strider,” the old man huffed. “The boys aren't gonna believe this one.”

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[non-un-topo]

queer quartet and their differing relationships, how they show love to each other in different ways, how quynh loves nico is different from how she loves yusuf is different from how she loves andromache; how they are all so full of love that it bursts out of them in all different ways; how it takes a while for them to puzzle out that they are even loved at all

YESSSS. This is one of my favourite things to think/write about, because it would be that way! We can even see the subtle differences in Andy's relationships with the boys in the movie, when she hugs them.

Sometimes I try to comprehend what a centuries-long relationship would feel like, and my brain explodes. This is going to be headcanon HELL btw, because we don't have a lot of source material to work with here, but bear with me. I've extrapolated little things and turned them into ideas over the last four years. I've crunched the numbers. Hoping tog2 won't include any flashbacks of the four of them and subsequently destroy my impression of them gfhfds

(Not including the couple dynamics, because we know those! Or we all have interpretations of them.)

Andromache & Yusuf

I think about Andy and Joe's movie hug so much, and their little "You look great." "You look okay!" Like it's such a tell to me that they're both sort of goofy with each other. I like to think that it's Joe who really brings out Andy's goofy side, since we see how sarcastic and wry his humour is in the movie vs Andy's clear pessimism and fatigue at the world. I think that, in the old days before they lost Quỳnh, they were both rather lively and funny. I imagine them play-wrestling, or spending many mornings sparring.

In my early days in this fandom, I experimented with writing Andy and Joe's relationship as almost a mother-son dynamic, but now they definitely seem more like siblings. Still, it feels reductive and just incorrect to compare their relationship to a single thing.

One thing I always zero in on is the fact that despite their huge age difference, they are technically the oldest woman and man in the world (The difference of 3 years between Joe and Nicky is another thing I like to imagine them all poking fun at, because to immortals it's so trivial, and that is exactly why they milk it lol). I think they have a unique relationship due to being the oldest woman and man in the world, one that comes with certain responsibilities. I think Andy motivates Joe to fight and stay strong, and Joe reminds Andy that strength can look like many things besides fighting. They keep each other level, and they know exactly what the other needs to be picked back up.

I also think that Andy taught Joe every move he knows (the Merrick headbutt, hello), and he holds her in very high regard. I think he's protective of her because she is protective of him. Joe reciprocates that love and loyalty.

Andromache & Nicolò

I usually picture these two as intellectual equals. There's something about the way they hug in the movie, soft and tender, like they've been through a lot. They don't need to use any words to understand each other. I feel like this would be the dynamic for all of them together, but what makes Andy and Nicky's relationship unique, in my head, is that Nicky can pretty much mould himself to match Andy like a mirror. This makes arguments really difficult, and means that Nicky can also see right through Andy's defences, which I imagine she does not like.

Not sure exactly where I got this idea (maybe the comics), because they have a pretty clear dynamic in the movie where Nicky (faithful) pushes back against Andy's faithlessness. But maybe it's because of the way he can get through to her, idk.

I've also dabbled in writing Andy as a little disproportionately protective over Nicky (x, x), and the reason I imagine is because she really sees him as a younger brother. Not helpless, by any means, but maybe she sees her younger self in him, and no one was looking out for her when she was younger. And Nicky is loyal to her above all, but he is not afraid to challenge her. I like to imagine them butting heads, but this never causes any long-lasting tension in their relationship because it's just that strong. I think they've survived many, many arguments between each other, and see themselves in the other.

Quỳnh & Yusuf

So we don't know a lot about Quỳnh, but I've always interpreted her as having a personality that's a healthy mix of goofball and wise warrior. In my head, she can switch on a dime. I like to think that, with Yusuf, Quỳnh's serious side makes an appearance more. Ofc no one sees it more than Andy, though.

We all imagine that the four of them travelled the world throughout the centuries, but travelling aside, there's no denying that these two would find themselves ostracized from most places they visited. I think for this reason they would have a type of relationship unique to only them, as they're able to understand/empathize with this experience more than Andy or Nicky could. Maybe this is also why, in my head, they're so silly with each other. They understand each other's points of view, and their humour is perfectly matched.

I also imagine them as both enjoying the finer things, being art lovers, and getting into trouble a lot. I like to give them similar hobbies. I also think that they would enable each other in both good and bad ways, being so alike.

So, I think Quỳnh would see Yusuf less as a younger brother than Andromache would, but more on an equal level to her. She definitely would feel protective over him, but I think it's his youth that would make her feel young as well, rather than old.

When they lost Quỳnh, I imagine that she left pieces of herself with each of them. Yusuf got her fiestiness (pit viper!) and her sarcastic humour, as well as her sincerity.

(See what I mean, like I hope to god that the sequel doesn't have a completely different idea of Quỳnh)

Quỳnh & Nicolò

Possibly my favourite queer quartet dynamic, and it's ALL in my head lmao. It is very hard to pick a favourite, though. To me, this dynamic has major sibling energy, mostly in the realm of Quỳnh lovingly bullying Nicolò, because she's the only one he really reacts to / who can fluster him.

One of the most central components to their relationship, to me, is the (heartbreaking?) headcanon that Quỳnh taught Nicky how to use a bow and arrow, thus instilling in him a lifelong love for long-range weapons. Now, Nicky is Genoese. There's a possibility he would have known how to work a crossbow, and been good at it, before meeting Quỳnh and Andromache. Regardless, I like to imagine that Quỳnh properly taught him.

But there's more to using ranged weapons than learning how to aim. I like to think she taught him his legendary patience, and the serenity he seems to carry everywhere. I also have a headcanon that Quỳnh was a very experienced healer, adept at using medicinal herbs, and she taught Nicky all she knew about health and caring and compassion. When they lost her, these were the qualities she left with him. I've explored the medicine thing quite a bit in fics, and even though it's essentially a headcanon stacked on top of a headcanon (Quỳnh the medicinal healer/midwife, Nicky the doctor/nurse/medic), it's become a fundamental part of the way I write them.

If I were to split the queer quartet into "most like each other" pairs, I would probably put Andy with Nicky, and Quỳnh with Joe. And I think this is also what makes the relationships between Andy and Joe, and Nicky and Quỳnh unique. They remind each other of their lovers.

But again, we can't really sort them into separate pairs. I imagine they all have these unique dynamics, but the love they have for each other is all the same, and totally overwhelming.

[confirmeddead]

Here are my ramblings regarding the Interview With The Vampire Season 2 finale

This will be broken down into 3 sections:

Overall episode plot thoughts, character thoughts, and season 3 setup.

The way the episode was set up was fantastic. I went into it thinking I’d know what to expect. Paris Louis destroying the coven, Daniel uncovering Armand’s plotting, Loustat reunion.

I couldn’t be happier with how it all unfolded. The parallels with Louis and Paul, the fight between him and Santiago, Lestat in Magnus’ tower. I was absolutely enthralled with everything in Paris- it was so exciting.

When I tell you my palms were clammy when we go back to Dubai? I was a little confused (due to my excitement), did Daniel bring up those questions or were those planted by the Talamasca? I know the Talamasca gave him the real script but I was hoping Daniel did the extra legwork. This actually made me very excited for the Talamasca show (good job, AMC and IWTV writers) because of Rashid, RJ, and freaking Sam!

I really want to know what happened after Louis left Dubai with Armand and Daniel, but I’ll save those thoughts for later.

The NOLA reunion was everything I could have hoped for. I audibly laughed at Louis’ driver because it reminded me of my NOLA trip in 2023- the people of New Orleans are so charismatic and talkative! And the night tour? I didn’t attend one but I thought it was adorable seeing Louis attend one.

The actual Lestat/Louis reunion was fantastic. The young vampire taking him rats like in the book? Siri? Sam’s acting? I was taken aback with how different Lestat was and I think that was a peek at the “real” Lestat. A little more subtle with his movements, still charming, and brutally honest. This was the only part in the episode that made me cry, specifically when they talked about Claudia. Grief wasn’t something I had to face ‘til last year so I found my brain comparing the two.

The rest of the episode is a blur and I could probably make a whole post regarding that ending. I’m really curious what other DM fans thought… but I’ll say this one thing:

Louis saying Armand turned Daniel out of spite was a punch to the stomach. I actually yelled “Out of spite??” At my tv. Louis’ words, yes, but that paired with Daniel’s “asshole” comments on Armand made me collapse. I need to know more… and am praying those are just Louis’ words, nothing more, and there’s a lot more to the story.

Characters-

Louis: Oh Louis! My gosh, I was hurting for him real bad. Like I said, the Paul correlations were aplenty. The mad ramblings in the mausoleum, the actual acting on Jacob’s part (makes me wonder if he went back to 1x01 and copied Paul), the imaginings. I love how the episode ended with Louis calling for all those vampires to come to him because I totally (think I) know where the writers are going. Lestat’s gonna have that to have that performance ready earlier than expected!

Lestat: Ugh, I could not get enough of him this episode. Definitely Sam’s best episode (for me). The facial acting in Magnus’ tower, Louis pointing out the shackles, etc. Can’t wait for that to be revisited in season 3 both in the 18th century and 40s Paris. Again I really thought Sam’s acting in NOLA was a standout. The subtle changes to his character were so in my face (in the best way). Can’t wait for next season!

Armand: So… lot’s of thoughts. It was very interesting that they changed it that he had intentions of killing Louis. Does it make sense? Technically speaking, yes. I understand the reasoning that he wasn’t going to throw away a coven for someone whose heart was with another. All that being said… how does the viewer, who is already villainizing Armand, come out of this just not hating him completely? Killing his daughter and fledgling AND wanting to kill him?

Look, I know we the book readers have Anne’s writing telling us how she felt- she never saw these vampires as villains. I mean everyone says it, but it does kind of hurt seeing not one but two storylines regarding Armand changed so drastically. But I’ll let the tale seduce me, sorry. (Really, I will!)

Armand wanted and saved Louis out of selfish reasons. Armand turned Daniel out of love. Both changed, from our perspective. But the turning of Daniel is still up in the air, all we have is Louis’ words “out of spite”- oof.

Daniel: Like I said before in the plot analysis, I’m really hoping Daniel did a lot of the heavy lifting when it came to Armand’s plotting because he’s a Pulitzer Prize winner! Anyway, the ending… what to say?

I’ll admit it- I was wrong. So many people guessed it would happen but I didn’t think it made any sense. And can I say it? It didn’t make any sense. Technically speaking, the reveal was fantastic! But otherwise I just can’t help but think it was all a bit too much. “Out of spite” keeps ringing in my head in the worst way. I know they were Louis’ words, I know, but if they change this one thing about Armand I might scream. I want to let the tale seduce me but with them having changed what happened in Paris, it scares me to think of what they might have changed with Armand and Daniel.

So let me take the “tale seducing” out of here for a second, please.

Armand, after 500 years, turning someone out of spite is character assassination. I’m sorry!!! And you know what? Lemme call bullshit. I think he turned him because he really finds him fascinating now and, I don’t know, was seeing his own life flash before him and wanted someone to call his own. And do we think Armand would leave his only fledgling alone? Daniel was thriving! He’s confident, he’s happy, he’s strong! If Daniel resented him for it, truly, he’d be miserable- but he isn’t. And I’ve read a few takes regarding this and I think it can make a lot of sense if we really look at who Armand is as a person.

And since I’m always wrong and hope the writers prove me otherwise, I don’t think the Chase is gonna happen- in the 70s/80s or post-Dubai. I think it’ll be changed to Armand “chasing” Daniel’s love.

I just really need something more that will tell me this is all gonna be okay akksdjjd

Others: Superb acting by Ben Daniels my gosh! Rashid totally being body-swapped or working for the Talamasca made me so happy- I’ve loved Bally this season and hope to see him again. Them making Sam’s character a DJ was so funny- will he be performing with Lestat? His opener? LMAO

Season 3 setup-

I’m both excited and a little disappointed for their setups for season 3. Louis calling the vampires to him was badass and I think will lead Lestat to break out of his NOLA “stupor” and burst onto the music scene and draw everyone to him instead.

With Louis’ words to Daniel regarding a second book, I would say I don’t think Daniel would take his advice and not make a second book but that’s not who Daniel is. I think he’ll hear that and say yes to Lestat and interview him for his book.

So who did they leave out in regards to a season 3 setup? Armand. Yes, we know he turned Daniel but we didn’t even see him? Hear from him? Anything? Maybe it’s asking too much but it bothered me that they left it as “he turned Daniel out of spite” and that’s it.

[furinana]

The downplayed significance of Nanashi's family dynamic with Boss and Asahi

Before we start, let's cut the main root of concern for many people: The concept of Nanashi and Asahi being a possible romance option. Would it be taboo in Japan?

From a legal viewpoint: No. According to Article 734, Paragraph 1 of the Civil Code, marriage is legally recognized for non-blood adoptive siblings.

[Panel from Neko no Otera no Chion-san]

For historical background, here's a translated excerpt from Oshiete (Q&A Japanese website):

"[...] Before the war, it seems that there were many cases where daughters were adopted by families with the intention of becoming their sons' wives in the future. Also, if a girl was born as a biological child after a boy was adopted, there were inheritance issues, so the two would often be set off to marry. Nowadays, parents are no longer allowed to decide to whom a child will marry, but they cannot stop their children from wanting to get married as well".

Asahi and Nanashi are basically in a gray zone where they ''could'' be called siblings by social definition but nobody-cares-or-thinks-it's-a-big-deal if they decide to marry, specially given their circumstances of growing in a devastated Tokyo.

[Puppy love... everything goes back to Asahi being a Pascal reference.]

They don't call each other or are referred to in any way by words synonymous to brother and sister. Despite the elephant in the room that Boss took care of both, nobody raises a brow because they aren't blood-related. The best you could say is that they're technically an example of this trope.

Gender roles be damned, one could go as far as think that Boss's constantly telling Nanashi to look after Asahi (repeating it even in his last breath) enforces the incredibly narrow line between adoptive father and father-in-law...

[Three different instances prior to the unseal of Krishna where the same dynamic plays. In the first one, Nanashi complies to what Boss asks of him in both options; from then on, the option box doesn't show anymore, with the third instance being the most indicative that Nanashi being obedient to his father's figure (thus contrasting with Asahi's impulsiveness) is an established fact.]

Now, if we were to comment on Nanashi's individual relationship with Boss through the clues we were given... Nanashi certainly felt distant given that he only referred to the man that raised him as "Asahi's dad" and moved on rather quickly compared to Asahi (or that's how the world he lives in expects him to).

Hallelujah is the only character that was able to sense that Nanashi might hide unsolved feelings underneath his composed persona, and it says a lot considering how Hallelujah would often be in awe of how reassuring his peer felt compared to himself.

Hallelujah's friendship with both Nanashi and Asahi is earnestly felt through the story but it's particularly intimate in this part.

That being said... while Boss would be shown as more protective of Asahi, an attentive player would notice the few glimpses where he also displayed fatherly feelings towards Nanashi.

The most subtle and yet telling example is Nanashi's design itself. What would come first to someone's mind over Nanashi's punk attires and fondness for those lyrics from a John Lennon song would be that they come from his own preferences alone. But then one of the relic descriptions reveals this:

And yet, Boss was also the guy that lacked self-awareness regarding his partiality towards his own daughter compared to the unnamed orphan he took care of... well, it's complicated. Certainly not a black-or-white relationship.

[Similarly to Asahi, Boss reacts in a more positive tone if Nanashi decides to stay 'nameless' as he's been since birth. Manabu and the rest of the cast are impartial to what Nanashi chooses]

It's ironic that the people Nanashi felt the closest to were the ones that grew attached to his lack of name. We have seen fair reasons for Nanashi to be read as a protagonist that perceived a clear distinction between him and Asahi but hints of family affection from Boss are felt nonetheless.

Am I insecure and have attachment issues from being an orphan? Despite everything, was I still a child blessed with love from those around me? This is the turmoil inside our protagonist's mind where it's our role as the player to figure out which answer he would give. And just like the middle ground tends to be the biased view for the SMT4 duology instead of relying on extremes, you could conclude that both statements can be applied for Nanashi's background.

But the rather understated yet possibly most important element from this discussion is the "untold" consequence of the act of Nanashi sticking with his placeholder name behind the themes of the main antagonist of the game. As YHVH's power is amplified through his followers' fear of pronouncing his name (thus staying unreachable and not be at risk of being distorted as other deities), the parallel in the Massacre ending becomes intrinsic as the one who snatches YHVH's throne for himself is none other than our John Doe Protagonist, going from an anonymous human to an anonymous God.

Perhaps Nanashi unintentionally turned out to be the ultimate form of protection a father could give to his neglected adopted son.

[mariaofdoranelle]

The Courtship Deception - Part 4: Wanderlust

Fic masterlist

Written for @throneofglassmicrofics

I faded the smut to black, sorry! I’m just a gemini who talks too much, I’m doing miracles with this word count already LOL

Warnings: closed-door sexytimes

Words: 863

“You really are a prince, aren’t you?” Aelin whispered to Rowan while ushering him out of the party.

“Technically, yes, but not really.”

“How does that work?”

“It works really well after some family drama with a tabloid-obsessed aunt.”

Dodging her father’s acquaintances was easier than avoiding his men’s questioning looks. Well, that’s what happens when her father told a bunch of big guys that they’re entitled to every detail of her life: they believed it. But they wouldn’t cause a scene if she didn’t either, and that’s how she was able to move through the crowd effortlessly with a man that wasn’t one of her suitors.

“Where’re you going?” Lorcan hissed, one of her Rhoe’s most trusted and least subtle men.

“Out!” Aelin barked while dragging Rowan out the main doors. But the man’s eyes weren’t on her, and something dawned on her. He was the one who came with Fenrys from Doranelle, wasn’t he? Was he friends with Rowan too, or just acquaintances?

Out of the main venue, Aelin found a storage closet of sorts and shoved Rowan in it, locking herself inside with him.

He sighed, taking in the tiny room. “I didn’t know you liked it tawdry.”

She crossed her arms. “You were talking about family drama and tabloids.”

“When we texted last night, I thought you’d want my mouth for entirely different reasons.”

“Well, I—“

Aelin was silenced by his hand holding onto the back of her neck, tilting her head toward his.

He raised a brow in question. *What do you want?* he seemed to ask.

Well, fuck. This was such a cheap trick, but she could Google her answers later to figure it out. Neck-grabbing with those rough hands? Not so easy to do on her own.

Aelin closed the distance between them, and their hands found each other’s bodies like magnets. Rowan’s kisses were rough and hungry; when he backed her against a shelving unit and sneaked a hand up her thigh, Aelin grasped how thoroughly ravished she was about to be.

She lost sight of her initial goal completely.

˜˜

Rowan had one hand on her waist and another using the shelf to hold himself upright. They were both panting, breaths mingling in that near claustrophobic closet.

He grabbed a few napkins behind her to dispose of the condom, and that was her cut to fix her hair and smooth down her dress.

“Can you—“ Aelin was brutally interrupted by a kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

She peeked out the door. The only person close by was Lorcan, looking grumpier than ever.

“Psst!” she called him. “Yes, c’mere.”

“You missed dinner.”

“Your friend didn’t.” Aelin smirked with the memory. Him kneeling before her, face between her thighs, was definitely something. “What time is it?”

Aelin had no way of knowing—she didn’t have her phone with her, and Rowan would do anything to avoid their conversation.

“Late.”

“But is it too late?”

The man gave her a hard look, and it was all she needed to know—no, it wasn’t too late, but she should get back to the party before her dad notices it and incites chaos. Still, she got back to the storage closet and locked the door again.

“Round two so soon?”

Aelin crossed her arms. “Family drama and tabloids. Spill.”

“You’re not unlocking that door until I tell you, I take it?”

“Absolutely not.”

Rowan sighed, but conceded. Then, he went on about how much he disagreed with Queen Maeve’s contrarian policies, and the rupture it created between him and his family. About how he left Doranelle without looking back, and only remained as a prince in name, since the royal family wouldn’t rescind his title for the media havoc it’d cause—even if he wasn’t so much in the public eye.

Prompted by Aelin, he told her about how he found a remote job with his engineering degree and traveled the world with no royal privileges and no money—for a prince’s standards, at least—, met people who weren’t royals or billionaires. How he lived his life with no constraints.

She liked it. She wanted it. To live freely, to travel without a team of bodyguards who reported everything to her father, to be able to drive on her own.

Just like that, Aelin saw a new plan unfold right before her eyes.

Moving from her father’s highly-guarded mansion to Dorian’s or Chaol’s castle with a different set of guards was just trading one pair of shackles for another.

But Rowan… she could live like him. She could live with him—anywhere and everywhere, like he’s been living so far. Rhoe could be so blinded by her having a royal title he’d forget that her groom was penniless. Rowan didn’t sound like the type to hold her down, he sounded like the type who would let her live her own life, or even give her a divorce if she truly desired it, no politics involved.

She’d keep her money and her relationship with her father, but also have freedom. It was perfect. It was her best plan so far.

“Rowan…” she trailed, uncertain of his reaction to her next words. “Will you marry me?”

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[asimplearchivist]

' 𝕐𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝔽𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 '

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ✴ ⤏ when the kids grow restless during the weekend, you entreat optimus to take the group of you out for 'educational' purposes—all goes well until a thunderstorm strikes, but it could have resulted worse. pairing ✴ tfp!optimus prime/reader word count ✴ 15.1k a/n ✴ ⤏ I’ve never actually been to sequoia national park, but I read up on it a little and found out you can’t just camp anywhere in the park - but for the sake of this fanfic, I’m going to tweak it a little. thus is the beauty of fanfiction, I suppose. also, since it’s kind of in the middle of the school year, there’s not a lot of people visiting the park so optimus has more leniency on not being confined to his altmode than he would normally (plus he has scanners that would detect anyone nearby).⤏ on a smaller note, ‘s’mol’lis’ is derived from latin ‘mollis solis’, which means ‘soft sunlight’. because cybertronian (at least according to fanon, which I accept as canon) uses a lot of adjective strings describing the word they’re saying all at the same time on different frequencies (see: the masterpiece that is Fortuna Primigenia by SS_Shitstorm), it might be difficult to derive every meaning from hearing it, especially taking into account the fact that we can neither hear all the frequencies they use nor fully understand their language to begin with, but this is can be taken as the full meaning of the word even though it’s technically a descriptor. consider it a term of endearment that’s really subtle but not really a term of endearment at the same time - it’s just how optimus sees you. I also picked latin because that’s what many of the names are derived from and it’s just convenient as well as ancient/alien-sounding when you tweak it a little. ⤏ now that I think about it, this oneshot has a lot of similarities to FP, actually…consider it an homage of sorts, since it’s been my most recent reread of it that inspired me enough to finish this old thing. :) the poem referenced is ‘Serenade’ by Mary Weston Fordham!

“Truth or dare.”

“Um...truth.”

Miko groaned. “You’ve been picking truth this whole time!”

Raf shifted nervously, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he glanced at Miko from his laptop. “You made Jack lick the floor.”

“He’s got a point,” you said, looking up from your textbook.

Miko groaned a little louder, folding her arms and pouting. “You guys are no fun.”

“No one likes licking the floor, Miko. And I would hope you don’t.” You jotted down a definition in your notebook. “He’s still brushing his teeth. He’s been in there for ten minutes.”

“Of course no one does! That’s the point!” the girl cried, her bangs falling into her face. She brushed them behind her ear with an irritated huff. “Fine. What’s a place you want to go to?”

Raf perked up a bit at this, seemingly relieved that it was a relatively tame question from the Japanese girl. “Oh, uh...well, Italy is up there, since that’s where my family is from...but one of my cousins went to Yosemite and he said it was really pretty there. I’d love to see the trees.”

“Yeah, that’s always been on my bucket list, too,” you admitted. You reached for one of the highlighters strewn on the couch cushion next to you, marking an important quote on the page. “I read that they get up to two hundred and fifty feet.” Miko’s eyes rounded. “Wow, that’s like...fifty Optimuses!”

“Only about eight,” Raf corrected, “and it would be Optimi, since his name is derived from Latin the way we understand it, but yeah. Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Miko stuck her tongue out at the boy, and you chuckled softly. “What about you, Miko? Got anywhere you want to visit?”

“Besides Cybertron?” she quipped, casting a glance towards the groundbridge looming far behind you. “Not really. I’ve been to most places I’ve wanted to go already.”

“By sneaking in through a groundbridge,” Jack grumbled from the stairwell. He still looked worryingly pale, a stark ivory against his jet-black hair.

Your brow furrowed. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, raising a palm and sinking into the couch between you and Raf, jumping and scooping the writing supplies towards you. “Remind me next time why I won’t play truth or dare with Miko ever again.”

“Hey!” she cried, and you rolled your eyes with a fond smile.

“Let him lie, Miko. He’s just had a traumatic experience. Who knows what’s been on these floors.”

She huffed, but seemed to drop it nevertheless. She turned her attention to you. “What about you? Truth or dare?”

“You already know my answer,” you responded.

The girl growled. “I might start playing with ‘Bee. He’s more fun.” She tilted her head, rubbing at her chin as Jack muttered a quiet ‘you mean more gullible’ that she, thankfully, didn’t hear. She shot Raf a look when he snickered, though. “Hmm…what about...nah.” She pursed her lips and studied you intensely, as though she were trying to read your mind. You felt dread begin to bubble low in your belly. “Do you...oh!” She straightened sharply, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Do you have a crush on anybody?”

You stilled, feeling your stomach grow cold and leaden. You tried to play off your hesitation by giving her a pointed glance before returning your attention to your homework. “No.”

Unfortunately, the girl was better at reading people than you’d hoped. An absolute shit-eating grin twisted her face and she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Oooh, you dooo!”

“I do not,” you tried again, but you felt your face betray you by warming at her accusation. Dammit, self.

Your denial only served to excite her further. “Oh my god - who is it? Is it someone at school? Someone in your class? Is he hot?”

“Miko!” Jack reprimanded, looking like he was suffering from secondhand embarrassment. He gave her a scandalized glare. “Leave her alone. She said she doesn’t.”

“But she’s blushing!” the girl insisted, gesturing towards your face. You ducked your head on reflex. “You only blush when you’re guilty!”

“It’s because you keep heckling her!” Jack persisted.

“Like you’re one to talk, lover boy!” Miko crooned. “‘Oh, ‘Sierra’ this, ‘Sierra’ that - you’re no better than a girl!” She froze, then nearly gave herself whiplash looking back at you. “Oh! Is it the guy on the track team? I saw him talking to you during lunch the other day!”

“He was asking for my chemistry notes because he couldn’t be bothered to take them himself,” you deadpanned.

“Still! Isn’t that how every high school rom-com starts out? Hot jock asks all-A’s nerd for her notes and they end up plastered over the hood of his car by the end of the movie?”

“Miko!” Jack exclaimed, leaning protectively over Raf, whose cheeks had turned bright red. He looked like he was trying to melt behind the safety of his laptop screen. “Stop that!”

“What?” she demanded. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

You tried to will away the blush saturating your cheeks. “That doesn’t mean you should - just chill, Miko, I don’t have a crush on anyone at school.”

Unfortunately, you seemed to have only shot yourself in the foot. Miko began to vibrate in earnest, and some distant aspect in the back of your mind that had a maternal love for the girl was worried that she would hit a frequency that would make her phase through the loveseat. “So you do have a crush on someone!” she squealed.

“Would you four quiet down?” Ratchet hollered from the computer terminal. “Some of us are trying to retain our hearing, you know!”

“Afraid of losing it, Docbot?” Miko called back, making you choke on your own spit.

“What?”

“Shut up, Miko,” Jack hissed, ducking his head to avoid the fire cast your way by blazing cyan optics. “Just shut up.”

“Sorry!” you called, crossing your toes within your shoes. You hadn’t written your will yet.

Fortunately, Ratchet didn’t seem too particularly inclined to commit homicide that day, and only gave Miko a hard look before returning his attention to his work with a low grumble of what could’ve been Cybertronian.

You looked back at Miko with furrowed brows and pursed lips, scolding her with your eyes. She shrugged with a smug smile.

“Anyway,” you pressed, “I don’t have a crush on anyone right now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly drop the subject.”

“Fine,” she groaned dramatically. “But I will find out who it is eventually.”

You rolled your eyes again at her insistence, deciding to be the bigger person and refocus on your homework. The four of you lapsed into silence for a long while, the scratch of your pencil and the clicking from Raf’s keyboard filling the silence with a familiar ambiance. Jack seemed to be enduring an existential crisis from the horror he’d experienced (despite the fact that he had willingly taken part of it at Miko’s challenge), but you had the bad sense that Miko was plotting because she was being too quiet, even if she had resumed scratching in her sketchpad with a bright pink pencil.

It was never a good thing for Miko to be quiet.

Distantly, you heard the door of the silo crank open, followed by the deep, familiar rumble of the local Prime’s engine. You perked up and peered over the back of the couch, watching him emerge into the hangar and slow to a smooth stop. He transformed, but while you tried to follow all the moving parts, your eyes failed you. You were sure it would never cease to amaze you.

“Hi, Optimus!” Raf called in greeting, catching his attention. As he drew up to his full height, he regarded the four of you with warm optics and that familiar barely-there smile, returning the sentiment. You cast him a small grin before returning to your studies.

“Did you find anything?” you heard Ratchet ask him.

“Unfortunately not,” rumbled the Prime. You counted his footsteps until he stopped (likely near the medic) - five heavy, even thuds of metal on concrete. “The signals I did track only led to small deposits that are still forming. I saved the coordinates for later observation.”

Ratchet hummed, and you heard him drumming his digit tips on the hollow kibble of his forearm. “We’ve got enough to last two weeks, give or take, not accounting for emergencies. I’d advise checking our usual deposits within the next few days.”

“Noted.” There was a long pause. You could swear you felt your ears burning, but it faded almost as soon as you noticed it. “Where are the others?”

“Patrol. They’re trying to put off their bimonthly physicals,” the medic scoffed. “You’re the ever-noble leader - would you care to set a good example?”

Optimus let out a low hum, but you were surprised to notice that he didn’t sound very pleased. If you dared to consider it, it almost sounded as though he was filled with dread. Nevertheless, he responded, “Of course, old friend.”

He must not like doctor’s appointments, either. Relatable.

“I’ve been meaning to check the pneumatics in your shoulders and upper spinal strut,” Ratchet said absently, and you heard him clicking on the computer console. You glanced over your shoulder and saw that he’d moved over to the monitor he used for medical readouts, squinting and noticing that he was bringing up schematics of Optimus’ frame. “Ever since that incident in the last energon mine, I’ve noticed you’re not lifting as much as you usually do.”

“There is a lingering ache,” Optimus acquiesced quietly, as though hesitant to admit it. “Do you suspect there is some damage?”

“Possibly. You weren’t built a weight-lifting frame type by any means - the fact you held nearly the entirety of the cave ceiling up for as long as you did was by a pure miracle. You certainly aren’t Bulkhead.” Ratchet stroked his chin briefly, then pointed to the rotator joints connecting Optimus’ arms to the concave cuffs that housed them. “I suspect you might have strained the cabling, at the least. That would be the easiest to fix. If there’s a tear in the joint itself, I’ll have to patch it and you’ll have to rehabilitate.”

“I don’t feel the damage is that severe,” Optimus responded almost immediately.

Also doesn’t like being under the knife, you observed sympathetically.

Then an idea occurred to you, and you didn’t stop to consider the pros and cons of it before you spoke up.

“Do you mind if I sit and watch?” you called to Ratchet, catching both mechs and the other kids’ attention. “I’ve been meaning to ask you more about Cybertronian physiology, but it kept slipping my mind.”

Almost as soon as Ratchet opened his mouth, probably to refuse your request if you knew him well at all, Optimus’ optics brightened minutely. “Of course.”

“Optimus,” Ratchet started, staring at him askance. “You realize it will be incredibly invasive - I need to check the integrity of your sparkchamber, among other things-”

“You can prioritize around that, can you not?” the Prime inquired evenly. “It wouldn’t hurt for her to observe everything else. She could depart whenever it came to that.” Optimus cast a look at you, pointed and appraising. “Correct?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, catching the medic’s optics. “I’ll leave when you get to the nitty-gritty stuff.”

Ratchet’s mouth worked wordlessly, optics flickering as he gesticulated in half-aborted movements (such a hand-talker, he was). When it was apparent that he wasn’t going to win the argument (if one could even call it that - he’d been in checkmate the moment Optimus had given you his blessing), the medic ex-vented heavily and cast his optics towards the ceiling. “Very well. But only you can observe,” he pressed with a firm look to Miko, “and for the love of Primus don’t distract me with any lead-helmed questions. It takes long enough to perform physicals without an observer.” He paused, then mumbled to himself, “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“You needn’t fix it if it isn’t broken,” Optimus pointed out, and you spotted the subtle curve on the corner of his mouth.

Ratchet shook his helm, grumbling low in his chassis, and started towards the corridor. He made a beckoning gesture over his pauldron, and Optimus cast you a glance before following. You smiled giddily and set your homework aside, hurrying across the mezzanine and down the stairwell. You thought you might’ve heard one of the kids snickering, but you were too caught up in your excitement to take true notice of it.

“Transformation seams are intact...energon and coolant flow is normal.” Ratchet glanced up from the datapad he’d laid on the berth next to Optimus, peering into the exposed depths and layers of the larger mech’s forearm. “Have you been experiencing any lag in transformation? Any pain?”

“None that I have noticed.”

“Good. The tension cabling is intact...” Ratchet’s digit tip pressed into a divot in the mech’s wrist and the armor cycled shut with a flourish that reminded you of a bird’s feathers smoothing down. He took Optimus’ servo and rotated it slowly, testing different angles at different pressures. “Any trouble with your servos?”

“No.”

Ratchet twisted Optimus’ servo outward and the Prime winced subtly.

“Liar,” he huffed, reaching to the side and picking up the electromagnetic calibrator he’d been using to stimulate irritated or misfiring wiring clusters. He tapped the curved plate covering Optimus’ radiocarpal joint and it opened at his command. He began to go over the exposed cabling, locating the nodes and poking them lightly to see which one was agitated. “If you’d just tell me the truth this would go a lot faster.”

“If it doesn’t pose an issue, I don’t see the need in pointing it out and delaying progress any longer than necessary,” Optimus rumbled. The armor along his shoulders flared sharply as Ratchet finally found the culprit.

“I’ve told you,” Ratchet started, optics flashing, “if you don’t allow me to fix these things, they’ll get worse - then what will you do when your servo malfunctions and you end up a pile of scrap metal in the middle of a fragging warzone?”

Optimus rumbled low in his chassis, optics glowing. You realized with delight that he was borderline chuckling.

Obedient by nature and not wanting to incur the wrath of your already irate host, you were seated across from the two mechs on the other medical berth in Ratchet’s private medical ward. This was where he performed less urgent surgeries and stored all his supplies, tools, and records. The smaller bay in the main hangar was for general inspection and small repairs (and emergencies, if one of the ‘Bots were hurt in the field and needed immediate medical attention), so this was new - not to mention the fact that you were learning so much more about Cybertronian physiology than you would’ve ever thought possible - and just from watching and listening no less.

Ratchet had started out with preliminary scans and basic questions that seemed a little superfluous (but were no less important, you supposed), things like how his armor was fitting his frame and if he had any injuries he’d been keeping from him. He’d then checked the integrity of Optimus’ armor, poking and prodding and flexing the outermost metal to see if there was any damage. He’d found a couple of ruptures and had made quick work of mending them, then had moved on to the few exposed slivers of protoform and secondary armor protecting the lower half of his chassis. Now he was checking Optimus’ arms, starting low and likely headed up to the larger mech’s shoulders.

Watching Optimus and Ratchet interact was a novel experience, as well. Normally they were rather civil, saving face in front of the other three Autobots (for professionalism, you suspected), but in private it was obvious how long they’d been friends. Optimus was much more open than he was normally, even speaking to you with glittering optics and teasing almost smiles. His voice had taken on a different inflection, as well - he didn’t sound as grave and sober as he did around the others, and he seemed much more relaxed in his wording. (You’d wondered if this was Orion Pax talking and not Optimus, but you’d dismissed the thought as silly - he was still the same person, after all. He’d changed over the centuries, certainly, but that obviously hadn’t affected his core being to the point that he couldn’t relax around one of his oldest friends.) He was plainly comfortable with Ratchet, and you were still mystified that, by extension of him inviting you to be present, he was just as comfortable with you.

It still made you warm on the inside just thinking about it.

“I have held up this far, old friend,” Optimus reminded the older mech gently. “I would inform you if there were a dire enough problem along that vein.”

Ratchet muttered under his breath, sounding suspiciously as though he were mocking the Prime with an exaggerated tone, and you giggled quietly. He shot you a look, optics bright and mouth thin, before straightening and leaving Optimus’ radiocarpal joint behind to check his ginglymus. There seemed to be nothing wrong because he merely jotted something down before continuing upward to the Prime’s glenohumeral joint.

Here, Optimus tensed up. You wouldn’t have been able to discern it, normally, but given how long you’d been in close quarters with him by now and being able to read his tells somewhat, you could see the way his optics dimmed and his servos tensed around the edge of the medical berth. You even saw the cabling at his vocalizer flex as though he were swallowing.

Ratchet tapped the armor protecting the joint with his knuckle. “Open up.”

The red metal folded away obediently, the major panels remaining in place for the most part but flaring out, and the smaller pieces tucked themselves into previously unseen nooks and crannies to reveal the mech’s joint. Ratchet hummed low in his chassis, grimacing as he eyed it.

“You did strain it,” he confirmed. Optimus’ finials twitched back slightly. “But the damage isn’t too severe. The leverage you had prevented any substantial damage, but this is a concern that needs to be addressed now, or else it will worsen. I’ll dampen the nodes within and around it before I repair it, though.”

Optimus ex-vented. “Thank you, old friend.”

Ratchet nodded once before stepping away to a small tray of vials that were bigger around than you were tall, grabbing an injector and connecting the two pieces with a mighty click. The fluid within the canister glowed a soft blue, though it was duller than energon. It soon disappeared into the protoform exposed just below Optimus’ ginglymus. The tension in the Prime’s armor seemed to dissipate as the next few moments dragged on, and he looked more at ease when Ratchet picked up a tool you were unfamiliar with before beginning to repair the damage to Optimus’ joint. It didn’t take long, and soon he was checking the opposite side and, upon seeing that there was similar damage, performing the same action.

“I’m putting you on medical leave until your self-repair systems finish this up,” he told the Prime. “No heavy lifting, no heroics, limited patrols. I’m also going to give you medical-grade energon to speed it up.”

Optimus let out a soft ex-vent, but he didn’t argue. “Yes, old friend.”

After that, the rest of the examination didn’t take long. Ratchet checked his other arm, then his legs and pedes for joint erosion. He also took meticulous time checking his helm, which surprised you because you hadn’t thought of how delicately they must’ve been constructed - but studying his audials, optics, and even his intake was an affair that Ratchet took great care to ensure everything was tested. It was when he started to read the larger mech’s chassis with the built-in scanner in his forearm that Ratchet cast you a look and made a shooing motion.

“Observation time’s over,” he said dismissively. “Everything after this is confidential and private.”

You nodded, having already prepared yourself for it - you were surprised that he even let you watch at all, for as long as he had.

“Thanks, guys,” you said, slowly climbing down from the medical berth using small grooves in one of the legs as hand and footholds. “I really appreciate you letting me do this - I learned a lot.”

Ratchet merely gave you a soft hum of acknowledgment, while Optimus regarded you with warm optics.

“If you have any questions,” he rumbled, “I will try my best to answer.”

You grinned up at him, not recalling of any currently but sure you’d have some after you had the chance to think about all that you’d seen. “Thanks, Optimus - really. I know it’s probably a little awkward letting a stranger in on something like this.”

He gave a small shrug with his armor, since his shoulders were still probably numb (or the Cybertronian equivalent, anyway), which surprised you - either he was starting to pick up on human body language more than you’d suspected, or he was just that comfortable with you. Either way, it made you smile. “You are far from a stranger, s’mol’lis. You have shared intimate things about your body in the past - I see it only fair that I return the gesture.”

You felt your face warm with embarrassment at remembering the incident a mere month ago regarding your menstrual cycle, but you were touched that he’d been so considerate - he’d obviously put much more thought into this than you’d thought. But you were more preoccupied with that unfamiliar word than anything else - it was definitely Cybertronian, given the way he’d said it and the multiple layers to the word that made it sound like he was humming a song. You hadn’t heard that one before, though you hadn’t had many chances to hear their mother tongue, to begin with - you wondered what it meant because it’d seemed like he’d been addressing you. 

Ratchet’s vents let out a short chuff-like sound before he made another shooing gesture with his servo, more insistent this time. “Alright, alright, enough. I can’t take all day on this if I have hopes of updating your records by tonight.”

You laughed a little, waggling your fingers at the medic over your shoulder as you turned to the door. “Fine, Ratch, fine - I know when I’m not wanted.”

You heard that same borderline chuckle from before rumble on a frequency that made your ears sing and your belly flip, and by the time you shut the small, human door off to the side of the ‘Bots’, your face was hot. You rubbed your cheeks with some bewilderment, wondering why your face was so hot, but insistent thoughts reminding you that you had homework to finish put your curiosity to the back of your mind - for the time being, at least.

“All right, which one of you hooligans is ready for their physical?”

A unanimous, hushed silence fell over the previously rowdy hangar and you smothered a laugh into your hand, already serving to prop up your head as you tried to finish your homework. All you had left was a section to read in literature and you’d be done. You glanced to the side discreetly, seeing that Bumblebee’s optics were cycled into pinpricks, his doorwings drooping into the lowest position their housing could manage. His shoulders hunched upward as he clutched the makeshift remote controller Raf had jury-rigged for him, and you had the sudden impression that he was hoping he’d magically turn invisible to the medic’s hawk-like eye. You gave him a sympathetic look.

“I, uh…” Bulkhead reset his vocalizer, optics darting to either side as he raised his servos in a shrug. “Sorry, Ratchet, I - I’ve got a patrol to, um…”

“No, you don’t,” the older mech snipped, folding his arms over his chassis and looking wholly unimpressed about his weak attempt to dodge the matter at hand. “I’ve had Optimus clear your schedules for the next cycle or so. We can afford not to patrol while I’m making sure none of you are hiding anything from me.”

“But what about the kids?” questioned Arcee almost immediately after, sounding tense, and that honestly surprised you because she’d always seemed like the type that wouldn’t be bothered by such a thing. Her steely nerves didn’t extend as far as Ratchet’s examination room, apparently. “They’ll need to go home soon.”

“We’re keeping them over the weekend,” Ratchet responded easily, making the younger three look up in surprise.

“Yeah, but - who’ll watch them?” Bulkhead returned anxiously.

The medic huffed and rolled his optics in such a perfect arc that you wondered whether it was preprogrammed or if he’d just had enough practice over the centuries dealing with medically elusive Autobots. “‘But’ nothing. I’ll start with you, Bulkhead, and that’ll be the majority of it done.” He made an impatient gesture towards the corridor. “Optimus didn’t complain, so neither should you. And, if it will placate your concerns, he will watch the children for the evening.” He cast a look toward the mech in question, who had been standing wordlessly behind the main computer terminal until then. “Right, Optimus?”

The Prime turned and blinked, but didn’t look surprised. He merely dipped his helm. “Of course, old friend.”

Ratchet nodded, looking at the other three Autobots with the age-old ‘see?’ expression. The green mech seemed to wilt, his shoulder plating drooping as he turned and trudged towards the corridor like a kicked puppy. You almost felt bad for him. Almost. Ratchet needed to be on top of the others’ condition at all times, so you knew that even if they didn’t like it and would rather not (and even if there wasn’t anything wrong with them), it wouldn’t hurt them to let Ratchet be Ratchet.

Arcee and Bumblebee exchanged an uneasy look, and Ratchet cast a look over his shoulder. “You two are to wait in here until I call for you. Understood?”

They nodded sullenly, and you smothered a laugh. They were supposed to be hundreds of thousands of years old and they still acted like begrudging teenagers.

“So…” Miko stole your attention away, twirling a pink strand of hair around her finger and glancing to either side conspiratorially. “...what’re we going to do now?”

You shrugged. Raf shrugged.

“Not truth or dare,” Jack iterated firmly.

She rolled her eyes at him. “You’ve already ruined the game, there’s no point in doing it anymore.”

Jack had the air of intensity that warned of a strong verbal retaliation bubbling just beneath the surface, eyes rounded and brows furrowed, but he held his tongue when you made a subtle cutting gesture. He sighed.

“We could ask Optimus if we could get KO Burger for supper,” Raf suggested, and you recoiled slightly.

“Or,” you pressed, “we could go to the supermarket and I could cook something decent. You fools need all the nutrition you can get. I’m thinking stew or something.”

Miko made a face. “Since when have you known how to cook?”

You hesitated, then tried for a nonchalant shrug to cover up the way your stomach twisted. “I’ve got to grow up sometime, living on my own. Eating fast food on the regular is not the way to go.”

Miko looked as though she wanted to question you further, but Raf’s eyes lit up and he straightened abruptly. “Oh! What if we went camping?”

You blinked at him, as did Jack. “What?”

“Since the ‘Bots aren’t going to be able to go out for a while,” he said excitedly, “we could ask Optimus if we could groundbridge to Yosemite for the night! They’ve got a small admission fee per person, but it would give him a chance to relax, and we’d get to see the sequoias! Plus, if we found somewhere discreet, he’d be able to transform and enjoy being outside without being seen!”

That...honestly didn’t sound too bad. Optimus had seemed a bit wearier than usual lately, and you figured he’d enjoy a breath of fresh air out of the base. The only problem would be convincing him.

“That sounds great, Raf,” you said with a warm smile, “but I’m not sure he’d agree.”

“Isn’t that what we have you for?” Miko remarked snidely, eyes glittering.

You stared, ignoring how your ears warmed. “I...guess? What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on,” she groaned dramatically, and you cast an anxious glance over your shoulder. Optimus seemed occupied with his work on the computer terminal, and ‘Bee and Arcee were talking in low tones in the open medical wing of the hangar. Fortunately, no one was paying attention to you. “You’ve got all thirty feet of him wrapped around your pinky! If any of us could convince him to take a day off, it’d be you.”

You remembered how he’d taken care of you when you’d last been inflicted by your cycle (as embarrassed as you were to recall the memory). You remembered the ease with which he’d invited you to accompany him on low-risk patrols and energon scoutings. You remembered when he’d saved your life in the cave. He never treated any of the Autobots like that - he was kind, sure, considerate, and cared for their safety, but it felt...different, the way he’d seek you out to spend some time away from everyone else. You’d always figured he just tolerated your incessant curiosity, but...you hadn’t really considered anything beyond that. Could his motivation be that he simply enjoyed your company? You found the concept flattering, if unlikely.

You powered through the last of the literature passage, chewing on the inside of your lip before closing the book and tucking it back into your school bag. You stood and moved over to the steps, descending silently and walking towards the Prime on the other side of the hangar. When you got close enough, you patted his pede and leaned against him. “Hey, Optimus?”

The Prime leaned over just enough to peer down at you over the top of his chassis, an optical ridge rising. He hummed inquisitively.

“Since the others are going to be caught up in this for a while,” you gestured towards the other two ‘Bots sulking in the corner, “Raf had a thought.”

“And that would be?” Optimus rumbled curiously.

“Could we go camping at Yosemite?” you asked. You paused, but when his brow lowered once again you went on hurriedly, “It would just be for tonight, and since it’s the middle of the school year a lot of people probably won’t be there if you wanted to stretch your legs. We’d get to see giant trees.” You hesitated. “It’d be educational.”

Optimus regarded you for a long moment, his optics shuttering as he thought it over.

“We could come back if you got any signals from Decepticons,” you added. “But I thought you could use a break, even if it’s only one night. You seem like you’re tired.”

The Prime’s optics dimmed a little, and he ex-vented slowly. “Is this ‘Yosemite’ a state landmark?”

“It’s a national park,” you told him, hope sparking to life in your belly. You tried not to seem too excited at tiding him over. “Over in California. I figured taking the groundbridge would be the easiest method - there’s a fee for entry, but we’d be able to set up away from the other campsites if we’re discreet about it.”

He hummed quietly, contemplatively. “I should ensure with Ratchet that someone would be available to activate the groundbridge should you need it, but...I don’t see why taking an evening for the sake of education would be a detriment.”

Bingo. You’d been positive that would snag him.

You smiled, suddenly giddy - you hugged what you could reach and flashed him a bright, thankful look. “Thank you, Optimus - the kids will love this.”

The mech surprised you with the crinkling of his optics and the lifting of the corners of his mouth. “I am unaware of the requirements of camping, but I am sure Bulkhead or Bumblebee would be willing to take you, should you desire. I see no harm in it.”

Your shoulders dropped, and you tried not to look disappointed. You didn’t want to have your hopes dashed so easily. “You...you don’t want to take us?”

Optimus glanced at the screen before him. “I have much work to do. Bulkhead’s physical should not take long, and he’s the most capable of the three to…”

“But you’ve already finished yours,” you pointed out gently, not wanting to come across as argumentative. He returned his gaze to you, attentive. “And your altmode has more room. Besides...haven’t you heard what I said about taking a break at all? You’ve been working nonstop lately, and...well. Even you aren’t indestructible.”

Optimus regarded you for a long moment, but it didn’t look as though he was actually focusing on you - his optics had a far-away look, a million-mile stare that you didn’t dare interrupt. They shuttered some more, his mouth thin. Your left hand, still lingering on the brace plate on his pede, tensed subconsciously, and it seemed to draw him out of his thoughts. He ex-vented and dipped his helm, an odd half-smile playing at the edges of his mouth and optics.

“Very well,” he submitted, and you realized with a start that his expression was fond. “You raise a very compelling argument, s’mol’lis.”

Too distracted to feel the full throttle of embarrassment at having that look directed at you of all people, you grinned a little wider. “I have a good feeling that you’ll love it there, Optimus - they’ve got these massive trees that’re five times bigger than you are.”

His optical ridges inched upward in clear surprise. He looked immediately curious. “Oh?”

“They’re called sequoias, or redwoods,” you told him. “They’ve been growing there for a very, very long time - scientists speculate since ancient times. The biggest one is about thirty-six feet around and over two hundred and seventy-five feet tall.” You chuckled a little. “The people who found it called it ‘General Sherman’, and it’s the biggest tree recorded on the planet.”

He stared, seeming uncharacteristically shocked. “I...was not aware that earth housed such large flora.”

You grinned, hopeful. “I’m sure you’ll get to see it.”

Optimus hesitated, then dipped his helm. “...I look forward to it.” He glanced over to the kids, the groundbridge controls past them, then back over his shoulders towards the corridor. “Allow the children time to pack what they need,” he told you, “and I will speak with Ratchet over comms to establish the plan.”

You gave him a double thumbs-up, smiling brightly up at him and backing up to give him room. “Will do, Chief - thank you, again!”

He said nothing more as you turned and trotted back over to the stairwell, already telling the troublesome trio that the green light had been issued, but the warmth in your face lingering from the fact that he hadn’t referred to you as a child was making your stomach do flips you were sure weren’t good for your health. Fortunately, you missed the soft look with which Optimus had followed your path - but you weren’t fortunate enough to miss the smug grin on Miko’s face behind the can of soda she was taking a sizeable swig from.

“Are we there yet?”

You dug your fingertips into your eyes and gritted your teeth, ignoring the urge to throttle yourself against the window you’d been trying to merge with molecularly for the past thirty minutes. “For the fifteenth time, Miko,” you murmured as gently as you were capable of, “we are not there yet. We had to groundbridge far enough out that other people wouldn’t see it or question why a semi is pulling onto the road in the middle of the woods.”

“But did it have to be this far out?” she groaned, dropping her head against the headrest in the back seat dramatically.

“Unfortunately so, Miko,” rumbled Optimus over the radio, effectively silencing her complaining with rounded eyes and a sheepish expression at the indirectly aimed paternal note his voice had taken on. “But it is better safe than sorry to merge as best as we can with our surroundings.”

She mumbled indistinctly under her breath, folding her arms over her chest and pulling her legs onto the seat to curl up against the siding. Raf glanced uncomfortably between the two of you, one of his earbuds removed and obviously not unaware of the exchange. He said your name hesitantly, and you felt the tension uncoil within you instantly. “...do you think we’ll get pulled over if you’re driving? It’s not really normal for an eighteen year-old to drive a semi.”

You stilled, fingers dropping to drape over your lips as you glanced at the radio’s screen. It flickered softly in response.

“Worry not, Rafael,” came the Prime’s rather cryptic answer. “I have a plan.”

You met Raf’s questioning gaze in the rearview mirror, and you offered him a bewildered look and a shrug in return, before looking back out the window at the passing scenery. The trees were already big, bigger than anything you’d ever seen in Nevada, but you couldn’t help but feel the anticipation build for the potential of getting to see the famed redwoods you’d heard so much about over the years in school.

Jack shifted in the passenger seat, chin propped up on his fist as his fingers drummed on his leg. He glanced over at you, chewing on his lip, then looked at the radio, too. “Hey, um...Optimus?”

The engine rumbled in an attentive hum.

“Do you mind if I, uh...channel surf? It’s kind of quiet in here.”

A pause. Then, the cab of the truck shifted upwards and downwards just enough to allude to a shrug - the others must’ve missed the minute movement, or taken it as a bump in the road, but you smothered a smile in your palm and wondered at how easily you’d grown to be able to read him so well. (Not that you were able to read him clearly all the time, but you were proud of what you could manage. It seemed that what you could perceive of him was always whatever he wanted you to perceive.) “I would not mind that at all, Jack. Please be mindful of anything...obtrusive, however.”

“No heavy metal. Got it.” Jack grinned when Miko let out a cry of indignation, reaching over to fiddle with the dial on his side. He passed over the top forty stations because of the high ratio for suggestive themes, skipped intense rock at Optimus’ gentle declination, and finally settled on an old country station that had Miko grumbling and curling her hands over her ears in frustration. You began to hum along with some familiar songs, and it helped to kill the time it took to finally reach the entrance of the park. When he rounded the bend and the check-in station appeared about half of a mile out, you felt the mech shift on his axles subtly, murmuring your name. “...I would ask that you move into Jack’s seat - and Jack, please move into the back with Rafael and Miko.”

You exchanged a curious glance with the teen but did as the Prime bade nonetheless, buckling yourself in and opening your mouth to question him. You did a double take when the air around you seemed to crackle with static, and a holographic image of what resembled nerve impulses slowly solidified and took on the shape of a man. Your breath caught when it finally stopped, the image of a stranger grasping the steering wheel despite having no need to do so. The kids were speechless.

“Optimus?” you breathed, and the image of the man tilted his head to look at you. The stratospheric blue of his eyes made your heart flip.

“I’m sure you are familiar with the holomatter avatar that Arcee utilizes due to the nature of her alt-mode,” he began to explain - his voice lacked the familiar electronic hum behind it, fully originating from the avatar’s mouth instead of the radio system. It was strange, but...not that bad, if you had to be honest with yourself. “Jack, in the least. You mentioned that there would be a need for an adult representative for this trip to not elicit suspicion.”

You nodded, dumbfounded. Miko leaned between the front seats, peering at him with awed and critical eyes. Her nose wrinkled after a moment. “How are you powering this and driving at the same time? You’re moving around and stuff - ‘Cee’s doesn’t do that.”

You had to agree. You’d...never really given this concept any thought before, not having encountered it in conversation or a situation where he’d needed it. You’d only seen Arcee’s in passing, and it never seemed as though she used it to embody her awareness like Optimus was doing - just a frozen image to throw off suspicion if nothing else.

“In order to remain fully aware of her frame, Arcee uses a simplified avatar that doesn’t require her to split her consciousness or expend as much energon.” Optimus returned his eyes to the road, more for appearances than anything, you suspected. “But generally when a Cybertronian has his or her avatar activated, their frame is put into stasis to reduce disorientation and energon consumption and their processor shifts into the avatar.”

“So are you actually driving?” Jack asked, sounding a little wary.

“I will maintain enough mental function until we arrive at our destination,” the Prime rumbled, and even though he was reduced to a smaller being his voice still filled the cab and made your ribcage vibrate. You decided then that he could read from the phonebook and it wouldn’t bore you in the slightest. “What will happen after that remains to be seen.”

He eased to a stop behind a line of three other vehicles, his brakes hissing and engine grumbling as he idled. He gestured that Miko return to her seat and leaned over, burly arm reaching for the glove compartment. You admired his impossibly broad hand, large and long-fingered like someone who would play the piano or the cello, but you noticed a number of faint scars littering his knuckles, faint strips of lighter skin that puckered against the rest of his dark tan. The compartment popped open and revealed a zipped canvas bag, which he pulled into his lap. He fished out a worn leather wallet with numerous cards poking out of it, including a driver's license, and when he pried it open there were at least ten crisp twenties tucked inside.

“Optimus…?” you repeated.

He glanced over, quirking a thick, black brow, before following your line of sight. He dipped his head. “Agent Fowler requires that we carry a means of identification with us at all times, should we need it when encountering other humans. It is falsified, of course, seeing as we are not proper citizens of your country, but he constructed records for us if someone were to pry that deeply.”

“Ooh, cool!” Miko crooned with a wicked smile. “Like a secret agent!”

“I suppose,” Optimus agreed, a faint glimmer of a smile in his eyes. There were crow’s feet there, and if you looked hard enough you could see laugh lines around his mouth as he spoke. You wondered idly if he had dimples as he continued, “We are also given a biannual salary of sorts to compensate for our residence here in case we require anything. Most of it goes into Ratchet’s necessity for more machinery and raw materials, but we also carry some on our person; especially now that we have the four of you to consider - for emergencies, should you need anything.”

You shouldn’t have been surprised, because it made sense - but it still touched you at how considerate the underlying sentiment was.

The cars ahead of him began to ease up, and he followed suit.

Jack shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the narrow middle seat between both younger kids. “So, are you, uh… solid, or…?”

Optimus held up the wallet, an obviously tangible object, in lieu of an answer. Jack nodded.

Miko gasped in delight, leaning forward again and poking at his arm avidly. She met solid matter, the leather of his jacket giving and the simulated flesh underneath seeming to appease her inspection. She eyed him up and down again, appraising. She returned, once more, to her seat. “Please don’t tell me that’s a Nashville shirt, Bossbot.”

He cast you a glance, inquisitive. You shrugged. “You can wear what you want to. You seem more like a Nashville guy than LA or Hollywood, anyway.”

The cars shifted again, and Optimus was then next in line.

You chewed on your lip briefly, debating whether to bother him with more questions. He seemed to notice it, as he returned his gaze to you. You bit the bullet. “So, is this…” You gestured at the avatar as a whole. “...all, uh...preprogrammed?”

“The basic template that is generated is a human male at its core, at least for this planet,” he said smoothly, unbothered. You exhaled softly. “From there we incorporate our own preferences and ideas into how we should like to appear. We make modifications and adjustments as we go to suit our personal needs and tastes.” He scratched absently at the faint patches of stubble on his chin that matched the shape of the accent framing on his faceplate. “I will admit that Agent Fowler assisted us a great deal to make our avatars seem more realistic.”

‘Realistic’ wouldn’t be the only word you would associate with the form of a man sitting less than a foot away from you with the most muscular thighs you’d ever seen in your life trapped in taught, dark denim, but you weren’t about to go down that rabbit hole. Instead, you offered him a smile. “I think it suits you just fine.”

He met your eyes with his, warm with something like flattery. (At least you hoped that it was flattery.)

“Is that what they’re used for?” Raf asked. When the Prime turned his head to look at him, he elaborated, “To help blend in with other races?”

This almost pulled a smile from him, as you saw the laugh lines pull back into his cheeks. You looked out of the windshield pointedly, face warming. Dimples there certainly were.

“That is precisely correct, Rafael,” Optimus praised. “They were first invented during Cybertron’s golden era, when we explored the vast cosmos with little abandon. They were utilized to observe cultures that were primitive or had yet to achieve space-flight capability and thus had no exposure to alien life. It became a prerequisite to include them in cold-constructed frames like Bumblebee, and for those of us who were forged, we had them implanted. That didn’t happen until the war began, however, seeing as none of us knew where we would end up should Cybertron fall.” The final car ahead of him pulled forward, and he began to creep up to the check-in station where a guard stood. His voice was quieter when he added, “I am glad that we had the foresight to do so.”

The window rolled down of its own volition when the guard listlessly gestured for him to do so. He glanced up, disinterested as he jotted something on his clipboard. Probably a vehicle description. “ID, please.”

Optimus handed him the wallet, and the man eyed it for a moment. “Date of birth.”

The Prime blinked, but the hesitation wasn’t abnormal. “September seventeenth, 1974.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “‘Orion Paxton’?”

“My parents were rather fond of astronomy,” he replied smoothly. You smothered your smile with your hand.

“Ah.” The guard returned the ID back to him. “How many have you got occupying the vehicle?”

“Five, including myself.”

“Minors?”

“Three, and one independent.”

“School kids?”

“Yes.”

The guard, only able to spy you from his lowered position, raised a brow. “It’s a bit early for spring break, isn’t it?”

“They participate in an extracurricular program involving the outdoors,” Optimus told him smoothly. You figured he’d been thinking about it. “I am their chaperone.”

The man’s eyes narrowed just a touch. “Are you related to any of them?”

Optimus glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “This is my daughter.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from visibly startling, offering the man a small smile and a wave. You heard Miko snicker in the back seat, and your stomach flopped with embarrassment. You hoped your flush wasn’t too obvious.

The Prime nodded, satisfied with your seamlessness. “The others are her schoolmates. Family friends.”

The guard looked at you, eyes skimming your appearance. “May I see your ID, miss?”

You blinked, reached for your wallet, and pulled out your driver’s license. Optimus passed it over to the man. You noticed the name on his badge was Harrison.

He glanced between the two of you for a moment, seeming to contemplate his next words. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it and shook his head, then gestured at the woman manning the tiny station behind him. The gate opened. “That’ll be thirty dollars.”

Optimus handed him two twenties, and when Harrison made to give him his ten dollars of change the Prime merely waved him off. “Do not trouble yourself. Consider it a donation.”

The man dipped his head, seeming unsurprised by the notion, and Optimus pulled forward to cruise through the entryway. The forest was thicker, the trunks bigger, and the longer he drove the more they seemed to expand. It looked like something straight out of a fantasy novel, the canopy of sun-dappled leaves shading your eyes like a mantle - you could only imagine what it’d be like to climb one of them, to see the landscape stretching out in all directions. It’d be breathtaking, you knew that for sure.

Fortunately, the gradual change of scenery seemed to distract Miko from her evident boredom, and all three of them were leaning up around the front seats to peer out the windows. Optimus’ eyes were focused on the outside as well, but his hand on the lower arc of the steering wheel was steady. You tried not to look at him more than necessary, only stealing glances on the few occasions he’d shift in his seat and braced his forearm on the lip of the window. 

You had to admit that he couldn’t have curated a more befitting holoform if he had tried, and the ensemble of his outside certainly lent to its credibility. He was dressed plainly in worn jeans, a simple leather belt and buckle, an old, charcoal gray and white Nashville t-shirt under a maroon and navy plaid flannel shirt, topped off with a caramel-toned leather jacket that looked as plush and comfortable as it did genuine. Proportionally, he was a mirrored image of his real frame - broad shoulders, a barrel-like chest, impossibly long legs that you were surprised he hadn’t adjusted his seat to accommodate, hands that would likely swallow your head if he held it between his palms. His tawny skin was littered with pale scars in places (what little you could see of it, anyway), a five o’clock shadow lining his jaw and throat, and his hair and thick eyebrows were an inky raven black that glimmered like onyx in the sunshine, cut similarly to marine veterans you’d seen in passing. That was likely the effect he’d gone for, perhaps to help explain his militaristic behaviors and mannerisms between the lines if anyone bothered to read into them that closely. Buzzed on the sides but longer and combed back on the top to form a quiff, you wondered at how the contrasting textures must feel. You wondered if it felt silky or downy or coarse. Soft, probably, since there wasn’t any illusion of product to hold it in place.

But his eyes, most of all, stuck out to you. Against his skin, the startling cornflower blue of his irises popped like daisies in the dark. They didn’t glow like his real optics did, but they looked like they could - focused and analytical and expressive and pretty…

“...think that this would be a suitable path to take?”

Your eyes fell to his lips, unbidden. There was an indication of a barely-there scar at the left corner of his mouth, his upper lip a little thin but the bottom pillowy and full despite appearing chapped. The level of detail was astounding to you.

Your face caught fire when you realized you’d been staring.

“Oh, um - yeah,” you said, hastily looking out from the windshield to a worn trail leading off the main road. The tire marks were obvious, blazed through the brush. “The further away from any prying eyes, the better.”

He nodded and turned onto the barely beaten path. You rubbed your face, hoping it hadn’t been too obvious. The kids were too enamored with watching the landscape go by to have noticed. (Hopefully.) You forced yourself not to look at him, trying not to think about the faint, fawn-like freckles you’d sworn you’d seen speckled over the bridge of his noble, Grecian nose.

Within ten minutes, he’d driven out to the limits of the trail to find a small gravel parking lot that likely would’ve held no more than six small vehicles, three large ones at best. It was lined with logs, and there were RV hookups on one side and metal fire pits and benches for tent campers on the other. Fortunately, it was empty. He turned to look at you inquisitively. “What do you think?”

You worried your lip for a moment. “You’re the boss. What do you think?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, tugging on that little scar. “This is your expedition,” he reminded you. “Whatever you think is best, I will do.”

“Okay,” you said, trying not to feel overwhelmed. This was such a simple, silly thing, yet having him put you in control made you feel...powerful, in a way. Humbled, definitely. He was a Prime, and he was deferring to you? “Um...I don’t want you to have to be cramped up in your altmode all day, so maybe we could go offroad and find somewhere more secluded? Then you could stretch your legs if you wanted to.”

Optimus nodded, and without warning his holoform fizzled from the cab. His voice returned to the radio. “If you would all gather your things; it would be easier to traverse the forest out of…”

You grabbed your backpack from the floorboard, slinging it over your shoulder and slipping out of the passenger seat when he opened the door for you. The kids clambered out soon after, and Optimus’ altmode shuddered and morphed before he transformed. You craned your neck back to peer up at him, smiling helplessly. Despite being so big, he hardly compared to the trees looming over all of you - he seemed just as mesmerized by that fact, peering up into the heavily leaved boughs forming a sort of ceiling over you. The sun was setting rapidly, the golden hour at its peak, and his armor glimmered like precious metal. You were so very glad that no one else was around.

Raf fumbled with his pack, almost as big as he was, and drew out a map he’d printed of the park. He studied it for a moment, then his eyes lit up and he pointed to a spot on the west side. “We’re here. If we go that way-” He pointed east. “We could see one of the mountains around here; maybe we could camp there. General Sherman’s nearby, too.”

Everyone nodded, and Optimus knelt down and offered his hand. “I would like to have the campsite set up before dark falls,” he admitted. “We can make more ground this way.”

Jack and Raf climbed up onto his palm obediently, and Miko cocked a brow at him with good humor. “Are you calling us short, Bossbot?”

Optimus returned the jest in equally good humor. “My legs are a little longer than yours, young Miko. I do not wish to leave any of you behind.”

You snorted, settled against the arch of his thumb, and held on once you were all settled. He raised you carefully to cradle you against his chest plating, his windshields reflecting the sights around you like a television screen - and, just like that, you were off. Optimus consulted Raf as he went, ensuring that he was headed in the right direction. He had ample room to maneuver most of the time, listening as the excited boy rattled off facts about the valley being discovered and the landmarks therein. You listened, quite content, watching the trees slide by. The bushes and shrubs seemed so far below you, and you were suddenly grateful that heights didn’t bother you as much as they used to - you’d grown used to being so far above solid ground, soothed by Optimus and the others’ ease of keeping you safe and promising never to allow you to fall.

Time passed, with little lapses of silence in between. The kids were chattering amongst themselves, pointing out deer frolicking away or birds startled by the gentle giant wandering through their home. There were little creeks here and there, boulders he had to be careful not to trip over, and you watched Optimus’ composed mask fade with every careful, measured step. You’d never seen him look so at ease, optics soft and expression serene as he witnessed your home’s beauty at its finest. You felt a silly surge of pride at the thought, happy that he was finding delight in the planet he and his comrades were otherwise trapped on.

Miko and Raf gasped at once, peering between the Prime’s carefully curled digits. You looked, and your breath caught.

“That,” Jack said, “is one big tree.”

And big it was.

Bigger than anything you’d seen in your life, bigger than the Autobots, there General Sherman stood, straight and strong and rigid amongst the rest of his kindred. Optimus’ pace slowed, and when you glanced up at him you were softened by the sincere wonder making his mouth drop open just so, his optics rounded and shuttering and glowing brilliantly.

“I...did not anticipate…” he began, voice startlingly quiet.

You couldn’t help but concur. “I wonder how old it is…?”

Raf was buzzing with anticipation, scooting to dangle his legs off the blade of Optimus’ servo. He pointed at the roots taller and wider than vehicles sloping up over the earth and disappearing back into it. “You could fit a car in them!”

Optimus approached the ancient sentinel slowly, reverently, placing his free servo flat over the bark. “There was never anything like this on Cybertron that I witnessed,” he murmured, half to himself. He looked up into the crown of branches far over his helm that just seemed to stretch on forever. “I never thought that earth would hold such treasures.”

“Wait ‘til we tell you about Mount Everest,” you muttered absently, watching his digits twitch, studying the texture beneath his touch.

Optimus seemed adamant to walk the circumference of the old redwood, stepping over roots and studying the knots and scores and old wounds the tree had endured. He was utterly enthralled, and it was the most endearing thing you’d ever seen.

Within seconds, it seemed, the sun had fallen below the horizon somewhere hidden by the forest. Optimus seemed reluctant to leave the old titan but knew it would be for the best, lest a random park ranger stumble upon the lot of you.

He headed further into the park, gradually ascending, weaving and picking his way along with care, and soon the trees began to thin out a bit to reveal a valley lined with cliffs and hills and smaller trees. A mountain loomed in the distance, still pinkened by the retreating sunset, and he set to work crossing the river that flowed through the middle of it to find a place to settle for the night. By a pure stroke of luck, he found a hollowed alcove that he could sit comfortably under, shaded from view from most angles, with boulders fallen from the cliffside to provide even more shelter. He managed to scoop away some rocks to make the ground more even, and while he sat and settled against the rockface, the four of you set to work.

Jack shared his limited, fuzzy experience of being a boy scout for a couple of years, and delegated a task to each of you. He would handle the firepit, Miko would get a bucket of water from the stream, Raf would get the food they’d packed, and you’d get firewood. Optimus kept a watchful eye over the lot of you, scanning the edge of the valley for any signs of unwanted observers, and you felt comfortable leaving the kids with him while you looked for more fuel.

You didn’t have to go very far, thankfully. There were clusters of trees scattered around, not huge, but big enough that they’d shed some branches and bark over time. You gathered an armful of both, grabbed a handful of dried leaves for kindling, and shuffled your way back up the hillside. You heard laughter before you crested the crumbling shale, and saw that Miko had flicked water at Jack. He was doing his best to be the bigger person, schooling his scowl and ignoring how his hair dripped into his eyes as he set up the border stones and dug out the pit with a small trowel. He seemed grateful for your return, and you flashed him a smile as you set down your supply and went about arranging it for optimal burning. You opted for a log house style, dropping the leaves and needles into the middle before delicately covering them with smaller twigs and sticks while still giving them room to breathe. Jack slipped his hand through the gap with his lighter, flicking it on and coaxing the fire to life. All of the wood was dry so it took to flame easily, crackling and smoldering before beginning to glow and snap in earnest.

Optimus, hands settled comfortably over his lap, watched with dimmed optics, a gentle expression on his faceplate. When Miko began to needle Jack about supper, he diverted her attention by asking her about school. She took the bait unwittingly, griping about her teachers, drawing Raf and Jack into a debate about how terrible their last history test had been, and you shook your head fondly as you set about opening up the package of orzo you’d snuck in. You set up the simple wire grill as they talked, setting out a small pot and filling it with a bottle of drinking water to boil before beginning to cook the pasta.

The night grew darker, and Optimus’ pale blue biolights shimmered against the orange glow and dark shadows cast by the campfire. He looked quite at home, settled against the stone, fans humming quietly as a breeze flooded the valley with a gentle chill. You shivered, tugging your sleeves down your arms as you stirred, glancing at the sky. You frowned when you noticed a swell of clouds to the right of the valley, but opted to dismiss it. You’d checked the weather report for the area while packing, and it had said there was only a twenty percent chance of rain.

It’d be fine.

“Why didn’t you just cook rice if you wanted rice?”

“It’s not rice, Miko, it’s orzo.”

“But it’s obviously supposed to look like rice!”

“I doubt the ancient Italians had ready access to rice. Maybe they just liked the shape, since it’s simple.”

“Copycats,” the girl grumbled, shoving another spoonful into her mouth and chewing sullenly.

You’d opted for a rather simple dish, stewing the orzo in a bit of canned cream once you’d strained it and adding cheese and a can of stewed tomatoes to make it pop. Salt, black pepper, and cayenne had made it quite good, in your humble opinion.

The kids seemed to agree if how they were already finished with their second bowls was any indication.

They’d already sent brief texts to their parents and guardians, and Optimus had informed you that Ratchet had checked in to ensure nothing disastrous had happened. June had insisted that Jack talk to her over a call, so he’d paced the edge of the firelight for a good ten minutes before managing to reassure her that you were all fine. You’d settled back against Optimus’ pede, sitting on your sleeping bag, curled up in the light jacket you’d brought just in case. Your bowl was warming your lap, half empty, and you sipped idly from your bottle of water.

The clouds had drawn closer over time, covering up most of the stars, though you could still pick out a couple in the gaps of hazy black. Moonbeams poured into the valley through those patches, and the sound of crickets and the distant cacophony of nocturnal animals gave the place a sense of enchantment you hoped you wouldn’t disturb.

You wouldn’t. But nature herself would.

“Hey!”

You looked at Miko, who was scrubbing her cheek with a curled lip. “What? Mosquitoes?”

“Rain!” she exclaimed, just as a fat, cold droplet smacked the side of your neck and made you shudder on impact.

Gooseflesh rose under your clothes, and then you heard it - the hiss of rain beginning to fall on the grass not far from you.

You cursed under your breath.

The four of you had seconds to scramble for your things, dragging your bedrolls under the canopy of rock and hastily putting away the trash, dishes, and food accumulated on the ground. Optimus looked like he wanted to help, but because he didn’t want to risk hurting any of you with sudden movements, all he could do was shield you as best as he could with his extended servos.

The skies opened up, and rain began to flood the valley in earnest.

You hissed at the others to get close to the Prime where it was sheltered, fumbling and grabbing their packs. They scrambled to get close, clustered near his knees, and you stumbled over a rock before managing to get into safety.

You all stared at each other, soaked to the bone, and began to giggle madly.

“Our luck, huh?” you wheezed, doing your best to wring out your hair and tie it into a damp bun. Poor Raf was doing his best to dry his glasses, and Jack watched, crestfallen, as the rain smothered his campfire.

“I thought you said it wasn’t going to rain!” Miko claimed, shivering and pulling her jacket from her backpack with a scowl.

“It was unlikely,” you said, shrugging, just glad you’d been able to cook a hot meal before the weather had struck. You glanced out, watching as water began to soak every inch of the earth stretched out before you. You scratched your head. “Don’t know how we’re gonna manage to all spread out without getting wet, though.”

“Allow me.”

Optimus shifted, pulled his legs up, and the four of you tried to make room for him. He transformed, leaving much more room in the alcove, but he surprised you by opening his doors. “The wind might blow in the rain.”

“But...all night?” you questioned.

“I have spent longer in my altmode,” he soothed. You heard the telltale click of his heater kicking on. “I do not wish for any of you to catch ill.”

You’d brought a hand towel, luckily, and you had them pat themselves mostly dry before grabbing their sleeping supplies and climbing up into Optimus’ cab. The last thing you wanted was to get all his interior wet - you hated to think about it getting moldy or smelling bad.

You settled into the driver’s seat, sliding it back to give yourself a little more room to curl up with your back against the door. The kids were already quite content in their blankets and leaning close to the vents scattered throughout the cab. You wondered briefly about smothering without fresh air, but you noticed that Optimus had rolled his windows down just a fraction. You hid a smile as you pulled the hood of your jacket over your head, resting your temple against the shoulder of the seat.

“What now?” Miko questioned, drawing all of your attention. She snapped her phone shut with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t have any service out here, and it’s too early to go to bed.”

“We could play a game,” Raf suggested.

“Not truth or dare,” Jack reiterated firmly.

“We know.” Miko retorted.

“Why don’t we tell campfire stories?” you proposed, trying to redirect around the inevitable argument that would crop up from shortened tempers if you didn’t intervene.

“In case you didn’t notice, the rain ruined the main thing required for that,” Miko said flatly.

“We don’t have to have the ambient lighting,” you replied, brows furrowing, but the radio screen flared to life once more.

“I believe I may be of some assistance,” Optimus said smoothly. You watched, dumbfounded, as the biolights littering the interior of his cab shifted hues into a warm, flickering range of amber to gold - just like the flames left to smolder in the onslaught outside. To add to the effect, the sound of crackling wood and chirping crickets piped through the speakers. “Is this acceptable?”

“More than!” Miko crowed, grinning wickedly in the dim lighting. “Thanks, Bossbot!”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Raf wondered out loud, thoroughly mesmerized.

Optimus rumbled that same almost chuckle, though it could easily have been passed for his engine under the hum of the heaters clicking down into a lower setting. “I am afraid that there are quite a few things, Rafael, that I am unable to do.”

“Who wants to go first?” asked Jack, tugging his blanket over his torso and settling into the passenger seat. His eyes were already half-lidded.

“Me, me!” Miko exclaimed. “Maybe it’s not a campfire story like you’re used to, but I know a few old legends about Japanese demons that’ll make your skin crawl right off your body!”

Poor Raf already looked spooked. “Please just don’t make them too scary. I’d really like to be able to sleep, you know.”

“Why don’t I start?” you tried. “It’s just a story I heard from someone at school, and it’s not too bad - just a little spooky.”

Miko folded her arms over her chest but didn’t argue, and you smiled as the kids settled their eyes on you. “Okay, so there once was an old lumberyard a few miles from any nearby town that could only be accessed by train and trolley. They had those massive log-splitting saws that would never fly with today’s safety laws - and for good reason. There was one man that worked there who was huge - seven feet tall, just as big as a grizzly bear - who always kept a bag of sunflower seeds in the front pocket of his overalls and chewed them throughout the day.”

Miko faked a rather obvious yawn, but the boys shushed her immediately. Just as Optimus had forewarned, the wind began to blow the rain into the alcove, drumming against his windshield in a fierce spray that only enhanced the background noise.

“One day,” you continued patiently, “this man’s ankle got caught up in one of the logging chains they would attach to draft horses’ harnesses to drag the logs to the saw. In a freak accident, the man was pulled through the saw, and both of his legs were sheered right off his body like butter. The other workers couldn’t do anything to save him, so he bled out in seconds.”

Raf sucked in a breath, and Jack’s eyes rounded. Even Miko was staring more attentively.

“Some have said,” you concluded, “that they have found sunflower seed shells chewed up on the ground around their campsites, as well as furrows in the ground from this man dragging himself through the dirt with his bare hands. A few have sworn that they could hear him groaning in the middle of the night, begging for the other lumberyard workers to help him find his legs, and that you can still hear the saws roaring deep in the woods-”

All three kids squealed when a deep, juddering groan filled the cabin. You jumped, glancing around, heart pounding at the unexpected sound.

“My apologies,” Optimus rumbled, and were you imagining things, or…did he sound smug? “The wiper blades must be dry. We do not often see rain in Jasper.”

Did he…? There’s no way. You covered your mouth, trying your best to withhold your laughter. Maybe the Prime had a sense of humor after all. “That’s the end of the story anyway,” you concluded, clearing your throat. “Go ahead, Miko.”

“Great!” She leaned forward, waggling her fingers with anticipation. “Now, it all started with…”

The worst of the storm had passed by the time the kids finally grew too drowsy to exchange stories anymore (which had quickly devolved from spooky ones to personal experiences, particularly gossip, which you had noted with some amusement), leaving a lazy drizzle just outside the alcove. The clouds had thinned just enough to allow enough ambient lighting from the moon above them to cast the valley in a gloomy hue, but the sound was soothing (living in a desert certainly had its detriments, as you loved the rain dearly, but that’s what you had modern technology for anyway) - enough so that the kids were fast asleep and snoring in their respective seats, curled up in their blankets like chrysalises. Optimus’ biolights had long since dimmed, and his silence suggested that he likely had drifted into stasis likewise - but you couldn’t convince yourself to do the same.

You smothered a yawn and reached down into your open backpack on the floorboard, drawing out a book you’d borrowed from the library. You squinted, even tried holding the bookmarked page up to one of Optimus’ biolights, but even that couldn’t illuminate the words enough for you to read. Flashlight it was, then.

You fished the pocket light out of the side pocket and, as quietly and gingerly as you could manage, cracked open the door to slip down the step onto the wet gravel below before pressing it shut again. The last thing you wanted was to disturb any of them - especially Optimus - so you hoped he was deep enough in stasis that he wouldn’t notice the movement.

One of the folding stools Jack had brought was damp but didn’t soak your pants through when you sat against the rock wall, clicking on the miniature flashlight and highlighting the page.

Much better. You glanced up at the cab and its windows but saw no movement to suggest that it was rousing the kids. You smiled softly to yourself and returned your attention to the words, whispering them quietly to yourself. “‘Sleep, love sleep, the night winds sigh, in soft lullaby. The Lark is at rest with the dew on her breast. So close those dear eyes, that borrowed their hue from the heavens so blue, sleep, love sleep.’”

“You are not resting?”

Your head snapped up, eyes rounding as Optimus’ holoform fizzled into being from nothing before you, reminding you of old myths about Grecian gods (and the forms they took to woo mortals). You smothered the thought immediately. “I didn’t realize you were still awake.”

“I was not, but you left. I wanted to ensure you were all right,” Optimus rumbled, stepping over and settling himself onto the stool next to you, closer to the whispering rain - close enough that your elbows would touch if you were so inclined to lean towards him.

“I’m fine,” you told him softly, clicking off the light on reflex. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

He studied you for a moment, and you could swear that perhaps his eyes did almost glow in the dark. “You struggle with insomnia?”

It was honestly less of a question and more of an observation, but he was polite enough not to let it be known that your behavior was that obvious. You shrugged. “I have for a few years now, but I’ve gotten used to it. I just left my supplements at home.”

His brows furrowed just so. “You require aid to assist?”

“It’s not like I can just turn my brain off,” you joked, pointing towards your head. “I don’t know if it’s different for you guys, but humans’ brains stay active even while we’re sleeping. That’s why we dream.”

“I…see. Our autonomous functions continue similarly, but we do not dream.”

“Oh.” You frowned lightly. “Not at all?”

Optimus tilted his head slightly, staring resolutely down at the gravel beneath his boots with a contemplative hum. “It is difficult to explain.  We do not…‘dream’, by your common definition, so much as we relive our memories. Our processors cannot reinvent nor repurpose information already recorded as humans do. Our memories can become corrupted and data will bleed together as a result, but that is as close to dreaming as we come. And, if that happens, the memories themselves are of a more…volatile nature, to produce such a result.”

Your frown deepened. “Are you saying you can only have nightmares?”

“In a worst-case scenario. It is simply more common due to the health concerns involved in their development related to stressful or traumatic events.” He released a long exhale. “Though it is much rarer, memories with other strong emotional attachments can produce a similar result. Exultation, for example - however, such cases are simply not as frequent.”

“I see. Like flashbulb memories, but on a much more extreme scale,” you related. “I enjoyed learning psychology a couple of years ago, though I know it doesn’t really come close to this biologically since you’re…well, mechanical, and we’re organic. It just fascinates me that our wiring produces similar results, so to speak.”

Optimus gave you an appraising look, seemingly pleased. “Our peoples are more similar than I would ever have initially thought upon making contact with humanity. Anatomically we could be considered cousins - distant, perhaps, but still related.”

You realized, then, that the limited familiarity you had with reading him normally was amplified tenfold seeing his microexpressions and body language translated into human form. He had never before looked so obviously open with his emotions - the inquisitive sparkle in his eyes, the unwavering attentiveness of his gaze fixated wholly on you, the softness of his features. He was so innately curious about anything and everything, despite having every reason to have become callused throughout his lifetime, and you found it endlessly endearing.

“I’d like to study that further,” you smiled, “though I’m sure Ratchet would get tired of my questions.”

“He, too, is as studious as I,” Optimus mused. “That is partly how we met. If a topic is ever struck about that which he is passionate, it is difficult to curb his enthusiasm.” That same barely-there smile, so much more prominent than usual. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to moderating his expressions in his holomatter avatar since it was so rarely used. “But if ever you have questions, I would be more than happy to indulge you, s’mol’lis.”

“What does that mean?” you blurted, unable to help yourself. His brows rose slightly, expression carefully receding back into neutrality. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. I’ve just never heard you say that before, what little you’ve spoken Cybertronian.”

“You hear it as Cybertronian?” he questioned quietly, sounding taken aback.

“Um…yes?” You frowned. “Am I not supposed to?”

“I am saying your name in English,” he explained, and…was he genuinely surprised? “That you are able to understand the harmonics attached to it is…unexpected.” You blinked at him, and he elaborated, “In Cybertronian dialects, we speak on multiple frequencies at once. It takes the internal complexity of our audial structure to understand each layer individually, as well as combined. It is how we assign titles, ranks, or…feelings to certain objects, or people.”

“It’s not like I can tell what exactly you’re saying, it’s just…quiet, in a way.” Your face felt unbearably hot. Were you not supposed to notice or comment on this? “I’m…sorry if I’ve overstepped or anything, I was just curious. I’d noticed my name started to sound a little different, but today it really stood out to me.”

“Yes. To address someone by their name is an inherently transparent statement of one’s regard for that person. A Cybertronian cannot lie in how they feel for another. It is impossible.” He watched you carefully for a long moment, eyes studying your face. It took him even longer to continue. “I have much respect for you, s’mol’lis, and hold you in high esteem. You are a primary example to me of the ideals that humanity represents. Your outlook on life is highly advanced for someone of your age, and I find that you have caused me to reconsider things from different perspectives I never would have imagined on my own. It is…refreshing, to hear your opinions on things. You are highly intelligent, as well as open-minded, and your capacity for compassion is one to be admired. I am exceedingly grateful that I have had the opportunity to meet you. You have afforded me room to stop and observe the little things that I had forgotten were just as important as the grand scheme of them. Your world is truly beautiful, and you’ve reminded me not to take that for granted. I wish to protect it, unlike how I failed to do so for Cybertron.” His gaze turned to the rain still pouring from the sky, and he reached out with an upturned palm to watch the droplets dribble over his artificial skin. His expression tightened slightly. “…Although I do wish it might have been under different circumstances. Knowing that I pose an eternal danger to you merely by proxy…”

“I’d risk it a million times over,” you interrupted instantly, causing his brows to rise again as he withdrew his hand and smeared the moisture onto his jeans. “You - all of you - have changed my life in ways I would never have expected. I am so very grateful for that. You don’t know how much you - all mean to me.” Your eyes stung, but you took a steadying inhale through your nose. “You’ve changed my life for the better.”

“As have you. I shall have to inquire Ratchet about the potential implications of you being able to understand even a small fraction of our native tongue, though it can wait for later.” Optimus’ lips upturned, and your heart squeezed. He glanced down at the book in your hand. “You were reading poetry?”

“I, ah…yes.” You handed him the book and tried to give him the pocket light, as well, but he shook his head. “I’ve really enjoyed reading it lately. It’s calming, and gets my mind off things.”

“I am able to see more in the dark than a human can, even while utilizing my holomatter avatar,” Optimus rumbled, flipping it open to the page you’d had marked. “I find that it has a similar effect for me.” He glanced down at you, earnesty in his stratospheric baby blues. “Would you like to continue reading it by me narrating it aloud?”

“Oh,” you murmured, face growing hot again. (God, would he ever stop flustering you?) “You don’t have to, really - I didn’t even mean to wake you up-”

He leaned in closer, peering directly into your eyes. “I do not mind,” he told you plaintively. “I enjoy reading it as well. It would be no trouble to help you sleep.”

Oh. You really were that transparent, huh?

“I…guess I can’t argue with that.” You leaned back against the stone wall behind you, trying to ignore the fact that while he may have been composed of solid light in this form, he undeniably radiated warmth. “Thank you.”

“There is no need.” He, too, reclined against the worn rock, folded his legs at the ankles, and propped the book against his knees. “You were half-way through this one?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, eyes drifting up to study the faint illumination of his profile against the midnight backdrop. Maybe your initial associations with Greek mythology weren’t too far off the mark, after all.

“Very well.” He cleared his throat quietly, then settled into a low, rhythmic cadence that immediately set you at ease. “‘Sleep, love sleep, the pale moon looks down on the valleys around, the Glow Moth is flying’…”

You exhaled slowly, eyelids slipping shut as you turned to face him - and, in so doing, brushed against his arm. Wordlessly, he lifted it - and though you hesitated, he waited for you to tuck yourself into his side proper before enclosing his grasp around your back. His broad and impossibly warm hand settled on your shoulder, and you firmly told yourself that he was being considerate of the chill blowing into the alcove on a gentle breeze causing you to shiver. He was the epitome of a gentleman, after all, and even as his voice vibrated through his apparition’s side against your ear, you could summon no proper argument against allowing him to be so courteous.

And he was warm - so very warm, and safe, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt if you just rested your eyes for a minute. You didn’t want to fall asleep against him, because that would be awkward and would make him uncomfortable and he’d have to move you back into the cab eventually, but…

“…‘the South wind is sighing, and I am low lying, with lute deftly strung, to pour out my song’…” And were you really imagining things again, or did he turn his head to whisper the last line directly into your ear? “…‘sleep, love. Sleep.’”

…No, that didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, actually. Maybe five minutes wouldn’t hurt.

“We’re baaack!”

You heard Ratchet’s scoff all the way across the hangar, even as the churning vortex of the groundbridge drowned out most other sounds. You shook your head with a thin smile, watching as the kids eagerly ran into the interior of the silo. You took your time, sore all over from sleeping upright all night.

You had fallen asleep, much to your chagrin, and deeply, too. The chipper twitter of birdsong in the bleak dawn had roused you, and you’d realized with a start that you’d just about fallen into Optimus’ lap - which he hadn’t disengaged all throughout the night. Startled awake when you’d sat up abruptly, mortified beyond measure, he’d gently explained that he hadn’t wanted to disturb you and thus had merely allowed himself to fall into stasis likewise. While it was not your preferred method of getting him to rest, you’d take it - even if Miko had been giving you her signature side-eye all morning after they woke to the scent your haphazard breakfast consisting of black instant coffee and PB&Js.

Ratchet stepped out of his alcove to greet the lot of you (though primarily Optimus, you knew). “You missed your midnight check-in,” the medic groused, pointing an accusatory finger at the Prime.

“We were preoccupied,” responded Optimus smoothly, “with telling campfire stories.”

Ratchet’s optical ridge rose incredulously. “A thunderstorm passed over your location.”

“We improvised!” Raf piped up with a grin, already halfway up the mezzanine with the other two. “It was really fun!”

“Yeah, it was,” Jack agreed. He turned to address the crimson and cobalt mech. “Thanks for taking us, Optimus.”

“Yeah, thank you!” Raf parroted.

They both pointedly looked at Miko. “Oh, yeah. Thanks!” She shrugged. “Sorry you got cramped up in your altmode, though.”

“It was no trouble,” he responded. “And you are welcome.”

Ratchet gestured him over impatiently, already activating his scanner and opening the screen embedded into the kibble encasing his forearm. “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good - but I need to make sure that the static didn’t accumulate in your wiring, and…” His optics narrowed suddenly, and he squinted up at the Prime. “Your energon levels should not be that low. Did you even properly recharge?”

You looked up at him, too, doubtful, but he merely shook his helm at the medic once before glancing around the rest of the hangar. “Where are the others?”

Evidently, his dismissal and redirection worked because Ratchet let out an aggravated ex-vent. “You’ll have to call them out of the field,” he glowered. “I managed to wrangle them long enough to examine them, but as soon as I brought up updating their firewalls they may as well have vanished into thin air. Which reminds me!” He reached to one of his shelves and withdrew a syringe that made you feel faint just looking at the length of its needle. “I forgot to inject yours, as well.”

Optimus shifted slightly, optics shuttering. “I will go find them first,” he said, and you watched in dumbfounded silence as he power-walked with as much poise and grace a mech of his size could manage right out of the hangar into the corridor.

You expected Ratchet to grow even more livid, but despite how it flabbergasted you, a knowing smirk curled at the edges of Ratchet’s intake.

“You like having them scared of you, don’t you?” you asked with some amusement.

That hint of a smile disappeared instantly, and Ratchet scoffed again while turning to face his monitor. “It’s not my fault that they avoid standard maintenance!” he retorted. “But they’ll eventually have to come back to refuel, and they’ll get their immunizations one way or another - even if I have to chase them down myself.”

You smothered a laugh into your hand, shaking your head all the while, and made a beeline for the corridor. “I’m going to shower. Just don’t tear down the base while I’m gone.”

“There’s no telling with how Bulkhead squirms,” Ratchet responded.

It wasn’t until you had your head down, fair flipped over and scrubbing the grime away in the warm stream, that you realized that Optimus hadn’t exactly answered your question.